Miladi; but they ate too much, and they were lazy. They died of luxury and idleness. Miladi was too kind to them. They had nothing to do; and so they took to fancying things; fancying the air didn't suit them, that they couldn't sleep.'
'I sleep well enough, but I have had a strange dream several times since I have been in Italy.'
'Ah, you had better not begin to think about dreams, or you will be like those other girls. They were dreamers — and they dreamed themselves into the cemetery.'
The dream troubled her a little, not because it was a ghastly or frightening dream, but on account of sensations which she had never felt before in sleep — a whirring of wheels that went round in her brain, a great noise like a whirlwind, but rhythmical like the ticking of a gigantic clock: and then in the midst of this uproar as of winds and waves she seemed to sink into a gulf of unconsciousness, out of sleep into far deeper sleep total extinction. And then, after that black interval, there had come the sound of voices, and then again the whirr of wheels, louder and louder — and again the black — and then she awoke, feeling languid and oppressed.
She told Doctor Parravicini of her dream one day, on the only occasion when she wanted his professional advice. She had suffered rather severely from the mosquitoes before Christmas — and had been almost frightened at finding a wound upon her arm which she could only attribute to the venomous sting of one of these torturers. Parravicini put on his glasses, and scrutinized the angry mark on the round, white arm, as Bella stood before him and Lady Ducayne with her sleeve rolled up above her elbow.
'Yes, that's rather more than a joke,' he said; 'he has caught you on the top of a vein. What a vampire! But there's no harm done, signorina, nothing that a little dressing of mine won't heal. You must always show me any bite of this nature. It might be dangerous if neglected. These creatures feed on poison and disseminate it.'
'And to think that such tiny creatures can bite like this,' said Bella; 'my arm looks as if it had been cut by a knife.'
'If I were to show you a mosquito's sting under my microscope you wouldn't be surprised at that,' replied Parravicini.
Bella had to put up with the mosquito bites, even when they came on the top of a vein, and produced that ugly wound. The wound recurred now and then at longish intervals, and Bella found Doctor Parravicini's dressing a speedy cure. If he were the quack his enemies called him, he had at least a light hand and a delicate touch in performing this small operation.
Bella Rolleston to Mrs Rolleston — 14 April.
EVER DEAREST
Behold the cheque for my second quarter's salary five and twenty pounds. There is no one to pinch off a whole tenner for a year's commission as there was last time, so it is all for you, Mother, dear. I have plenty of pocket- money in hand from the cash I brought away with me, when you insisted on my keeping more than I wanted. It isn't possible to spend money here — except on occasional tips to servants, or sous to beggars and children unless one had lots to spend, for everything one would like to buy tortoise shell, coral, lace — is so ridiculously dear that only a millionaire ought to look at it. Italy is a dream of beauty: but for shopping, give me Newington Causeway .
You ask me so earnestly if I am quite well that I fear my letters must have been very dull lately. Yes, dear, I am well — but I am not quite so strong as I was when I used to trudge to the West End to buy half a pound of tea — just for a constitutional walk or to Dulwich to look at the pictures. Italy is relaxing; and I feel what the people here call 'slack'. But I fancy I can see your dear face looking worried as you read this. Indeed, and indeed, I am not ill. I am only a little tired of this lovely scene — as I suppose one might get tired of looking at one of Turner's pictures if it hung on a wall that was always opposite one. I think of you every hour in every day think of you and our homely little room our dear little shabby parlour, with the armchairs from the wreck of your old home, and Dick singing in his cage over the sewing machine. Dear, shrill, maddening Dick, who, we flattered ourselves, was so passionately fond of us. Do tell me in your next letter that he is well.
My friend Lotta and her brother never came back after all. They went from Pisa to Rome. Happy mortals! And they are to be on the Italian lakes in May; which lake was not decided when Lotta last wrote to me. She has been a charming correspondent, and has confided all her little flirtations to me. We are all to go to Bellaggio next week — by Genoa and Milan. Isn't that lovely? Lady Ducayne travels by the easiest stages except when she is bottled up in the train deluxe. We shall stop two days at Genoa and one at Milan. What a bore I shall be to you with my talk about Italy when I come home .
Love and love — and ever more love from your adoring,
BELLA
IV
Herbert Stafford and his sister had often talked of the pretty English girl with her fresh complexion, which made such a pleasant touch of rosy colour among all those sallow faces at the Grand Hotel. The young doctor thought of her with a compassionate tenderness her utter loneliness in that great hotel where there were so many people, her bondage to that old, old woman, where everybody else was free to think of nothing but enjoying life. It was a hard fate; and the poor child was evidently devoted to her mother, and felt the pain of separation only two of them, and very poor, and all the world to each other, he thought.
Lotta told him one morning that they were to meet again at Bellaggio. 'The old thing and her court are to be there before we are,' she said. 'I shall be charmed to have Bella again. She is so bright and gay in spite of an occasional touch of home-sickness. I never took to a girl on a short acquaintance as I did to her.'
'I like her best when she is homesick,' said Herbert; 'for then I am sure she has a heart.'
'What have you to do with hearts, except for dissection? Don't forget that Bella is an absolute pauper. She told me in confidence that her mother makes mantles for a West End shop. You can hardly have a lower depth than that.'
'I shouldn't think any less of her if her mother made matchboxes.'
'Not in the abstract — of course not. Matchboxes are honest labour. But you couldn't marry a girl whose mother makes mantles.'
'We haven't come to the consideration of that question yet,' answered Herbert, who liked to provoke his sister.
In two years' hospital practice he had seen too much of the grim realities of life to retain any prejudices about rank. Cancer, phthisis, gangrene, leave a man with little respect for the humanity. The kernel is always the same — fearfully and wonderfully made — a subject for pity and terror.
Mr Stafford and his sister arrived at Bellaggio in a fair May evening. The sun was going down as the steamer
