Cartouche
by Frances Mary Peard · English · Gutenberg #43151 · 465,088 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Cartouche
Author: Frances Mary Peard
Release date: July 8, 2013 [eBook #43151]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43151
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CARTOUCHE ***
Cartouche
By Frances Peard
Published by Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.
This edition dated 1879.
Cartouche, by Frances Peard.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
CARTOUCHE, BY FRANCES PEARD.
CHAPTER ONE.
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.
"Cartouche! Cartouche!"
The call came from a young Englishman, who, having just walked through
the streets of Florence on his way from the station, now found himself
before a small house which stood not far from the Cascine in an open
space, pleasantly planted with trees, and within view of the Arno. The
house itself was white, if so cold a colour may be taken to represent
that mellow and golden effect which quickly enriches the plaster of
Italy; and it was gay with green shutters and striped awnings, for it
was yet early autumn, and the City of Flowers had not long cooled down
from the extreme heats which make it unbearable in summer. There was
still a hot and languid glow lying on the violet-tinted hills which on
either side surround the plain; still the Lung' Arno was avoided, and
people kept close under the shadows of the narrow streets; or, if they
must needs cross the river, crossed it by the Ponte Vecchio, under the
shelter of its quaint old shops.
The door of the house at which the young man had arrived was open, but
his call having produced no effect, instead of entering he stood still
and repeated it. "Cartouche!"
This time there was a dull thud on the ground to his right; a great
black poodle had jumped from an upper window, and recovering himself in
a moment, broke into the most extravagant demonstrations of welcome,
leaping upon the new-comer, barking and rushing about with every hair
flying out from his body. The young man, who was fair and curly-haired,
and tall, though inclined to stoop, looked at the window and then at the
dog, and gave a whistle of surprise.
"Let me advise you not to try that too often, my friend," he said
seriously. "It is just as well for you that the house is not a trifle
higher, as I presume you would not have taken the difference into your
calculations. And a nice time your mistress must be having, if these
are the ways in which you indulge."
The dog's answer was a vigorous bound, which almost upset the young
man's balance; then rushing wildly round and round the open place under
the plane trees, his black hair streaming in the wind, he suddenly
pulled himself up and stood watching his friend, his head on one side,
his small eyes gleaming from a dishevelled tangle, and his long tongue
hanging out of his mouth.
"Yes," said the tall Englishman, still regarding him meditatively, "I
understand what all that means, old fellow. You have a good supply of
animal spirits, and a difficulty in working off the steam under present
circumstances. I don't know that I feel as sympathetic as you have a
right to expect, but, at any rate, I shall be able to do something for
you, and if you could contrive to make over a little of what is really
inconveniencing you, I have not the slightest objection to be troubled
with it. Where is your mistress?"
As he spoke he turned towards the door and went in. The house seemed to
have fallen by accident among all the great buildings of Florence: it
had no porter, no staircase with flats going on and on; it had been
built or altered by some Englishman, who had a fancy for a home that
should be like England, although the beautiful Italian skies were
overhead; and Jack Ibbetson, when he came out with his aunt, Miss
Cartwright, to look for a house, fell upon this place, and did not rest
until he got hold of it for her. Inside the door there were flowers; a
few steps led into a passage which turned off at right angles, and then
Ibbetson opened the door of a small salon, and walked through it towards
the window, while his eye took in certain evidences that Cartouche had
been holding high revel there to the detriment of cushions and covers.
"So you still go on the rampage, old fellow?" he said to the dog, who
kept close to his heels in a state of suppressed excitement. "If I were
you I would leave off this style of thing, I really would. It is
nothing short of tyranny on your part. Hallo! what's up now?"
For with a wild swoop Cartouche pounced into a corner, dragged out a
basket, rushed to the window, and in a moment more was careering round
and round the little garden in which the proprietor had indulged his
English tastes. It was an odd little garden, with a wall round it, and
a poor pretence at English grass, but the wall had capers and pretty
hanging things growing out of it, and lizards darting up and down; and
the beauty of the garden lay in its great flowering shrubs, in the
magnolias, just beginning to show scarlet flames of seed among their
glossy leaves, in the bright green of an orange tree and the broad
ribbed foliage of Japanese medlars. That some one was sitting there
became evident in another moment, when there were uttered a series of
appeals in a feminine voice--
"Cartouche, Cartouche! Oh, Cartouche, how can you! Come here, you
naughty, naughty dog! I shall be obliged to beat you, you know I shall!
Come, now, like a good dog. Cartouche, Cartouche, come here!"
The young Englishman, standing back at the window, smiled at the little
scene, at the pretty soft little lady who had got up anxiously and left
her work on the chair, at the dog's evident enjoyment, his pretence of
remorse and abandonment, the slow wag of his tail as he waited for his
mistress to approach, the swift rush with which he made his escape. At
last, when he had drawn her to the limit of the garden, he suddenly
dropped the basket, raced back to her chair, and seizing a loose tassel
which she had been about to sew on to a cushion, pranced up to the young
man with an air of infinite triumph. Miss Cartwright turned round and
saw her nephew emerging.
"Jack, is it you?" she cried. And then she hurried towards him with
both her kind hands outstretched. "My dear, dear boy, I can hardly
believe it; this is delightful, this is why I have had no letter! Have
you just come? Have you had nothing to eat? Angela shall send up
something at once, and Winter shall go to Franconi's. My dear, it is so
good to see you, and I was thinking of nothing but that naughty dog.
What is that you are taking out of his mouth?"
"I'm afraid it's a tassel," said Jack gravely. "Shall I flog him?"
Miss Cartwright was one of those kind gentle people whose conscience and
soft-heartedness are always falling foul of each other.
"Perhaps it does not so much matter," she said hurriedly; "it is only
the same tassel which he has torn off so often before, that I daresay he
fancies he has a sort of right to it."
"I'm very much afraid he is giving you no end of trouble," said Jack
remorsefully.
"Oh, my dear, no! He is wonderfully good, and so affectionate that
sometimes it quite brings the tears into my eyes. But of course he is
young, and one can't expect him to understand everything at once, can
one?"
"That is the old story, Aunt Mary," said Jack, smiling kindly; "I have
got too much good out of the excuse myself to begrudge it to Cartouche."
But Miss Cartwright hardly heard his words; she was looking at him, her
face full of that sweet warm happiness which often brightens lives which
seem to us on-lookers grey and commonplace. What do we know, after all?
The passionate thrills, the great tides of emotion, which we call
happiness, are often more nearly allied to pain; true bliss creeps out
from strange, unlooked-for crannies, from the unselfishness which has
seemed to set it aside. Jack was struck and touched by the gladness in
her face, by the peace of the little garden, its vines and its roses.
He had a feeling as if it could not last, as if he himself were bringing
in the element of unrest. He stopped his aunt when she was beginning to
question him.
"You have not heard how Cartouche got at me."
"No--did he know your step? Oh, my dear," she said, pausing blankly.
"Well?"
"I have just remembered I had shut him into an upstairs room, and the
key is in my pocket."
"It's quite safe, you need not feel for it," said Jack gravely. "The
fact is, he jumped out of the window."
"Oh, but I hope, I do hope you are mistaken," said Miss Cartwright in
great perturbation. "I have always felt so safe when we have got him
upstairs; it really will be serious if this is no restraint. Because,
even if the windows were closed"--she stopped and looked doubtfully at
Cartouche, who presented an aspect of complete indifference.
"He would go through them--not a doubt of it."
"My dear boy, don't say such dreadful things! But then, what can we do?
Never mind, I dare say he will not be naughty again," she went on,
bringing her unlimited hopefulness to bear; "besides, it was owing to
your coming so unexpectedly, and you have explained nothing as yet. I
shall just go and see Winter, and tell her to get everything ready for
you, and then I shall come back, and hear all that you have been doing."
Left to himself, Ibbetson sat down on a garden bench, and with his head
sunk between his shoulders, his long legs stretched stiffly out, and his
hands disposed of in his pockets, fell into a reverie, which, to judge
from his looks, was not of an altogether agreeable nature. So absorbed
by it was he, that Cartouche, tired of a short-lived goodness, went off
to relieve his spirits by bullying the cat of the household, an animal
which, having been always distinguished for a singularly placid
disposition, was now rapidly acquiring the characteristics of a vixen,
goaded thereto by a good-humoured but unceasing persecution. What with
barks and spittings, there was noise enough to disturb a less profound
meditation, but when Miss Cartwright at length came hurrying out, her
nephew kept the same attitude, and was unaware of her approach.
Thinking that he was asleep, she stood looking at him with a tender
wistfulness in her soft eyes; for now that his face was in repose she
noticed a tired and grave expression which she fancied should not have
been there. It was not a handsome face, for there was a greater
squareness than is considered consistent with good looks, and the mouth
was large. But his eyes were grey and honest, and all the features gave
you a pleasant impression of openness and health which in itself was a
strong attraction to less partial observers than his aunt. Nor was the
partiality itself wonderful, when it was considered that she had acted
as mother to Jack since the time when his own mother had died, a time so
long ago that he was too small to know anything about it--or so they
decided. When it happened, Miss Cartwright went to live with her
brother-in-law, and to bring up Jack.
She did this--the more loyally and creditably that she and her
brother-in-law never got on well together. It was not that they
quarrelled, but that they had little in common. Sir John Ibbetson was a
poor squire who farmed his own land, and never seemed to grow any the
richer for it; perhaps the truth was, that being haunted by the
impression that ill-luck dogged his footsteps, he could scarcely be
induced to take any but a gloomy view of whatever concerned him. That
Jack's early life was not coloured by such grim presentiments was owing
to Miss Cartwright's persistent cheerfulness, which, while a perpetual
trial to Sir John, made the home atmosphere healthy for the boy. Few
people could have retained their sweet temper and interest in minor
matters so thoroughly as she retained them, in spite of constant
rebuffs; nor could she ever be talked into taking despairing views of
Jack's juvenile naughtinesses, or into foreshadowing future disgrace
from his inability or unwillingness to master the intricacies of the
Latin grammar. But perhaps her best service both to father and son was
in keeping well before the boy his father's actual affection, and thus
preventing Sir John's over-anxiety from alienating his son, which might
have been a not unnatural result. As it was, the lad grew up
high-spirited and perhaps a little wilful, but generous in his impulses,
and with a sweet temper which it was difficult to ruffle. He was
universally liked at Harrow and Oxford, and, like other men, got both
good and bad out of his popularity; but being too lazy for hard work,
only scrambled through what had to be done, and grievously disappointed
his father, although the latter had never professed to look forward to
better things. It might have been owing to this disappointment that Sir
John took a step which caused the most lively amazement to Jack, Miss
Cartwright, his servants, and, in a lesser degree, to the whole circle
of his acquaintances. He announced his engagement to a rich widow.
When the first astonishment had been got over, nobody had a word to say
against it except Jack. He disliked it so vehemently as even to
surprise his aunt, who, with all her knowledge of him, was unaware how
tenderly he cherished the idea--for remembrance it could scarcely be
called--of his lost mother, or how much he resented a step of his
father's which seemed to prove her to be forgotten. However, though the
sore remained, his nature was too sweet not to suffer it to be
mollified, although he entirely refused to benefit by the substantial
kindnesses which his stepmother--to her credit be it spoken--would
willingly have heaped upon him. It seemed, indeed, as if the necessary
spur had at last touched his life. He studied for the bar more closely
than he had ever done before, was constant in his attendance at the
courts, and in his letters to his aunt expressed such an eager desire
for her briefs, that if her disposition had not been absolutely
peaceful, she might have returned to England on purpose to seek for a
lawsuit. As it was, she began to develop what seemed like a sanguinary
thirst for crime, reading the police reports in her English papers with
less horror at the wickedness there brought to light, than anxiety that
something should turn up for Jack.
Sir John's marriage had taken place nearly a year ago, and Miss
Cartwright, uprooted from what had been her home for a long series of
years, had, partly from old associations, partly to please Jack, and
partly because an old maiden friend was bent upon the scheme, determined
to make Florence her home for a time. It was the last thing anyone
expected from her, but those are just the things which people do. She
and Miss Preston had moved to Siena for the summer, and now had come
back to the pretty homelike little house on which they had fallen. Miss
Preston was the part of the arrangement against which Jack protested in
vain. She was tall, hook-nosed, commanding: she did not believe in him;
she set her face against weaknesses of all kinds, and considered it her
mission to protect Miss Cartwright. When people's worth takes this sort
of disagreeable shape, it is astonishing how much more indignation it
raises amongst their neighbours than falls to the share of real sinners;
and perhaps this was the tie which kept these two--unlike as they were--
together. Miss Cartwright, who looked up to her friend with all her
heart, was really filled with a vague and tender pity which Miss Preston
never knew. It was she who was the actual protector--smoothing down,
explaining, thinking no evil, and making people ashamed of their own.
Then there was Cartouche. Jack had picked him up as a puppy in the
South of France, and insisted upon his aunt taking charge of him.
"He will have plenty of room here to run about and get himself tamed
down a little," he explained, "whereas in London he would be miserable.
You need not trouble yourself about him, he is clever enough to take
care of himself and you into the bargain. If you don't really like him
I can send him to my fathers, only it struck me he would be just what
you want here; what do you say about it?"
He put the question, but would perhaps have been surprised had a third
person pointed out how little doubt he felt about the answer. Miss
Cartwright would have looked upon herself as a barbarian if she had
refused any gift offered her by Jack, and immediately set herself to
apply to Cartouche the same hopefulness which she had brought to bear
upon her nephew's education. Miss Preston's wrath was great, but there
was another power in the house--Winter, Miss Cartwright's maid, and
Winter hated Miss Preston. Opposition, therefore, carried Winter to the
side of Cartouche, and opposition forms as strong a bond as anything
else.
CHAPTER TWO.
AN AGREEMENT.
Jack's slumbers were far too sacred in the eyes of his aunt for her to
think of disturbing them; she was preparing to retreat carefully, when
he looked up and began to laugh.
"I was not asleep, I give you my word."
"Oh, well, my dear," she said, happy again now that the shade on his
face was gone, "I am sure it would not have been wonderful if you had
dozed off after your journey, though I really don't know where you have
dropped from; and I shall be quite glad to sit down and have a long
talk, for you know there is a great deal to be told."
"Well, yes, I suppose there is."
But he did not seem inclined to begin, though Miss Cartwright looked
wistfully at him. She said presently, with rather a quavering voice,
"There is no bad news?"
Just enough of a pause followed her question to make her heart sink,
then he said quickly--
"Certainly not. What has come to you, Aunt Mary? You never used to
indulge in these sort of fancies. If Cartouche makes you nervous I
shall take him away. But I know what it is, Miss Preston has been
scolding you for all the wickedness of the world. Even in Florence that
woman is as bad as three fogs and an east wind."
And he rattled on with more nonsense of the sort, but it was so evident
that he was making talk to avoid some subject closer to each of them,
that Miss Cartwright almost grew vexed.
"My dear," she said, "do leave poor Miss Preston alone."
"She won't leave you alone, that is what I complain of. Come now,
hasn't she got some unhappy clergyman of whom she falls foul?"
"Well, she did say she thought the new chaplain had too much
self-possession for so young a man, and I said I did not think he was so
very self-possessed, because when he makes a mistake he always coughs,
which obliges one to notice it the more."
"Worse and worse," said Jack gravely; "she's making you as severe as she
is herself."
"My dear, you don't really think I was unkind? I am sure I only thought
what I could say for the poor young man, she seemed so annoyed about it.
You don't really mean it, you are only laughing, and after all there is
so much to say."
He jumped up suddenly, and walked a few steps away from his chair. The
pretty quiet little garden was full of light and colour and keenly-edged
shade; the beautiful glossy leaves stood up against the blue sky. Over
the wall they could see other houses and other trees, and catch here and
there a little glimpse of the opposite hill with its occasional
cypresses. The great bell of the Duomo was clanging, all the glory of
the day changing softly into another glory, deeper and more mysterious.
Was it of all this of which Jack was thinking? Miss Cartwright followed
him and laid her hand gently on his arm.
"My dear boy!" she said imploringly.
He looked round at once and laughed at her pleading face.
"Well, it's all--right, if that's what you want to know."
"You--"
"I'm engaged, yes, hard and fast. Why," he said, with a quick anxiety
in his voice, "what's the matter? Sit down, sit down," he went on,
dragging over a chair, and putting her into it very tenderly, for the
delicate colour had quite faded out of her face. But she smiled at him
the next moment.
"It is very silly of me, but I have been thinking so much about it; and
somehow I fancied from your manner that things were not going straight,
and I was foolishly anxious."
"You shouldn't care so much about me," said the young man with real
remorse; "nobody else in the world would trouble themselves as you do.
I should have told you directly, if it had entered my head that you were
taking it to heart like this. Let me go and get you a glass of water or
sal-volatile or something, you are as shaky as possible."
But Miss Cartwright sat up cheerfully.
"It is nothing at all, Jack; I am quite well again, and your news is the
best thing for me, if I really wanted anything. Is it all settled?"
"Yes," he said with a little restraint again, and pulling a magnolia
leaf as he spoke. "Phillis is at Bologna with the Leytons, we all came
out together. Yes, it is true; I expected it to astonish you."
"Don't tell me anything more for a minute or two," said his aunt gently,
putting up her hands; "it is one thing on another. Phillis at Bologna?
I don't quite understand."
"But you like the news, don't you?" said Jack, turning suddenly on her.
"Like it! how could I fail? Such a good girl, and all that money, and
your uncle wishing it so much. Nothing could be so desirable, only, my
dear boy--"
"What?" sharply.
"Sometimes you get odd touches of perversity, and the very fact of a
thing being quite unexceptional sets you against it. I remember it so
well when you were a boy. It would have been a sad misfortune in this
case, though, of course, it is too momentous a matter for me to have
said much about it beforehand. I suppose that is the reason you did not
know how anxious I felt, but I assure you I have scarcely thought of
anything else. And Phillis is at Bologna! When do they come on?"
"To-morrow--Saturday. I don't exactly remember. I suppose you know the
terms of the agreement?" said Jack, looking at her.
"My dear!"
"Well, it is an agreement," he said perversely; "what else would you
call it? I, Peter Thornton, of Hetherton Grange, in the county of
Surrey, Esquire, do hereby declare you, John Francis Ibbetson,
barrister--how shall I put the London lodgings, second floor, to best
advantage?--to be the heir of all my estates and properties--excluding,
let us hope, his gout and his temper--on condition that you take as your
wife my step-niece, Mary Phillis Grey, to have and to hold with the
timber, freeholds, messuages, and other etceteras of the said estate.
If that is not an agreement, I don't know the meaning of the word."
Miss Cartwright, leaning forward, tried to look into her nephew's face.
"My dear," she said slowly, "of course you are in joke, but I don't
think I like to hear you talk in such a way. I should be miserable if I
did not feel sure you were quite happy."
Jack turned round and took her soft hand very kindly in his own.
"Well, then, don't be miserable," he said lightly; "why, you know it
stands to reason that every one must be perfectly happy directly he or
she is engaged to be married. What shall I do to prove my load of
bliss?"
But she shook her head.
"I sometimes fancy it would be better if money were not mixed up with
marriages at all. I don't think it was so much thought about in old
days."
"It is a stronger necessity now."
"Your father would willingly increase your allowance."
"I don't choose to live on that woman's fortune. Aunt Mary, I thought
you would be the first to congratulate me on the splendour of my
prospects!"
"My dear, and so I do," she said quickly, laying her hand on his
shoulder; "I do, with all my heart. If I ask these questions it is only
that I care so very, very much, that I was afraid, Jack, whether you
might have rushed into this without quite thinking enough beforehand.
But I dare say that was only my foolish fancy. Tell me one thing: if
you had not married Phillis would your uncle have left the estates to
her?"
"Not he," said the young man, flinging a stone into the bushes where
Cartouche was still annoying the cat. "He told me in so many words,
that unless I married her she would be penniless, and the money would go
to some tenth cousin or so."
"I hope the poor girl did not know this," said Miss Cartwright uneasily.
"He is not the man to keep that sort of pressure to himself."
"Jack, you liked her before there was any talk of these estates?"
"Of course I did."
He spoke impatiently, as if the subject were already exhausted, whereas
Miss Cartwright, longing for fuller details, felt as if it were only
beginning.
"I wish I had known Phillis before," she said sighing, and at the sigh
the young fellow's heart reproached him again.
