Chapter Ten.

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 thanthat,” 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 deservedthat,” 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.

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 thanthat,” 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 deservedthat,” 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 thepodereseem 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. “Sheobject!Shebe 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 among thecontadinithat nothing made her so angry as ill-usage of the animals, there was great dismay in their hearts.“Cara signorina!” one of them began humbly, but she stopped him at once with flashing eyes.“I go to thepoderemyself this very day, and see that you do no more work there,” she exclaimed vehemently. “You can go back at once, for little ’Tista shall take these poor beasts. If you have no shame as men for your cruelty, at least you shall find another farm for yourselves.”Phillis could almost have smiled at the abashed looks of the men before the young indignant princess, whose sway no one seemed to dispute. The girl herself showed no discomposure at being found in this character. She gave her orders to ’Tista, directed that time should be given to the trembling creature to recover itself, and then, still pale with anger, came towards the carriage.“When they are cruel like that, I hate the Italians,” she said, without any other explanation, as she put out her hand.“There should be a society formed,” Miss Preston suggested eagerly. “Let me put down your names, and I will see about it to-morrow. A society for the protection of animals—the idea is admirable.”“Oh, societies! There may be one for anything I know,” said the girl wearily. “There is no law behind it, that is the drawback. Are you come to spend the day? That is kind of you.”But Phillis explained it was only an hour they had come to spend. “And when we have seen Mrs Masters, will you let Kitty show Miss Preston the great cellars where you store your wine? she does not feel quite satisfied about the vintage yet.”It was not difficult for Miss Grey to find some further excuse for getting Bice alone. She had not seen the upper storey of the house, where there were great bare-looking bedrooms and sitting-rooms, a studio, laundries, all sorts of places. The girl’s room had a wonderful carved marble bas-relief over the fireplace, and a charming ceiling, bright and fantastic, but otherwise all the furniture was old and the greater part shabby. Phillis glanced at it with little attention; there was something she wanted to say, and she was not quick at turning a conversation to a desired point. It was Bice who unconsciously led to it. “When we are in Rome,” she had said, and then she looked quickly at Phillis—“But then you will be married?” she said in a low voice.Phillis thought she was prepared, and yet at the words the colour rushed up to the roots of her hair.“That is at an end,” she said very hurriedly. “We are not going to marry. It was settled before anyone had thought enough about it, and thinking has made us change our minds. Forget that you ever heard that it was to be.”How fast her heart beat! How stiffly the syllables seemed to issue from her mouth. And yet she had meant to tell her quietly and calmly, to use quite different words. There was a silence in which the wind drove the loose branch of some creeper against the window, and in which Bice looked at Phillis.She looked and smiled. Strange to say, at this moment she was the most composed of the two, and Phillis was deeply mortified that it should be so. But all that Bice said was—“That is a pity. But I don’t suppose I shall be able to forget.”“It is not a pity if it saves either of us from unhappiness,” said Phillis, with much earnestness.“Oh, I hope you will never be unhappy. It is so very miserable,” Bice said, dropping her hands with a little gesture of despair.Her change of expression seemed to put them again into their right positions. Phillis, who had been annoyed at her own agitation and at the incredulous manner of the other girl, felt her pity, her sympathy growing up again as warm as ever. If Bice and Jack loved each other, as was surely the case, then she would not shrink. She smiled in her turn, but looked steadily out of the window.“There are many sorts of unhappiness,” she said gently. “Some come so quietly that we have time to prepare and almost change their nature. And others are like sharp and sudden storms which seem to sweep us away, but are soon over, and then the skies are as smiling again as ever.”“They are all hateful, whether they are of one sort or another,” said Bice in the same tone. “I never believed the books which said they were anything else, and I think you have been reading those books.”“No,” said Phillis firmly, “I don’t believe they are all hateful. And it is something different from books which you and I shall have to teach us that.”“What?”“Never mind, you will tell me one of these days. Now shall we go down, and will you order the little carriage?”As they went out, two or three bronzed men were standing outside the door. Andrea had come up his steps and was haranguing them, but when they saw Beatrice they started forward and poured out a torrent of words. Phillis could not understand the rapid patois, but there were tears in their eyes, and they were evidently imploring, entreating. Bice listened coldly; once or twice she said something at which they redoubled their protestations. When finally she yielded, one of them, the chief spokesman, stepped forward, caught her hand, and kissed it fervently. It was like a scene of another age, Phillis thought, the young girl and the men watching her as if she had been a queen.“I think perhaps they will behave better to the oxen for a little while,” Bice said, as they went away in delight.“How much they care for you!”“They care for the work, too; it is of great consequence in these bad times. But they are very faithful and affectionate, poor fellows!”Miss Preston shook her head. She told Phillis as she drove home that Bice’s weakness in forgiving thecontadinihad convinced her that no woman should enter on the prerogative of her rights before the age of thirty years, when it might be considered that her judgment would be matured, and Phillis, who was pale and rather silent, did not attempt to contradict her. Miss Preston having her own views about Jack’s conduct very strongly outlined, glanced at her.“Nothing can be worse for those two young girls than the sort of undisciplined life they lead, with a mother absolutely without energy or character,” she said decidedly. “If I had remained here I might have been of some service to them, if one evercanbe of service to wilful girls. But in these days it is almost hopeless.”“Bice is most lovable,” said Phillis eagerly. “I don’t think it has spoilt her one bit. Besides, what can be more simple than their life?”“Oh, simple, I dare say!” Miss Preston said darkly. “You have had very little experience of the world, my dear.”“I suppose so,” said Phillis smiling. “When people say that, one never knows what to answer. When does the experience come, I wonder; and what makes the world? Is it anything very different from what one lives in every day?”Miss Preston found it difficult to define, and looked shocked.“You will know better one day,” she said, falling back on a generality. But Phillis would not be baffled.“Will it help one to understand, do you think, and not bring new puzzles?” she asked, still smiling. “It seems to me now, as if every experience brought something strange instead of making the old clearer.”Miss Preston looked at her helplessly, and then put her head out of window.“I never saw such a climate!” she exclaimed angrily. “Raining when we started, and now quite fine. I am sure I trust we may find more consistent weather in Rome.”

