On our return from the cathedral I spent the early portion of the morning in writing letters to some college friends at Heidelberg, not forgetting at the same time to send to my uncle's butler telling him to procure another copy of the Standard of the date July 2nd, and to forward it to Rivoli.  
My uncle, occupying himself with the files of the newspaper in question, was deep in the mazes of politics, and favoured Daphne now and then with extracts from the oratory of statesmen out of office, to the effect that the country was on the eve of ruin, and that nothing but a speedy return of the Opposition to power would ever set matters right—statements which my uncle, who favoured the Opposition, regarded as profoundly true.
 
Daphne yawned at the impending fall of her country without seeming to be much impressed thereby; and finally, putting on her hat, she exclaimed it was a beautiful morning for a stroll, and sauntered leisurely out, expressing a wish that I would follow her as soon as my letters were finished.
 
This I did, and walked down the mountain path in quest of her. Not having seen her by the time I had reached the haunted well, and not knowing in what direction to look for her, I flung myself down on a grassy bank behind the fountain, beneath the shadows of the overhanging foliage, determined to devote five minutes to a cigar before proceeding further.
 
[Pg 129]
 
The day was sunny, the breeze soft and warm, the waters of the fountain rippled pleasantly, and the shadows danced to and fro on the greensward. Repose in the shade was much more agreeable than walking in the sunlight, and I found my five minutes extending to ten, and, while dreamily thinking that it was time to resume my quest, I dropped off to sleep.
 
How long I continued in a state of repose I cannot tell. I was aroused by the sound of voices; and, glancing out from my covert, I saw Daphne and Angelo standing beside the fountain. The artist was labouring under some deep emotion: his dark hair hung negligently over his brow and eyes; his attire was in a frayed and disarranged state; for disorder and melancholy he looked a very Hamlet.
 
Evidently neither he nor Daphne was aware of my proximity. I hesitated to play the spy, but by doing so I might obtain a clue to Angelo's expulsion from the Communion—a clue that probably could be obtained in no other way, since his affection for Daphne might induce him to impart to her what he would withhold from my uncle and myself. This thought acted as a salve to my conscience, and, drawing my head within the foliage, I resolved to remain a silent and hidden spectator of the interview, in direct contravention of my promise to Daphne not to leave her alone with the artist. It was not a very honourable position I candidly admit. But I paid the penalty for it, by overhearing that which made me most miserable.
 
"I am afraid, Miss Leslie," the artist was saying—and his voice sounded so strange and hoarse that I scarcely recognised it to be his—"that the incident that happened this morning in the cathedral has tended to prejudice me in your esteem."
 
Daphne's silence seemed to imply assent to this.
 
[Pg 130]
 
"If it be this that causes you to look on me with a different face, it admits of an easy explanation. Father Ignatius recognised in you the original of my Madonna. He considers me guilty of sacrilege. My refusal to atone for it at the confessional excludes me from the communion of the Church. You know what these priests are, Miss Leslie," he continued with a sneer. "Meat in Lent, absence from confessional, a thousand similar trifles, are deadly sins in their eyes."
 
Daphne still maintained silence. He took from his bosom a crucifix and kissed it.
 
"On this crucifix, image of our God in agony, holiest symbol of the Catholic faith, I swear by my hope of salvation that I speak truth when I say that my exclusion from the Mass rests on no other ground than the one I have stated."
 
I did not believe him; and if he had repeated his statement twenty times, and sworn it on his crucifix twenty times, I would not have believed him. A subtle stroke on his part, this: to represent to Daphne that his tribute to her beauty had cost him nothing less than—'the communion of the saints!' It might move her to pity, and we all know to what pity is akin.
 
"I am sorry," said Daphne, "that I am the cause—the innocent cause," with a stress on the adjective, "of your suffering the Church's censure."
 
And then came a long pause, during which both stood looking at each other: he with undisguised love and admiration, she with evident distrust and fear. Each seemed afraid to break the silence.
 
"Miss Leslie," he continued, speaking slowly, as if it were difficult to find words, and his breathing came thick and heavy, "you can guess why in painting that picture I was enabled, in the absence of the original, to reproduce your features with such fidelity?"
 
[Pg 131]
 
"I cannot tell."
 
This was a falsehood on her part—a pardonable one, perhaps. She knew the reason as well as he did, and dreaded what was coming. At last, after another long pause, came the momentous declaration:
 
"It was love that aided my memory."
 
With his hands tremulously clasped, he bent forward, his dark eyes fixed on Daphne's face. Hers were bent on the ground. I had never seen her looking more beautiful.
 
"Yes," repeated Angelo, speaking with more ease now, as if his avowal of love had removed the restraint from his speech, "it was love that aided my memory. It was love, if classic story speak truth, that drew the first portrait."
 
It was characteristic of him that even in his lovemaking he could not wholly avoid reverting to his adored art.
 