"She said the same," he said, turning towards her and speaking gravely;
"I fancy you'll get on with her--everybody doesn't, you know. She's--
but there's no good in attempting to describe her, I was never good at
that sort of thing; the only thing I could say about you was that you
weren't tall or black."
Miss Cartwright brightened. She had a warm corner ready in her kind
heart for the girl who was to be Jack's wife; no jealousy made the
prospect bitter, she was already planning, welcoming, sympathising.
Jack himself jumped up; he said he would go to the hotel where he was
putting up and come back to dinner. It was a concession, for he would
encounter Miss Preston, but he had not the heart to disappoint his aunt
that first evening, and afterwards he acknowledged that it had not been
so bad. The window was open, the moon was sailing through blue,
profound skies, her light fell like silver on the glossy leaves, and
there was a sort of happy hum in the air, distant talk and gay laughter.
Miss Preston fell asleep, Jack and his aunt sat near the window,
sometimes silent, sometimes chatting. As for Cartouche, he pleased
himself in his own way, rushing every now and then into the garden in
pursuit of a foe who he was quite conscious did not exist, and returning
with the proud air of one who has discomfited his enemy.
As Ibbetson strolled home that night he was thinking of many things,
half against the grain, as it were, for he would willingly have put them
aside. There were enough outer things to interest him if once he could
have got them uppermost, but we cannot do that always, try as we will.
The Arno was running along, bright with the moonshine, lights were
twinkling across the bridges, clambering up the hill opposite; black
shadows stood out strongly, and as you looked, all sorts of strange
memories seemed to rush towards you. But they took no real hold on
Jack, who was only conscious of them in a vague, dreamy way. The people
were strolling in all directions, enjoying the evening, as they do in
Italy, chatting, whispering, half-a-dozen, perhaps, linked together,
taking the whole breadth of the pathway, or coming mysteriously out of
the dark shadowy streets. In front of the Ognissanti a little lamp
threw its dim radiance upon the beautiful blue and white Luca della
Robbia over the door; the grave and sweet figures in their perpetual
adoration seemed nearer and yet more delicate than by day. Jack noted
this as he passed, but all the while it was not really Florence in which
he was living, but a more homely and pastoral country. He was provoked
with himself; he had not wanted to go over the old ground; he had said
to himself a dozen times, that having taken a certain step, there was no
need for mentally retracing it.
Only something seemed always to be carrying him back.
Would he have had it different? He said No, resolutely, when the
question took so keen a shape. He had always felt a quiet liking for
Phillis Grey, and it moved him deeply when he heard Mr Thornton's rough
declaration that if he, Jack, did not marry her she would be left with
no more than a miserable pittance. His uncle, after all, showed some
knowledge of the character of the man with whom he had to deal, for the
personal advantages did not really affect Jack half so much, although he
took pains to assure himself that they did. He used to go over them to
himself with a half-comic, half-serious air of business, as if he were
quite convinced of their value--independence, position, idleness--the
worst of it was that, try as he would, he found each carrying a sort of
contradiction with it, which prevented him from enjoying it comfortably.
But poor Phillis, how could she bear the loss of everything? Why
should he not marry her? He liked no one better, or so well. It was
the course which gave the least trouble to everyone. It offered
palpable good, and there was no drawback on which he could exactly lay
his finger. Jack Ibbetson's mind wandered away, up and down, this way
and that, but all the time it was tending slowly in one direction, so
that on the evening of the day when his uncle had made his announcement,
a walk round the shrubberies and a couple of cigars brought him to the
window where Phillis was sitting in her white dress, and when he had
asked her to come out, it was not difficult, especially on that quiet
tender evening, to ask her to marry him. It was not difficult, it was
almost pleasant. There was a tremulous happiness in the girl's answer,
and yet all the time Jack was conscious, and hating the consciousness,
of what he was saving her from. If it had not been for that, he
thought--but there it was, and, after all, was it not one motive?
Before this happened it had been decided that Phillis should go abroad
with some friends, and Peter Thornton would have no change. His wife
wanted the wedding to have been from Hetherton, but he scouted the idea
so fiercely that no one dared to repeat it. Phillis should go, and Jack
could go too. As for the marriage, he did not care where it took place,
so long as they did not lose any time about it, and then if they wanted
to honeymoon it in Italy they would be on the spot. And having
announced his wishes, he took refuge in such a violent fit of the gout,
that contradiction became an actual impossibility, and the odd little
party started. It seemed more unreal to Jack every day as they came
flying on. He had been rather unkind about the journey. Mrs Leyton
felt attractions in Paris. Captain Leyton, who went about with a very
elaborate sketching apparatus which provided against rain, sun, and all
possible evils of flood or field, and contained a larger supply of
paints than could be used in a lifetime, was desirous to turn aside into
the country of the Italian lakes, but Jack was obstinately determined to
go directly to Florence, and somehow carried his day so far as to get
them all to Bologna. There he graciously permitted them to rest; and
indeed Ward, the lady's maid, was in a state of rebellion, while Mrs
Leyton, who was good-natured but sometimes plaintive, went about
declaring that having come abroad as much for society as anything else,
it was a little hard to be whirled through the country at a rate which
prevented your seeing anyone but the horrid people to be met with in the
trains.
As for Phillis--but Phillis must wait. Jack was very kind and polite to
her, and sometimes amused by her inexperience. He would have been
surprised beyond measure if any objection to his plans had come from
her.
CHAPTER THREE.
CARTOUCHE KILLS A TURKEY.
Florence had gone back to summer the next day. The heat was intense,
the streets were deserted, the very blue of the sky seemed to burn, all
the poor green things to have the life drawn out of them by the
scorching sun. There was a little loggia at Miss Cartwright's Casa
Giulia, where Jack and his aunt could have managed to keep themselves
cool if Miss Preston would have permitted it, but she routed them out
more than once. Heat or no heat she had no compassion for idleness, and
she came tramping up the stairs with bundles of book labels for the
Church library, with horrible knitted garments which she had dragged
from wintry receptacles, with all kinds of out-of-season duties which
were to rouse Miss Cartwright. She was one of those people whose
presence is a perpetual rebuke; it is impossible to fulfil their
requirements, you feel yourself making feeble excuses, and going down,
down, down, lower and lower in your own opinion and in theirs.
"Why do you let her tyrannise over you?" said Jack indignantly. It is
to be feared that he called her an old cat, but all the same he was
himself conscious of this uncomfortable sinking in her presence.
"She does not always do things in the pleasantest manner," said Miss
Cartwright gently, "but she is so conscientious and so useful that it is
impossible not to admire her. There is a great deal of misery in
Florence, and I am sure I often feel how selfish and idle it must seem
to her when I sit in this pretty loggia out of the reach of it all,
while she is always toiling and planning. Indeed, Jack, if you only
knew half she did, you would appreciate her better."
"Heaven forbid!" said the young man fervently.
Even Cartouche, who had made his way up to the loggia, was too sleepy to
do anything but snap at persevering flies; the others sat lazily
pretending to read or work; every now and then Miss Cartwright asked
questions about Phillis; it was all dreamy and quiet. From where they
sat they could see other loggias--people at their windows, women coming
out on flat shady roofs to water their plants, odd little nests of
chimneys like honeycombs, pigeon-holes, mysterious gratings, a curious
kind of roof-life of which they made part and which had its interests.
In those sunny countries it takes little to make a picture; here the
business is elaborate, but there sun and sky do so much that you want
little more--a scarlet flower in a pot, a clambering vine, and the
effect is given. Jack lay back idly wondering at the beauty of an old
house wall opposite on which the sun poured in golden splendour, and the
rich shadows of the eaves marked bold outlines against the sky, when
Miss Preston's voice behind made him start.
"If you are busy I am sorry to interrupt you, Mary," she began, with a
searching glance at Miss Cartwright, who was hastily settling her cap,
and trying to look as if she had not been asleep, "but it is necessary
that some one should take back the books to the library this afternoon."
"Oh, I think not," said Miss Cartwright nervously; "they may really wait
until to-morrow, the heat is too intolerable for anything not absolutely
necessary to be done."
"I consider this necessary. The books were promised to Vieusseux for
to-day."
Miss Preston spoke in her uncompromising tone, the two culprits looked
at each other and fidgeted. Some old nursery story began to run in
Jack's head of naughty children, severe fairies, impossible tasks, heaps
of shining silks which had to be sorted. Miss Cartwright made another
feeble effort.
"I could not ask Winter to go out until it is cooler, but then she might
take them."
"I shall take them myself," said Miss Preston decidedly. "I have no
desire to delegate duties. I have only come to know whether you wish to
try the candles at Lanzi's? In that case, I will call there."
When she had gone, Jack jumped up in a fume.
"The woman is unendurable," he said. "She will be up here again in a
moment with some other horrible propositions. I can't stand any more of
them. Look here, Aunt Mary, I will take Cartouche back to the hotel,
and in an hour or so it will have cooled down enough to give him a run.
You need not think about dinner, I shall get it at Dony's, or somewhere,
and look in here again lateish in the evening. If she is human she will
be asleep then, after all this hunting her fellow-creatures."
Ibbetson could not stay long at the hotel, where the air was heavy with
heat. He made his way through the shady alleys of the Cascine; the
people were collecting, the carriages drawn up, gay ladies in all sorts
of bright and delicate colours, gentlemen wearing oddly-shaped hats and
conspicuous gloves; a gay brilliant scene enough, but not one which at
that moment had any attractions for Jack. He had in his pocket a letter
from Phillis--the first. It was written with some care and restraint,
as he noticed with a sigh which yet he could not have explained. They
would leave Bologna for Florence on Saturday--this was Thursday. The
heat was terrific, the arcades were a great comfort, the hotel was
excellent, the Etruscan remains were most interesting. The little
letter told everything there was to say--mentioned Mrs Leyton's health,
Captain Leyton's sketches--yet Jack was dissatisfied with it, and vexed
at his own dissatisfaction. The old vein of thought kept recurring; it
was not Tuscany in which he was walking, Tuscany with its golden lights,
its wealth of colour, its grapes clambering from tree to tree, but more
prosaic Surrey where carts were drawing their heavy harvest loads along
the roads, and Hetherton lay low amidst its masses of dark trees. The
picture caused him a little thrill of revulsion, and then a sharper
thrill of self-reproach.
Jack knew nothing of the road along which he was plodding; indeed, it
was not always a road, he went here and there where it seemed shady and
out of the dust, along the tall canes by the side of the Arno, sometimes
through a vineyard, where the contadini were gathering the beautiful
fruit with their sickles. At last he found himself climbing a hill,
where the road was white, steep, and stony, and to his left was one of
those walls which you may yet see built round the old villas, sloping
inwards, as if originally set up for defence. Presently he came, of
course, to the little niche high up in the wall, where, behind a
grating, were rudely coloured figures of the Madonna and Child, and an
earthenware pot in which some scarlet lilies were flaming. Somehow such
little tributes are more touching than the most elaborate decorations;
Ibbetson found himself wondering who had placed them there, as he went
toiling up his hill. The next moment he reached the entrance of the
villa; iron gates standing open led into a rather untidy looking drive,
arched over by tall trees of paradise and paulownias; and the shade of
their broad leaves was so attractive a contrast to the dusty road, that
he stood and looked in for a few minutes. There was an unreasonable
attraction to him about the place. He smiled at himself when it struck
him, and whistling to Cartouche, who had plunged among the trees,
prepared to continue his tramp up the stony hill.
But Cartouche was not forthcoming. On the contrary, certain sounds were
to be heard implying that he had met with a very congenial amusement
within--a rustling among bushes, short sharp yelps, terrified gobblings,
flutterings, then a girl's cry. Jack whistled and called in vain,
finally ran along the drive and found himself in a broad space before
the villa, where two men armed with sticks were pursuing Cartouche,
three or four young turkeys were flying helplessly about, and a girl
stood holding another, apparently dead, in her hands. The instant she
saw Ibbetson she stamped her foot, and cried out passionately in
Italian--
"Take away that wicked, villainous dog, do you hear!"
Jack was struck dumb, not at the command, but at the face which was
turned towards him. He had never in his life seen so beautiful a
creature. The large brown eyes flashed reproachfully through their
tears, the rounded and glowing cheek might have belonged to a Hebe, the
indignant curl of the short upper lip only showed more strongly the
beauty of its curves. She stood facing him, one hand holding the dead
bird, the other pointing inexorably at Cartouche, who, aware of his
misdeeds, skilfully avoided a blow aimed by one of the gardeners, and
fled behind his master. Then her face changed slightly, and she looked
down at the bird.
"You are not Italian," she said still vehemently, but in English so pure
as to excite the young man's wonder more keenly, "and perhaps you did
not know about it; but your dog should not come in and kill our turkeys.
See, it is quite dead," she added, holding it out; "and they were such
dear little things, my sister and I had just brought them in a basket
from the _podere_ to show my mother."
"I am very sorry, very sorry indeed," said Ibbetson with great
earnestness, "and very much ashamed that I did not keep a better look
out."
"If you were only passing by in the road, of course you could not help
it," said the girl, looking at him gravely; "but perhaps you will try to
prevent his doing it again. I should be very much obliged if you would,
for I cannot bear to see things hurt."
"I will certainly flog him."
There was a pause, and she took another survey, but this time it was of
Cartouche, whom his master was holding.
"He does not seem a very fierce dog?" she said inquiringly.
"Quite the reverse," said Ibbetson smiling. "He is little more than a
puppy, and this mischief is only play, but still it is necessary he
should be taught what he is not to do."
Jack was looking very determined; Cartouche had the air of a victim.
The girl glanced at the turkey which she still held, and again at the
dog.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, as if rather ashamed of herself, "you will
not beat him? The turkey is dead, and I think he understands he is not
to do it again. Indeed, Antonio shall carry the rest back to the farm.
You will not beat him?"
"You have a right to say what shall be done."
"Then I say that," she said, brightening and clapping her hands. "Here
is my sister, I must tell her about it."
She ran to meet a younger girl who came down the steps of a terrace.
Ibbetson stood where she had left him, feeling a little awkward, it must
be confessed, and not knowing whether he was to go or stay, or into what
strange place he had fallen. Were these people English or Italian? The
girl's type of beauty was Italian, but the English she spoke bore no
trace of being acquired. The villa was square, large, and apparently
out of repair; there was a tower which looked older than the rest of the
building, and a handsome high-arched entrance. Plants were arranged in
pyramids round vases or statues; there were lemon trees in great tubs,
tiny oranges hanging between the leaves, tube roses scenting the air,
glossy acanthuses. In the centre of the broad space in front of the
house, where Jack was standing, was a pond with a fountain in its midst,
which you might reach from the villa through a covered way matted over
with banksia roses, and having seats at intervals under the cool shade.
He had just time to notice all this when the two girls turned and joined
him.
"This is my sister," said his first acquaintance with a pretty little
gesture of introduction, "but we do not know your name, or anything
about you, except that you are English."
"My name is Ibbetson, John Ibbetson," said the young man laughing, and
yet reddening slightly.
"You are quite right in supposing that I am English, but will you pardon
me if I ask whether you can possibly be my country people?"
"I am," said the younger girl shyly, and her sister turned upon her a
reproachful look.
"And I, too," she said quickly. "What makes you doubt it? English
people often live abroad, as you must know. We are called Masters, my
mother is in the house, and you will come in to see her, of course."
Jack muttered something about his dress and the dust, but the girl shook
her head imperatively.
"That does not matter in the least. We live here alone and see nobody,
that is why I wish you to go in; I know it is not good for mamma to be
so solitary, and have no one but us. Kitty and I often talk about it,
but what can we do? There are only the gardeners, and old Andrea, the
cook, and the people at the farm, and she does not care about the farm.
We brought the turkeys back to-day just for a little amusement."
"And I was so unfortunate as to be the cause of putting an end to it."
"Yes," said the girl gravely, "but never mind. Your coming to see her
will be better, perhaps. This way, please."
Ibbetson followed, half amused and half piqued. It was quite evident
that he was only looked upon as a new and possible means of
entertainment where other means were wanting, and yet the girl's manner
was so simple and frank that it was impossible to feel offended. And
the brightness, the unconventionality of the scene charmed him. The air
was full of wonderful gleaming lights, of sweet scents. Every line of
the old villa seemed in harmony with the rich colouring about it; so
were the sisters in their cool white dresses. It was all strange and
yet familiar, and he followed, wondering what new features would
presently disclose themselves, whether it was to end in a fairy tale or
plainest English prose. Cartouche, fortunately still a little subdued
by the consciousness of misdoing, was tied into a thicket of scarlet
geraniums by the side of the entrance, then Kitty pushed the heavy door,
and passing through a small marble-paved hall, opened another door
leading into an immense salon, perhaps fifty feet long. To English eyes
it looked but barely furnished, but it was cool and well shaded; two
large windows opened on a terrace, and there, on a white marble table,
under the shade of a magnificent paulownia tree, was spread the dinner
service. It was like a feast in Boccaccio, Jack thought, after the
stuffy table-d'hotes and the stuffier dining-room at Hetherton--stands
of bright flowers, piles of rosy peaches, grapes full of lustrous
colour, plums, figs heaped on their dishes, and two or three green
melons lying in the midst of this gay confusion of colour.
"It is nearly seven o'clock, I see," said the elder girl, glancing
carelessly at it. "Kitty, tell Pasquale to set another place; of course
you will dine with us," she added, turning to the young Englishman, "but
please to come to the breakfast-room, mamma is sure to be there."
As she spoke she opened a door which led into another and smaller salon,
and from this they went through another. Both had inlaid floors and
marble tables; in one a couple of marble statues stood looking sadly and
reproachfully, so Jack fancied, at the girl who went quickly by without
so much as glancing towards them, her beautiful face eager, her cheeks
glowing. There were no statues in the second room, only black negro
boys holding flower-stands; but the stands were empty, and evidently the
rooms were uninhabited, and even on this day a little dreary. It was
different with the little room to which they led; there all the
available furniture had been gathered. It was not very handsome, but a
pretty homelike air hung about everything. A glass door opened on steps
which went down to a gay little flower-garden, and were shaded by a
weeping willow, while from some unseen source there came a pleasant
refreshing sound of bubbling water. In a low chair near the window sat
a lady who had probably been asleep, from the bewildered air with which
she looked up, and Jack's companion evidently thought so too, for she
gave a little impatient pat upon her shoulder.
"Wake up, mamma, we have got something quite new for you to-day," she
began in the tone in which one would offer a toy to a spoiled child.
"Here is an English gentleman who is going to dine with us. I dare say
you have just come from England, and know about things?" she continued,
addressing him.
Jack felt an irresistible inclination to laugh, and yet there was
something in the little scene which touched him. He had been taken
possession of without much freedom of action being permitted him, and
now was expected to play off his tunes like a wound-up barrel organ.
But it was impossible not to see that the girl was free from any thought
of self, and as she made this last appeal the wistfulness in the
beautiful brown eyes went to his heart. He was going to speak, but she
interrupted him.
"Wait a moment," she said quite gravely, "I had forgotten. This is Mr
Ibbetson, mamma. Mr Ibbetson--Mrs Masters."
Her mother put out her hand languidly.
"Beatrice is original in her introductions, but she knows that anyone
who can tell me about my own country is welcome at Villa Carlina," she
said.
They fell into chat quite easily, indeed everything about the house
seemed free from formality or stiffness, Ibbetson thought. Mrs Masters
was a largely built, fair woman, slow in movement; generally her face
looked placid, but sometimes a startled expression crossed it which gave
a sudden sharpness to the lines on her forehead. She dressed rather
untidily, and with an evident leaning towards bright colours; her voice
went on in a pleasant plaintive ripple, and there was no labour in the
conversation. Bice took no part in it. She had drawn a low chair to
the head of the steps, and sat leaning forward, her elbow on her knee,
her chin resting on her hand, all the delicate lines of her white dress
falling in graceful folds. Jack thought, as he looked, that a sculptor
could not have found a more perfect attitude, or a more exquisitely
moulded head, thrown out as it was by the background of cool green
outside. Who was she? How came she by an English name, and yet the
highest type of Italian beauty? The other girl came in, and he could
see that she was three or four years younger; she was so slender as to
be thin and almost angular, and bore not the least resemblance to either
Bice or her mother.
"Yes, it is pretty here," the mother was saying, "especially just now in
the vintage time. But it becomes very monotonous; the days go by one
after the other, all alike, and all dull. There are no neighbours, or
hardly any. The Moronis come sometimes, young Giovanni brings his
guitar, and the girls sit out there on the steps and sing. Yes, that is
pretty, too, but still one tires, and in the winter of course it is a
hundred times worse. I do envy the people in Florence, who have
theatres and the Cascine always to fall back upon. For myself it does
not matter; but you will understand that it is a trial to see these
children growing up with none of the advantages of other girls--I am
afraid very unlike others."
