Chapter Twenty One.A Return.Jack kept his intention, and went up to London the next day. He had made up his mind absolutely that he would not go back to Rome, having a new sort of feeling born within him, that after all that had happened he had no right to haunt Phillis with the persistency he had shown of late. It no longer seemed to him fair. He thought that the most manly course would be to leave her alone at any rate until this winter were past. Then, if she were still unwon, he might be able to speak to her of a love which she might at last recognise as steadfast. How could she be expected as yet to trust him? But he got into a habit about this time of brooding on the picture he had seen as he rode through Whitcote with his father—the pretty homely Vicarage, the creepers growing up to the chimneys, the green turf, the rooks’ nests in the old trees. And always—that was the worst—there stood a woman’s figure at the door, a woman whose eyes were fastened on the gate, as if she were waiting happily for some one.Still, a good deal of credit was due to him for the way in which he fought against these not very cheerful thoughts, so as to escape from the morbid dejection which might have made his life, and that of others, miserable. Work is an excellent refuge, as everybody says: probably because it is an axiom which is seldom taken on trust, and therefore comes freshly to each person in the form of an individual discovery. Jack worked hard, and liked it. Clive was another refuge; he needed a great deal of cheering and keeping up, his own struggle not having had the effect of putting life into him. He was shy and sensitive, and many people would have thought uninteresting, but Ibbetson wanted a personal interest about him just at this time, and had a feeling as if here were a slender link with Phillis. He sometimes laughed at his own efforts to prop up Clive, and yet he did it vigorously. The props were of many kinds—getting him to take school work in an East-end district on Sundays, he began to think would turn out one of the most effectual.A disappointment which Jack felt very keenly at this time, was the receiving no answer to his letter to Phillis. He had made sure she would write, and, though he even told himself that he was prepared for what she might tell him, there was a horrible blank in the silence, which seemed almost worse. He invented reasons for her silence with really remarkable ingenuity, but the one which seemed most probable was, that she did not wish to enter on the subject of her own prospects with him. When Clive came to see him or he went to see Clive, the conversation revolved curiously round one or two centres.“Well, how are you getting on?” Jack would ask with great cheerfulness.“Oh, I don’t know.” This with much depression. “Nonsense. What are you out of heart about? Davis sticks by you, I’m sure.”“Yes, he’s a very good old chap. But what’s a fellow to do when the heads are against him?”“Why do you think they are?”“Well, Thornton was up yesterday, and I could see by the way he looked at me.”“What rubbish, Clive! You go steadily on, and never mind looks.”“Don’t you think it matters?” more hopefully.“Not a brass farthing. Have you heard from your people at Rome?”“Yes, I got a letter from Kitty last night.”“Well?”“Oh, nothing particular. Oliver’s there. I say, theremustbe something he could explain if one saw him. He couldn’t have the brass!”“Does Miss Masters mention anyone else?”“No, I don’t think she does.”“Not—the Leytons?”“Didn’t notice it. Are you going down to Worthing again?”“Yes, I am. To-morrow perhaps,” said with gloom on Ibbetson’s part.The visit to Worthing, when it did take place, had one or two results. For Jack found Smith so unmistakably worse that he went to the point of getting him to sign a declaration in the presence of one or two witnesses, as to that matter of the fifty pounds. And this being done, he had a conversation with the man Elias Brooks, also in the presence of a witness, so that he felt himself in a better position to meet Oliver Trent should it ever be necessary. But as yet he had made no sign.One day Ibbetson had another visitor in his chambers, Mrs Thornton. How she had got there was the first wonder in his mind; for she was a very helpless person, seldom going to the point of originating even an idea.“My dear, and your chimney been smoking! How can you live here!” was her greeting.“It’s not a bad chimney when the wind isn’t from the north,” said Jack, wheeling forward a chair, and flinging the end of his cigar into the fire. “But you ought to have told me you were coming. It’sverygood of you, Aunt Harriet.”“I told no one,” said Mrs Thornton, with a placid air of triumph at her own achievements, “not even your uncle Peter. But, my dear Jack, I am quite miserable about you.”“How can I help it?” Jack replied gravely. He knew what she meant, and would not pretend not to understand her.“Oh, I do so wish you would go straight out and marry Phillis, before this dreadful man gets hold of her! Really, it is too provoking.”There was a pause.“What have you heard? Has Phillis written?” asked Jack in his quietest tone.