THE IRISH MONTHLY

AUGUST, 1906

U

AN IDYL OF AMALFI

P the white sunbeaten path that leads from the Sorrentoroad to the broad cultivated terraces on the hill, an Englishman, in his first enjoyment of an Italian spring, toiled one day to the region of the long cool lemon-groves.

His mind was following speculatively the journeyings of his lost luggage, and he was trying to put into Italian an abusive speech to hurl on his return at the porter, who still stood justifying and excusing himself in the hall of the Capuchin Hotel.

The Englishman's name was Walter Molesworth, and his small, upstanding figure was evidence that he came of a military stock, and followed the profession of his fathers. He had arrived late last evening at Amalfi, too late for the vision of the setting sun, and the first impression made on him by the motley crowd of guests in the table d'hote room was such as to make him promise himself a short stay. Now, it seemed he must either remain here till the lost luggage was recovered, or give up hope of ever seeing it again.

Major Molesworth held a great holland umbrella opened over his head, from under which he peered now and again, at the blue waters of the Mediterranean lapping lazily against the whitened rocks. As he walked and saw the beauties of the place revealed to him, he realized that he had been rash in his pronouncements of the evening, and his thoughts began to turn with something like sympathy to the brown-robed monks who had been the first to live in the cell-like chambers of the hotel, and to eat in the white-washed dining-hall.

VOL. XXXIV.-No. 398.

2 C

Below him now, but above the carriage road, Amalfi lay; a spot so favoured by the sun and kindly visited by the wind, that there is no place like it for early warmth and beauty; so that when in England the bare brown soil will hardly let the snowdrops through, flower-beds in Amalfi are already rich with schemes of colouring and scent. Major Molesworth stood a moment looking at the scene, then turned into the shelter of a shaded lemon-grove, and walked from end to end of it. The ripening fruit hung from the shelving roof over his head, the varying tints of early lemons mixed with brighter tones where oranges climbed among them. In another minute the man, exhausted by his long climb, was lying on his back, his straw hat tilted over his sun-burned face. Hundreds of feet below him, he could see, between the supporting stakes of the grove, wide stretches of the Mediterranean, with a dappled surface upturned to the sun; and in the canopy of leaves over his head, where the wind here and there made a stir among them, brilliant patches of blue showed through the rents.

The wind bloweth where it listeth, and in one of its journeyings up the grove it caught and whirled before it a small sheet of thin blue paper. In its aimless fluttering it came near Major Molesworth, who lay almost alseep but who opened his eyes now, attracted by the faint sound. He watched the dancing of the paper an instant, wondering if he should rouse himself to go for it, when suddenly it was swept over to him, and, putting out his hand quickly, he caught it.

There was nothing on the uppermost side of the paper; he turned it, and here there were a few lines written with a name, "Sarah," signed below.

Before he had time to reason about it, Major Molesworth had read the words, and directly afterwards he was left with a sense of regret. It appeared to be a passage from a love-letter, and, though he quickly dropped the paper, the words would not so easily leave his mind. They repeated themselves over to him, appealing to him strongly, and he lay there imagining to himself a picture of the woman who might have set them there in that quaint little hand.

"Even in your absence, I don't feel sad. Everything in the world has turned beautiful, and if you and I choose to ignore it, distance itself need not exist."

Major Molesworth found himself acknowledging for the first time in his life that words of the kind, if written to himself, would carry a special charm. He indulged his fancies for a moment, then suddenly shook himself crossly and rose to go, grumbling gently, "I say, I say! The romantic air of Italy already playing on my feelings! "

The paper, freed, fluttered away and when the man turned, all romance shaken from his mind, it was already at the other end of the grove with its face flattened against one of the stakes. He did not notice it, but as he made his way towards the further extremity of the bower, the tall figure of a girl, in a frock that must have been dipped in the sky, showed itself in the opening. She bent her head this way and that, looking for something; then, seeing the paper, she stooped for it, and turned with it out of the grove before Major Molesworth had had time to walk the length of it.

