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CHAPTER XXI.

"But love from love, toward school with heavy looks."

FAIR rose the morn, and fair rose Mr Bonamy Playdell in spite of somewhat troubled sleep. He had been disturbed by wayward dreams, and this was an unprecedented event in the stream of an existence very full and yet as smooth as oil. He awoke therefore with a feeling of awe which he in vain strove to dispel. As he stood on the polished floor, he told himself that he had reason to be proud of his conduct, to be glad that he had escaped the probable consequences. He tried to sponge himself into a glowing appreciation of his liberty. "I am free," he cried making most vigorous use of the towels. "Oh liberty "--but somehow he stuck fast in his apostrophe, and felt the enthusiasm ooze from his finger-tips. It was in vain that he shook himself at intervals and roused

himself spasmodically to content. As the business of dressing went on, his efforts became more and more languid. Not even the action of his two brushes could warm him to pleasure; and he gradually descended until he found refuge in the tepid phrase, “Anyway I have done the right thing." He had done the right thing, and that was a real consolation to him. Everything was ready for his departure from Venice, and he hoped that at a distance he might take a warmer interest in his freedom. Calm and resigned he sought his breakfast; but a blow awaited him therewith. His Italian servant, who had been with him for years and understood all his ways as no other man had ever done, announced with expressions of extreme regret that he could not accompany his master. And the cause! Bonamy's ears tingled as he listened. The faithful domestic was about to wed Miss Lindley's English maid. He explained with childlike candour that he had first thought of this plan when his Maria had assured him that the two households were to be united; that it had struck him at once as peculiarly fit that he and Maria should together take charge of the master and mistress, whose little fancies and oddities they knew so well; that, since his master was going

away, he should of course have gone with him, but happening to meet his English Maria the evening before he had witnessed her agony, which it was impossible for the Signor Padrone to figure to himself; that finally he had yielded himself with a shrug; that what will be will be; that he regretted very much the necessity of leaving suddenly so suitable a master; but that there was no certainty in a world whereto women were admitted.

Mr Playdell listened with a dumb determination to defer the certainty that he would be uncomfortable without a valet. Everything was prepared for this journey at least, and afterwards he might light upon a treasure. He put aside the anticipations of ill-polished boots, garments creased by folding, thin chocolate, and the thousand and one horrors which threatened him in the future. He bore himself bravely before the bowing crowd of waiters, and stepped into the gondola after his luggage with becoming dignity. But here even in this comfortable seat was he again moved to vain regret. It was a hardship to leave the city which he loved upon so fair a morning. Never had it compelled his romantic nature with such irresistible power. There had been a smart shower before dawn, and all the faded

colours on the long curve of the Grand Canal were washed and brightened. All the white flourishes and fantasies of the high domed church of S. Maria della Salute were bright and buoyant in the buoyant air; apostles and prophets were riding boldly out upon their marble wheels. It was Mr Playdell's favourite church, and he marked its beauty with a sigh. Triumphant down the broad canal sped the gondola and the morning light was following, but the heart of Bonamy could not throb with the triumph of the day. Things had gone wrong with him; he felt the insufficiency of liberty as an end of human existence. It was doubtless a great matter to be free to go where he wished; but then came the question, where he wished to go; and Bonamy began to think that he did not care where he went. Mr Playdell hoped that his wonted equanimity would return when he had once fairly started and left his troubles behind him. Heretofore he had had no objection to a day in the train. With a book and a paper, the right corner of the carriage, and the happy belief that his man was "seeing to everything," he had passed many tranquil hours now reading now musing ever and anon sinking into oblivion. To-day it was otherwise. He was haunted by thoughts of his luggage.

He could not keep himself from glancing nervously over his head at his favourite umbrella, from stooping for a view of his dressing-case which lay under the opposite seat. He dolefully thought that his condition suggested mania. If he dozed for a moment, he woke with a start and a horrible conviction that he had forgotten the number of packages in the van. He leaned his head upon his hand, and pitied himself very much. He saw himself growing old and older as a wanderer by rail, while his bones became more sensitive to the perpetual rattle, and his failing memory was incapable of retaining the number of his boxes. He saw himself as a poor old man uncomfortable plundered and lonely. His loneliness began to weigh upon him. There was nobody in all that train who cared if he were comfortable or no. The very

valet, in whom he had trusted, had never cared for him. No confidence could be placed in hirelings.

Bonamy sentimentally thought that if he had a mother, or a sister, a kind aunt, or-but what was the use of such thoughts. He must prepare himself for a desolate old age. At last he began to think of luncheon; and he then awoke to the discovery that his luncheon-basket had been put in the van.