She looked at Ibbetson for sympathy, but what could he say? It was in
this very unlikeness that it seemed to him the charm lay, and yet he was
sure this was not a woman to understand it. Bice had clasped her hands
round her knee, and was staring out of the window frowning.
"Don't talk about Florence, mamma," she said impatiently. "Everybody
knows what Florence is; Kitty and I would not live there for anything in
the world. Is it any good for people to drive about in their best
clothes and look at one another? But we are English, you know; please
tell us about England," she went on, addressing Ibbetson, "or stay--
there is the dinner bell, come to dinner; I will meet you on the
terrace, and bring your dog, for he must have something to eat, though
he did kill my poor little turkey."
To Jack that dinner was unlike all others; he half expected to awake
from a dream of delicious air, of sweet scents, and the gorgeous fruits
with which the table was piled. The little party sat on two sides of
it; Beatrice, opposite, looked at him with grave questioning eyes; Kitty
was shy and did not say much; but Mrs Masters' talk rippled on without
more break than a little accompaniment of sighs. Old Andrea, the fat
cook, brought up one of the dishes himself in order that he might see
the English signore. He stood with his hands behind him, smiling and
gossiping in a full rich voice about the news of the little town from
which he fetched the letters every day. Afterwards they went back to
the morning room. Crimson cushions had been laid on the steps; Mrs
Masters buried herself in an arm-chair at the top, the others sat about
on the cushions. The glow of the setting sun still lingered in the
clear sky; there were faint sounds of rustling leaves, of dropping
water, the cry of _grilli_, the soft patter of naked feet as the
gardeners ran about, watering.
"We should have no flowers otherwise," explained Kitty; "the lemon trees
alone require it every night. They will go on until ten o'clock."
"I am looking out for fire-flies," said Jack.
"Oh, you are much too late; you will not see them after June. They come
to light the corn to grow, and every night as the clock strikes twelve
they creep up the stems of the trees and go to sleep."
It was all possible, Jack felt, in this land of enchantment. Presently,
without any prelude, the two girls began to sing a wild sweet stornello.
The voices were not very strong, but they were like one; they went on
rising, falling, answering back again, dying away at last into the other
sounds. Cartouche came rushing along; Jack got up and shook himself.
"Must you go? We often sit out here until very late," said Mrs
Masters, rousing herself from a nap. "But you will come again?"
"Will you come to-morrow? We are going on a fig-eating expedition with
the Moronis. We shall start at about four," said Bice, "and go to their
farm."
"I will be here without fail," said the young man eagerly. He went away
into the cool dusky shadows in a sort of bewilderment; there had been
something so unlooked-for and novel in this little episode, that it
impressed him more than a hundred more important things. The questions
he had half forgotten came forward again. Who were they? What had
brought them there?
"_Buona notte, signore_."
It was old Andrea the cook, who was standing smoking a cigar at the
entrance gate, and probably on the look-out for a little gossip.
"A fine vintage this year. The signore has without doubt seen our
vintage? No? Is it possible? Then he will do so this September. The
padrona's grapes will be brought to be weighed next week; the signorine
will take the signore to see them cut. Eh, eh, the signorina Beatrice
can tell him everything. See here, she has a head as good as my own,
though I say it. It is wonderful, a young girl like that, whom I have
nursed on my knee many and many a time. Sometimes, when I hear her
giving her orders, I stare, I cannot believe it. But then she is one of
us, which explains it," added the old man with pride.
"Do you mean that she is not English?" asked Jack, interested in this
confirmation of the ideas which had been floating about in his head
since the first moment of seeing Bice.
Old Andrea shook his head vehemently.
"No, no, no," he said, "not the signorina. Her father was a Capponi;
she is a Capponi, anyone can see that who looks in her eyes, if the
signore will excuse me for saying so. She is a Capponi all over."
"But she told me she was English," said Jack, amused at the old man's
indignation.
"She has whims, though she is so clever," said Andrea testily. "Most of
the clever ones have. Her mother is English, if you will--what of that?
And possibly the _padrone_ did not treat her over well--who knows? He
was a man who liked his own way, and perhaps did not much care how he
got it. _Altro_! The signore knows that men are not all made in the
same fashion, and the Capponi were used to being masters. At any rate,
he is dead."
"And his wife?"
"Si, _signore_, as you see. She married again, before the stone that
covers his grave up at San Miniato had time to lose its whiteness. I go
there sometimes. There are not many others that remember. But as I was
saying, the signora married quickly, and this time it was to a
stranger--an Englishman--with two children."
"Two?"
"Two. There is a young man in some country of strangers, very probably
it is England, and the signore has perhaps brought news of him? No?
Ah, then he will see him on his return. That will delight the
signorina, for she has given her heart to these newcomers. But for all
that she cannot help being a Capponi, and no one can mistake her. Such
a _padrona_ as she makes! Such a head, such a head! Only ask them at
the _podere_ what it is like. The signore goes to Florence?"
"Yes," said Jack, who had been lighting his cigar. "I suppose there is
no shorter road than down this hill?"
"If the signore can keep in his dog he can branch off through the
vineyards to the left. I will show him the path in a moment, and it
will be much quicker."
Andrea, delighted at this chance of a gossip, talked on as they went
down the hill. It was chiefly loyal, admiring homage to the signorina
which filled his mind, and Ibbetson was interested in the ideas he
gathered of a homely and simple life, unlike that of which he was
accustomed to think. When he parted from Andrea, it seemed to him as if
he had known Bice for months instead of hours; a curious charm already
hovered about her, and the remembrance of the wistful looks which
sometimes crossed her face like a contradiction. He left the old man
standing in the road, and turned off into the steep and stony track
which had been pointed out to him as his path. No one was visible when
he got among the vines, but following Andrea's advice, he kept the
unwilling Cartouche close by his side, and walked quickly, for it was
growing late, though a bright moon made the blue sky clear. The air was
light and fresh. A few olive trees, twisted and gnarled, bordered the
path, their grey leaves catching the light like silver; then the Arno
came into sight flooded with radiance; presently the twinkling lights of
Florence gleamed out from dark masses of building, and cupola, and
tower, and one larger blot which marked the Duomo of Our Lady of
Flowers. All over the plain these lights glittered, faintly bright,
here far apart, here tremulously disclosing themselves to the eye, as
shyly as the stars of heaven itself. When Ibbetson reached the city
streets he felt as if he had left enchantment behind him. The thoughts
which had troubled him the evening before, now did not once intrude.
Hetherton might never have been, and the charm of Italy was at work.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE FARM ON THE HILL.
Most people are acquainted with the sensation of being caught in a
sudden and unexpected manner in some little eddy of society or
circumstance, and how they are swept away before they know where they
are. But if it is odd and startling to ourselves, it is much more so to
those who are untouched by the currents; and when, at the appointed time
on the next day, Ibbetson went off to Villa Carlina, he left Miss
Cartwright a little perplexed at what he had told her, and at his
newly-awakened interest.
To himself the villa, when it came in sight, seemed full of pleasant and
friendly expectations. He heard sounds before he saw where they came
from; then Cartouche boldly plunged under the banksia arches, and there
was a little cry of dismay, laughter, children's voices. "This way,"
some one called out, and when he reached them he found a gay little
company sitting under the green shade, and was welcomed without
formality.
"Now we are all here, we will start directly," said Bice. "Come, little
children!"
But the children were in a state of ecstatic delight over Cartouche's
amazement at the hundreds of gold fish which came crowding to the edge
of the pond. He barked and snapped, snapped and barked in vain, and at
last, in a frantic attempt to reach them, tumbled headlong into the
pond, out of which he scrambled with his enthusiasm a little checked.
Mrs Masters was not going; the walk, she said, was quite beyond her
strength, and they left her strolling back to the house, where she gave
them the hope she might employ herself in writing some letters which had
long been waiting. The others set off merrily. There was Giovanni
Moroni, a youth of two or three-and-twenty, dark, bright-eyed, with
cropped hair, and a frank pleasant smile. It was to his _podere_, high
up the hill, that they were bound. There was also his sister, the
Contessa, and her husband, who was grey-headed and fierce. The children
were theirs; they came from Genoa, and were wild with delight at the
country life and their escape from a dark old palace. Kitty and
Cartouche speedily became their victims. Bice was kind, but, this
afternoon at least, a little graver than the others, for many thoughts
were rushing through her head as they went clambering and laughing up
the hill.
That little outline which old Andrea had given to Jack told as much of
her story as there was, to all appearance, to tell. But to her own
thinking a great deal remained unknown--problems, possibilities, were
sweeping through the air, and troubling her with a hundred perplexing
doubts and shadows, which it was left to her unaided to solve or to
disperse--to her, little more than a child, as she was! Everything was
simple and a little dull to Mrs Masters. She had gone through such
ill-usage and insult as would have seared most women's lives; and when
it was all over, feathered out again with no more result than a mild
assurance that from that time forward she had a right to whatever
comfortable compensation she could get out of existence. Bice's
passionate little soul reached the same conviction through quite another
road, through all sorts of fiery impulses, horror at her father's
cruelty, contempt, devotion, flinging of herself into the breach,
heedless of anything she might have to suffer for her championship. So
sad a warfare was it for a child to go through, that it was a wonder so
much that was good and noble had survived it. She had always
constituted herself her mother's protector, and now that her father was
dead she had a sort of odd notion that it was she who had to make up to
her for the sufferings she had gone through. She was ready to accept
Mr Masters, anything that could help them to forget the old life. She
was glad that her mother bore another name, and insisted upon sharing it
herself against all law and right, and the equally persistent obstinacy
of old Andrea. It was this which brought a sudden flame of anger into
her cheeks that very afternoon, as they climbed along a steep stony
track, on one side shaded by hawthorn bushes, on the other falling away
into fields, a valley, and a little stream.
"One might be in England," Ibbetson said, standing still to look round.
"Is it so like?" asked Bice eagerly. "Kitty never told me that it was.
I shall come here often."
"You have a great fancy for England, and yet you might be content with
your own country," said Jack smiling.
"England is my country," she said, and it was then the red began to
deepen in her cheeks.
"But you are a Capponi?"
She stopped and faced him, her eyes flashing, her whole figure
quivering.
"Who told you so?" she cried angrily. "It was that old Andrea, I am
certain. I will not have it. I am not Capponi any longer. I am
English, and English only."
She kept away from him for some time after this outburst, though he
tried more than once to make his peace. It was only after he had
pointedly called her by her mother's name that she relented and became
friendly again.
The _podere_ lay some way up the hill which they were climbing. At last
they reached it; a picturesque building well baked by the sun, with a
low tower, tiled, a round arch or two, and deep eaves. Outside stood
beautiful great oxen with wide-spreading horns, and two or three
children were watching and ran eagerly to fetch the contadino. When he
had come out and had spoken a few words to his padrone, young Moroni,
the latter led the way to a door in the wall, within which was a kind of
rough garden, full of fig-trees laden with fruit. One or two
brown-faced boys came running with tables and chairs.
"Ah! but this is truly idyllic, my Giovanni," said the young countess,
sinking into a chair. "If I must confess the truth, I could not have
walked another ten steps."
She was not exactly pretty, but slender and fragile-looking, and she
generally contrived to do as much as she liked and no more. Her fierce
husband adored and petted her, and she was very fond of him and of the
children, whom she expected him to keep in order or amuse as the case
might be. Wherever she was she liked to form the centre, and now she
managed to draw them all round her, except Bice. Bice strolled away
alone towards the other end of the garden, here and there picking a
rose, or one of the half-wild flowers which grew without care just as
they had been stuck in. The girl was in a strange and dissatisfied mood
that day; it seemed as if different strings were vibrating together,
making odd discords and harmonies. Some had been set in motion by
things which Ibbetson had said the day before, others had been touched
and jarred, she scarcely knew how or why: questions and perplexities
seemed to have awakened just at the moment when she had intended them to
be silent. From that father from whose memory she shrank she had
inherited many characteristics: among them a strong will, and a desire
to thrust whatever was painful to her out of sight. "Why should I be
obliged to remember now?" her heart cried out angrily, as she turned and
looked at the gay little group, already beckoning to her to return to
them. "Give is Kitty's own brother, and she is not thinking about him,
and Oliver has not come yet, and things are not worse than they were
yesterday, when I was not half so unhappy. And to-day I meant to enjoy
myself and to forget it all. Why does it come back now?"
She was impatient at her own weakness and yet could not master it; tears
rushed into her eyes, she turned hastily away, and laid her arms upon a
low wall, heedless, for the moment, of anything but her own unhappiness.
"You must not desert us in this way," said some one behind. "We are
waiting for you before we begin the great business of the day, which is
much more formidable than I thought." And then his voice changed, and,
became very kind and grave. "Is anything the matter? Has anyone vexed
you, that you go away and leave us?"
For she had turned and looked him full in the face, careless that the
tears were running down her cheeks. A desperate longing seized her to
tell him her troubles and to ask his help. The poor child had so few
from whom she could seek it, that it seemed to her as if this kind voice
might give her aid in the labyrinth where she was losing herself. The
longing was of course utterly foolish and unreasonable. Jack was an
utter stranger, and the next moment her face burnt at the thought of
what her impulse had been. He for his part could not understand the
piteous appeal in her eyes, or the change in which it died out. She
said quickly--
"Vexed? Oh, no! I was unhappy because I was thinking of my brother
Clive."
"Is he ill?"
"No, not ill. He is in some trouble in England. I don't quite know
what it is myself," she went on, looking frankly at him, "and I dare say
that makes it worse. But it is nothing new, and I cannot think why it
should come to me so strongly just now. Do you ever feel as if things
seized you with a rush and without any reason?"
Jack thought of his walk by the Arno the night before. This girl with
her changing moods, her frank appeals, interested him. He felt a strong
desire to help her--a desire which was perhaps made more vigorous by the
consciousness of her wonderful beauty. He answered the first part of
her speech.
"You must have so many friends that it seems ridiculous to suppose that
I can do anything about your brother. But can I?"
A sudden gladness lit her eyes.
"Could you?" she said, eagerly answering his question by another. "I
daresay you could. You are very much mistaken if you suppose we have
many friends; I don't know that we have any at all."
It was said slowly and as if she were considering, and for that very
reason it almost startled Jack. The words were strange, coming from
such lips.
"That is impossible," he said decidedly. "But about your brother?"
"It is a long story, you see. I couldn't tell you now."
"No, I understand, of course you couldn't. Come back to the other's,"
he went on kindly. "You can talk the matter over with your mother and
your sister,"--Bice shook her head with an amused smile--"and tell me
when you like. Then we will see what can be done."
The swift changes in her face and manner were certainly interesting.
The cloud had passed; she was smiling, radiant, flashing out with odd
unexpected speeches, playing with Cartouche, helping Giovanni to pick up
the figs, helping everybody. Two or three boys ran up the tree like
squirrels, and in a few minutes had brought great baskets full. All the
Moroni party ate them Italian fashion, as a sandwich between raw ham and
bread; the contessa teased Bice.
"She knows there is nothing more delicious; it is only the Anglo-mania
which prevents her doing as we do. I can forgive Kitty--but you, Bice!"
Ibbetson thought that young Moroni looked annoyed. "Why should the
signorina have Anglo-mania?" he said hotly. "At any rate the signore
has just said there are no such figs in England."
"Ah, why, why, why?" cried out the girl gaily. "Do not let us ask
questions or find fault. Do you know, Giovanni, that it is absolutely
delicious here in your old farm garden. I did not think it had been
half so pleasant."
"Yet you have been here before," said the young man, flushing with
delight.
"Was it it like this? Then I must have forgotten. There is nothing so
nice at our _podere_."
"Have you a farm?" Ibbetson asked Kitty.
"Yes," she said, with a little shy stiffness in her manner. "It is in
another direction."
"And who manages it?"
"Bice is really padrona. But the contadino, who is the tenant, manages
it; you know that is the custom here. He pays us half of everything,
the live stock and the crops."
So long a speech was almost too great an effort for Kitty, and she
jumped up and took refuge with the children, who were sitting in a heap
munching figs, and occasionally trying to thrust one down Cartouche's
throat. A boy in the tree over their heads tossed the cool green fruit
into their laps.
"Pippa has only eaten twelve," said little Gigi, planting his white
teeth in the rind. "Only twelve! That is because she is a girl, and so
little!"
Pippa plodded on sturdily, paying no attention to the insult. The broad
leaves cast broken masses of shade upon the long grass, the clear
whiteness of the western sky was changing to amber.
"How well you speak our language!" said the little contessa graciously
to Ibbetson. "Believe me, it is a compliment we all appreciate. Now
when Bice's other English friend is here, the Signore--Trent--how do you
call him? we are obliged to fall back upon French. Eh, Bice, it is so,
is it not?"
"Yes," said the girl shortly.
She was grave again, as Ibbetson remarked. The changes in her manner
and in her face were so rapid that he found himself watching and
wondering. He had never met with anyone who showed so openly whatever
passed across her mind.
"Is he coming again soon? He is your relative, is he not?" persisted
the contessa.
"He is Kitty's cousin."
It was the first time she had spoken as if Kitty and she were not
absolutely one in their possessions, and her tone had an unwilling ring
about it. Perhaps it piqued her friend's curiosity, for she threw back
her head, and said in a low amused voice--
"You are mysterious, _carina_. Is the subject too sacred to be
discussed?"
The girl's eyes flashed, she sprang up angry and impatient.
"Are we going to stay here all our lives?" she cried with a sharpness
which cut poor Giovanni to the heart. If he had heard what had just
passed he might have been better satisfied, but he had been looking
another way, choosing some of the best figs for the beautiful Eve who
had praised his little Paradise, and he heard nothing until there came
this sharp, scornful speech, which made a desert of it all. Yet how
lovely she looked standing there, her head thrown up, the exquisite
outline of her profile clear against the golden sky! And when she
turned, and saw the young fellow's frightened face, her own melted, and
a sudden smile dimpled her cheeks.
"Was I so rude, Giovanni?" she said gently, "I did not mean it, really.
It has all been charming, delightful, only now it is time to go. Nina
knows it, but she is lazy. I must be the one to tell you what is
prudent. Come, Kitty, come, children, the reign of figs is over, but we
will carry back a basket-full for mamma. She always says there are none
like those which grow up here on Giovanni's mountain."
All the way home she was softer and gentler than Ibbetson had yet seen
her. Pippa was tired, and nothing would please her but that Bice should
carry her. The little creature, with her curly black hair, fell asleep
in her arms, and the girl would not have her moved or awakened, walking
on firmly and strongly with her burden. She led them down by another
path, in spite of the contessa's complaints that it was both longer and
steeper.
"It will not harm you," Bice said quietly, "and you will see something
worth seeing."
But it was not until they had turned a shoulder of the hill where, on a
sort of stony terrace, a few old olives stood grey and shadowy in the
midst of a flood of colour, that Ibbetson knew what she had brought him
to see. For below, and stretched before him, spread that wonderful
plain of Valdamo which is beyond the power of pen or pencil; and now, as
it lay bathed in the radiance of the setting sun, he felt as if he had
never before known its beauty. A haze, not of mist, but of colour,
seemed to rest upon it, so delicate and so varied that its intensity was
scarcely felt, and the villas and farms with which the plain is thickly
studded gleamed like jewels in the midst of this wonderful setting. On
the opposite hill rose Bellosguardo with its cypresses, those trees
which throughout Italy give point and force to softer beauties; and
below, the domes and towers of Florence lay in the full glory of the
sunset lights.
Only one of the party did not look at its beauty; young Moroni was
looking at Bice instead. She still had the child in her arms, and he
came to her side and said wistfully--
"Let me take Pippa the rest of the way, she is too heavy for you;" and
quite unexpectedly Bice gave her to him with a smile. She would not,
however, walk by his side, as he had hoped; she would walk with nobody;
she lingered behind, gathering here and there a flower which had
survived the summer heats. The contessa claimed the other gentleman,
Kitty had the children in charge and Cartouche, who was a little
overwhelmed by an unusual sense of virtue, Bice straggled after them,
singing to herself. Ibbetson, who was listening for it, could now and
then hear a little break of song come flying down from behind in a
tantalising manner. He began to hate the little contessa, who was not
half so interesting as this girl with her contradictions, her odd moods.
