From that moment we (my
husband and I) were continually meeting her, in galleries and out of
them; at Bellosguardo, which Hawthorne had just quitted, but where Isa
Blagden and Frances Power Cobbe still lingered, or in Florence itself
with Francesca Alexander and her family; at the Trollopes', or
elsewhere, while our evenings were commonly spent in each other's
apartments. As the hours of our European play-days drew near the end,
she began to lay plans for returning home in the steamer with those
who had grown dear to her, and in one of her notes of that period she
wrote to me:--
"On the strength of having heard that you were going home in the
Europa June 16th, we also have engaged passage therein for that time,
and hope that we shall not be disappointed.... It must be true, we
can't have it otherwise.... Our Southern Italy trip was a glory--it
was a rose--a nightingale--all, in short, that one ever dreams; but
alas! it is over."
It was a delightful voyage homeward in every sense. At that period a
voyage was no little matter of six days, but a good fourteen days of
sitting together on deck in pleasant summer weather, and having time
enough and to spare. Hawthorne and his family also concluded to join
the party. Mrs. Hawthorne, who was always the romancer in
conversation, filled the evening hours by weaving magic webs of her
fancies, until we looked upon her as a second Scheherazade, and the
day the head was to be cut off was the day we should come to shore.
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