Seaboard Parish, vol 2 | Page 9

the rocks--which, by the way, you must remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the mountain near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"-- for the young man, getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each other for some time--and here he repeated the purport of Dante's words in English:
"An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, Smote peacefully against me on the brow. By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, Did every one bend thitherward to where The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise."
"I thought you said you did not use translations?"
"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively this--"might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem pedantic."
"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose translation do you quote?"
He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly:
"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself."
"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; "and that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess."
"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" Here he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, or some such birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the top of it?"
"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me.
"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and risen in triumph into the air."
Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, looked at Wynnie almost with a start.
"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. "Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind of purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?"
"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious stones."
"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon."
"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?"
"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat coldly.
But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way of it: here might be something new.
"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be happy," he said, turning again towards me.
But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation.
"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an artist."
I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make amends.
"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, I see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Walton?"
"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But there was an air of suppression, if