He waited his opportunity, but not until the villa was in sight could
he make an excuse for pausing to join Bice. She was some distance in
the rear, and came towards him very slowly. Then he saw that something
was wrong.
"What is the matter?" he asked quickly.
"Nothing. Why did you wait?" she said with a touch of petulance of
which he took no notice. He was looking at her hand, round which she
had wrapt a handkerchief.
"What have you done to your hand?"
"I have told you it is nothing," she said in the same tone. "I have run
a thorn into it, that is all."
"A thorn would not give you so much pain."
"Well, it may be a little splinter; I think it is. Go on, please, and
don't say anything about it."
"Not to your sister?"
"Oh, dear me, of course not!" she said with vexation. "Anything of this
sort makes Kitty quite ill, don't you understand? Please go to the
villa, I shall be there presently."
"But I am not going to the villa," said Jack quietly; "I am going to
look at your hand."
"I can take it out myself."
"_If_ you please--"
Bice was evidently unaccustomed to have her own will set aside; she
stared at him in amazement, and a bright flush which looked like
resistance rose to her cheek. Perhaps, however, she thought resistance
undignified, or perhaps Jack's waiting attitude took too much for
granted; for after a momentary struggle she hastily unwrapped her hand
and silently stretched it out. He could hardly repress the exclamation
which rose to his lips. It was cruelly bruised and torn, and the
suffering must have been great.
"How could you have done it?" he said reproachfully.
"I was standing on a stone to gather a little flower which I saw in a
bush, and the stone slipped. I fell on my hand, and I think something
caught in it and ran in."
She held her hand steadily for his inspection, but she had grown pale,
and to tell the truth, the prospect of his amateur surgery made him very
uncomfortable. He turned in his mind the possibilities of finding a
doctor, but it was most improbable that one lived within a moderate
distance, and the splinter was momentarily increasing the irritation.
She would not hear of getting help from the house, and Jack hastily
determined to do the best he could for her, uttering a fervent mental
hope that she would not faint.
He need not have feared. After the first sharp pain had made her
shrink, she let her hand lie quite passive, and although persistently
keeping her face turned away, from first to last uttered no sound.
Perhaps this self-restraint made him nervous, perhaps he was
inexperienced in the work, for he knew through every nerve in his own
body that he was giving her sharp and even unnecessary pain. When the
splinter was drawn out, his own face was nearly as white as hers. The
girl noticed this as he straightened himself.
"I am afraid you disliked it as much as Kitty," she said remorsefully.
"It was clumsy work," said Jack; "I know that I hurt you horribly."
"Never mind," said Bice. "Chiara shall put some of her healing herbs,
and I think the pain is all over."
Was it so indeed? Did nothing whisper to her of another pain, a deeper
smart, which this very moment was bringing? What sweet and tremulous
pang seemed to smite her in the silence which fell for a moment? A
moment--no more--and yet there are moments which go on for years.
Bice drew back her hand without another word of thanks.
The others, too, had had a little misadventure to detain them--the
contessa had torn her dress, and it required consultations, laments, and
pinnings; so that when they were finished, Jack and Bice were not far
behind. They were all to dine at the villa, and went along straight
stiff walks bordered by cypresses towards the little flower-garden by
the breakfast-room. As they reached it, Cartouche growled angrily at a
gentleman who was coming quickly down the steps. Moroni, still carrying
the child, met him first, then came the contessa, who turned and
beckoned gaily to Bice. The girl, when she saw him, half stopped.
Ibbetson noticed that she became pale, and that her lips quivered.
"Who is it?" he asked curiously.
"It is Oliver Trent," she said in an odd, frightened undertone.
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE ILEX WALK.
Ibbetson was not quite himself the next morning, Miss Cartwright thought
with a gentle uneasiness. He did not always hear when he was addressed,
and he did not say much about the event which was filling her own mind--
the arrival of the travellers. They were to come from Bologna by the
evening train, and Miss Cartwright would willingly have talked of
nothing else. Miss Preston, whose delight it was to paint darkly the
characters of her friend's friends, had shaken her head with great
energy over all she had gathered of the villa, and Jack's conduct in
absenting himself there, but Miss Cartwright was altogether impervious
to the most direct innuendoes. She was very glad he had made pleasant
friends, and seen a little of Italian villa life; she was very sorry for
the two fatherless young things, and when Phillis came, perhaps they
might all drive out together to Villa Carlina; worst of all, she was
quite sure Miss Preston would enjoy the change. As for any danger to
Phillis's happiness, the idea never crossed her simple and loyal mind.
Nor, after all, was there much danger as yet Jack was struck,
interested, touched, but the feelings kept themselves where they
started, not having run on into any thrill of love. Whether if he had
been free when he saw Beatrice matters might not have been different,
one cannot say. Perhaps. But he, too, was loyal. To him his
engagement was a fact, and his word a bond; and bonds and facts do exert
an influence over an honourable man, let passion say what it will
against them. That there was a certain peril cannot be denied, and it
lay in the fact that he did not love Phillis. He felt a sort of
attraction, a pitying tenderness, a conviction that to marry her was the
best way of bringing a skein or two out of their tangle, but this was
not love. And, meanwhile, the white villa set on the hillside, with its
flowers, its sweets, its Italian charm; the girl with her beauty, her
passionate nature, and yet her revolt against that very nature,
interested him. Who was this man, this Oliver Trent, who had so
suddenly appeared among them? A red-faced, hard-featured man, the
cousin, as, they said, of Kitty. But it was not Kitty whom he had
watched when they sat on the steps the evening before. It was not Kitty
who had seemed the most disturbed at his coming. Jack said to himself
that it was all nothing to him, still he could not help feeling curious,
and of course common courtesy demanded that he should go that morning to
the villa in order to inquire for the injured hand. After that morning
he would not be so completely his own master.
This, it will be seen, was the man's view of the matter, neither more
nor less. His imagination had been touched, but his mind was clear
enough to see things as they were, uncoloured by any strange and
dream-like tints. For the girl's, it was different.
Think at what a time of ferment he had suddenly touched her life. She
had grown through a childhood, saddened by that dreariest sorrow which
can befall a child--want of faith in those it should love--to a
womanhood from which it seemed as if all the sweetest belongings of her
age--care, watchfulness, guiding, were withdrawn. Its brightness was
darkened by memories, burdened by pledges. No doubt her state of
feeling was exaggerated, but through what strivings, seekings after
light, yearnings for justice, had that poor bent shoot struggled
upwards. The girl had an instinctive hatred of oppression, a longing to
protect, to deliver; the sort of spirit which has made heroines before
now, but also has often wrecked a woman's own peace. For those who have
it sometimes give up what is not theirs to give, the happiness of
others--or their own hearts, when they have passed from their keeping.
They have, too, their moments of revulsion, such a moment as had come to
Bice. She had believed that she had the strength to do anything which
could shield her mother or Kitty--whom she loved with all her heart--
from trouble, and the trouble was there like a threatening cloud. Clive
Masters, Kitty's brother, had gone to England, and the lad, never very
wise, had fallen into some scrape such as the women out at the
Florentine villa did not understand and could but tremble over, when
Oliver Trent hinted darkly at its consequences. How darkly, only Bice
knew. It had been a revelation to him to note the eagerness, the
anxiety with which she listened when first he let drop the suggestion
that all was not going well with Clive; a revelation and--a temptation.
Nothing of his had touched her before beyond the surface; he had felt
with sharp bitterness that the girl in her beauty and her simplicity was
absolutely inaccessible. But not now. The tears would spring into her
beautiful eyes, a mute anguish of pleading would rise in her face when
he talked to her about Clive, the dangers of his position, the
probability of some dreadful discovery and disgrace. And then he would
gently let fall hints of his own efforts, of how his was the only hand
which could restrain the lad, his the one influence staving off exposure
and ruin. Very often he wondered at the readiness with which his
inventions were received, but what did Beatrice know of the world--such
a world as he described? To her it was all vague, unreal, far off; for
her, alas, it was not difficult to believe in its wickedness!
But it was only by little and little, by subtile touches on the strings
of gratitude and hope, by a gradual coiling round her of a net made up
of threads so fine that they were scarcely palpable, that he dared hint
at his purpose. If he had shown his hand too openly, and asked her to
be his wife as the price of his saving Clive, she might have yielded;
but all the generosity of her nature would have risen in revolt against
his meanness, she would have married and have hated him. Oliver wanted
something better than that for himself, and felt sure of gaining it. To
do so he would risk anything, and it seemed as if his purpose were on
the verge of accomplishment; Bice knew what he wanted, knew it in a
manner which let it seem the most natural thing in the world, and then
Oliver Trent made his great mistake. He went back to England, believing
that reflection and solitude, and the judicious letters he would write,
would all work for him, believing that he had skilfully provided against
all emergencies.
But how could he provide against Cartouche frightening a turkey to
death?
If it is strange that two days' acquaintanceship with another man should
have been enough to shake his influence, and to awaken the revulsion
which has been hinted at, surely the strangeness is not improbable.
Oliver's influence had been a power from without, a bewildering mist
raised with which he had hidden or distorted one thing after another,
and skilfully enveloped Bice's perceptions, but there was nothing in her
nature which was in sympathy with his; nay, rather there was something
which drew back shuddering. She might have been stirred to a blind leap
for those she loved, but to walk slowly along towards the gulf made it
seem a hundred times more terrible. And when--though as it were only in
passing--she came face to face with a man out of whose eyes looked truth
and straightforward honesty, the contrast affected her, although she
hardly knew how. Although she had believed Oliver, she had never really
trusted him, and Jack was a person whom you could not help trusting
absolutely. Certain characteristics write their signs in a face with
unerring accuracy. That night, in the shadowy fragrance of the garden,
Oliver Trent, jealously and uneasily watching the girl, did not know
that she too was watching him, noting, comparing, growing stiller and
sadder as she did so. A wild longing to escape and to burst her bonds
had seized her; horror at what she had done, hope that Ibbetson might
find a way to help them; none of them knew what a tumult was driving
through her heart as she sat silent.
When the two girls went up to their room, Bice hurriedly pushed back the
outer persiennes, and knelt down with her arms on the ledge. A sweet
cool air came up laden with the delicious sent of tuberoses, water
splashed dreamily in the distance, the grating croak of frogs and the
saw of the _grilli_ gave a little sharp invigoration to the softness of
the evening. Presently one of the odd little owls which Italians call
_civette_ began to hoot and call, and Kitty answered it back.
"I wish Pasquale would get us a _civetta_," she said. "Why don't you
tell him to do it, Bice? Pasquale never minds what I say, and they are
the dearest, wisest little things in the world. By the by, did you hear
Nina telling Oliver that Italians call a girl who jilts her lover a
_civetta_? And then--"
Kitty hesitated. Bice, still kneeling at the window, turned her head
towards her sister, with her cheek resting on her crossed arms--
"And then?" she repeated inquiringly.
"I don't quite like to tell you. Sometimes Nina is horrid. Well, she
gave a little nod towards you, as if Oliver should take care. Wasn't it
a shame?"
No answer came. Bice was looking out into the night again. Kitty, who
was very affectionate, but not quick in her perceptions, went on with
her small ripple of talk.
"What business has Nina to know anything? I can't think how she is
clever enough to find out, she has not seen much of Oliver. And why
should she trouble herself about it?"
"Don't you know?" said Bice, in a proud and bitter voice, "she is afraid
of Giovanni."
"Of Giovanni? Oh, nonsense! Why--he is a boy, he is nobody but just--
Giovanni! She can't be quite so silly. Bice, I do think you must be
mistaken; besides, why should she be afraid?"
Kitty's merry laugh rang out childlike and confident. Bice started to
her feet and turned round with a gesture that was almost fierce.
"You don't understand; you don't know anything about the world, you are
only a girl. Why should she be afraid?--because we are poor, and Nina
is a contessa living in a palace, and so she has found out that there is
nothing in all the world so good as money; and as she is fond of
Giovanni, she wants him to have a great _dola_ with his wife. That is
all, if you want to know."
"Then she is a silly," said Kitty, unmoved by this outburst. "As if
Giovanni were good enough for you!--or as if money were everything!"
"Perhaps it is more than we think," said Bice, still bitterly;
"sometimes I feel almost sure it is."
"It would give us some new dresses, to be sure," Kitty said, with a
general readiness to assent to her sister's ideas, "and a piano. I
should enjoy a piano."
"It would do more than that," Bice said abruptly. And then her voice
softened, the beautiful eyes grew wistful; she put her hands on the
girl's shoulders, and looked into her face. "Oh, Kitty," she said, "if
we only had a little money, you or I, we could save poor Clive
without--"
She stopped suddenly, and Kitty looked startled, for something in Bice's
manner thrilled through her.
"But," she said hesitatingly, "Oliver will do that. He has promised,
hasn't he?"
"Yes," said Bice, very slowly.
Alas! but it was she who had to promise also. "Then it's all right.
Oliver can do anything."
"Only if he is to do this, I must marry him."
She still spoke slowly, but her voice sounded strained and unnatural.
Kitty answered cheerfully--
"Yes, I know. But you like him, don't you? You made up your mind the
last time he was here, and there has been nothing to make you change.
And you always wanted to live in England. I don't think Oliver would be
at all a bad sort of person to marry."
"I have never said I would marry him," interrupted her sister.
"No," said Kitty doubtfully, "not exactly. Still you intended it."
"What has Clive done?" said Bice, looking at her with troubled eyes.
"We know very little about it all. Oliver always says we cannot
understand, and that it is better for us that he should not attempt to
explain; but I think it would be better if he _did_ explain; for now it
is like some dreadful dark shadow of disgrace hanging over us, never off
one's mind day and night." Kitty's eyes filled with tears.
"Is it so bad for you, dear?" she said sadly. "I have not troubled
myself much about it since Oliver said he would arrange. Surely he
knows best, and he is the only person to do anything."
"Why shouldn't Mr Ibbetson help us?" said Bice in a low voice. Her
sister cried out in astonishment, but the girl persisted. "There are
kind people in the world," she said, as her eyes brightened. "If you or
I saw anyone in trouble we should do what we could; and he is a man, he
knows about England and this world into which poor Clive has tumbled--he
might advise us."
"Not better than Oliver!" exclaimed Kitty, amazed. "Oh, I'm tired of
Oliver," cried Bice with petulant impatience. Her heart was rising up
in revolt against its fate till it burned within her. She was angry
with Clive, with Oliver, with Kitty, who could only praise him; most of
all with herself, the self which had grown all of a sudden discontented,
frightened, and indignant. How was it that the change had come, if it
was a change and not rather an awakening? How was it that life had in a
few hours blossomed into a hundred possibilities? She had thought of
Oliver Trent before with a sort of dull satisfaction, as a means of
helping Clive and of averting sorrow from those she loved; and as he had
skilfully managed to make himself necessary to her, her feelings towards
him were passive. But this calm was at an end. All that evening she
had been comparing, watching, reflecting; a light seemed suddenly to
have been turned upon him; she saw things written in his features which
she had never discovered before--some, very likely, which were not there
at all. "His eyes are close together, and there is a broad piece of
face beyond them--that is not good, I know," said the critic, "and his
face is red and hard." And all the time, joined with this revolt, some
strong new hope seemed to have leapt into her heart, uncalled for and
inexplicable. "There are kind people in the world," she had said to
Kitty, but what had brought her the sudden conviction? Is it not
pathetic sometimes to see how little will win a heart, and yet how much
fails to touch it? We take some trifling trouble, and, lo, an affection
is laid at our feet which years cannot change or parting cool. And
then, again, we give our life blood, and the gift is scorned. Jack had
felt attracted and touched, and had looked and spoken as he felt--
kindly, but it was no more than the commonest kindness, though to her it
seemed altogether special and delightful.
When Ibbetson reached Villa Carlina that morning, only Mrs Masters, in
her usual condition of good-natured drowsiness, was in the
breakfast-room, eating grapes from a great golden bunch which had just
been brought in with stalk and leaves attached; but before he had had
much time to ponder where he should find the others, Bice came, flushed
and smiling, and carrying a great bunch of flowers, jack felt himself
again wondering at her beauty. She had a white dress--indeed, as yet,
he had seen her in no other colour--but over her head she had flung a
veil of black lace, Milanese fashion, and the bright flowers in her
hands--big scarlet lilies, blue larkspurs, and another blue flower with
green spikes--made a brilliant flash of colour against the cool white
folds. Mrs Masters said plaintively--
"Where can you have been, Bice? They have been looking for you
everywhere until Oliver is quite vexed; go and find them in the garden,
and say that you are come."
"There is no hurry," said the girl lightly; "they do not want me."
"But where have you been?"
"To gather flowers for the Virgin's niche; and they are so scarce at
this time of the year, that I had to go a long way."
"So it is you who keep the flowers supplied?" said Ibbetson, remembering
that on the day he first saw the villa he had wondered whose hand had
placed the pretty nosegay.
"Yes. But we are English, and belong to the English Church," said
Beatrice quickly. "You will see us in Florence to-morrow. Only it
seemed so sad to leave that little shrine in the wall desolate after
flowers had been laid there for so many years; and the poor peasants who
come along that dusty road like to see something fresh and pretty when
they look up and pray; and so I am going there now," she said smiling;
"and you may come if you will, just to see how they get into the
grating."
"But there is Oliver," said Mrs Masters anxiously. "He has Kitty,"
Bice answered. "Or, if that does not content you, they are in the
garden, for I heard their voices, and it is there we are going."
Nevertheless Ibbetson fancied that she led him along paths which looked
mossy and unfrequented. There was a gloom about these paths even on
this bright day; dark ilexes shut out the sun overhead, long leaves of
narcissus straggled about, weedy-looking and untidy, amid the
undergrowth; one or two mutilated statues kept desolate ward over the
silence and dimness. The girl glanced round her and shivered.
"I wish I had not brought you here," she said uneasily; "there is
something in this walk which always oppresses me."
"If I had not seen it you would not have made me believe there was so
cheerless a spot so near the villa. But then, if you had not told me
the contrary, I could not have thought there was any dark shadow near
you in your happy country life."
Foolish, kind Jack! Ever since he had seen the tears in her eyes he had
felt that he should like to help her.
Bice stopped and looked earnestly at him.
"That is why I asked you to come with me," she said with a simple
straightforwardness which he had noticed in her before. "I thought if I
could tell you about Clive you might advise us what to do. I fancied I
understood, but it has all got into a tangle in my head. May I really
tell you?"
If Ibbetson had been less interested than he was, it would have been
impossible to have remained untouched by the frank simplicity of her
appeal.
"You may depend upon me," he said gravely.
Then she told her little story in a quiet voice, trying to put it into
as few words as possible. Clive was their brother, a lad of twenty-one.
About two years before, he had gone to London, having, by Oliver's
help, got into some great business house; "because we are poor, and it
was necessary he should do something to make money," she explained. At
first things had seemed to go well; he was quick and pleased his
employers, so that lately he had been promoted, but since then all had
been unsatisfactory. Oliver had been the kindest friend, and was the
first to give them a warning that the young fellow was not going on so
steadily. They had written imploring letters, and Clive had answered
them with such a frank acknowledgment that he had been wrong, and such a
clearly-expressed determination to turn over a new leaf, that they had
been happier. But, alas, six weeks ago Oliver Trent had come out from
England and had brought the worst news with him. He persistently
refused to tell them in plain words what had happened, but he hinted at
conduct on the part of Clive which had come to his knowledge though not
as yet to his employers, conduct which--known--must bring terrible
disgrace and ruin. The poor women were overwhelmed. He was not Mrs
Masters' son, but he was Kitty's brother, and the others entirely
accepted him as their own. What was to be done? Bice's first impulse
had been to write and question Clive, but that Mr Trent had absolutely
forbidden. Clive must not know that he was aware of his guilt, or it
would be impossible for him to help him. Whatever was done must be done
through himself alone, and this at a great risk. Bice could not
understand what plan Mr Trent had in his head; he did not confide it to
her: she imagined only that there was some man whose silence he meant to
buy; at any rate he had promised to help them provided everything was
left in his hands. She flushed and looked down as she said these words,
and Ibbetson, whose suspicions had been awakened the night before,
guessed that there was another "provided" which had received a tacit
acquiescence. But, good heavens, what was he to say! He had not
bargained for a story like this, for being asked to assist in condoning
a felony--to which it all pointed. Probably the unfortunate boy had
forged a signature, and Trent held the proofs, and meant to use them.
He remained altogether silent.