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 thepodereseem 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. “Sheobject!Shebe 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 among thecontadinithat nothing made her so angry as ill-usage of the animals, there was great dismay in their hearts.

“Cara signorina!” one of them began humbly, but she stopped him at once with flashing eyes.

“I go to thepoderemyself this very day, and see that you do no more work there,” she exclaimed vehemently. “You can go back at once, for little ’Tista shall take these poor beasts. If you have no shame as men for your cruelty, at least you shall find another farm for yourselves.”

Phillis could almost have smiled at the abashed looks of the men before the young indignant princess, whose sway no one seemed to dispute. The girl herself showed no discomposure at being found in this character. She gave her orders to ’Tista, directed that time should be given to the trembling creature to recover itself, and then, still pale with anger, came towards the carriage.

“When they are cruel like that, I hate the Italians,” she said, without any other explanation, as she put out her hand.

“There should be a society formed,” Miss Preston suggested eagerly. “Let me put down your names, and I will see about it to-morrow. A society for the protection of animals—the idea is admirable.”

“Oh, societies! There may be one for anything I know,” said the girl wearily. “There is no law behind it, that is the drawback. Are you come to spend the day? That is kind of you.”

But Phillis explained it was only an hour they had come to spend. “And when we have seen Mrs Masters, will you let Kitty show Miss Preston the great cellars where you store your wine? she does not feel quite satisfied about the vintage yet.”

It was not difficult for Miss Grey to find some further excuse for getting Bice alone. She had not seen the upper storey of the house, where there were great bare-looking bedrooms and sitting-rooms, a studio, laundries, all sorts of places. The girl’s room had a wonderful carved marble bas-relief over the fireplace, and a charming ceiling, bright and fantastic, but otherwise all the furniture was old and the greater part shabby. Phillis glanced at it with little attention; there was something she wanted to say, and she was not quick at turning a conversation to a desired point. It was Bice who unconsciously led to it. “When we are in Rome,” she had said, and then she looked quickly at Phillis—“But then you will be married?” she said in a low voice.

Phillis thought she was prepared, and yet at the words the colour rushed up to the roots of her hair.

“That is at an end,” she said very hurriedly. “We are not going to marry. It was settled before anyone had thought enough about it, and thinking has made us change our minds. Forget that you ever heard that it was to be.”

How fast her heart beat! How stiffly the syllables seemed to issue from her mouth. And yet she had meant to tell her quietly and calmly, to use quite different words. There was a silence in which the wind drove the loose branch of some creeper against the window, and in which Bice looked at Phillis.

She looked and smiled. Strange to say, at this moment she was the most composed of the two, and Phillis was deeply mortified that it should be so. But all that Bice said was—

“That is a pity. But I don’t suppose I shall be able to forget.”

“It is not a pity if it saves either of us from unhappiness,” said Phillis, with much earnestness.

“Oh, I hope you will never be unhappy. It is so very miserable,” Bice said, dropping her hands with a little gesture of despair.

Her change of expression seemed to put them again into their right positions. Phillis, who had been annoyed at her own agitation and at the incredulous manner of the other girl, felt her pity, her sympathy growing up again as warm as ever. If Bice and Jack loved each other, as was surely the case, then she would not shrink. She smiled in her turn, but looked steadily out of the window.

“There are many sorts of unhappiness,” she said gently. “Some come so quietly that we have time to prepare and almost change their nature. And others are like sharp and sudden storms which seem to sweep us away, but are soon over, and then the skies are as smiling again as ever.”

“They are all hateful, whether they are of one sort or another,” said Bice in the same tone. “I never believed the books which said they were anything else, and I think you have been reading those books.”

“No,” said Phillis firmly, “I don’t believe they are all hateful. And it is something different from books which you and I shall have to teach us that.”

“What?”

“Never mind, you will tell me one of these days. Now shall we go down, and will you order the little carriage?”

As they went out, two or three bronzed men were standing outside the door. Andrea had come up his steps and was haranguing them, but when they saw Beatrice they started forward and poured out a torrent of words. Phillis could not understand the rapid patois, but there were tears in their eyes, and they were evidently imploring, entreating. Bice listened coldly; once or twice she said something at which they redoubled their protestations. When finally she yielded, one of them, the chief spokesman, stepped forward, caught her hand, and kissed it fervently. It was like a scene of another age, Phillis thought, the young girl and the men watching her as if she had been a queen.

“I think perhaps they will behave better to the oxen for a little while,” Bice said, as they went away in delight.

“How much they care for you!”

“They care for the work, too; it is of great consequence in these bad times. But they are very faithful and affectionate, poor fellows!”

Miss Preston shook her head. She told Phillis as she drove home that Bice’s weakness in forgiving thecontadinihad convinced her that no woman should enter on the prerogative of her rights before the age of thirty years, when it might be considered that her judgment would be matured, and Phillis, who was pale and rather silent, did not attempt to contradict her. Miss Preston having her own views about Jack’s conduct very strongly outlined, glanced at her.

“Nothing can be worse for those two young girls than the sort of undisciplined life they lead, with a mother absolutely without energy or character,” she said decidedly. “If I had remained here I might have been of some service to them, if one evercanbe of service to wilful girls. But in these days it is almost hopeless.”

“Bice is most lovable,” said Phillis eagerly. “I don’t think it has spoilt her one bit. Besides, what can be more simple than their life?”

“Oh, simple, I dare say!” Miss Preston said darkly. “You have had very little experience of the world, my dear.”

