The Front Yard, and Other Italian StoriesWoolson, Constance Fenimore
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The Front Yard, and Other Italian Stories
Woolson, Constance Fenimore
Americans -- Italy -- Fiction; Italy -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, American
"I hope so. And I hope she will be very charming and obedient and
sweet." Then she dropped her sarcasms, and held out her hand in
farewell. "There is no use in prolonging this, Mr. Noel. Do not think,
however, that I do not appreciate your action; I do appreciate it. I
said that I did not respect you, and I have not until now; but now I do.
You will understand, of course, that I would rather not see you again,
and refrain from seeking me. Go your way, and forget me; you can do so
now with a clear conscience, for you have behaved well."
"It is not very likely that I shall forget you," answered Noel,
"although I go my way. I see you are firmly resolved. For the present,
therefore, all I can do is to go."
They shook hands, and he left her. As he passed through the small hall
on his way to the outer door he met Mrs. Spurr; she was attired as
opulently, in respect to colors, as ever, and she returned his greeting
with much cordiality. He glanced back; Miss Macks had witnessed the
meeting through the parlor door. Her color had faded; she looked sad and
pale.
She kept her word; she did not see him again. If he went to the street
of the Hyacinth, as he did two or three times, the little maid presented
him with the Italian equivalent of "begs to be excused," which was
evidently a standing order. If he wrote to her, as he did more than two
or three times, she returned what he wrote, not unread, but without
answer. He thought perhaps he should meet her, and was at some pains to
find out her various engagements. But all was in vain; the days passed,
and she remained invisible. Towards the last of May he left Rome. After
leaving, he continued to write to her, but he gave no address for
reply; she would now be obliged either to burn his letters or keep them,
since she could no longer send them back. They could not have been
called love-letters; they were friendly epistles, not long--pleasant,
easy, sometimes amusing, like his own conversation. They came once a
week. In addition he sent new books, and occasionally some other small
remembrance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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