In the trouble of her own feelings the girl was not at first conscious
of his dismay. She was walking along and looking down, but as he did
not speak she glanced at him and stopped with a little cry.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I shouldn't have told you, I have only set you
against him. I should have believed Oliver when he said that no one
must know."
"You need not fear me," said the young man gravely. "I mayn't be able
to help, but you may be sure I will never betray your trust. And if I
can't help, perhaps I may at least advise."
She stood still and began nervously to pick off the leaves of a branch
of ilex and to roll them together.
"If there is any way by which we could save him from disgrace," she
began hurriedly, when Ibbetson interrupted her--
"But if I understand you rightly, that is just what Mr Trent has
promised to do?"
The girl became very pale.
"Yes," she said at last with an effort. "You are right. I don't know
why I appealed to you. Forget it, and don't let us say any more."
Her voice was proud and hurt. She looked straight before her, and was
moving forwards when Jack detained her.
"You must let me give you my advice," he said kindly. "It will not be
the same as Mr Trent's, and I fear you mayn't like it so well, but if I
had a brother in the same position as your brother, I should not rest
until--"
"Until--?" she asked with eagerness.
"Until I had induced him to make a clean breast of it."
"You mean to us?"
"No: I mean to his employers."
The girl started as if she had been stung. She stood still, her breast
heaved, the burning colour rushed into her face.
"But that is the very disgrace we are trying to avoid!" she cried with a
sharp ring in her voice. "It is cruel to mock me with such words. Why,
why that is the worst that could happen, and you speak of it as calmly
as if--"
"Mock you!" cried Jack, hurt in his turn. "Have I ever said anything
which should make you think me such a brute? At least hear me until I
have explained myself. This affair, whatever it is, if it is covered up
and concealed in the manner in which you have hinted, will hang over
your heads with a never-ending dread. Something may always bring it to
light, and your brother will be haunted by fear of it. But if he takes
courage and speaks openly, his employers will be at once half won over,
I am sure of it; they will think of his youth, of his inexperience--even
business men have hearts, Miss Masters. Believe me, it is the most
honourable way."
She listened very quietly, though her face was still flushed, and when
he had finished she remained silent. Suddenly, at a little distance,
they heard voices, and Bice said hurriedly--
"This is your only advice?"
"I can think of nothing else."
"I must have time for considering it, and I don't want Oliver to guess
that we have been talking: if you will go straight along this path you
will come to a door in the wall by which you can get into the road. Do
not be vexed with me for sending you away."
"One word--how is your hand?"
"Oh, almost well."
"And when shall I see you again?"
"When you like to come," said Bice smiling; "or, perhaps, to-morrow in
Florence. We shall be there, as I said, for the service."
"Then will you come afterwards to luncheon at my aunt's--Casa Giulia?
She is longing to make your acquaintance, and I shall feel sure you have
forgiven me."
"Oh, I have forgiven you," said Bice, after a pause, "Well, we will
come--"
CHAPTER SIX.
CARTOUCHE INTERRUPTS.
When Ibbetson had left her, Bice hastened to that part of the wall where
was the niche to which she was carrying the flowers. A little terrace
ran along by means of which she could reach and open the grating, and
take out the vase with its withered blossoms. She carried it to a small
fountain close by, filled it with clear water, and put in her flaming
lilies. Then she took it back to the niche, closed the grating, came
down from the terrace, and after a moment's consideration walked slowly
towards the place where she had heard the voices.
Kitty and Mr Trent were standing under a large acacia tree, and turned
quickly round to greet her. Kitty poured out her questions--Where had
she been? what had she been doing? did she know they had been looking
for her?
"Mamma told me," said Bice carelessly; "surely you two might have amused
each other for an hour. And it would not have required any superhuman
sagacity, Kitty, to guess that I had gone for the flowers."
"If you are cross, I shall go to the terrace and leave Oliver to his
fate," said Kitty, laughing and escaping.
The two who were left looked at each other as she ran off--he with open
admiration, she with a tremulous quiver of her lips not lost upon him.
Oliver Trent was a man of about five and thirty, tall and thin, with
dead, dusty-coloured hair; his features were not ill-looking, but, as
Bice had remarked, hard in their lines, and he spoke with a slow
sweetness curiously out of keeping with his face. He now slowly
repeated--
"To my fate. I wonder if Kitty quite understood what happy
prognostications lay in her words? Yes, this is the fate I have been
looking forward to all these weary weeks; and I began to think, Bice,
that you delighted in cruelty, or else had learned the woman's art of
tantalising. Come and sit here in the shade."
She followed him more readily than he, perhaps, expected, for he
half-suspected that she was bent upon avoiding a _tete-a-tete_; but in
actual truth she had scarcely heard his words, or at any rate had not
taken in their meaning. Another thought possessed her. As they sat
down she turned and looked steadily into his face.
"What is Clive's exact position?" she said sharply.
He hesitated. She repeated the question.
"You had better not ask for particulars, for they can only give you
pain."
"I can bear pain."
"Yes," he said, glancing at her hand, "such pain as that; but there are
other and worse pangs, and from those, Bice, I shall always endeavour to
shield you. Clive has been doing his utmost to ruin himself and make
you all miserable; I am trying to save him. It is a hard task, and
unless you trust me and follow my directions, I tell you honestly that I
have no chance of success."
"You threaten us with shadows," said the girl moodily.
"Oh, Bice," he said--and his voice became yet softer and more slow--"you
are not yourself to-day. What has changed you? I have often found you
hasty, wilful, unreasonable, but never before ungenerous. Is it I that
threaten? Is it not rather I that at any cost am trying to keep the
danger a shadow? Once let me remove my hand, and it will be real and
tangible enough--"
She could not endure such a reproach; it seemed horrible to her, and
also true. She stretched out her hand to him with a quick gesture of
kindness.
"You have been our very good friend, I know, Oliver," she said, looking
at him gratefully, "and I ought to be content and not tease you. Only
tell me, is it absolutely necessary there should be this secrecy?"
"Absolutely. I am obliged to use the greatest caution."
"Out here, how would it be possible for us to interfere with any plans?"
He began to be vexed with her unusual importunity, but allowed no trace
of his vexation to appear in his face or voice. On the contrary, he
said with a smile, "Excuse me; if there were no other way, I should feel
by no means certain what you and Kitty might not write to Clive. No.
Complete ignorance is the safest state of things for you; for of one
thing I am sure, nature never intended either of you for a conspirator."
Bice turned and looked at him thoughtfully. He felt uneasy, for her
eyes seemed to be asking whether it was for that he was intended. He
said more abruptly than he had yet spoken--
"Do you not care any longer that Clive should be saved?"
"Do I not care!"
The sudden fire which leapt into her eyes answered him. He had at last
touched the right string.
"You have considered it thoroughly?" he said, speaking deliberately
again. "I particularly desire that you should do so. If this act of
Clive's is brought home to him, it means dishonour and disgrace; I
cannot hide it from you. Your mother is very fond of Clive, she will
never hold up her head again. As for Kitty, you know best whether she
will care or not. It may not be so bad for you, it is true, because you
bear another name."
Bice interrupted him in a low passionate voice. "You shall not say
that!"
"You refuse to separate yourself from them? Well, then, for you too the
shame and the disgrace. And poor Clive, so young, so foolish, not
wicked, but led away. He writes to you all, I know, as if nothing had
happened, but if you could see him as I do, you would long to save him!"
"You must save him."
The girl's voice was choked. Oliver leant forward and looked at her.
"At all costs?"
"At all costs."
"And by all means, whether right or wrong?"
"Whether right or wrong."
He leant forward still further and forced her to look at him.
"I will," he said slowly. "For you."
They were silent after that for a time. He felt that he had won a
victory, but her moods were so changeful that he was afraid of
endangering it by trying to push his advantage further. And yet he
wanted more. More than ever since this other man, of whom he felt
insanely jealous, had appeared on the scene. At this moment, when her
feelings were all stirred and thrilled, he knew that skilfully led she
would be capable of any self-sacrifice, that it would even have an
attraction for her. Once get her to make a definite promise, and he
felt certain the generosity of her nature would keep her to it. And
once his--he looked at her beautiful face, grew pale, and set his
teeth--he would make her love him: his work should not be left half
done.
Now, if ever, was his time.
He said presently, in a pained and gloomy tone--"I could almost envy
Clive."
"Why?" she said, looking round quickly.
"Clive, and Kitty, and your mother. Do you ever think of anyone else?
Would you care if I--we--the rest of the world were swept away in a
common deluge? Would it matter to you in the least, supposing you four
were safe?"
"You are very unjust, Oliver," she said in a low tone, and he saw tears
shining in her eyes.
"I think not," he said gently. "So long as I can save Clive you are
quite willing for me to run any risk--and the risk is great, remember.
I am a chancery barrister, working upwards with quite my share of
difficulties. Suppose my attempt fails--yes, it is always necessary to
look what one undertakes in the face."
"Clive would be ruined," she said as he paused. Then, as he did not
speak, she looked at him again and saw him smiling. "What do you mean?"
she said half angrily.
"What did I tell you?" he answered. "It was not of Clive that I was
speaking at that moment but of myself. I should be ruined as
effectually as Clive, but that, of course, is not worth mentioning."
She started from her seat as if she had been stung, but he laid his hand
on her arm and drew her down again beside him. "Wait a moment, Bice,"
he said in a changed voice, "wait and listen; I have a right at least to
ask so much from you. I am not saying this to you because I have any
dream of retracting my promise; it is given, and there is an end of
scruple. It is dangerous, perhaps wrong; I shall have to use means that
I detest, and mix myself up with scoundrels who will be on the look-out
to catch me tripping--never mind. I have promised. Only understand
what it is you ask me to do, and understand also that I do it for you--
solely and entirely for you. What is Clive to me? Nothing. Do you
suppose that one's cousins are so dear that one would risk reputation
and honour for them. But what are you to me? Everything. Everything
in the whole world, and you know it, you know it. Have you no word for
me? Am I to sacrifice everything and to have nothing in return? Bice,
Bice, can't you give anything for Clive?"
She was looking straight before her, the colour had faded out of her
face; his voice, dangerously low and sweet, sounded in her ears. All
her life long she never forgot that moment. Long afterwards, if she
shut her eyes, she could see the great leaves of the trees of Paradise
swaying backwards and forwards against the deep blue sky; a vine, golden
in the sunshine; a pumpkin with its odd parti-coloured gourds flinging
itself down a steep bank; a clump of lilac crocuses breaking through the
grass--her eyes wandered over them all while he waited for her answer.
She knew quite well what it must be; her poor little generous untaught
heart had felt all the time he was speaking that he had a right so to
speak, that it was not for her to hold back. Never before had it seemed
to her so terrible--Oliver would have been bitterly disappointed had he
known--but not for that could she hesitate. She hated herself because
the sacrifice seemed so unendurable. Why did she not speak? What years
were dragging slowly by while he waited, holding her hand in his--
waited, waited!
There was a rush, a swoop. A great black dog came tearing through the
bushes, springing upon Bice. Old Andrea followed, breathless and
panting.
"He is a demon, that dog of the English signore," he cried, "and he has
lost his master. Signorina, for pity's sake take him where he is, or he
will knock the house down. He has been in my kitchen and gobbled up a
heap of _amoretti_, and broken half the eggs, and upset the milk, and
before that he had frightened the padrona out of her senses. _Che, che,
che_, we cannot have such doings! Signorina, where is his master?"
"He is gone," said Bice, jumping up; "he has been gone a long time.
What shall we do, Andrea? Can one of the men take him into Florence?"
"Would he go?--the signorina should rather ask that question. Otherwise
the cart from the _podere_ is here, going in with a couple of pigs that
have been sold. But the creature would not follow."
"Then we must tie him to the back."
"Gia, _gia_, that is it, the signorina has always got her ideas." Old
Andrea, who had recovered his good humour, stood shaking his broad
shoulders and pointing at Cartouche, who kept close to Beatrice. "And
he really is clever, too, he knows he has found a friend. Come along,
come along, signorina mia."
"You will not go?" said Oliver, holding her back. He was furious with
the dog, with the old cook, and with the knowledge that Ibbetson had
already been there that morning. One other moment and the girl would
have been his, he had known it, and now--
It seemed to Bice as if a weight had fallen from her, she caught her
hand from his and stood breathing quickly.
"Yes, I must go," she said, almost angrily. "Don't you see they cannot
manage him by themselves. Come, Cartouche; come, Andrea."
She ran towards the house, the dog followed her, leaping and barking.
Oliver turned sharply away and went to the Virgin's niche. He wanted to
see if she had really taken fresh flowers there. Had Ibbetson helped
her; was she playing a double game? He stood for some time thinking,
his head bent and a frown on his face; and while he was there, a cart
came jolting down the white and stony road. Behind it, and dragged
unwillingly along, was poor Cartouche on his way to his home. Bice was
walking by his side to console him for a little part of the road by
encouraging words. She did not see Oliver Trent, nor hear his
exclamation of rage, but she looked like a creature who had escaped to
freedom, and had thrown off a burden. He was half disposed to follow
her, but something seemed to warn him that the spell was broken, and
must be re-woven before he could succeed.
Perhaps people do not very often--except, indeed, in books--lay those
elaborate schemes, those widely-spread toils of villainy, which are
supposed to belong to a bad man's career. It is probable that they open
out to them almost as unexpectedly as to us, time and opportunity
seeming to throw themselves on their side. Certainly Trent, who was
growing more involved week by week, had laid no such plans when he took
his first step; nay, more, he was made very uneasy by a clear perception
of the dangers to which he was exposing himself as he went on. He would
gladly have pulled himself up before, and looked forward almost
feverishly to laying down the net which he told himself he was forced to
weave, with the full intention of never again engaging in such rash
work. He had no dislike of Clive to make it easier to do him a
mischief, though he salved his conscience in the curious short-sighted
way in which that work is often done, telling himself that the means he
was obliged to use would not really injure the young man, although they
might seem to cloud his prospects for a time:--nay, he sometimes almost
succeeded in assuring himself that they were likely to work for Clive's
advantage, giving him just the lesson he needed, and putting him through
a wholesome time of trial. But as this view of himself as a kind of
abstract justice was one which no effort could keep always in the
position where he would have liked to find it, he was subject to fits of
impatience, wishing very heartily that he could reach his end and wash
his hands of all this miserable business, which both irritated and
annoyed him. When he had reached the villa he had confidently looked
forward to being free in a week. And already he was feeling as if his
acts were turning into scourges. Yet he had no thought of giving up
Bice; the more he saw her, the more determined he grew to make her his
wife, and when he was in her company all compunctions for Clive and
fears for himself vanished in reckless resolution.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
A SUNDAY IN FLORENCE.
No one who has not seen Tuscany in its golden autumn can have any idea
of its deepest, its most enchanting beauty. For, whatever men say,
autumn in these colder northern lands carries, in every gorgeous tint
and flaming leaf, a profound melancholy. A shiver of coming winter
creeps over you in spite of yourself; it is a farewell, a dirge which
comes sighing through the crimson and yellow woods, where the leaves are
dropping to decay. In Italy there is no such sadness. Winter there is,
to be sure--wind and snow, and sharpness of frost; but through it all
the sun is laughing out, wonderful colours glow; spring, hope, youth,
are never lost, or even for a moment forgotten. And therefore autumn
brings no dread, only its own rich fruition and the joy of fulfilled
toil.
As they drove down from the villa into Florence on the Sunday morning,
the beauty of the time seemed at its height. The road, after descending
between the high walls over which here and there the roses thrust
themselves, branched off and ran gaily down to the Arno and to Florence
through bordering vineyards, where the purple and yellow grapes hung in
luminous clusters between the intense fresh green of their leaves as
they tossed themselves from one tall tree to another against a clear
brightness of sky. All round lay the soft and delicate glory of the
mountains, and below them the town glowed white in the sunshine, even
the cool shadows on the towers and walls gleaming with a strange
translucent golden pink. There are no words for such colours; they burn
and blend, everything is touched with an enchanter's wand; it is only
when you try to hold them fast, or come away to our cold greens and
greys, that you learn something of their power.
Oliver Trent had done his utmost to get Bice again by herself, but she
had as yet contrived to avoid him, and he was a good deal more
disquieted by her doing so than he ventured to show; for hers was not a
nature which it would be safe to stir into opposition, or to attempt to
intimidate, and he had studied her closely enough to be aware that she
would resent nothing so much as suspicion or distrust. Every hour that
passed endangered his plans, and yet he could do nothing but wait. He
was even obliged to see them drive off to Casa Giulia after service
without him, as he was to go to other friends, and to meet them
afterwards at Miss Cartwright's. All that he could do was to whisper
into Bice's ear, as he put her into the carriage, "Remember," and then
he stood and watched them go with a black cloud on his face, which he no
longer troubled himself to mask.
Bice's spirits rose as they left him behind; at any rate, she was free
for a few hours. The sun was shining, the bands were playing, all
Florence was alive with gaiety, and the girl's Italian blood leapt into
answering life. Something else, too, there was, another spring of joy,
none the less real that it was hidden away from touch or sight--was she
not going where Jack would be? would she not at least see him, and hear
his kind voice? He had not helped her as she had hoped, she
acknowledged to herself. She could read in his face only strong
condemnation of Clive and contempt for his weakness, and condemnation
and contempt seemed to leave the burden just where it was before. But
she forgot all that now. She was content to ask herself no questions,
to take the joy of the moment. She had seen him in the distance, at
church, with some ladies; and as she thought of him, such a sweet and
gentle expression stole into her face, that the people who looked at her
smiled with the ready sympathy of their country.
"She is a girl, and she is happy," said old Bertuccia, who on week-days
sits in the Borgo Ognissanti, near the church, selling her flowers and
vegetables.
A brown old man who was standing by chuckled.
"_Altro_! But where is _he_?" he said, and they all laughed.
Miss Cartwright was at home alone, she had not been well enough to go to
church, and a hot, nervous flush was on her cheeks when she arose to
receive three strangers. But Bice's face, its beauty, its happiness,
won her heart at once. Jack, who, in spite of his condemnation, had
been greatly touched by the pathetic little story, had asked her to be
kind to the girl, and though this radiant beauty was different from her
expectations, it was charming in itself. When Jack came in, after
taking the others to the hotel, he found them on the best of terms.
Even Miss Preston thawed at intervals, especially when Mrs Masters
showed a docile inclination to adopt her favourite prescription for a
chill. Cartouche welcomed them with patronising dignity. There was a
striped awning running out from the window, and under this they sat and
chatted. It seemed to Bice like a little haven of rest and kindness,
for, perhaps unfortunately, Ibbetson took, particular care that she
should be looked after and amused. Presently they went for luncheon
into the cool little dining-room. Miss Cartwright asked her nephew a
question in a low voice, and Bice heard him say that they were all
coming by-and-by. Who were they, she wondered; little knowing, poor
child, what the knowledge would cost her. Then there were other
questions. Miss Cartwright was interested about the old villa and their
solitary life; Miss Preston was alarming Mrs Masters by searching
demands for statistics of the farm expenses, of the vintage.
"Beatrice is my manager," said her mother apologetically. "I was never
a woman of business, or able to understand accounts. Fortunately she
has taken to that sort of thing from the time she was a child. But we
shall soon be going to Rome, for we have let the villa for a few months,
and shall spend that time with a relation of the Capponis."
"You are going to Rome?" said Ibbetson to Bice, with interest. "Then we
shall meet, for I too am to be there this winter." He hesitated whether
he would or would not say "after my marriage," but he did not add the
words, and the girl looked up brightly.
"Oh, I am glad!" she said in a shy, quick voice.
How swiftly the moments flew! Every now and then a thought of Oliver
and of Clive forced its way up into her mind, but she crushed it down
again before it had time to shape itself--for this one half-day she
would be free, she would be happy. Kitty, who had seen her the night
before, looked with wonder at her smiles.
They were in the garden again when four more people arrived--Captain
Leyton, his wife, Phillis Grey, and Mr Trent. When Bice saw Oliver, a
sudden sickness seemed to overpower her, but she was still bent upon
defying fate; and when he made his way to her side as if to claim her,
she turned away with something more like a movement of dislike than she
had ever yet shown to him. That he saw it was evident, for he drew back
at once, but it was with a smile on his lips which a close observer
might have called triumphant.
"The world is so small," some one was proclaiming. "Who would have
supposed that Mr Trent, whom we met at Bologna, and who lunched with us
to-day, would have been coming to this very house on quite another
account? It is almost provoking, I think, the way everybody knows
everybody. One can never make discoveries on one's own account."