“I suppose so,” said Phillis smiling. “When people say that, one never knows what to answer. When does the experience come, I wonder; and what makes the world? Is it anything very different from what one lives in every day?”

Miss Preston found it difficult to define, and looked shocked.

“You will know better one day,” she said, falling back on a generality. But Phillis would not be baffled.

“Will it help one to understand, do you think, and not bring new puzzles?” she asked, still smiling. “It seems to me now, as if every experience brought something strange instead of making the old clearer.”

Miss Preston looked at her helplessly, and then put her head out of window.

“I never saw such a climate!” she exclaimed angrily. “Raining when we started, and now quite fine. I am sure I trust we may find more consistent weather in Rome.”

Chapter Twelve.“One and One, with a Shadowy Third.”If Florence has not forgotten her past, Rome has kept hers yet more faithfully, or rather has had a mightier one to keep. It is no longer the life of a few centuries back in which you move, Guelf and Ghibelline flaunting their battlements in your face; artist, sculptor, poet, working their lives out for the beautiful and ungrateful city—but an older age. The stones of the Republic are before your eyes, the road of triumph is under your feet. There, in the Forum, the great twin brethren watered their horses after the battle; hard by the martyrs were given to the lions. Look where you will, there is something which, as you recognise it, brings a thrill to your heart, stirs an interest deeper than Florence can excite, and binds you to Rome for ever. No other city in the world resembles her. In Egypt you are taken back yet further; in Athens, memories of scarcely smaller interest cluster round the golden stones; but they have only their past, while Rome is alive, acting, carrying on her history, many-sided; appealing to the present, to the future—stern, grey, sunshiny, brilliant, all at once.Something of this sort had been said by one of a little party of people who were strolling about the Palatine Hill one December afternoon, and Mrs Leyton opposed it altogether on behalf of Florence.“As to age, it is merely a comparative matter,” she announced. “I don’t feel very aged myself, but I heard a chit at the table-d’hôte yesterday speak of somebody as ‘quite old, oh, about thirty.’ It all depends upon the point from which you look at it. And I do think it is a shame to run down that beautiful Florence, about which you all pretended to be so enthusiastic when you were there, because some of these old stones of Rome have been set up for a few hundred years longer.”Jack Ibbetson, who had been reconnoitring, came back.“Run—hide yourselves—be quick!” he said anxiously. “Miss Preston is coming this way with a victim.”“It is Phillis who must be hidden then. I believe you and I have taught her to avoid us, but I am getting vexed with Phillis for the patience with which she listens to long archaeological discussions which don’t interest her in the least.”“But they do,” protested Phillis, laughing. “Nonsense, my dear. It is your amiability and not your intellect which is brought into play. Now I consider amiability on such occasions an absolute wrong to your fellow-creatures—I do, indeed. All isn’t gold that glitters, and even your virtues are not quite such unmixed blessings as I should like to find them. I hope you appreciate the sting of my remark.”“It is taken out by your charity in crediting virtues which don’t exist. But if only you would listen to poor Miss Preston, you would discover that she has a great deal of really curious information to give you.”“I like my ignorance a great deal better, thank you. There she goes. I see the last flutter of that steel-grey robe disappearing behind the aloes. Mr Ibbetson, you may come out and talk freely. How does dear Miss Cartwright get on in Rome? Is it true that the Masters came yesterday?”“I believe so—yes,” said Jack shortly. He felt an odd sort of shrinking from Bice’s name when Phillis was present, and yet Phillis had herself constantly led to the subject. Mrs Leyton, who could not bear displeasing people, and saw he was unwilling to speak, skilfully dropped the topic.“Then they will join us in some of this sight-seeing, which weighs like lead on my conscience,” she said lightly. “Poor Harry makes a Moloch of his sketching, and I am sure the things which have to be seen are quite as serious for me. When I have done them all, I shall begin to enjoy Rome; but I give notice, good people, not till then.”Phillis laughed without contradicting her, or asserting a different opinion. Phillis herself, if there were any difference in her, had grown more silent and more reserved in these last few weeks, going about a good deal alone, though never unwilling to join the others in their plans. She and the Leytons were at a hotel; Miss Cartwright had taken apartments in the Via della Croce for the sake of Cartouche, who could not be expected to conform to hotel existence. Jack Ibbetson spent a great deal of his time with the Leytons. Phillis did not know how to escape from this life, which was full at once of sweetness and pain, pain sometimes almost unendurable. She rather sought other friends, and there were a brother and sister at the hotel whom she liked and who often joined them. They had expected the Peningtons to meet them at the Palatine, but they did not come, and by-and-by they all strolled down towards the Coliseum. A carriage overtook them, jolting over the Via Sacra, and somebody called out and waved. It was Bice.“How pretty Miss Masters looked!” said Mrs Leyton, glancing a little curiously at Jack.“We shall find them at the Coliseum,” said her husband, and he was right.If Bice was looking pretty, she was changed, changed even since they had left Florence. Her eyes were bright and large, but they had dark lines under them; the round cheek had lost something of its sweet young curve; a pathetic appeal every now and then touched you in her voice. But she had not lost her decision. It was she who had brought Mrs Masters and Kitty. She was eager, interested, wanting to know everything, only Phillis could answer half her questions. Mrs Masters went back before long and sat in the carriage, the others climbed hither and thither, under the great arches, tier above tier. It is like climbing centuries and ages to mount those great steps, worn by many feet. The sun beats down upon them all, untempered now by the silken awning which used to stretch across the vast expanse. Where the Vestal Virgins sat, delicate plants spring from between the stones, maiden hair waves softly in remembrance. And as you go up, and the great area discloses itself, its greatness, its might, its majesty, its silence, will touch you, if you let them, with an awful power. Rome lies before you, clothed in purple and regal shadows; the Campagna stretches away towards surrounding hills; black cypresses point; all about you the solemn arches frame some picture which belongs to the world’s history; all about you the lights float, golden, rose, flashing into dark corners, and marked out by keen shadows.Phillis stole away by herself, but she found that Bice soon followed her, and as if she were seeking occasion for saying something. And, indeed, she was too impetuous long to keep back anything she had to say. She caught Phillis’s hand and dragged her to a great block of travertine, where they were out of hearing of the others, and from which they could see. Santa Maria Maggiore glowing in the sunlight, and roofs stretching away into blue distance.