“Not Phillis. And that is vexing your uncle, too. He says everything is concealed from him. Mr Trent wrote and told him.”Jack muttered something not complimentary to Mr Trent. Then he said aloud:“You need not believe everythinghesays. However, I can’t say, I know nothing. Phillis will not conceal anything from you, you may be sure.”“But why don’t you do something quickly? I really can’t tell you all my fears. Your uncle seems so put out and so dissatisfied, I really doubt whether it would not be too late if you two were to marry even now. He doesn’t seem to know his own mind. Perhaps he might come round if you went and did it,” she added, as if it were a matter to be settled easily by some such proceeding as walking across the street.“You forget—there’s the other man,” said Jack, finding it impossible not to smile. “Listen, Aunt Harriet, if it’s any consolation to you, I’m quite aware I’ve been a fool. But I give you my word that Hetherton is a very secondary consideration.”“Well, I shall tell your uncle,” she said, looking doubtfully at him.“That I have been a fool? But then you must go on about Hetherton.”“Oh, I couldn’t.”“Then leave it alone; it’s the safest way, take my word for it. I know it’s all your kindness for me, but there are so many old proverbs haunting me about making one’s bed, and sowing and reaping, that I feel sure they amount to a general verdict that I must be left to my fate. Thank you all the same for trying to ward it off.”Each of these rumours which reached Jack—although he sometimes told himself that they were too indefinite to be heeded—did actually give him a sharp pang, and seemed to leave his heart heavier than before. He refused invitations, and did his best to absorb himself in his profession, setting to work with a dogged determination to push on, rather than any exhilaration of hope. Still there was a certain satisfaction in his labour, and at least a more manly purpose in his life. And so January dragged its short days out of the darkness, sometimes barely succeeding in the effort, and February followed, and to Ibbetson every day was long in its monotony, and yet, looking back, they might all have passed like lightning.At least that was what it seemed to him one gloomy afternoon when he stood with a telegram in his hand which had just been given to him, and which he had opened carelessly, without any foreboding of the thrill of pain in store. It was from Rome. Miss Cartwright was very ill—would he come at once. The words startled him the more that he felt with keen self-reproach how other interests had pushed her out of his thoughts. There are tender and strong affections so close and so unfailing that they are like the air we breathe, and become almost as much a matter of course. And now Jack remembered with a pang that of late he had written but briefly to his aunt, and that except from a general longing to hear news from Rome he had not noticed that her own letters had become few and short. He pulled out her last from his pocket; the feeble writing smote him to the heart, and he impatiently gave his orders, sent off a hurried note to Clive, and found himself at the station at least twenty minutes before the time for starting.He travelled as fast as he could, and happily there were no unusual or vexatious delays. But at its best the journey is one which, when a pressing anxiety goads on the traveller, seems as if it would never end. It drags you along past Chambery, and pretty Aix lying under its hills, lingers hopelessly at Modane, and then goes clambering slowly up to the land of snows, before it will take you into the land of sunshine. Afterwards you sweep down to Turin and the vast Lombardy plains, and going towards Florence, creep again into a belt of mountains honey-combed with tunnels, where the gorges in February are just awaking to the first promises of spring, and by-and-by see the twinkling lights of cheery Pistoija, and then the brighter ones of Florence. Jack, leaning out, thought of other evenings, when those lights had shone in the beautiful Val d’Arno. He stopped there now for a few hours’ rest, and the place seemed laden with memories which yet were younger than it was easy to believe. It was a warm night; even already the air was touched with sweet flowery scents, and all the carnival people were flashing about, making the place merry with their laughter.His journey began again early the next morning, and in the afternoon he reached Rome. Who does not know that approach? As the train passed through the golden brown campagna the sun was setting; no words can describe the rich glow which tinged the mountains: too rich for lilac, too delicate and warm for purple, it seemed the very embodiment of colour, and where on the highest points the snow of winter yet rested, it was on fire with rosy lights; while Tiber, rolling sluggishly through the Sabine meadows, gave back the soft reflections as faithfully and placidly as though he were only a quiet country stream, untouched by history, and untainted by blood.Ibbetson was not long in driving from the station to the house in the Via della Croce. At the station he caught sight of a