Mrs Leyton, who said this, was a fair, bright-faced woman, with a wish
to be pathetic and a face which belied the attempt. She was a very
popular person, for she had the power of adapting herself readily to
those in whose society she happened to find herself, and was never
unwilling to do a little kindness.
"I can't quite agree with you, Mrs Leyton," said Trent, in his
deliberate voice. "It seems to me just the means by which one _can_
make discoveries."
"What does the fellow mean?" said Jack to himself. "He looks as hard at
me as if he had raked out an escaped convict. Why did Phillis not tell
me they had met him?"
When they first came into the room, Phillis sat down close to the door,
and Ibbetson only nodded to her, and went on talking to Bice. Kitty was
nearest to her, and the two began to talk, shyly, and with many pauses.
Cartouche rushed up to Phillis and lay down at her feet. Miss Preston
looked first at her, then at Bice, and shook her head. Certainly the
contrast was great. Bice's beautiful face was sparkling, her eyes were
bright and soft, her colour came and went; it was like watching the
changing lights of a spring day, there was so much youth and sweet
freshness in the face. Phillis looked still and grave by comparison.
No one could have called her beautiful, many the reverse. She was pale,
and her features were irregular, her mouth large, though her teeth were
charming, and her eyes clear brown, such as one sees sometimes in a
dog--as honest and as faithful. Bice, looking at her once when she was
smiling at Kitty, was struck by the feeling of restfulness which her
face suggested; it smote her own poor little storm-tossed heart with a
sharp pang of envy.
"Who is that lady? Is she one of your party?" she said quickly to Jack.
"Miss Grey? Yes. You will see her in Rome also," he said, rather
oddly, Bice thought.
"I am glad of that," said the girl with a sigh; "she looks as if she
could help one."
It was proposed presently that some of them should go to the American
Church, on the other side of the Arno, for the afternoon service. Mrs
Masters was afraid of the walk, and would stay with Miss Cartwright, the
others set out. The day was cooler, and the Lung' Arno was crowded with
gay people strolling down to the Cascine. It was like plunging from the
present into the past, to cross the river and reach the dark dirty
little streets which lead to the Carmine Church. Captain Leyton dragged
a well-worn Baedeker out of his pocket and turned in there, where
Masaccio's frescoes glow in soft sad colours in his chapel, and the old
beggars keep guard over the doors; the rest of the party were faithful
to their aim, and went on to the little whitewashed building close by.
He rejoined them when they came out, and they wound through more dark
crooked historic streets--streets where, as you pass, memories jostle
you, and the famous dead come to life again, streets which are gloomy
and yet brightened by flashes of gay colour; until they came to the
Pitti, and so on to the Old Bridge. There, on either side, are the
goldsmiths' shops, which long years have kept unchanged, where, in
little dens scarcely big enough to hold their master, twisted coils of
yellow-looking pearls hang in long loops, and diamonds flash, and
forget-me-nots of blue turquoises are heaped up; while behind, the
quaint buildings bulge out in all sorts of strange shapes, with red
roofs stuck on, and rooms hanging over those great stone arches under
which Arno comes swooping down in all his winter strength and fulness.
And there, in the centre, is the opening through which Tito leapt to his
death, hounded on by the people behind him, the opening through which
you may see the sunset lights softly touching the Carrara mountains, and
turning the muddy river into a tawny sheet of gold.
To Bice it was full of strange new beauty; it seemed to her as if she
had never known before what it was like. Ibbetson had been separated
from her when they came out from the church, and had walked for a little
while with Phillis, but he had come back to her again, and talked
quietly and kindly. Phillis and Beatrice were not very much thrown
together, but the girl often looked at the other, whose face attracted
her powerfully. She noticed, too, that when information was wanted, if
Phillis were asked she invariably had it to give, and she said something
of the sort to Jack.
"Is it so?" he said, with a little surprise in the question. "I had no
notion Miss Grey had had time to read up much about the place."
Mr Trent kept out of Bice's way, it seemed as if nothing were to
interfere with her happiness, or as if, by sheer force of will, she were
able to ward off whatever threatened. They were to drive back in the
cool evening, and when they reached Casa Giulia, there was tea, and more
sitting about in the pleasant drawing-room or under the glossy
magnolias. Somehow or other, Ibbetson was generally near Bice. He had
no intention of neglecting Phillis, but the last few days had thrown him
into another circle of interests from which she was shut out, and the
strong pity he felt for Bice demanded a good deal of attention for her--
or so he thought. He was pretty sure, too, that Phillis would have
shrunk from any open appearance of claiming her on his part, she was too
shy to stand it. "And, after all, she has got what she wants," he said
in his heart with a bitterness which was not like himself, but which
showed itself when he thought of Hetherton.
It was settled that they should all drive out to the villa on Tuesday
and see something of the vintage, which would be at its height in the
vineyards. Then the carriage came round and the little party separated.
Florence was no longer white but golden, and there was a sort of golden
mist before Bice's eyes as they drove away into the Cascine woods. Was
it over? Had it been no more than a dream, and was she going back to a
reality which grew darker and darker every hour? Her heart cried out in
passionate denial. Clive should be saved by other means--for she was in
one of those moods when anything seems possible--and she would act in
defiance of Oliver. She looked at him as she made the resolution, and
it is possible that he read the defiance in her eyes. But for the
moment he did nothing more than address a few languid remarks to Mrs
Masters, who was getting drowsy. They went climbing slowly up the stony
roads, through the vineyards. The glow faded away, a fragrant stillness
seemed to rest; here and there an olive tree stretched out its grey and
solemn boughs. Only once they passed a peasant; he had his dog with
him, and a gun, and was perhaps going home from watching the vines. No
one had spoken for at least ten minutes, when Oliver Trent touched
Kitty.
"Are you dreaming, too?" he asked softly. "Wake up, child, you are too
young to be tired and sleepy with the rest of us. And I have not
inquired how you enjoyed your day, or how you liked my Bologna
acquaintances? It is strange, is it not, that your new friend, Mr
Ibbetson, should have been travelling with them? Leyton told me the
reason, he is engaged to Miss Grey, and they are to be married very
shortly."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
"BLUE BUBBLES OF GRAPES DOWN A VINEYARD ROW."
The cleverest men make mistakes, and Oliver Trent had made a second. He
had not told Bice his news about Ibbetson cruelly, or in such a manner
as to force her to feel that either by start or word she had revealed to
another the secret of which she had not actually been conscious until
that moment. He had only mentioned it in her hearing, when the dusk of
evening was there to hide any sign of emotion, treating it as a trivial
matter with which Kitty was at least as much concerned as she, and he
had talked on so as to give her time to recover her composure. His
mistake lay in telling her at all. A woman who has received a wound of
this kind may be brave enough to hide the wound, but she never forgets
the hand that has wounded her. To the day of her death its touch
recalls something of the sharpness of the first pang.
No one saw much of Bice through the next day. Trent let her alone,
having a perception that she would not brook interference, and that, at
whatever cost, he must be patient. Mrs Masters, when he asked her,
said that she had taken Andrea's daughter, Chiara, and had gone up to
the _podere_ to speak about the vintage.
"You let her do too much of that sort of work," said Trent, frowning.
"How can I help it?" asked Mrs Masters, moving uneasily in her chair.
"She has been accustomed to it ever since she was a child. I am quite
unfitted for it, and, as you know, it is impossible for me to keep an
agent. This poverty is odious. I suppose we shall save something this
winter by letting the villa, and living with the Capponis in Rome;
otherwise I have spent all the money you lent me, and have never even
dared tell Bice I had it from you."
"And how do you mean to help Clive?"
"I cannot, I cannot!" she said, beginning to cry helplessly. "How is it
possible? You will do something for the poor boy, Oliver?"
"Why?"
"Why?"
She looked at him in bewilderment.
"He is my cousin, certainly," he said with a touch of sarcasm in his
voice, "but, on the whole, I have a good many cousins, and have never
committed myself to the idea that I was bound to be general guardian and
protector to all the young idiots among them who run their heads against
stone walls. I don't even profess to be a benevolent philanthropist. I
have told you before that I will do what I can for Clive on one
condition--that Bice marries me. You had better urge her not to keep me
too long in suspense. Patience is not my chief virtue."
"I will, indeed--to-day."
"Not to-day," said Oliver, considering. "To-morrow. Say as much as you
like about Clive, but do not let her know I have desired you to speak to
her. And stay, you had better own that you have borrowed money from
me."
"It will make her so angry," said Mrs Masters piteously.
"No matter, I wish her to know the fact. You will want more, I suppose,
when Bice is my wife, and you will not find me ungenerous."
He left her crying, but her tears lay very near the surface, and he was
not even made uncomfortable by them. It was curious how, in a scene of
this sort, all his softness of manner and voice seemed, without any
remarkable change, to become frozen or petrified, so as to give the
impression that it was in vain to attempt to affect him. He had been
disappointed when he came back to find Bice a little further from him
than when he had left her, and he was determined to risk everything to
put matters on a secure footing. Why should they not marry at once?
As for Bice, she was not angry, as he had hoped, or even hurt, her dream
having been too short and vague for any hopes to have actually shaped
themselves in her heart. She was conscious that during the last few
days some sweet atmosphere had seemed to have surrounded her, and that
suddenly, after Trent's words to Kitty the evening before, a dull weight
had fallen which told her what it all meant. Her heart ached with the
burden of this weight, but the poor child did not cry out against any
other for having brought it on her. She was humble with all her pride.
Nobody's fault, only a man's kindness and a girl's mistake--a common
story enough; something which a day had brought and long years must
carry as bravely as they could, and without a word. She thought of
Phillis without any bitterness of jealousy. He had been hers all the
time, nothing to any one else--that was all. She walked on and on, up
the steep hill, through the pleasant grassy paths between the vines.
Chiara toiled after, chattering, exclaiming, every now and then when she
stumbled or grew hot, saying, Florentine fashion, naughty things of the
Madonna or the saints.
It was the time which, of all the times of the year, Bice loved the
best. As she turned into a larger vineyard, its exceeding beauty
flashed upon her in spite of her heavy-heartedness. It was as well
kept, as daintily trim as a garden, only the vines swept freely from
tree to tree, climbing, curving, flinging their long tendrils, with all
the bounty of unchecked luxuriance. The sun was shining on the gleaming
leaves, on the purple and yellow splendours of the fruit, on the women's
gay dresses as they stood under the trees and caught the branches which
the men cut off with their sickles. Carts, painted in brightest
vermilion, stood in the cool shadows of higher trees, the beautiful
white oxen, with soft eyes and huge wide-stretching horns, waiting
patiently until their rich load was ready. The _padrona_ was welcomed
volubly; the _contadino_ in charge brought a couple of great bunches for
her and for Chiara; the whole scene was so gay, so busy, and so bright,
that poor Bice, who had come with a sort of determination to seek what
might change her thoughts, turned away sick at heart. It was not only
the fading of a shadowy dream; something there was more tangible, more
oppressive; her own fate seemed to be closing round her; with the
shattering of her visions had come the keener realisation of what hung
over her--of Clive, of Oliver. All the pretty sights and sounds jarred.
She gave her orders, and called Chiara away from her chatter, and went
home, avoiding them all, or keeping Kitty close by her side whenever it
became absolutely necessary to meet Oliver. That she must yield she did
not doubt. All her castings about for deliverance from her doom seemed
childish and hopeless. She must yield, but she clung to every hour
gained as an infinite boon.
To-morrow, perhaps. Not at any rate to-day.
To-morrow, which must be so full of pain that a little more or less
would scarcely be noted, and yet to which her foolish heart was flinging
itself forward, dreading and longing for. After they had come and gone,
after she had seen Jack once more, she thought she could do what had to
be done, but not till then.
Phillis was looking with great interest at the old villa when they drove
up to it early the next day. Miss Cartwright was not strong enough to
venture on the drive, but Miss Preston was there laden with projects for
the moral improvement of the _contadini_, and bent upon collecting a
fund of valuable information as to the vintage of Tuscany and its
shortcomings. Cartouche, with his head full of sweet recollections of
_amoretti_, plunged at once into the thicket of scarlet geraniums which
led down to Andrea's domain, and presently they heard the old cook's
voice raised in high indignation as he drove him out. Captain Leyton
was very much delighted with his own prospects. He was slung all over
with sketch-books and water-bottles, and carried a great white sunshade
with a pointed stick.
"Capital bits about the place, capital bits," he said cheerfully. "Nice
tone of colour, plaster peeling off, fine arch, acanthus leaves against
the stone--plenty to do here, and no mistake."
As they went into the house the sisters met them in the hall; Bice
paler, and without the radiance of the day in Florence, but quiet and
smiling. She gave one long and rather wistful look at Phillis, and
Phillis noticed and flushed slightly under it.
"Will you come to the little room?" she said. "My mother is there, for
the steps outside the window are cooler than any other place at this
time of day."
She had scarcely spoken to Jack, and when she moved away he followed her
with a dissatisfied feeling. As they passed through the silence of the
great rooms he could not help contrasting this day with the first on
which he had seen her, when he had been alone with her, and her frank
determination had made him smile. Miss Preston, who was close to him
now, was a very unwelcome substitute.
"It is too distressing," she was saying in a sharp undertone. "I have
always known that the Italians had no idea of what was fitting, but not
a carpet, not so much as a hearth-rug!"
"How would it answer to speculate in a few, and to bring them out for
the good of this benighted people?" asked Jack dreamily.
Meanwhile Mrs Leyton, who liked it all, was genuinely enthusiastic.
"What a room for a dance! You _do_ dance here, don't you?"
"Oh, yes! Sometimes Kitty and I dance together, or the Moronis come
over, and then we are more," said Bice simply. "If you would like it,
by-and-by we can wheel in the piano, and I will play for you." But
seeing an irrepressible smile in Mrs Leyton's face, she coloured and
said hotly, "You think us foolish--you don't do such things in England!"
It was Phillis who came to the rescue, eagerly and yet a little shyly.
"If we don't, it is not that you are foolish, only wiser than we are,
and lighter-hearted. It takes a great deal to make us dance in
England--"
"Lights and music and a month's preparation, and then enough people to
prevent the risk of anyone being seen," added Jack. "Your plan is much
the most sensible, Miss Masters. But you see we have all been brought
up to think it a serious matter, and so for the moment you shocked our
prejudices."
But Bice was vexed. It always vexed her that anything, however slight,
should mark her as un-English in her ways. She walked gravely through
the other rooms holding her head with a little haughtiness. It passed,
however, directly they had joined her mother and Oliver Trent in the
smaller room--she was watching Ibbetson and Phillis.
Phillis, as often seemed the case, happened to be a little apart from
the others. She sat quietly, saying little herself, but evidently
interested in what was going on. Twice Bice saw her, apparently
unperceived by the others, do a trifling kindness; once in disentangling
Miss Preston's veil which was in danger of being torn, and once in
placing outside the window a stray butterfly which was blundering up and
down against the glass. But she seemed to have a little difficulty in
joining the gay-spirited chat which flowed with unbroken ease from Mrs
Leyton, and if Jack addressed her, she showed a greater hesitation.
Here was no secure and haughty rival to sting poor Bice by contempt; the
girl, who would have had the worst side of her nature roused by such
treatment, felt for Phillis a strange thrill of pitying sympathy. Yet
pitying is hardly the right word. There was something about her which
Bice envied, a kind of sweet dignity, of self-possession, in spite of
shyness.
Captain Leyton very soon began to fidget over his opportunities.
"And if he once sits down to a sketch there will be no moving him!" said
his wife with good-humoured impatience.
"Let somebody suggest a means of prevention, then," said Jack. "You
shall have mine first--the vineyards."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan--"
"You will miss the long shadows," Bice said doubtfully.
"But we shall get them in this enchanting garden," exclaimed Mrs
Leyton. "I know exactly how it will be with Arthur otherwise. Cart
ropes won't drag him away when once he has begun a sketch."
She had her way, as she generally had, and the eight started, a merry
party to all appearance, though there were doubts and heart sinkings
pressing heavily on more than one of the eight. Cartouche was left
behind, to his great disgust, but too many dogs were employed in the
vineyards for it to be safe to take him.
"It always seems strange to me that your vineyards should be so
undefended," Jack said, determined to speak to Bice. "Have you such
perfect trust in the honesty of your fellow-creatures?"
"Touch a grape and you will see," answered the girl briefly.
"What shall I see?"
"A man with a gun. And he will be quite ready to use it. The very dogs
are trained to watch."
"You excite my curiosity. I shall experimentalise to-day."
"To-day you will be safe, because you will be with the _padrona_. But I
do not advise you to try elsewhere." He noticed with vexation that her
manner was abrupt, and that she evidently tried to avoid him. Had
anything offended her? He determined to win her back to the easy
frankness which he had found so charming that he had no mind to part
with it.
"So that is why Cartouche was not allowed to come?" he said with a
smile. "Do you know how he distinguished himself last night? Somehow
or other he got on the roof and sat there. Quite a crowd gathered round
the house before we had any idea what was the attraction, and Winter, my
aunt's maid, went into hysterics. But I assure you his effect among the
chimneys was absolutely demoniacal."
She smiled, but she was looking straight before her. Why did not some
one join them? she thought with a throb. Why did he talk to her? Why
was fate so cruel and yet so sweet that she could not get away from it?
Apparently her coldness only provoked Jack, who wanted nothing more than
her past friendliness, but thought himself ill-used at its withdrawal.
He said at last boldly--
"Something has vexed you. What is it? Has anything fresh turned up
about your brother?"
She coloured and caught at his second question, feeling that sooner than
let her secret betray itself she would talk with him, walk with him, and
endure any torture.
"Nothing new," with a faltering voice. "We have not heard again from
Clive, any of us. But it is impossible to forget; and oh, Mr Ibbetson,
I wanted to say that I have thought it over a great deal--I mean what
you were so kind as to suggest the other day. But it is impossible; it
is of no use. Nothing seems as if it could be of use." She corrected
herself. "I should not say that; Mr Trent will do his utmost."
"Anyone would do his utmost," said Jack, more warmly than he need have
spoken. It was almost impossible for poor Bice to repel his eagerness
and kindness. They were a little in advance of the others, the path
went twisting and clambering upwards. Once, perhaps because she was not
thinking of the rough stones, she slipped, and he put out his hand and
caught hers. It was not for more than a minute, but those behind saw
the movement. Jack did not know it himself, but this shrinking, this
apparent coldness of the girl's was stirring him to a stronger interest.
All his life as yet he had had pretty much what he cared for--liking,
popularity, success; finally, a fortune and a wife were waiting for him.
The things had come too easily, so that a charm was wanting in them
all. It piqued and roused him when he found a difficulty in the way.
If he had known what he was heaping up for Bice it would have shocked
him. She did know, and had thought that she would avoid him; but he
would not be avoided, he was bent, as it seemed, upon monopolising her.
The poor child was bewildered, miserable, happy, all at once. Trent,
who had fancied he had stopped it, was furious.
Along the slopes of those hills of Florence there are lovely delicate
colours and sweet pastoral pictures meeting you at every turn. Looking
upwards you see Pan leaning against a tree, his goats browsing round
him, over his head a vine is flinging itself from bough to bough. Grey
olives clothe the slopes; a sombre cypress rises like a sharp blot
against the blue; an ox-cart comes rumbling down the road; far away in
the plain the river shines till the mountains rise up beyond. In the
vineyard to which they went that day you may look along a broad grass
walk for a quarter of a mile at least; on either side of it the vines
clamber from tree to tree, and at the end rises a distant line of
Apennines, glowing faintly purple in the sunshine; the grapes--white,
pink, yellow, purple, black--gleam with the most exquisite lights, the
very shade seems to be lit up by them, luminous colours flash out from
under fresh leaves, from wreaths of cool foliage.
Captain Leyton was in an ecstasy of despair. The head _contadino_ came
up to Bice smiling and showing his white teeth.
"Are there any grapes in particular the signorina would like for her
friends?" he asked. "The biggest of all this year is Il Bordone."
And then at a sign one of the men in the trees cut a branch or two with
his sickle. Miss Preston began to demand particulars.
"The signora will see," said the _contadino_, rather perplexed. "The
women carry the grapes to the tubs; there is one close by which is just
full."