“Sit there,” she said imperatively. “Oh, I have wanted to see you! I am very, very miserable.”“What has happened?”People’s sympathy is as different as people are themselves. Phillis’s was very delicate and gentle—it seemed to ask for nothing, and yet to give just what was wanted. Tones and looks had more to do with it than words. Bice lifted her heavy wistful eyes to hers with satisfaction.“Nothing has happened,” she said, “and that is the worst part of it all, don’t you think? If only one could set up one’s trouble before one, quite distinct and alive, there would be a chance of fighting it, of coming to the end somehow.”She clenched her little hand as she spoke, and a fire came into her eyes.“Perhaps,” said Phillis, smiling and looking at the beautiful face, “it is better for most of us that our anxieties don’t take quite such a definite shape. Suppose they should be too strong for us?”“Then there would be an end that way.”Phillis changed her tone.“I don’t think we are wise in wishing troubles to be stronger than they are,” she said gravely. “As it is, I fancy they are as much as we can manage.”“I don’t mind fighting; it is the waiting,” said Bice with a little perverseness. “Why are women expected to be able to endure? Is it because they have the hardest work and the least credit always?”“You can tell me something more as to what is making you unhappy,” said Phillis, evading the question. “Has your brother himself written to you?”“Yes, he has.”“And are things going on no better?”“You shall see for yourself,” said the girl with a sudden resolve. And she produced a letter from her pocket. “The first part is nothing,” she said, leaning on her hand and looking over Phillis’s shoulder. “There, begin there.”“Trent has been awfully useful to me,” the letter said. “I don’t know how ever I should have got through without him. It’s not much use trying to explain, particularly to anyone who doesn’t know the sort of life one has to live here; and I suppose a good lot of fellows buy their experience much in the same way as I’ve bought it, but that doesn’t prevent one’s seeing when one has made a fool of oneself. I expected by this time I should have been able to do something for old Kitty and you all. Better luck soon; I don’t owe any money to a soul except Trent. You’ll be glad to hear he has got it all into his own hands, and, of course, I feel pounds more comfortable. By the way, he says he has done it for you, and that I may tell you so.”“Well?” said Bice, taking back the letter.Phillis was considering. The letter was boyish and inexperienced, but there was a tone about it which did not seem to her that of a young fellow who had entered on a course of crime, and her distrust of Oliver Trent had never abated. Yet what could she say? She had no real grounds for her opinion. She could not utter any word of warning which should touch Clive in his security. Yet with this conviction of hers growing in her heart, it would be impossible for a woman of Phillis’s nature not to do something or other by-and-by. She contented herself at present by saying—“Poor fellow! No doubt he has been imprudent.” Bice started. She had been thinking of herself rather than Clive, and considering the weight of those words which sounded to her almost like a threat. What was it that Oliver had done for her of which he desired her to be reminded?“Imprudent, yes! Weak and wicked too,” she said impatiently. “He does not care or even remember that others have to suffer besides himself.”“Perhaps he does not know.”“Oh, that is impossible. Oliver, at least, would have spoken plainly. And has he not had my letter?” Her voice quivered a little as she went on. “Phillis—I don’t know—I think I could do something dreadful for people if they wanted it, but then it is hard, isn’t it, if they don’t take any notice? Perhaps one shouldn’t care about that, but I do. If Clive would only say straight out, ‘I have done something bad, but I know you’ll not give me up,’ and then if he said ‘God bless you, Bice,’ afterwards, why—one could bear—bear anything.”“Bice,” said Phillis, looking at her.“What?”“You haven’t told me all.”“Not quite,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t like telling, or even thinking; but you know I am very miserable.”“Has Mr Trent got you to promise?”“How could I help it?” she said, drooping her head. “He did so much. It was like a network all round. Even mamma, poor mamma, she is so poor, you know, and he was kind—but I had things, I did manage that.” She had mechanically raised her hand to her throat as she spoke, and Phillis noticed that a slender gold chain which she generally wore was gone, and that she had neither earrings nor any bit of jewellery about her. “I couldn’t do anything for Clive, it was like a horrible nightmare, and what would have become of him but for Oliver? When this last letter came, another came too from Oliver, telling me a great deal. It did not seem worth while to make so much fuss about oneself, and so—I wrote and promised.” The tone in which she said those last words told much, and perhaps Phillis had herself had experience of that state of mind. She bent over and kissed her.“Oh, my dear,” she said brokenly, “but you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t have done it!”“It is done,” said the girl, clasping her hands round her knees, and looking out towards the old basilica with its domes. But Phillis saw there were tears in her eyes.“Write and undo it,” she urged.“No; I wouldn’t be so ungrateful for worlds. And at any rate it seems as if it would make him happy.” Phillis felt no satisfaction at this prospect. She was full of pity, yet almost angry with this young creature who was throwing away her own happiness, and, alas! other people’s too. Was this to be the end of what Phillis herself had done?—was no good to come out of her own pain? She hushed the cry of her heart almost angrily. “He did not love me, he did not love me,” she said to herself, “and this makes no difference. Only I hoped he would have been happy.”Perhaps Bice felt that she could bear no more, for she jumped up.“I have not heard their voices for a long while,” she said. “They can’t have gone without us! Or suppose we find the great iron door at the bottom shut?”“Oh, there’s a bell. We shall see some one.”Down on a lower tier they found Jack waiting. He explained that Mrs Leyton and Kitty had driven back with Mrs Masters, Captain Leyton was sketching the Arch of Constantine.“And I am to see you home, if you’ll allow me. Are you cold? It’s not the most prudent thing in the world to sit about in the Coliseum, with all that water below you.”