Winthorpe’s,—with brown hair cropped
close, and showing the white of the scalp; clean-shaven,
but of a steely tint where the razor had passed; with
a marked jaw-bone and a salient square chin; with
a high-bridged determined nose, and a white forehead
rising vertical over thick black eyebrows, and rather
deep-set grey eyes,—well, clap a steeple-crowned
hat upon it, and you could have posed him for one
of his own Puritan ancestors. The very clothes
of the men carried on their unlikeness,—John’s
loose blue flannels and red sailor’s knot, careless-seeming,
but smart in their effect, and showing him careful
in a fashion of his own; Winthorpe’s black tie
and dark tweeds, as correct as Savile Row could turn
them out, yet somehow, by the way he wore them, proclaiming
him immediately a man who never gave two thoughts
to his dress. If, however, Winthorpe’s face
was the face of a Puritan, it was the face of a Puritan
with a sense of humour—the lines about
the mouth were clearly the footprints of smiles.
It seemed the face of a sensitive Puritan, as well,
and (maugre that high-bridged nose) of a gentle—the
light in his clear grey eyes was a kindly and gentle
light. After all, Governor Bradford, as his writings
show,—though he tried hard, perhaps, not
to let them show it—was a Puritan with
a sense of humour; John Alden and Priscilla were surely
sensitive and gentle: and Winthorpe was descended
from Governor Bradford, and from John Alden and Priscilla.
The two friends walked backwards and forwards in the
great open space before the Castle, and talked.
They had not met for nearly two years, and had plenty
to talk about.
II
Seated at one of the open windows of the pavilion
beyond the clock, Maria Dolores (in a pale green confection
of I know not what airy, filmy tissue) looked down,
and somewhat vaguely watched them,—herself
concealed by the netted curtain, which, according to
Italian usage, was hung across the casement, to mitigate
the heat and shut out insects. She watched them
at first vaguely, and only from time to time, for the
rest going on with some needlework she had in her
lap. But by-and-by she dropped her needlework
altogether, and her watching became continuous and
absorbed.
“What a singular-looking man!” she thought,
studying Winthorpe. “What an ascetic-looking
man! He looks like an early Christian martyr.
He looks like a priest. I believe he is
a priest. English priests,” she remembered,
“when they travel, often dress as laymen.
Yes, he is a priest, and a terribly austere one—I
shouldn’t like to go to him for confession.
But in spite of his austerity, he seems to be extraordinarily
happy about something just at present. That light
in his eyes,—it is almost a light of ecstasy.
It is a light I have never seen in any eyes, save
those of priests and nuns.”
Winthorpe, while that “almost ecstatic”
light shone in his eyes, had been speaking.