He was right. A girl had just brought the last load of long festooning
branches to a tall wooden tub. She was cutting off the bunches with her
sickle, and letting them drop among the others already piled high, a
mass of beautiful colours. Then a man, standing by and leaning on a
thick stick, began to thump and beat them down into a pulpy mass. Miss
Preston was very much interested; Phillis turned away, she could not
bear to look at all the beauty beaten out of shape. She strolled into a
little grassy side path from which, out of the way, she could see the
gay and busy scene. Two men passed her presently carrying the tub,
suspended from a stick, to the ox-carts which stood, brilliant bits of
colour, in the shade. Phillis was left quite to herself; every now and
then she caught a glimpse of one of the party crossing an alley, moving
here and there among the vines and the sweet changeful lights. She saw
Jack and Bice together; he was bending down and speaking. The beauty of
everything seemed to add to the pain in Phillis's heart. If we want to
describe pain we are inclined to throw its gloom upon all the
surroundings, to paint the outward signs of sadness in greys and dim
cheerless tones. But who knows whether to an aching heart the glow of
sunshine and the fairness of nature do not bring the keenest sting of
all?
Phillis's pain was full of perplexity. She wanted to be sure what was
right, what was best for Jack, and for all. Her nature was altogether
true, simple, and free from the snare of self-torment, so that she was
spared many doubts in her life; only at this time they seemed to gather
about her like a mist. She knew little of the world. Mrs Thornton was
her aunt, she had lived at Hetherton since she had been a child, and Mr
Thornton was fond of her in his rough way, and had made out this plan of
his with a good deal of satisfaction.
"Two disinterested young fools," he had said to himself, chuckling, "or
at any rate they think themselves so. Play them off against one
another. See if that don't bring them together."
As it did.
Only it gave Jack the unjust impression that Phillis was swayed by the
desire to keep her position, and left him quite unconscious that to her
the threat of disinheriting him had been used. But, indeed, for her no
threat was needed. Jack had been her hero from the time when she looked
shyly at the big, fair-haired boy from the school-room window. It
amazed her when he asked her to marry him, but she took his words with
the simple trust which belonged to her character, and was quite content
to be happy. Should she have done otherwise? she thought--looking back
with a vague uneasiness. For, alas, she had begun to doubt, to wonder.
In the long days of travelling together, in the letters he had written,
something had forced itself upon her. Perhaps he had hardly cared it
should be otherwise, hardly wished to profess more than the quiet liking
he unquestionably felt, had no misgivings that she herself would desire
more. At any rate she had reached Florence in some perplexity of mind,
and by this time imagined that she had found the solution of her riddle.
It was curious how little Ibbetson knew of her true character. He
believed her to be easily influenced by stronger wills, and, indeed, to
require some such support. In reality her judgment was clear, and, once
formed, no pain would turn her from what she felt to be the right
course. There, sitting between the vines, she set herself to consider
it. If Ibbetson did not love her, whether he loved another or not, it
would be wrong for them to marry. No dreams of his or her inheritance
must affect the question. No visions of self-sacrifice would be safe
guides. She went to work honestly, asking--how earnestly!--for the
"right judgment," and she would not shrink though the answer came heavy
with pain.
Phillis sat on, forgetting what was round her. The peasant girls looked
with some wonder at the signorina who stayed there away from all her
party. Presently Jack, who had missed her, came to search for her, a
little vexed with her and with himself. But Phillis showed no
displeasure, she only rose with a smile and told him that she had been
resting, but that she would not be unsociable any longer.
CHAPTER NINE.
BICE WRITES.
Oliver Trent had been too much enraged by Ibbetson's monopolisation of
Bice to be as prudent as was his wont; indeed, he began to feel as if he
had been over cautious already, and that it would have been wiser to
have checked matters more decidedly. She avoided him, but he was
determined to give his warning, and when Jack went to seek Phillis he
caught at the opportunity to say--
"New friends for old--is that your last motto, Bice?"
"What do you mean?" she said, faltering.
"I mean that I could envy you your powers of forgetfulness if I did not
unfortunately happen to be one of the sufferers. Clive and I--have we
really altogether dropped out of your mind?"
"You take care to prevent such a possibility, even for a moment," she
said angrily.
"Oh, I will not offend you again, if that is your feeling. I will leave
Florence to-morrow morning, and nothing shall remind you of my
existence. As for Clive, I am afraid I cannot make so large a promise."
She was so changed and shaken, that for the first time in her life he
frightened her. She felt as if she were powerless in a strong grasp.
Where could she turn?
"Why do you say this to me, Oliver?" she said slowly. "What have I
done? I have not forgotten your goodness about Clive, or--what you
said. Why should I? There is no one else to whom I can turn. But
you--you should not oblige me to speak of it here, with all these people
as our guests."
She said the words very softly and gently, but she did not look at him
as she spoke.
"When will you speak, then?" he said moodily. "To-night?"
"Not to-night, not to-night, please! To-morrow."
"I am tired of to-morrows. Why should it always be to-morrow? No.
This evening in the garden."
She did not contradict him any further. After all, it was hardly worth
while.
Ibbetson could not get any more conversation with Bice on their way back
to the villa, for Oliver quietly baffled his attempts, and Miss Preston
was pouring out to every one her own views as to possible improvements
in the vintage--the grapes should be trained differently, there should
be a revolving wheel in the tubs, someone should read to the
_contadine_.
"Still I own to one improvement, for I am pleased to have had ocular
demonstration that the barbarous fashion of treading out the grapes is
no longer in practice. It gives one a certain hope."
"But that is another stage," exclaimed Kitty innocently; "don't you
know? They put the grapes into huge shallow tubs and jump on them till
the juice is extracted. All the boys and girls help. After our share
has been weighed in the cellar we shall make it at home."
The little party were playing at cross-purposes all the way back.
Perhaps no one was content, not even Captain Leyton, who gazed moodily
at a blot of green, purple, and golden, which was all he had got out of
the vineyard. Bice looked pale and depressed, and said nothing to
Oliver, who marched by her side all down the hill. Mrs Leyton tried to
draw a little amusement out of the others by talking of them to Phillis,
but Phillis, too, was silent.
After luncheon they went different ways. Bice took Miss Preston, who
was anxious, as she said, to make the round of the premises; Captain
Leyton became supremely happy over a promising sketch; the others
strolled or sat about, eating figs and peaches, Mr Trent keeping near
Jack, though with little pretence at cordiality. Phillis, who wanted
time for herself, slipped away at last with Cartouche for a companion,
and wandered about in the quiet alleys, of which there were so many.
Suddenly she turned a corner and came upon Bice alone.
Something--stronger than circumstances--had all along attracted these
two to each other. They were different, but each had a certain nobility
of soul which may have had something to do with the attraction. Each
had grown up out of the world, and though Bice had had sharp experience
of evil, it was not the evil of petty spites and jealousies. Then for
Phillis beauty alone had that intense charm and interest which it often
has for those who themselves lack its power, and she felt a strong pity
for the girl who had looked sad all the day, and now had evidently been
crying; a pity no less real because she believed that she herself must
take up the burden of pain if she were to relieve it. She could not
pass by, or pretend not to see.
"I am afraid you are unhappy," she said gently. "Mr Ibbetson said that
you were very anxious about your brother, but he told us no particulars.
Is he ill, or is he in trouble? Can we help you in any way? I should
be very glad if you would try not to look upon me as a stranger,
although I know it is difficult."
Bice, whose heart was in a tumult, who did not know what to think, who
believed she hated Oliver, Jack, Phillis, and herself most of all, was
touched in a moment, not so much perhaps by the words, as by the kind,
steadfast eyes which interpreted them.
"I don't think it is difficult," she said, and with a sudden impulse she
caught Phillis's hand and kissed her. "Ever since I saw you I have felt
somehow as if you would do us good."
For the moment she had forgotten Jack. Phillis, who read more in the
words than the girl meant, felt her heart swell.
"Perhaps I can," she said steadily. "Things often come about in the
manner we least expect. Who knows whether you and I, if we put our
heads together, may not find a way out of some of your troubles? Can
you trust me with them?"
"Yes," said Bice after a moment's pause. "Oliver forbade me to speak,
but I don't see that he knows best. I don't know who to consult. I
asked Mr Ibbetson, and he seemed to think it all very bad indeed." She
went on hurriedly. "There were some things I could not tell him--but
you! Oh, I am very, very miserable. Do you think it will be very
ungrateful of me if Mr Trent saves Clive and yet I do not marry him?"
"Is that what he wishes?"
"Yes. He says he risks everything--that it is only for me."
"And you don't love him?"
"Oh, no, no, no!"
The girl shivered as she spoke. There was a little pause, then Phillis
said--
"How long has he been asking you to do this?"
"I don't know," Bice said, letting her hands drop wearily. "Ever since
he brought us the bad news of Clive, I suppose. But it is in the last
few days that he has said the most, and every day it seems to grow worse
and worse. To-night I must tell him."
Phillis took her hands in hers and looked into her face.
"You must tell him you will not marry him," she said quietly.
The girl's face flushed with sudden joy, then the colour faded quite
away.
"Ah! you don't know," she said, shaking her head. "So much I do know.
Nothing that you can tell me can make wrong right. But perhaps you will
let me hear more."
"Wrong?" repeated Bice, looking at her. To her, poor child, it seemed
that she was only shrinking from a duty, from the stern call to
self-sacrifice. That there could be any higher principle, that no aim,
whether we call it self-sacrifice, or self-surrender, or anything else,
can sanctify one step taken out of the right road, she did not realise.
All her life she had been brought up to think of right and wrong as
having somewhat hazy outlines. As she told Clive's story over again,
perhaps she dwelt more on the fear of disgrace than on his sin. But she
could not help noticing the look of pain which gathered in Phillis's
brown eyes. She stopped and sighed.
"Now you are shocked," she said. "So was Mr Ibbetson. You think it is
hopeless."
"Wait a moment," said Phillis, "let me think."
They walked on silently beneath the trees; the grass near them was lilac
with autumnal crocuses, a great crimson rose swung itself down from a
pole.
"I wonder if I am right," Phillis said, hesitatingly. "It seems to me
there might be some mistake. Mr Trent may not know, and you have no
right to think hard things of your brother without proof. Surely you
will ask him, ask him directly."
"But Oliver said--"
"Oh, never mind," said Phillis, with a touch of impatience. "Tell him
that you can't follow his advice in that respect. Suppose it is not so
bad as he imagines, I don't see how you can expect Mr Masters to
forgive your want of confidence. No, be open and write. Perhaps he can
clear himself. At any rate do not marry without love. If Mr Trent is
an honourable man, he will not attempt to take advantage of your
anxiety."
Phillis had not meant to say so much, but feeling strongly as to Mr
Trent's conduct, she could not abstain. An instinctive aversion had
risen in her mind when she first saw him at Bologna, and this story of
Bice's awoke more doubts, not to use the harsher word suspicions, than
she liked to acknowledge even to herself. At the best his conduct was
both ungenerous and unmanly.
Bice caught at her advice, which seemed to lift off some of her
perplexities. She was very grave and quiet all the rest of the
afternoon, keeping away as much as she could from both Jack and Oliver,
and looking every now and then wistfully at Phillis. If she had known
what Phillis, too, was thinking, what other resolutions had been made on
that day, when doubts and fears seemed to be flying about in the air!
They dined at the marble table on the terrace, and the picture, with the
piled-up fruits, the dancing shadows, was as pretty as when Jack first
saw it, though he had a dissatisfied feeling of change. Cartouche sat
on a balustrade, and caught grapes when anyone threw them to him.
Captain Leyton was full of glee at having got one of the gardeners to
stand as a foreground for his sketch. Trent looked uneasily at Bice;
she was quieter, and did not shrink from his glance as she had done in
the morning, and he was not sure that it was a good sign.
She did not shrink either when they had watched the others drive away;
on the contrary, she told Kitty she had something to say to Oliver, and
herself led the way to a seat under the banksia trellis close to the
pond, where yellow and white water lilies were still flowering. He
watched her very closely. Her mood puzzled him, and he wanted her to be
the first to speak. She did speak at last, without looking at him.
"You had something to say?"
"No," he said quietly, "nothing. You mistook my meaning, Bice. I have
said my say, and that perhaps was more than was wise or prudent. But I
do not regret it. I said it, and already have taken steps to carry out
what I promised. I have nothing either to add or to retract. But
you!--have you not tried me enough? Do you ever think of the hours of
torture you are inflicting?--such hours as to-day for instance, when I
have been driven mad with doubts and fears? Is it not you who have
something to say?"
She was silent. A month ago it would have been impossible for her to
have listened unmoved to such an appeal, but a month ago she had never
loved, and love--unreturned--hardens the heart strangely against another
lover. His words seemed to her unreal and almost absurd. He put out
his hand and took hers, and she caught it away angrily.
"Let me go, Oliver!" she exclaimed.
"Why do you turn from me, why do you hesitate?" he went on, in a voice
which shook with his efforts at control. "You cannot doubt my love, for
I could hardly give you a greater proof than I am giving. Danger, risk
of ruin, all would seem to me as absolutely nothing compared with one
word from you; and though all I do I do for your sake, you will not
speak that word, Bice. Is this generous?"
"I don't wish you to run those risks."
"Do you forget what you said? `At all risks.' That was your request."
"Then I was wrong, and you were wrong," said the girl, more faintly.
"Perhaps. But the alternative?"
"I have an alternative. I shall write to Clive." Oliver grew pale.
"You have, then, no more wish to save him?"
"He may not have done it, he may be able to explain, and it is shameful
of us to condemn him unheard."
"I warn you, Bice, that you will put it out of my power to save him."
"We must run the risk," she answered, in a low, resolute voice.
Oliver could scarcely restrain his passion. He was certain that
Ibbetson was at the bottom of her determination, and it seemed as if all
his plots, his hopes, were to be baffled by this man. He longed to
charge her with it, to taunt her with Jack's engagement, but he did not
dare, for Bice's was not a nature which could be safely goaded into
resentment, and he feared the flash of her eyes and what it might tell
him. He controlled himself.
"Write, then," he said, "write at once. Clive will not acknowledge that
anything is wrong."
"We shall see."
"And am I still to be your shuttlecock?" he said hoarsely. "Have pity,
Bice, have pity! Such love as mine deserves some return--"
She interrupted him.
"It deserves to find love, I know, and that is what I have not got to
give. I am very sorry, Oliver, only I must be true with you, at all
costs."
"You are rather late in your resolves," he said, biting his lip until
the blood sprang.
"I have thought and hoped," she said, looking down, "that one day I
might feel differently, and be able to give you what you wanted, if only
out of gratitude to you for your kindness. I thought, perhaps, it was
that you had taken me by surprise, that I was ignorant and
inexperienced, and that my feelings would change."
"You were right!" he cried vehemently. "Think so still, Bice, my
darling, my own! You do not know, how should you? Marry me, and I will
teach you to love me. I have no fear, no doubt."
"But now I know," she said, going on as if he had not spoken, "and it is
all different. I can't marry you, even to save Clive. I could not even
if I had promised. Do not be sorry, Oliver, I am not worth it."
"It is easy to say `Do not.' Do you suppose our feelings are so under
control that we can master them at pleasure?" he retorted with
bitterness. "You let me hope, you hold the cup almost to my lips, and
then tell me not to be sorry when it is dashed away. Who has been
teaching you to play fast and loose, Bice? Who has shaken your faith in
your friends? When will one of them do what I have done, what I am
ready to do? Has your mother told you that she has borrowed money from
me to pay her debts, because she did not doubt--"
He stopped. Bice had sprung up, pale, with flashing eyes.
"That is not true!" she cried.
"Is it not? Ask her."
She looked at him as if she would pierce his soul. Alas, it is not
always the most innocent souls which bear such looks without faltering!
Her own eyes fell. "I will pay it," she said in a low voice.
"That is folly."
"I will pay it," she repeated, this time angrily.
"Do so," he said after a moment's pause. And then he added, "but
remember this. If your mother had had from me a hundred times as much
she would not have done me as much harm as you will do me if you throw
me over."
Was it true? Had she indeed worked all this evil? Would it not be
easier to yield as she had meant to do that morning? He was so
persistent, he would not give her up. She hesitated, and then, strong
and clear, Phillis's words came back--"Do not marry him if you do not
love him." She looked him full in the face. "Let me pass," she said,
"I can give you no other answer." He had read something of the
struggle, and was bitterly disappointed, though his determined will gave
up nothing of his intention.
"If you write to Clive, it had better be without delay," he said.
"I'll write to-morrow morning." And then she turned and put out her
hand. "Thank you for letting me write, Oliver."
"I dare not advise you to build upon it, but you can try," he said.
"Yes, by all means try."
The next morning, as Bice was passing through the hall, she met Trent.
"If you have any letters for the early post," he said, "I will take
them, I am going into Florence."
"Oh, thank you very much. I had meant to send little 'Tista."
"'Tista is wanted for the vintage, and is not an over-safe messenger.
Is this all?"
"All. Thank you again. That letter is a weight off my mind. I am sure
he will answer it."
"I fancy not, but, as I said, one can but try. Nothing more? Rest in
the garden, Bice, and do not go again to the vineyards. You look tired
and pale. Such walks as yesterday do you no good."
"Rest!" she repeated impatiently. "You talk as if one could turn all
the thoughts out of one's head whenever one liked. That might be rest."
"I wish you would let me do your thinking for you."
He spoke tenderly, and she turned suddenly and looked at him. He could
not understand her look, which was at once inquiring and reproachful,
and, indeed, at this time all her thoughts were in a tangle. Doubts,
suspicions, generous impulses, womanly pride, womanly fears, seemed to
shake her very soul, and drive it on one side and the other. Sometimes
she felt as if she had not a friend in the world, as if the only haven
open to her was one she loathed. Even with Phillis it was all a strange
inexplicable problem. Phillis had brought her sharpest pangs, yet
attracted her irresistibly. Phillis, too, was unhappy, of that she was
certain; yet something about her, something which Bice felt without
being able to explain, gave her a sense of rest and confidence. It was
as if she had an anchor which must keep her from the tossing of such
storms as were driving poor Bice here and there. Vague thoughts came
floating about her, half prayers, half resolutions, feeble and
fluttering, yet real and therefore not in vain.
CHAPTER TEN.
SANS PARTIR ADIEU!
Miss Cartwright was really ill. And of all who loved and cared for her,
there was not one who showed more affection than Cartouche. They had
thought that he was only a puppy, that nothing in the world was so much
to him as a run by the Arno or a frolic in the Cascine woods, but now,
when his mistress was ill, he could not be coaxed to either the one or
the other. He watched at her door, and, if he could get the chance,
crept into her room, and looked at her with questioning, loving eyes.
Once when the doctor came to her bed, to his alarm there rose up a black
form from the other side, growling angrily, and bent on resolute defence
of his mistress. And another time they found that he had dragged
together a heap of her shoes and slippers, over which he was keeping
watch and ward. Phillis was a great deal with her, Miss Cartwright
evidently liking the girl's companionship, and watching her as she sat
at the window with wistful interest.
"My dear," she said suddenly one day, "this stupid illness of mine
mustn't interfere with Jack's happiness. Remember, the wedding was to
be at Florence, and, perhaps, if it had not been for me, it would all
have been settled by this time."
Phillis turned away her head as she answered--
"I don't think it can be so soon as you fancy."
"But why?" Miss Cartwright persisted. "On my account? Come, my dear,
tell me exactly whether that has not been on your mind and Jack's."
"He has not spoken about it," said the girl with an effort. "Indeed,
dear Miss Cartwright--"
"Call me Aunt Mary, my dear."
"It can't be yet."
Miss Cartwright said no more, she was hardly equal to any sustained
conversation, but she took an opportunity later in the day to tell Jack
that Phillis should go out for a walk. "Take her to the Uffizi," she
said; "and, Jack--"
"Yes."
"Don't give me the sorrow of feeling that I am a hindrance. Let me hear
that your marriage day is fixed."
As she spoke he noticed with a pang how much she was altered, and with a
sudden movement stooped down and kissed her.
"I would do anything in the world that could please you," he said.
She held him fast with her feeble hands.
"My dear, she is worth much more than _that_," she said eagerly. "But I
don't think you yet know how much, and I am sometimes afraid she will
never let you know."
"What do you mean?" he said, startled. But he could not get her to
explain.
She had put into words what he had avoided forming into a definite idea.
In his heart he knew that he ought to have spoken to Phillis about
their wedding day, but it was so much more to his inclination that
matters should go on as they had been going, that he had refused to
think about the future. He had been out once or twice to the villa, and
though Oliver was on guard, and though Bice showed the same reserve, it
interested him to break through it, as he had once or twice succeeded in
doing, and he was beginning to take a dangerous pleasure in thwarting
Oliver. However, he had spoken quite truly when he told his aunt that
he would do anything in the world to give her pleasure, and he had no
intention of avoiding the conversation with Phillis, only looking
forward to it somewhat ruefully, as leading matters to a point which he
would have preferred to regard for some while yet in the distance.