familiar face, though he had a little difficulty in recalling that it belonged to young Giovanni Moroni. He would not linger to speak to him, though he had always liked the young fellow, for the nearer he drew to the end of his journey the more acute became his anxieties, and the more annoying every small delay. He rattled quickly down the hill by the Costanzi, and along the streets which lead to the Spanish Place, and then into his own particular street. Nothing was to be gained by looking at the outside of the house, and some hidden fear kept him from questioning the old porter, who lived in a little glass room and mended shoes. Miss Cartwright’s rooms were high; a dark dirty staircase went up, up. He lingered for a moment at the window half way, which looked upon picturesque and irregular backs of houses; women were peeping out, creepers hanging, there were the usual converging lines of a network of wires, up and down which swing the brass pitchers, that fill themselves where the fresh water pours out from the lion’s head below; at one small square window a little owl was sitting, blinking solemnly at the world. It all seemed just as he had left it, and gave him a momentary unreasonable relief. But at the top of the stairs stood some one watching and waiting. It was Phillis, and she put out her hands with a cry of thankfulness.“You are come!” she said. “We heard wheels, but scarcely thought it possible you could be here so soon.”“How is she? Not worse?”“She is very ill—very. I am afraid it would be false comfort if I told you there was any improvement, but the pain has gone off, and her one wish was to see you again. This waiting has been terrible. It was pleurisy. We wrote to tell you, but she grew suddenly worse.”“And you have been with her?”“How could I leave her?”Her lips quivered. She was shaken and upset with the nursing, perhaps, too, with the feeling that he was coming, and with other things which had risen up. They stood face to face with each other, these two, for a minute, utterly silent, before Phillis said hurriedly—“I must tell her that you are here. Will you come into the little anteroom and wait until she is ready?”In the anteroom were two or three doors; one led into the salon, another into Miss Cartwright’s bedroom. At this second a black object was crouched, which at sound of Jack’s voice reared itself up, and came eagerly towards him.“Yes,” said Phillis, answering the young man’s look with a sad little smile, “Cartouche is the most faithful of watchers, poor fellow! At first he lay under her bed, but that worried her, and she asked that he might be sent out. And since then, strange as it seems, he has never attempted to go into the room, but has taken up his position here.”She signed to Jack to stay where he was, and passed through the curtained door. He stood with his eyes fixed upon it, feeling that pause of solemn expectation with which we wait when we know that we are to enter on an awful Presence, awful both for its strangeness and its nearness. All sounds intensify themselves in such a waiting: it seemed to him that a hundred things were going on; he heard the distant cry of the water-sellers, the roll of wheels, the laughter of the crowd, a fly buzzing at the window. Cartouche gave a low whine, and went back to his station, sitting against the door with bent attentive head. No one came. At last a woman bustled into the room, and lit a small brass lamp with four wicks branching out on different sides and slender chains hanging. Then she, too, paused and listened.“The poor Signora!” she said to Jack, clasping her hands. “It is near the end. And we all loved her. Eh, and look at the dog! It is strange.”Just at that moment Phillis opened the door and signed to Jack.“Her weakness is so great,” she said in a whisper, “that the very joy of your coming is almost more than she can bear. But she will not wait.”No. He understood why she would put nothing off when he saw the white changed face, lit up as it was with happiness as he knelt down and kissed her. “My boy!” was all she said at first, but lay holding his hand and smiling now and then. Miss Preston, who had been standing at the window, went softly out, crying. Phillis only paused to tell Jack that one of them would be in the anteroom, before she followed her. Those two were left behind—two, and the shadowy Presence.“You’re not in pain, Aunt Mary?” said Jack brokenly. “Not now. It has quite gone now. God has been so good all through, and He has brought you back.”“I came at once, but I wish I could have heard before.”“Yes, my dear, I know, I know. I hope it was not selfish to want you, but you always were my boy. And, Jack—”“Yes, Aunt Mary?”Speech was very difficult, but she struggled with it, and he put his ear down near her face—”—You have never known her—Phillis. And I was foolish and urged it. Now I see that I was wrong—we can’t tell what is best, can we?