“No, it was very foolish,” said Phillis, looking with compunction at Bice’s pale face. “Are you sure you are not chilled? Let us set off at once.”“But you yourself?” said Jack, in a low voice.Something in his tone made her flush crimson, and then she hated herself for having done so. “As if I had not already suffered enough for such foolish imaginings!” she thought reproachfully.It was an odd sort of walk home for all of them, and would have been more uncomfortable but that the things around gave ready subjects for conversation. After the Arch of Titus and the Forum there are dirty, shelving, picturesque streets, noble fronts of old temples half buried in the earth, curiosity shops full of ancient and begrimed lamps of all graceful forms, of which, if you look long enough, you may one day light upon the manufactory. Grey oxen come stumbling along over the slippery lava pavement; very likely a Capuchin monk, brown and dirty, vanishes round a corner; the streets fall away for Adrian’s forum and the great pillar, and close up again until you come to the piazza of the Apostoli. It was there the Capponis lived with whom the Masters were staying. The palazzo was not so large or imposing as its neighbours; such as it was it was too big for its owners’ fortunes, and they let half of it to some English, consoling themselves by preserving a separate entrance and cordially despising their rich tenants. Phillis thought it looked very grey and gloomy as Bice stood for a moment in the entrance, and yet the girl’s loveliness struck them both. Perhaps it was partly the delightful charm of youth, and its contrast with the grim buildings; perhaps it was that the talk with Phillis, or the walk home, had brought a rosy flush into her cheeks, a bright light into her eyes. For the moment she was like the Hebe Jack had discovered on the hillside behind Florence.But, for all that, he would not have spoken of her to Phillis unless Phillis had begun the subject, having an uneasy consciousness that here lay the key to the mystery of his rejection. The way in which this rejection haunted him astonished himself. He allowed that he had been piqued, but there is little doubt that he fancied the pique would have spent itself, and left him free; instead of which he could not shake off the vexation and the annoyance. As often as not he was angry with Phillis, and, but that he was a gentleman, would have shown it. As it was, he often perplexed her, and such atête-à-têteas they were having now she avoided simply from the pain it caused herself. She was one of those people who try to do what is right with a brave disregard for the pain which may be a necessary part, but she did not go out of her way to court it. Only to-day she had a purpose, and it must be carried out in the few narrow and crowded streets which lay between them and the Condotti.“If I were a man,” she said thoughtfully, “I should like to do something for that poor child.”“A man,” repeated Jack. “Is it man in the abstract, or any particular man who is needed?”“Well, he must be particular because he must be ready to take some trouble, and when the trouble is taken he must have wits to use its results, otherwise he might be as abstract as you please.”“Is it this wretched brother who has come to the fore again?”“I have a theory that he is not so wretched as we take for granted. I dare say he has been foolish.”“Oh, that’s an epidemic we have all gone through,” said Ibbetson; and Phillis felt suddenly hot, though nothing was further from his thoughts than an allusion to their engagement. She said hurriedly—“The evidence of anything worse is very vague. That Mr Trent never enters into details, he gives mysterious hints, and impresses them all with an idea of his own great efforts, but that is all.”“The tone in which you say ‘that Mr Trent’ speaks volumes for your opinion,” said Jack laughing. “But didn’t you tell me she had written?”“Yes. Still—Mr Trent posted the letter.”Jack gave a low whistle.“You are coming it rather strong in your suspicions, Phillis,” he said doubtfully. “What motive could he have? It would take a big one.”“He wishes to marry her,” said Phillis, looking straight before her.“But she does not like him?”Jack put the question with evident eagerness. They had just turned into that open space which the Fountain of Trevi seems to fill with the glad rush of its waters. Clear streams leap from twenty different points; there is a confusion, a harmony, a most invigorating freshness in the silvery flashes. Phillis stood still for a moment, looking at them with her hand on a low wall which the spray had wetted. It seemed to her as if his question meant something quite different, as if he would have said, “Does she not like me a little?”—as if her hand must open the door between two hearts. Alas! but was there not a third which she herself was shutting out? She did not hesitate, but she was conscious of a feeling that it was hard on her that this, too, should be left for her to do. And what of Bice’s last confidence? As she turned and looked at Jack, did he guess what faithfulness, what kindness were shining in those clear brown eyes?“I am sure she does not like him,” she said. “But I fear—”“What?”“I fear that he is using unfair means to bind her to him.”“But what can be done?” he asked as they walked on again. “Suppose, for instance, that I became the particular man to whom you alluded, what should you do if you were in my place? We have arrived at a complete labyrinth of suppositions, but still—supposing?”“I should go to England, and trace the matter out.”“Very direct and decided, Phillis,” said Jack with a smile. Christian names had, of course, been used between them all their lives, and it would have been impossible to break off the custom; but still, as if by common consent, they did not use them more often than was necessary, and it seemed to Phillis as if he need not have brought hers in now, still less lingered slightly upon it. “Well—it’s hard to send me out of Rome, but if the fellow is what you take him to be, there would be a certain pleasure in baffling him, and one could but try.”“Yes, I think so,” she said quietly. There was no need for her to thank him for what must be a grateful task, and she did not attempt it. Nor would she ask him questions as to his going. Perhaps Ibbetson expected something of one sort or the other, but the bells of Sant’ Andrea began to clash in their brick belfry overhead, and the Peningtons came rushing out of a side street from which they had caught a glimpse of Phillis. Miss Penington was small, plump and bright-eyed; her brother a clergyman of thirty, short-sighted, energetic, and quick in all his movements, with a sweet kind smile. As they all walked together through the Piazza di Spagna by the pretty jewellers’ shops towards the Alemagna, Phillis would have been very much astonished had any one told her that Jack, whose natural disposition was certainly peaceable, felt a far stronger aversion to Mr Penington than to Oliver Trent, against whom he was going to open a campaign.