She was quite ready to go to the Uffizi when he suggested it, but asked
to go round by the Duomo and Giotto's tower. The day was not very
bright, but there was a still grave beauty about it. They went under
the frowning walls of the Strozzi into the old market with its narrow,
dirty, picturesque, unchanged alleys. Even when great bundles of yellow
and scarlet tulips, fresh from the fields, and splendid in the glory of
their colours, lie tossed upon the ground, or when myriads of lilies of
the valley are gathered into fragrant sheaves, this old market of
Florence is not a place in which you can linger without some offence to
eye or ear. And yet joy, too, were it only for these things, or for the
sweet Madonna with her lilies which Luca della Robbia set up with
faithful reverence for the buyers and sellers below. But in autumn days
flowers do not deck Florence with the bounty of spring or summer.
Vegetables there are in plenty--cucumbers, and scarlet tomatoes, and
crisp white lettuces; and as for the fruits, they are heaped in great
piles; melons--striped, smooth, small, large--lie under cool green
leaves; rosy peaches, figs, purple and green, wild strawberries, grapes
of every shade of delicious colour, brighten the old stones; but a
certain grace has fled with the flowers, and Florence is not quite
herself.
And yet on that day it was difficult to think that anything was wanting,
so tender were the lights, so soft the shadows, into and out of which--
with here and there a rosy or a golden glow as a stronger gleam struck
the marbles--rose the Duomo and the Shepherd's bell-tower. Phillis
lingered there a little, lingered looking at the gates of the
Baptistery, at Giotto's sculptures, at the little oratory of the Bigallo
on the other side.
"There is so much, and it is all so close together!" she said, drawing a
deep breath.
But, indeed, the wonder of Florence lies in her perpetual youth. She is
old, and yet no touch of age seems to have passed over her. All around
are the memories of past ages, but they are alive and present, and time
scarcely seems to separate you from them. It would not surprise you to
see Giotto standing under his tower, to meet Dante turning towards his
house, Savonarola passing to the preaching, Romola--as real as any--
hurrying back to old Bardi. Our past grows mouldy, whereas here it
keeps life, and colour, and reality. Is it that we are always trying to
escape from it?
The Uffizi was rather empty. There were plenty of copyists, most of
all, as usual, round the great Fra Angelico, with its praising angels,
in the passage, but otherwise strangers were few. Jack, who had a craze
for Botticelli, would not let Phillis rest until he had taken her to the
Judith in the room next the Tribune. She comes towards you more lightly
than Judith would have done after the deed, but the strong purpose, the
self-forgetfulness of the face, are wonderful; and as the yellow morning
light catches the grey blue of her dress, she looks far beyond you, and
beyond what you are ever likely to see. Presently from her lips will
come the cry of deliverance, "Open, open now the gates!" and all
Bethulia will press round to see and hear. Jack, who had learnt
Botticelli from Ruskin, was full of enthusiasm, and dragged Phillis off
to the Calumny, the Fortitude. He made her sit down in a corner where
she could see the last-named well, and then a thought struck him.
"Your face isn't unlike Sandro's favourite type, Phillis," he said,
looking at her critically.
She coloured slightly as she smiled.
"Except for the far-away look, this Fortitude hardly seems to me to be
one of that type."
"You have that far-away look occasionally: you sometimes meet me with
it. What are you thinking about?--our future?"
"Of the future, perhaps."
"Ours, then."
Phillis was silent. The Fortitude seemed to gaze at her with
sympathetic eyes. Jack went on gravely and a little awkwardly.
"It is time we settled something, don't you think so?"
"Yes," she said in a very low voice.
"My aunt is exceedingly anxious that we should not delay on account of
her illness, and I don't see that we need. We are both resolved that
our wedding shall be as quiet and simple as possible, and really it will
be a relief to her mind rather than an anxiety. Therefore, dear, only
one thing remains--to fix the day."
He did not look at Phillis as he spoke, and two people who glanced into
the room thought the pair were a brother and sister bent on enjoying
pictures which nobody in his senses could admire. Phillis said after a
momentary pause--
"I am afraid that is not all."
"Trousseau, and that sort of thing? But surely it can wait for
England?"
"Something of more consequence," and he noticed a tremor in her voice.
"Jack," she went on, "you and I have always been good friends. I hope
that will go on; I don't think I could bear to believe that anything
could come between us in that. But for the other matter, dear, it has
been a mistake, and I thank God that there is yet time to set it right.
We are good friends always, remember, but we can be nothing more. I was
wrong to consent, and my uncle was wrong to press it, as I think now he
did; but he did it for the best, and, as I said, it can be set right."
"Phillis!"
She put up her hand.
"Hush! Spare me any reproaches or entreaties, Jack. If I have done
wrong, I will take all the blame, and do my best to set matters right I
hesitated for a time because I thought of Hetherton, but I feel almost
sure that if I write to my aunt and explain how this is entirely my own
doing, Mr Thornton's sense of justice will prevail, and that you will
not suffer. But even should it be otherwise, we dare not make that the
first consideration, dare we? I am certain that would be your
decision."
"About Hetherton, yes," said Ibbetson, rising and standing by her chair
with much agitation. "But I don't understand you, Phillis! Have you
changed or I? What have I done to bring you to such a conclusion? You
can't be thinking of all that your words imply. Are you offended with
me?"
Her eyes, clear and steadfast, answered him, though her voice was
shaken.
"Not offended. Offence could hardly dome between us. But don't you
see, we should not be happy together, we could not marry."
"You could not be happy with me. That is what I must understand you to
mean," he said with some bitterness. "And I don't know what I have done
that you should change your opinion, if, indeed, you ever loved me."
If she ever loved him! What but love, tender and true, could have
nerved her to the anguish of this moment, of all the moments that were
coming! Not love him! She sighed, she had not thought her task would
be so hard.
"We all make mistakes at times," she said, without answering his
reproach, which, indeed, pricked his own conscience as he uttered it.
"Let us be thankful, Jack, that this isn't irreparable."
"But why--why will you have it to be a mistake?" he asked doggedly.
"I leave that to you to answer," she said gravely, and he suddenly felt
in her a womanly dignity of which he had not before been conscious. "I
don't myself think that any good is to be gained by entering into
explanations. You know in your heart that what I say is best for us
both."
"I know nothing of the sort," he exclaimed; and indeed at this moment he
would not acknowledge to himself that it was best. He had not wished to
hurry on their marriage, but that was a different matter from giving up
Phillis. And he could not help feeling that it was possible she might
carry out her determination. But yesterday he would have smiled at the
idea that he could not influence her in any direction he pleased. He
had never understood her, and shyness had seemed to him such a marked
feature in her character, that he had looked upon her as one who would
be always willing to follow where others led, without attempting to
exercise an independent judgment. In her words to-day, still more
perhaps in her manner, there was a quiet resolution which for ever upset
these preconceived ideas. This was no shy unformed girl, but a woman
strong in her self-respect and self-control. "Phillis," he said, and
there was greater warmth in his tone than he had ever shown her before,
"for pity's sake don't let a vague fancy separate us. If you say
nothing definite, how can I defend myself?"
He half expected her to answer that she did not accuse him; but she did
not, although she seemed to ponder over his words.
"It is not a vague fancy," she said presently, and she spoke very
quietly and sadly; "it is a conviction, which you will by-and-by
acknowledge yourself."
"But--it is impossible--you don't really mean that it is all over
between us? What reason can we give the Leytons--my uncle?"
"I will explain to both."
He walked away from her to the other side of the room, standing staring
at a picture of Signorelli's without seeing it. She sat where he had
left her, feeling as if she could not move, as if her own hands had
wrecked her peace, as if for the moment she would give all she had to
undo what she had done. And it was not over yet, though her strength
failed as he left her side. He came back quickly.
"Have you really considered the bearings of the case? Hetherton, for
instance?"
"I am very sorry for you," she said faintly. "How sorry I cannot say.
But there is no one nearer. I think Mr Thornton must retract his words
when he hears that this has been my doing."
"But what will be your own position?" Jack said with a certain effort.
She looked at him in bewilderment for a minute; then, as his meaning
flashed on her, started to her feet. The tears sprang into her eyes,
her voice trembled, but all her strength had come back.
"I have not deserved _that_," she said vehemently. No, indeed. In this
great crash of hope of happiness which she had brought about, Hetherton
might go without so much as a thought. It was a hundred times more to
Ibbetson, who salved the soreness of his independence with the idea that
he was indifferent, but who could scarcely enter into the trouble, his
words had caused her. Had he, then, thought so meanly of her as to
suppose that Hetherton had weighed? Oh, well that she had spoken, at
whatever cost of pain! She began to walk away quickly through the
rooms, and he, who had been startled out of another misconception,
followed, feeling himself awkwardly placed as he did so. He kept close
behind, but did not join her until they were near the bottom of the
great staircase, and then she had recovered her composure, and made some
indifferent remark about asking for letters at the post-office opposite.
If you wish to change a conversation in Florence, there are plenty of
sights and sounds which will effect your purpose. They chose a packet
of the little photographs which are spread out under the arcades, turned
as usual to look at the flower-like tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and
stared in at the windows of the mosaic workers. When they reached the
Old Bridge a soldier's funeral was crossing it, and the people crowding.
The regiment marched, the sun shone out for a moment on flashing steel
and on young grave faces; behind came a group of the black and hooded
Brothers of Mercy carrying lighted torches. They were all walking
quickly, and the Old Bridge formed a strange mediaeval framework to the
procession.
Ibbetson and Phillis dreaded silence too much not to make valiant
efforts to avoid it all the way home by the Lung' Arno. It seemed to
her that her forces were expended, and he was thinking uneasily of what
she had said. His good things had dropped so readily upon him all his
life long, that although she did not know it, nothing stimulated him
like difficulty, and she had already gained a new value in his eyes, and
moved him to a greater appreciation. But he was also annoyed and a
little ashamed. Did she really mean that she was rejecting him? When
they reached Casa Giulia he paused at the door.
"Phillis," he said in a low voice, "you said more than you meant just
now, didn't you?"
She might have answered that it had cost her too much to say what she
did to allow of her falling into such an error, and the pleading which
he put into his voice made this appeal a fresh anguish. But she
steadied herself to answer quietly--
"I mean it all. Indeed, it is best."
"If you will not consent to our marriage taking place as soon as was
intended, you don't at all events wish that everything should be at an
end between us?"
"Are things ever at an end in this world?" she said, with a sad little
smile. "But I do wish that all should be at an end so far that you--
that we should be absolutely free."
"Am I to go away?" he asked petulantly. It seemed as if in this
conversation their usual parts were reversed, and perhaps she read in it
a sign that her decision was right. But now she hesitated. For herself
she would rather he had gone, but there was Miss Cartwright, there was
Bice. She said--
"I don't see how you can. And as we are always to be friends, there is
no need."
He said no more. He opened the door for her to go in, betook himself to
the garden, and was as cross for the rest of the day as it was in his
nature to be.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
WHAT A WOMAN WILL DO.
In the villa Bice was suffering the dreariness of suspense, for Clive
did not answer her letter, into which she had poured a heart full of
longing. At first she was positive, in spite of the delay, that it was
only a delay and no more. Once she turned sharply upon Oliver.
"You are certain that you posted the letter?"
"I was particularly careful of it, because I knew it was of consequence
to you," he answered, looking full in her face.
"Then of course there is some good reason for our not hearing, and I
dare say something will come in a day or two."
But nothing did come. The days went on, the girl's heart sank lower and
lower in spite of her resolute words. If Clive bore that appeal in
silence, things must be bad indeed, and perhaps there was but one way
out of them.
Yet she did not yield. Oliver tried all the persuasions he could think
of, and could not be sure that he had gained one step. She avoided him
when she could, but if he forced her to listen to him, listened coldly,
and answered that she must hear from Clive. He began to feel as if the
puppets he was playing with were turning to flesh and blood avengers in
his hands. She was asking for proof, and if she sought for it much more
persistently, what might not start up in its place? He was tormented by
jealousies, not only of Jack, who came up once or twice, and seemed
moody and out of spirits, but of young Moroni, who made no secret of his
devotion. Bice was kinder to him than she had ever been before, and the
poor lad, not knowing that she used him as a defence against another,
had his head pretty well turned. Oliver was man enough of the world to
read her motives, but if he had seen them written in large letters, he
would not have felt easy. He hated the young fellow with his smiles,
his sudden pathetic melancholies, his sweet Italian, which he could not
understand. It seemed to him that they had a hundred interests in
common, from each of which he was shut out. Out on the terrace, late at
night, Giovanni would sit thrumming his guitar, the girls would sing.
Trent had no part to play in it all. Another time he would find Bice
and Kitty sitting on the edge of the water tank, Moroni in a fig tree
below them, tossing the ripe fruit into their laps, old Andrea, half
hidden by leaves, munching away at a little distance. Oliver, when he
came up, seemed to have no place or welcome, except perhaps from Kitty.
He would ask himself angrily, why he lingered? what fascination there
was for him in this proud, wilful girl? Yet, as he asked the question,
he knew quite well that one glance of her beautiful eyes was enough to
bind him to her side. He felt no remorse at the deception he was
practising, or the pain he inflicted; neither pain nor deception seemed
to him worth weighing for a moment against his determination to win her.
What he did feel was annoyance at having to leave again with his work
yet undone. It was necessary that he should return to England, and all
his strong will as yet had failed to bind Bice, as he had never doubted
she would by this time have been bound.
What then? Before he could return, would John Ibbetson have flung over
his love and turned to Beatrice? Would young Moroni have touched the
girl's heart by his foolish youth, his sentimental songs? Would his own
crooked dealings about Clive come to light when he was not present to
turn the truth into a lie? Trent set his teeth savagely as he thought
of these chances which must all be dared, since go he must.
He did his best to provide against them. He threw out hints, which he
knew would make their mark upon Bice's impulsive, generous little soul,
of Phillis Grey's desolate position in the world, and of her love for
the man she was to marry. Moroni was an Italian, and when he was not
present he did not really fear him. As for Clive, he had a long talk
with Bice, in which he avoided pressing his suit, and so managed to
reawaken some of her gratitude. Never had he been nearer winning her
than he was that day. He was kind, sympathetic, wise. He advised her
strongly not again to press upon Clive, or even so much as allude to,
her knowledge of his difficulties. If she did it, he asked her to send
the letter to him, that he might be aware of her writing and act upon
it. But he implored her for the present to leave the matter absolutely
in his hands, since interference might make it very difficult for him to
act; while left alone, he had the strongest hopes of arranging
everything. He led her to suppose that it was for this he was going
home; and he very skilfully managed alike to abstain from hinting at any
reward, and yet to leave upon her mind an impression that he really
considered her to have pledged herself. He let it be fully understood
that he should return, if not before they moved to Rome in November, at
any rate so as to join them there.
And having taken these precautions, which, to his unquiet spirit, seemed
miserably inadequate, he very reluctantly departed.
Bice expected to find his going a great relief. She was disappointed
because an immediate lightness of spirit was not the result. What
else--when she knew he was going to do his utmost for Clive--should make
her listless and languid? Why did all that was going on at the _podere_
seem utterly uninteresting and dry? Giovanni, who used to look daggers
at the English signore, came over full of rejoicing that he was got rid
of, full of plans and ideas for pleasant festivities; but for all the
good that the young fellow got out of his deliverance, Oliver might have
stayed on, for Bice could not be roused to any excitement, and indeed
scarcely gave him a word in answer, though the simple and honest lad
deserved better treatment; and every now and then she hated herself when
she saw the pain which gathered in his eyes.
That was a time of which she could never bear to think in later days;
and yet, poor child, there was a struggle, a contest going on, of which
better people need not have been ashamed. She felt hurt and shamefaced
in her own eyes, but she was loyal to the impulse which, had led her to
Phillis, to the kiss which had passed between them. Jack's manner, or
an intuitive quickness, or newly-awakened perceptions of her own,
somehow made her aware that things were not quite right between them.
As for him, he was at that point which sometimes comes in a man's life,
when a very little thing might turn him either way. He was dazzled and
attracted by the girl's rare beauty, piqued by Phillis's rejection, and
yet something made him seem nearer to Phillis than ever he had been
before. It is possible that with a little effort Bice might have turned
the scale, but she never made it; rather more than once her grave, clear
eyes had looked at him with a sort of reproach.
Miss Cartwright was better, though far from strong. She had grown so
fond of Phillis that they feared the effect upon her of hearing that the
engagement was off; but she listened in silence, scarcely alluding to it
after the first, but, if possible, more tender than ever both to Phillis
and to Jack. It pained her so greatly when Miss Preston said some sharp
words about Jack's conduct, that her friend was startled into silence;
and as she clung to Phillis, and needed her kind and patient nursing, it
fell out that Phillis was at the house as much as ever, and, to all
outward seeming, things went on just as they had gone before.
If this caused a great strain upon the girl, no one was likely to notice
it. Mrs Leyton had found pleasant friends in Florence, and though very
good-natured in all she said to Phillis on the matter of her engagement,
was equally taken up with fifty other things, and content to let all the
fifty and one go their own way so long as they did not clash with her
comfort. Phillis herself had never been taught to consider her own
feelings as paramount, or she might have been tempted to fly. As it
was, she looked forward to Rome with eagerness as a place of escape, and
then heard to her dismay that the doctor had pronounced Florence too
cold for Miss Cartwright to remain the winter, and that she was to
follow them to Rome as soon as she could bear the journey. Surely Jack
at least would return to England! But this he had evidently no
intention of doing.
Mr Thornton's letters took the line of disbelief. He ignored the fact
that the engagement was broken, advising them to get over their small
misunderstandings as quickly as possible, if they wished their friends
to credit them with any grains of good sense. There was a kind of rough
and ready philosophy about his letters under which Jack winced, while he
did his best to keep Phillis from reading them. Jack was greatly
interested in Phillis at this time, although he was hurt and annoyed
with her. The fact was, she was so kind and unassuming that it was
generally taken for granted that she would never fail at a pinch, and
Mr Thornton's indignation at the letters she had written to her aunt
was as great as if his quietest horse had kicked him over. "_She_
object! _She_ be the one to give herself airs! Don't let me hear any
more of this nonsense, Harriet! Write and tell her to hold her tongue
and be thankful." And, indeed, although it was not acknowledged so
roughly even to himself, Ibbetson, too, could not quite get over his
wonder. The young fellow was not conceited enough to believe that any
girl in the world would have him, but Phillis--to whom he had been
accustomed all his life--he was unprepared to hear her say that they
would not be happy together! She had grown to have a more separate
existence since that assertion than she ever had in his eyes before. He
was not sorry to be at liberty, but he was certainly annoyed that she
should also have desired to claim her own.
The Leytons were to go slowly to Rome, by Perugia and Assisi, but early
November arrived before they started, and two or three days before
setting off, Phillis surprised them by asking Miss Preston to drive with
her to Villa Carlina. She wanted to wish them good-bye, she said, and
though some one suggested they would soon meet at Rome, she persisted.
"And may I not come, too?" said Jack, when he put them into the
carriage.
"Not to-day," Phillis said, smiling; "we are going for a gossip, and you
would be very much in the way. But Cartouche is breaking his heart for
a hunt among the canes, and that is the best thing that you and he can
do this afternoon."
"A dog, indeed!" he said, turning away with some pretended indignation.
And then they began to make their way up towards the villa. It was a
grey and windy day, and every now and then the wind blew a misty rain
full in their faces, and turned all the grey olive trees into a
shivering whiteness of underleaf. The vineyards were stripped and bare.
A poor little kid, which had lost its mother, leapt on a bit of
desolate rock and bleated piteously. Miss Preston blamed the climate of
Italy, as if England were unacquainted with rain or mist. A great deal
of rain had fallen, so that the road between the white walls as they
climbed higher up was washed as if by a torrent, and a number of loose
stones had been brought down. Before they quite reached the gate of the
villa, they came upon a little crowd, in the midst of which stood Bice,
pouring indignant reproaches upon the driver of an ox-cart and upon two
or three men and boys who stood by looking ashamed and downcast. One of
the poor oxen had fallen, and instead of unfastening the cart and
relieving the creature of the yoke which pressed it to the ground, they
had set to work to belabour it about its head, using oaths and curses
plentifully at the same time. Unluckily for them, the young padrona was
within hearing, and as it was well-known amon
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