—only I think—I pray you two may have whatever is best for you both. I think you will. God knows—and I have prayed—”The words died away, but she made a sign to him not to call anyone, and lay in peaceful waiting, every now and then touching his face or hair with a feeble yet caressing hand. In that waiting the room darkened, the little lamp glimmered in the shadows, a strange hush seemed to have fallen. Presently Winter came in, looked at her, went out and brought the others. She smiled at them, and whispered something which they made out with difficulty. It was “Cartouche.” Phillis brought him, a little anxious lest he might show any wild demonstrations of delight. She need not have feared. He came eagerly in, put his paws upon the bed, and licked his mistress’s hand. Then he dropped down, looked wistfully at the faces round, as if he wanted reassurance from them, and finding none, he turned quickly, ran to the door, pushed it open, and settled himself in his old position of intent watchfulness.Afterwards they none of them knew how these long hours had passed, but at the time there was the usual mixture of the awful and the commonplace. Our thoughts cannot remain long on heights; they wander down, concerning themselves with the oddest things, and causing us sharp pangs of self-reproach, for what, after all, is no more than a law of our being. Once there came a ring of the bell, and Winter went out and brought in a little note for Phillis. When she had read it, standing at the table by the lamp, she laid it down and came back to the bedside. Jack had to go to the table presently to get something that was wanted, and his eye was caught by the clear bold signature—“Arthur Penington.” He hated himself for having seen it, but there it was.The doctor came and went, Cartouche walking growling behind him to the top of the stains. The streets grew more silent; the occasional cry of the masquers, the carnival laughter, died away; and still they all watched, and still the feeble breathing was audible in the quiet of the room, with now and then a word. It was not until a pale gleam of light had grown into the sky above the hills of Tivoli, touching the broad flank of Soracte, and showing Michael the Archangel guarding the great city from his castle, that the last word faltered on her lips, and the hand which had moved feebly towards Jack lay still and cold in his warm clasp.
Jack kept his intention, and went up to London the next day. He had made up his mind absolutely that he would not go back to Rome, having a new sort of feeling born within him, that after all that had happened he had no right to haunt Phillis with the persistency he had shown of late. It no longer seemed to him fair. He thought that the most manly course would be to leave her alone at any rate until this winter were past. Then, if she were still unwon, he might be able to speak to her of a love which she might at last recognise as steadfast. How could she be expected as yet to trust him? But he got into a habit about this time of brooding on the picture he had seen as he rode through Whitcote with his father—the pretty homely Vicarage, the creepers growing up to the chimneys, the green turf, the rooks’ nests in the old trees. And always—that was the worst—there stood a woman’s figure at the door, a woman whose eyes were fastened on the gate, as if she were waiting happily for some one.
Still, a good deal of credit was due to him for the way in which he fought against these not very cheerful thoughts, so as to escape from the morbid dejection which might have made his life, and that of others, miserable. Work is an excellent refuge, as everybody says: probably because it is an axiom which is seldom taken on trust, and therefore comes freshly to each person in the form of an individual discovery. Jack worked hard, and liked it. Clive was another refuge; he needed a great deal of cheering and keeping up, his own struggle not having had the effect of putting life into him. He was shy and sensitive, and many people would have thought uninteresting, but Ibbetson wanted a personal interest about him just at this time, and had a feeling as if here were a slender link with Phillis. He sometimes laughed at his own efforts to prop up Clive, and yet he did it vigorously. The props were of many kinds—getting him to take school work in an East-end district on Sundays, he began to think would turn out one of the most effectual.
A disappointment which Jack felt very keenly at this time, was the receiving no answer to his letter to Phillis. He had made sure she would write, and, though he even told himself that he was prepared for what she might tell him, there was a horrible blank in the silence, which seemed almost worse. He invented reasons for her silence with really remarkable ingenuity, but the one which seemed most probable was, that she did not wish to enter on the subject of her own prospects with him. When Clive came to see him or he went to see Clive, the conversation revolved curiously round one or two centres.
“Well, how are you getting on?” Jack would ask with great cheerfulness.
“Oh, I don’t know.” This with much depression. “Nonsense. What are you out of heart about? Davis sticks by you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, he’s a very good old chap. But what’s a fellow to do when the heads are against him?”
“Why do you think they are?”