If Florence has not forgotten her past, Rome has kept hers yet more faithfully, or rather has had a mightier one to keep. It is no longer the life of a few centuries back in which you move, Guelf and Ghibelline flaunting their battlements in your face; artist, sculptor, poet, working their lives out for the beautiful and ungrateful city—but an older age. The stones of the Republic are before your eyes, the road of triumph is under your feet. There, in the Forum, the great twin brethren watered their horses after the battle; hard by the martyrs were given to the lions. Look where you will, there is something which, as you recognise it, brings a thrill to your heart, stirs an interest deeper than Florence can excite, and binds you to Rome for ever. No other city in the world resembles her. In Egypt you are taken back yet further; in Athens, memories of scarcely smaller interest cluster round the golden stones; but they have only their past, while Rome is alive, acting, carrying on her history, many-sided; appealing to the present, to the future—stern, grey, sunshiny, brilliant, all at once.

Something of this sort had been said by one of a little party of people who were strolling about the Palatine Hill one December afternoon, and Mrs Leyton opposed it altogether on behalf of Florence.

“As to age, it is merely a comparative matter,” she announced. “I don’t feel very aged myself, but I heard a chit at the table-d’hôte yesterday speak of somebody as ‘quite old, oh, about thirty.’ It all depends upon the point from which you look at it. And I do think it is a shame to run down that beautiful Florence, about which you all pretended to be so enthusiastic when you were there, because some of these old stones of Rome have been set up for a few hundred years longer.”

Jack Ibbetson, who had been reconnoitring, came back.

“Run—hide yourselves—be quick!” he said anxiously. “Miss Preston is coming this way with a victim.”

“It is Phillis who must be hidden then. I believe you and I have taught her to avoid us, but I am getting vexed with Phillis for the patience with which she listens to long archaeological discussions which don’t interest her in the least.”

“But they do,” protested Phillis, laughing. “Nonsense, my dear. It is your amiability and not your intellect which is brought into play. Now I consider amiability on such occasions an absolute wrong to your fellow-creatures—I do, indeed. All isn’t gold that glitters, and even your virtues are not quite such unmixed blessings as I should like to find them. I hope you appreciate the sting of my remark.”

“It is taken out by your charity in crediting virtues which don’t exist. But if only you would listen to poor Miss Preston, you would discover that she has a great deal of really curious information to give you.”

“I like my ignorance a great deal better, thank you. There she goes. I see the last flutter of that steel-grey robe disappearing behind the aloes. Mr Ibbetson, you may come out and talk freely. How does dear Miss Cartwright get on in Rome? Is it true that the Masters came yesterday?”

“I believe so—yes,” said Jack shortly. He felt an odd sort of shrinking from Bice’s name when Phillis was present, and yet Phillis had herself constantly led to the subject. Mrs Leyton, who could not bear displeasing people, and saw he was unwilling to speak, skilfully dropped the topic.

“Then they will join us in some of this sight-seeing, which weighs like lead on my conscience,” she said lightly. “Poor Harry makes a Moloch of his sketching, and I am sure the things which have to be seen are quite as serious for me. When I have done them all, I shall begin to enjoy Rome; but I give notice, good people, not till then.”

Phillis laughed without contradicting her, or asserting a different opinion. Phillis herself, if there were any difference in her, had grown more silent and more reserved in these last few weeks, going about a good deal alone, though never unwilling to join the others in their plans. She and the Leytons were at a hotel; Miss Cartwright had taken apartments in the Via della Croce for the sake of Cartouche, who could not be expected to conform to hotel existence. Jack Ibbetson spent a great deal of his time with the Leytons. Phillis did not know how to escape from this life, which was full at once of sweetness and pain, pain sometimes almost unendurable. She rather sought other friends, and there were a brother and sister at the hotel whom she liked and who often joined them. They had expected the Peningtons to meet them at the Palatine, but they did not come, and by-and-by they all strolled down towards the Coliseum. A carriage overtook them, jolting over the Via Sacra, and somebody called out and waved. It was Bice.

“How pretty Miss Masters looked!” said Mrs Leyton, glancing a little curiously at Jack.

“We shall find them at the Coliseum,” said her husband, and he was right.

If Bice was looking pretty, she was changed, changed even since they had left Florence. Her eyes were bright and large, but they had dark lines under them; the round cheek had lost something of its sweet young curve; a pathetic appeal every now and then touched you in her voice. But she had not lost her decision. It was she who had brought Mrs Masters and Kitty. She was eager, interested, wanting to know everything, only Phillis could answer half her questions. Mrs Masters went back before long and sat in the carriage, the others climbed hither and thither, under the great arches, tier above tier. It is like climbing centuries and ages to mount those great steps, worn by many feet. The sun beats down upon them all, untempered now by the silken awning which used to stretch across the vast expanse. Where the Vestal Virgins sat, delicate plants spring from between the stones, maiden hair waves softly in remembrance. And as you go up, and the great area discloses itself, its greatness, its might, its majesty, its silence, will touch you, if you let them, with an awful power. Rome lies before you, clothed in purple and regal shadows; the Campagna stretches away towards surrounding hills; black cypresses point; all about you the solemn arches frame some picture which belongs to the world’s history; all about you the lights float, golden, rose, flashing into dark corners, and marked out by keen shadows.

Phillis stole away by herself, but she found that Bice soon followed her, and as if she were seeking occasion for saying something. And, indeed, she was too impetuous long to keep back anything she had to say. She caught Phillis’s hand and dragged her to a great block of travertine, where they were out of hearing of the others, and from which they could see. Santa Maria Maggiore glowing in the sunlight, and roofs stretching away into blue distance.

