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voiceless attitude of this man towards the world of material things. And
at once her delight in him, lingering with half-open wings like those
birds that cannot rise easily from a flat level, found a pinnacle from
which to soar up into the skies.
They had become acquainted in Italy, where the future Mrs. Gould was
staying with an old and pale aunt who, years before, had married a
middle-aged, impoverished Italian marquis. She now mourned that man, who
had known how to give up his life to the independence and unity of his
country, who had known how to be as enthusiastic in his generosity as
the youngest of those who fell for that very cause of which old Giorgio
Viola was a drifting relic, as a broken spar is suffered to float away
disregarded after a naval victory. The Marchesa led a still, whispering
existence, nun-like in her black robes and a white band over the
forehead, in a corner of the first floor of an ancient and ruinous
palace, whose big, empty halls downstairs sheltered under their painted
ceilings the harvests, the fowls, and even the cattle, together with the
whole family of the tenant farmer.
The two young people had met in Lucca. After that meeting Charles Gould
visited no mines, though they went together in a carriage, once, to see
some marble quarries, where the work resembled mining in so far that
it also was the tearing of the raw material of treasure from the earth.
Charles Gould did not open his heart to her in any set speeches. He
simply went on acting and thinking in her sight. This is the true method
of sincerity. One of his frequent remarks was, "I think sometimes that
poor father takes a wrong view of that San Tome business." And they
discussed that opinion long and earnestly, as if they could influence a
mind across half the globe; but in reality they discussed it because the
sentiment of love can enter into any subject and live ardently in remote
phrases. For this natural reason these discussions were precious to Mrs.
Gould in her engaged state. Charles feared that Mr. Gould, senior, was
wasting his strength and making himself ill by his efforts to get rid
of the Concession. "I fancy that this is not the kind of handling it
requires," he mused aloud, as if to himself. And when she wondered
frankly that a man of character should devote his energies to plotting
and intrigues, Charles would remark, with a gentle concern that
understood her wonder, "You must not forget that he was born there."
She would set her quick mind to work upon that, and then make the
inconsequent retort, which he accepted as perfectly sagacious, because,
in fact, it was so--
"Well, and you? You were born there, too."
He knew his answer.
"That's different. I've been away ten years. Dad never had such a long
spell; and it was more than thirty years ago."
She was the first person to whom he opened his lips after receiving the
news of his father's death.
"It has killed him!" he said.
He had walked straight out of town with the news, straight out before
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