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Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forth her old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire in the living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble's departure she grew stern and commanding. "This will never do, my dear," she said. "It cannot be that life has made of you a cruel, unjust woman."
Thank heaven this studio looked so charming! Thank heaven Angela was so dainty in her pale green gown with a single red coral pin at her throat. He walked to the window and stared out at Washington Square, with its bare, wind-shaken branches of trees, its snow, its ant-like pedestrians hurrying here and there. If he were only rich how peacefully he would paint! M. Charles could go to the devil.
After that the other Sisters could not feel happy and content in the atmosphere of antagonism that Sister Angela had partially overcome, but with which they had no sympathy. They returned to the Middle West and entered a Sisterhood where their duties and environment were more congenial. Ridge House reverted to the Fletcher estate and Uncle Jed was put in charge.
Suzanne! Suzanne! how her face, her gestures, her voice, haunted him. Not Angela, for all the pathos of her tragic ending, but Suzanne.
Gordon kept gazing at his friend; he seemed positively fascinated. "Yes, I have noticed that in Mrs. Vivian," he said. "Ah, she 's a very nice woman!" "It 's not true, then," said Gordon, "that you tried to make love to Angela?" Bernard hesitated a single instant. "No, it is n't true. I calumniated myself, to save her reputation.
"But 'e does not love 'er," he said, nodding toward Angela. "Certainly not!" Gilbert was instantly saying, and glared at his uncle. The latter, as usual, plunged straight ahead, as the others now gathered about the room. "He," meaning "Red," "loves her. He," he nodded toward his nephew, "loves her," pointing to Lucia Pell. "And she loves him," nodding back to Gilbert. "Shut up!
"She was to be married before Christmas to a Mr. Luttrell; but Mr. Luttrell was killed a short time ago by a shot from his brother's gun when they were out shooting together." "How very sad!" "The brother has gone or is going abroad; report says that he takes the matter very much to heart. And Angela is going to live with Mrs. Luttrell, the mother of these two men.
Art is at its lowest ebb, it cannot live without encouragement and support and it is difficult for even the most enthusiastic creator in marble or colour to carry out glorious conceptions for an inglorious country. But Angela Sovrani ambitious Angela, was not painting for Italy. She was painting for the whole world.
Nanette's letter enclosed a very short note from Angela, who, disliking letter-writing, merely advised me to follow, if I could, the plan proposed by her friend. Here is the copy of the letter written by Nanette, which I have always kept, as well as all other letters which I give in these Memoirs: "There is nothing in the world, reverend sir, that I would not readily do for my friend.
I go to the theatre to look at him and I almost fancy I am in love with him instead of Fontenelle, till I remember he stage-manages; ah! then I shudder! -and my shudder kills my love! After all it is only his resemblance to the Marquis that causes the love, and perhaps the shudder!" "Sylvie, Sylvie!" laughed Angela, "Can you not be serious? What do you mean?"
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