“Sit there,” she said imperatively. “Oh, I have wanted to see you! I am very, very miserable.”

“What has happened?”

People’s sympathy is as different as people are themselves. Phillis’s was very delicate and gentle—it seemed to ask for nothing, and yet to give just what was wanted. Tones and looks had more to do with it than words. Bice lifted her heavy wistful eyes to hers with satisfaction.

“Nothing has happened,” she said, “and that is the worst part of it all, don’t you think? If only one could set up one’s trouble before one, quite distinct and alive, there would be a chance of fighting it, of coming to the end somehow.”

She clenched her little hand as she spoke, and a fire came into her eyes.

“Perhaps,” said Phillis, smiling and looking at the beautiful face, “it is better for most of us that our anxieties don’t take quite such a definite shape. Suppose they should be too strong for us?”

“Then there would be an end that way.”

Phillis changed her tone.

“I don’t think we are wise in wishing troubles to be stronger than they are,” she said gravely. “As it is, I fancy they are as much as we can manage.”

“I don’t mind fighting; it is the waiting,” said Bice with a little perverseness. “Why are women expected to be able to endure? Is it because they have the hardest work and the least credit always?”

“You can tell me something more as to what is making you unhappy,” said Phillis, evading the question. “Has your brother himself written to you?”

“Yes, he has.”

“And are things going on no better?”

“You shall see for yourself,” said the girl with a sudden resolve. And she produced a letter from her pocket. “The first part is nothing,” she said, leaning on her hand and looking over Phillis’s shoulder. “There, begin there.”

“Trent has been awfully useful to me,” the letter said. “I don’t know how ever I should have got through without him. It’s not much use trying to explain, particularly to anyone who doesn’t know the sort of life one has to live here; and I suppose a good lot of fellows buy their experience much in the same way as I’ve bought it, but that doesn’t prevent one’s seeing when one has made a fool of oneself. I expected by this time I should have been able to do something for old Kitty and you all. Better luck soon; I don’t owe any money to a soul except Trent. You’ll be glad to hear he has got it all into his own hands, and, of course, I feel pounds more comfortable. By the way, he says he has done it for you, and that I may tell you so.”

“Well?” said Bice, taking back the letter.

Phillis was considering. The letter was boyish and inexperienced, but there was a tone about it which did not seem to her that of a young fellow who had entered on a course of crime, and her distrust of Oliver Trent had never abated. Yet what could she say? She had no real grounds for her opinion. She could not utter any word of warning which should touch Clive in his security. Yet with this conviction of hers growing in her heart, it would be impossible for a woman of Phillis’s nature not to do something or other by-and-by. She contented herself at present by saying—

“Poor fellow! No doubt he has been imprudent.” Bice started. She had been thinking of herself rather than Clive, and considering the weight of those words which sounded to her almost like a threat. What was it that Oliver had done for her of which he desired her to be reminded?

“Imprudent, yes! Weak and wicked too,” she said impatiently. “He does not care or even remember that others have to suffer besides himself.”

“Perhaps he does not know.”

“Oh, that is impossible. Oliver, at least, would have spoken plainly. And has he not had my letter?” Her voice quivered a little as she went on. “Phillis—I don’t know—I think I could do something dreadful for people if they wanted it, but then it is hard, isn’t it, if they don’t take any notice? Perhaps one shouldn’t care about that, but I do. If Clive would only say straight out, ‘I have done something bad, but I know you’ll not give me up,’ and then if he said ‘God bless you, Bice,’ afterwards, why—one could bear—bear anything.”

“Bice,” said Phillis, looking at her.

“What?”

“You haven’t told me all.”

“Not quite,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t like telling, or even thinking; but you know I am very miserable.”

“Has Mr Trent got you to promise?”

“How could I help it?” she said, drooping her head. “He did so much. It was like a network all round. Even mamma, poor mamma, she is so poor, you know, and he was kind—but I had things, I did manage that.” She had mechanically raised her hand to her throat as she spoke, and Phillis noticed that a slender gold chain which she generally wore was gone, and that she had neither earrings nor any bit of jewellery about her. “I couldn’t do anything for Clive, it was like a horrible nightmare, and what would have become of him but for Oliver? When this last letter came, another came too from Oliver, telling me a great deal. It did not seem worth while to make so much fuss about oneself, and so—I wrote and promised.” The tone in which she said those last words told much, and perhaps Phillis had herself had experience of that state of mind. She bent over and kissed her.

“Oh, my dear,” she said brokenly, “but you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t have done it!”

“It is done,” said the girl, clasping her hands round her knees, and looking out towards the old basilica with its domes. But Phillis saw there were tears in her eyes.

“Write and undo it,” she urged.

“No; I wouldn’t be so ungrateful for worlds. And at any rate it seems as if it would make him happy.” Phillis felt no satisfaction at this prospect. She was full of pity, yet almost angry with this young creature who was throwing away her own happiness, and, alas! other people’s too. Was this to be the end of what Phillis herself had done?—was no good to come out of her own pain? She hushed the cry of her heart almost angrily. “He did not love me, he did not love me,” she said to herself, “and this makes no difference. Only I hoped he would have been happy.”

Perhaps Bice felt that she could bear no more, for she jumped up.

“I have not heard their voices for a long while,” she said. “They can’t have gone without us! Or suppose we find the great iron door at the bottom shut?”

“Oh, there’s a bell. We shall see some one.”

Down on a lower tier they found Jack waiting. He explained that Mrs Leyton and Kitty had driven back with Mrs Masters, Captain Leyton was sketching the Arch of Constantine.

“And I am to see you home, if you’ll allow me. Are you cold? It’s not the most prudent thing in the world to sit about in the Coliseum, with all that water below you.”