She had not lifted her face, and he had only seen the lines of her head and neck with heavy brown hair swept up under a sun-burned hat; but the beauty of her form and movements was very striking. He followed her down the sloping path that had cost so much labour to climb, and from a little distance he was relieved to see her turn into the shade of the pergola walk that leads to the Capuchin Hotel. Anybody who knows Amalfi knows that no one ever stays at any but the Capuchin Hotel, but this man was a stranger, and fearful lest the lady should disappear from his knowledge. Carpetings of flowers bordered the walk between the stout white pillars of the pergola, freesias, violets, and anemones thronging each other for space. Major Molesworth sank on to a seat, and watched the lady vanish past the last vine-clasped column; a moment later his attention was caught by the conversation of two ladies-a mother and daughter-seated together on a neighbouring bench. The younger lady had been occupied in discovering the identity of the people who were present, the evening before, at the table d'hote, and she now imparted her knowledge to her mother and, unconsciously, to Major Molesworth. He recalled, as she described them, the American bride and bridegroom, the Italian ambassador taking his holiday, the boy travelling with his tutor, the German family with the plaits of hair, and many others. He listened, uncertain if the lady of the lemon-grove had

been present last evening, and at the end of the narrative he heard:

"Then, there are two ladies, an aunt and a niece, but they didn't come down last night; the aunt had a sunstroke or something."

Rising almost at once from his seat, Major Molesworth made his way to the guest book on a desk in the hall, and by a process of elimination he found the names he wanted.

"Miss Dawes."

"Miss Sarah Daintree."

At luncheon time his eyes wandered up and down the table; but again she was not present, and the whole afternoon was to pass before she appeared. Major Molesworth made the acquaintance of Maxsie, the American, and his beautiful bride, who completely succeeded in distracting and amusing him during the afternoon drive.

In the evening, however, coming late to the table d'hote room, he remembered to pause in the doorway, and run his eyes up the long table in search of Miss Daintree. She was seated, this time, at the far end of the room, and one look at her completely satisfied Major Molesworth that she was the girl he had seen in the morning. The heavy hair on the white forehead was the first thing he noticed, and he thought she looked grave for so young a girl. Suddenly she turned to her neighbour, and gave him such a smile that Major Molesworth felt instantly relieved and crossed over to his place with a responsive smile of satisfaction on his face. She had beauty, she had grace, she had humour. What other charm could she want?

But now he could see her no longer, and he felt that some effort at conversation with his neighbours must be made. Α loosely grown boy opposite was watching him with furtive eyes. The whole air of him seemed somehow familiar to Major Molesworth, though he could remember nothing definite about him. He delayed an instant, then leaned across the table, inspiration coming to him at the right moment, and said, “I saw you playing for Harrow, last year at Lord's."

The boy beamed. "Did you? I hit a boundary the first day.”

"I know you did," said Major Molesworth, who now realized

that this was young Lord Barres; and he added, for he thought the boy was bragging, "so did Jackson."

"Oh, he hit several," admitted Barres, grinning at the recollection, "but I never did before. I was playing above form."

Major Molesworth soon felt that he liked the boy, and, while the dinner hour lasted, they talked together. Later on, Lord Barres confessed that he had thought of opening the conversation. 'Only, I didn't know what sort of a chap you might be. You might have begun on the beauty of the place. I'm fairly fed up with the scenery."

Walter laughed at the frankness of the speech, and, as the rest of the party was going into the cool air for coffee, the two rose and walked the length of the terrace, together. The sky was pricked with a million stars, and across the water the moon sent a path of light riding to the land. The two men reached a group of which Miss Daintree was a member, and Lord Barres, who seemed to know all these people well, was gradually absorbed into the conversation. Major Molesworth remained on the outskirts of the party, listening to their talk, and watching Miss Daintree, who was seated on the balustrading some yards away. In a short time the conversation turned to politics, and then, to the general astonishment, Lord Barres took his part in it eagerly, poking holes in every one's arguments, overthrowing them with a shake of his head, and disposing of matters in a few minutes which have occupied ministers for years. Miss Daintree sat listening with the amused smile of old friendship on her lips, and Major Molesworth was interested to see that it was when Lord Barres looked up and caught her smile, that he stopped and allowed himself to be led away to the music-room.

The rest of the group at once began to discuss him, the older men being very indignant at having the words taken out of their mouths by so young a boy.

"I call him a cub," said one, angrily.

"Oh, I don't think he's a cub," said Miss Daintree, softly. "He's only very young and rather intelligent."

"

What age do you suppose he is, any way?”

“Well,” answered Miss Sarah, "we were born the same day, so I know his age exactly."

"And, my dear," joined in Mrs. Maxsie, "as a young lady