"Yes," he continued, "it was love that inspired the production of my Madonna. Madonna!" he exclaimed in scornful tones, as if in contempt of his religion. "I know of no Madonna save you—your worship excludes all other. The saints are forgotten when I gaze on your face. You alone are my divinity. Visit my studio, and see how many pictures there are of that face which troubles me by day and haunts my dreams by night. Look in my desk, and see how many letters there are addressed to Miss Leslie—written, but never sent. Miss Leslie, you must know how much I love you! O, do not say that you do not return the feeling!"
 
His cloak dropped back from his shoulders as he extended his arms in a pleading manner toward my cousin, his bronzed, handsome face glowing as I have seen the face of a Greek statue glow in the quivering[Pg 132] sunset. He was not ignorant of his own personal charms, and his present attitude, acquired perhaps in the atelier of the artist, was purposely adapted to display the statuesque grace of his figure.
 
Daphne did not speak a word. I knew what her answer would be, and I knew that her reticence arose from her dread of the effect which that answer might have on the passionate nature of the artist. She had seen something of his nature that morning in the cathedral, and divined but too well that his love was of the character that turns by a leap to hatred.
 
"I love you," he repeated—"how deeply no words of mine can tell! The months that have separated us have been to me a torture. I cannot rest apart from you. I have come from England expressly to see you. I am here now to ask you to be mine. I had intended to stay long with, or near you, and seek to win my way gradually into your heart, but I can be silent no longer. Who can forge chains for love, and say, 'To-day thou shalt be dumb; to-morrow thou shalt speak?' Forgive me if my language seems wild. We Italians do not love so coldly as your English youth; we are all passion and flame. If I am precipitate, if I am rash, if I am mad, blame not me, but blame the beauty that has made me so."
 
He checked the flow of his words; they seem poor and commonplace enough on paper. It must have been the tone in which they were uttered, and the aid they received from his sparkling eyes and dramatic gestures, that made them sound like eloquence at the time.
 
Daphne, her drooping eyes fixed on the ground, stood beside the tree overhanging the fountain, still and silent as a statue. To say "No" to any request, however trifling, was always a source of pain to her; how much[Pg 133] more now when it would give despair to the one it was addressed to!
 
"Ah, Heaven! how beautiful you are! What a picture you would make!" One might have thought from the manner in which he dwelt on the word "picture" that he wanted her for no other purpose than to minister to his art. "Will you not speak, Daphne?"
 
She sought refuge in evasion.
 
"Give me time—a day—to reflect. I will reply to you by—by letter."
 
"No, no—a thousand times, no! Not for worlds will I endure another such night as last in an agony of suspense and doubt. Let me have your answer here and now. This avowal cannot be a surprise to you. What woman was ever loved without knowing it? Did you not understand my action yesterday when I knelt before your picture? Could you not interpret the look in my eyes the first time they saw your face? That day marked an era in my art. For years I had been seeking to paint a face that should be the very ideal of beauty, and my hand had failed to delineate the shadowy conceptions of my mind; but at last the ideal face shone upon me. My dream of beauty was realised in a living form. With that bright form by my side to inspire my pencil——"
 
The artist paused, stopped by the expression on Daphne's face. Surely in the presence of the bird the net is spread in vain? Angelo's desire for Daphne was prompted quite as much by art as by love. She would be a priceless acquisition to his studio, would serve as a beautiful model for his princesses, his nymphs, and his angels. So absorbed was he in his passion for art that he could see nothing objectionable or ludicrous in his avowal. Do all artists make love[Pg 134] in this fashion, I wonder? The thought of my own beautiful Daphne posing in various attitudes, and in various stages of dressing, before this demon of an artist, in order that he might produce some exquisite masterpiece for the delectation of a gaping public, so set my nerves a-quivering that I all but rushed from my hiding-place for the purpose of hurling him into the fountain. Great was my joy to hear Daphne's reply, given in a voice that was tinged slightly with sarcasm:
 
"Mr. Vasari," and she inclined her dainty head, "I thank your for the honour you do me in selecting me as your model——"
 
"Ah, you are cruel," the artist stammered. "It is not for art alone I love you."
 
"But, believe me, it can never be as you wish."
 
"Ah, why, Daphne? Say not that you hate me."
 
"You forget that I am to be Captain Willard's wife."
 
Angelo started. So did I, for these words were a complete revelation to me. I had thought that she had all but forgotten George, and that I was gradually replacing his image. Her utterance completely dispelled this illusion.
 
With a strange heaviness of heart that increased each moment, I continued to listen to the dialogue. Angelo's pleading expression had changed to one of surprise and contempt.
 
"Captain Willard?" he exclaimed. "Surely you do not think of him now—he who deserted you on your bridal morning! He is not worthy of you."
 
"Deserted me?" repeated Daphne. "Yes—but not forever, I feel sure. He has left me only for a time. Whatever the crime was in which he became involved—for crime I suppose it must have been—I am certain that it was none of his causing. If there be any truth[Pg 135] in my dreams he will yet return to explain the mystery of his absence, to vindicate his character, and to take me for his wife."
 
She spoke with such a look shining from her eyes, with so proud a trust in the faith of her absent hero, in such a tone of conviction, that I (thinking only of my own faint—very faint—prospect of winning her) ............