“No, it was very foolish,” said Phillis, looking with compunction at Bice’s pale face. “Are you sure you are not chilled? Let us set off at once.”

“But you yourself?” said Jack, in a low voice.

Something in his tone made her flush crimson, and then she hated herself for having done so. “As if I had not already suffered enough for such foolish imaginings!” she thought reproachfully.

It was an odd sort of walk home for all of them, and would have been more uncomfortable but that the things around gave ready subjects for conversation. After the Arch of Titus and the Forum there are dirty, shelving, picturesque streets, noble fronts of old temples half buried in the earth, curiosity shops full of ancient and begrimed lamps of all graceful forms, of which, if you look long enough, you may one day light upon the manufactory. Grey oxen come stumbling along over the slippery lava pavement; very likely a Capuchin monk, brown and dirty, vanishes round a corner; the streets fall away for Adrian’s forum and the great pillar, and close up again until you come to the piazza of the Apostoli. It was there the Capponis lived with whom the Masters were staying. The palazzo was not so large or imposing as its neighbours; such as it was it was too big for its owners’ fortunes, and they let half of it to some English, consoling themselves by preserving a separate entrance and cordially despising their rich tenants. Phillis thought it looked very grey and gloomy as Bice stood for a moment in the entrance, and yet the girl’s loveliness struck them both. Perhaps it was partly the delightful charm of youth, and its contrast with the grim buildings; perhaps it was that the talk with Phillis, or the walk home, had brought a rosy flush into her cheeks, a bright light into her eyes. For the moment she was like the Hebe Jack had discovered on the hillside behind Florence.

But, for all that, he would not have spoken of her to Phillis unless Phillis had begun the subject, having an uneasy consciousness that here lay the key to the mystery of his rejection. The way in which this rejection haunted him astonished himself. He allowed that he had been piqued, but there is little doubt that he fancied the pique would have spent itself, and left him free; instead of which he could not shake off the vexation and the annoyance. As often as not he was angry with Phillis, and, but that he was a gentleman, would have shown it. As it was, he often perplexed her, and such atête-à-têteas they were having now she avoided simply from the pain it caused herself. She was one of those people who try to do what is right with a brave disregard for the pain which may be a necessary part, but she did not go out of her way to court it. Only to-day she had a purpose, and it must be carried out in the few narrow and crowded streets which lay between them and the Condotti.

“If I were a man,” she said thoughtfully, “I should like to do something for that poor child.”

“A man,” repeated Jack. “Is it man in the abstract, or any particular man who is needed?”

“Well, he must be particular because he must be ready to take some trouble, and when the trouble is taken he must have wits to use its results, otherwise he might be as abstract as you please.”

“Is it this wretched brother who has come to the fore again?”

“I have a theory that he is not so wretched as we take for granted. I dare say he has been foolish.”

“Oh, that’s an epidemic we have all gone through,” said Ibbetson; and Phillis felt suddenly hot, though nothing was further from his thoughts than an allusion to their engagement. She said hurriedly—

“The evidence of anything worse is very vague. That Mr Trent never enters into details, he gives mysterious hints, and impresses them all with an idea of his own great efforts, but that is all.”

“The tone in which you say ‘that Mr Trent’ speaks volumes for your opinion,” said Jack laughing. “But didn’t you tell me she had written?”

“Yes. Still—Mr Trent posted the letter.”

Jack gave a low whistle.

“You are coming it rather strong in your suspicions, Phillis,” he said doubtfully. “What motive could he have? It would take a big one.”

“He wishes to marry her,” said Phillis, looking straight before her.

“But she does not like him?”

Jack put the question with evident eagerness. They had just turned into that open space which the Fountain of Trevi seems to fill with the glad rush of its waters. Clear streams leap from twenty different points; there is a confusion, a harmony, a most invigorating freshness in the silvery flashes. Phillis stood still for a moment, looking at them with her hand on a low wall which the spray had wetted. It seemed to her as if his question meant something quite different, as if he would have said, “Does she not like me a little?”—as if her hand must open the door between two hearts. Alas! but was there not a third which she herself was shutting out? She did not hesitate, but she was conscious of a feeling that it was hard on her that this, too, should be left for her to do. And what of Bice’s last confidence? As she turned and looked at Jack, did he guess what faithfulness, what kindness were shining in those clear brown eyes?

“I am sure she does not like him,” she said. “But I fear—”

“What?”

“I fear that he is using unfair means to bind her to him.”

“But what can be done?” he asked as they walked on again. “Suppose, for instance, that I became the particular man to whom you alluded, what should you do if you were in my place? We have arrived at a complete labyrinth of suppositions, but still—supposing?”

“I should go to England, and trace the matter out.”

“Very direct and decided, Phillis,” said Jack with a smile. Christian names had, of course, been used between them all their lives, and it would have been impossible to break off the custom; but still, as if by common consent, they did not use them more often than was necessary, and it seemed to Phillis as if he need not have brought hers in now, still less lingered slightly upon it. “Well—it’s hard to send me out of Rome, but if the fellow is what you take him to be, there would be a certain pleasure in baffling him, and one could but try.”

“Yes, I think so,” she said quietly. There was no need for her to thank him for what must be a grateful task, and she did not attempt it. Nor would she ask him questions as to his going. Perhaps Ibbetson expected something of one sort or the other, but the bells of Sant’ Andrea began to clash in their brick belfry overhead, and the Peningtons came rushing out of a side street from which they had caught a glimpse of Phillis. Miss Penington was small, plump and bright-eyed; her brother a clergyman of thirty, short-sighted, energetic, and quick in all his movements, with a sweet kind smile. As they all walked together through the Piazza di Spagna by the pretty jewellers’ shops towards the Alemagna, Phillis would have been very much astonished had any one told her that Jack, whose natural disposition was certainly peaceable, felt a far stronger aversion to Mr Penington than to Oliver Trent, against whom he was going to open a campaign.

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