The Author of Beltraffio | Page 7

and go to his father, who seized him in silence and held him
high for a long moment, kissing him several times.
I had lost no time in observing that the child, not more than seven years
old, was extraordinarily beautiful. He had the face of an angel--the eyes,

the hair, the smile of innocence, the more than mortal bloom. There
was something that deeply touched, that almost alarmed, in his beauty,
composed, one would have said, of elements too fine and pure for the
breath of this world. When I spoke to him and he came and held out his
hand and smiled at me I felt a sudden strange pity for him--quite as if
he had been an orphan or a changeling or stamped with some social
stigma. It was impossible to be in fact more exempt from these
misfortunes, and yet, as one kissed him, it was hard to keep from
murmuring all tenderly "Poor little devil!" though why one should have
applied this epithet to a living cherub is more than I can say.
Afterwards indeed I knew a trifle better; I grasped the truth of his being
too fair to live, wondering at the same time that his parents shouldn't
have guessed it and have been in proportionate grief and despair. For
myself I had no doubt of his evanescence, having already more than
once caught in the fact the particular infant charm that's as good as a
death-warrant.
The lady who had been sitting with Mrs. Ambient was a jolly ruddy
personage in velveteen and limp feathers, whom I guessed to be the
vicar's wife--our hostess didn't introduce me--and who immediately
began to talk to Ambient about chrysanthemums. This was a safe
subject, and yet there was a certain surprise for me in seeing the author
of "Beltraffio" even in such superficial communion with the Church of
England. His writings implied so much detachment from that institution,
expressed a view of life so profane, as it were, so independent and so
little likely in general to be thought edifying, that I should have
expected to find him an object of horror to vicars and their ladies--of
horror repaid on his own part by any amount of effortless derision. This
proved how little I knew as yet of the English people and their
extraordinary talent for keeping up their forms, as well as of some of
the mysteries of Mark Ambient's hearth and home. I found afterwards
that he had, in his study, between nervous laughs and free cigar-puffs,
some wonderful comparisons for his clerical neighbours; but
meanwhile the chrysanthemums were a source of harmony, he and the
vicaress were equally attached to them, and I was surprised at the
knowledge they exhibited of this interesting plant. The lady's visit,
however, had presumably been long, and she presently rose for

departure and kissed Mrs. Ambient. Mark started to walk with her to
the gate of the grounds, holding Dolcino by the hand.
"Stay with me, darling," Mrs. Ambient said to the boy, who had
surrendered himself to his father.
Mark paid no attention to the summons but Dolcino turned and looked
at her in shy appeal, "Can't I go with papa?"
"Not when I ask you to stay with me."
"But please don't ask me, mamma," said the child in his small clear new
voice.
"I must ask you when I want you. Come to me, dearest." And Mrs.
Ambient, who had seated herself again, held out her long slender
slightly too osseous hands.
Her husband stopped, his back turned to her, but without releasing the
child. He was still talking to the vicaress, but this good lady, I think,
had lost the thread of her attention. She looked at Mrs. Ambient and at
Dolcino, and then looked at me, smiling in a highly amused cheerful
manner and almost to a grimace.
"Papa," said the child, "mamma wants me not to go with you."
"He's very tired--he has run about all day. He ought to be quiet till he
goes to bed. Otherwise he won't sleep." These declarations fell
successively and very distinctly from Mrs. Ambient's lips.
Her husband, still without turning round, bent over the boy and looked
at him in silence. The vicaress gave a genial irrelevant laugh and
observed that he was a precious little pet. "Let him choose," said Mark
Ambient. "My dear little boy, will you go with me or will you stay with
your mother?"
"Oh it's a shame!" cried the vicar's lady with increased hilarity.
"Papa, I don't think I can choose," the child answered, making his voice

very low and confidential. "But I've been a great deal with mamma
to-day," he then added.
"And very little with papa! My dear fellow, I think you HAVE
chosen!" On which Mark Ambient