“Well, Thornton was up yesterday, and I could see by the way he looked at me.”
“What rubbish, Clive! You go steadily on, and never mind looks.”
“Don’t you think it matters?” more hopefully.
“Not a brass farthing. Have you heard from your people at Rome?”
“Yes, I got a letter from Kitty last night.”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing particular. Oliver’s there. I say, theremustbe something he could explain if one saw him. He couldn’t have the brass!”
“Does Miss Masters mention anyone else?”
“No, I don’t think she does.”
“Not—the Leytons?”
“Didn’t notice it. Are you going down to Worthing again?”
“Yes, I am. To-morrow perhaps,” said with gloom on Ibbetson’s part.
The visit to Worthing, when it did take place, had one or two results. For Jack found Smith so unmistakably worse that he went to the point of getting him to sign a declaration in the presence of one or two witnesses, as to that matter of the fifty pounds. And this being done, he had a conversation with the man Elias Brooks, also in the presence of a witness, so that he felt himself in a better position to meet Oliver Trent should it ever be necessary. But as yet he had made no sign.
One day Ibbetson had another visitor in his chambers, Mrs Thornton. How she had got there was the first wonder in his mind; for she was a very helpless person, seldom going to the point of originating even an idea.
“My dear, and your chimney been smoking! How can you live here!” was her greeting.
“It’s not a bad chimney when the wind isn’t from the north,” said Jack, wheeling forward a chair, and flinging the end of his cigar into the fire. “But you ought to have told me you were coming. It’sverygood of you, Aunt Harriet.”
“I told no one,” said Mrs Thornton, with a placid air of triumph at her own achievements, “not even your uncle Peter. But, my dear Jack, I am quite miserable about you.”
“How can I help it?” Jack replied gravely. He knew what she meant, and would not pretend not to understand her.
“Oh, I do so wish you would go straight out and marry Phillis, before this dreadful man gets hold of her! Really, it is too provoking.”
There was a pause.
“What have you heard? Has Phillis written?” asked Jack in his quietest tone.
“Not Phillis. And that is vexing your uncle, too. He says everything is concealed from him. Mr Trent wrote and told him.”
Jack muttered something not complimentary to Mr Trent. Then he said aloud:
“You need not believe everythinghesays. However, I can’t say, I know nothing. Phillis will not conceal anything from you, you may be sure.”
“But why don’t you do something quickly? I really can’t tell you all my fears. Your uncle seems so put out and so dissatisfied, I really doubt whether it would not be too late if you two were to marry even now. He doesn’t seem to know his own mind. Perhaps he might come round if you went and did it,” she added, as if it were a matter to be settled easily by some such proceeding as walking across the street.
“You forget—there’s the other man,” said Jack, finding it impossible not to smile. “Listen, Aunt Harriet, if it’s any consolation to you, I’m quite aware I’ve been a fool. But I give you my word that Hetherton is a very secondary consideration.”
“Well, I shall tell your uncle,” she said, looking doubtfully at him.
“That I have been a fool? But then you must go on about Hetherton.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Then leave it alone; it’s the safest way, take my word for it. I know it’s all your kindness for me, but there are so many old proverbs haunting me about making one’s bed, and sowing and reaping, that I feel sure they amount to a general verdict that I must be left to my fate. Thank you all the same for trying to ward it off.”
Each of these rumours which reached Jack—although he sometimes told himself that they were too indefinite to be heeded—did actually give him a sharp pang, and seemed to leave his heart heavier than before. He refused invitations, and did his best to absorb himself in his profession, setting to work with a dogged determination to push on, rather than any exhilaration of hope. Still there was a certain satisfaction in his labour, and at least a more manly purpose in his life. And so January dragged its short days out of the darkness, sometimes barely succeeding in the effort, and February followed, and to Ibbetson every day was long in its monotony, and yet, looking back, they might all have passed like lightning.
At least that was what it seemed to him one gloomy afternoon when he stood with a telegram in his hand which had just been given to him, and which he had opened carelessly, without any foreboding of the thrill of pain in store. It was from Rome. Miss Cartwright was very ill—would he come at once. The words startled him the more that he felt with keen self-reproach how other interests had pushed her out of his thoughts. There are tender and strong affections so close and so unfailing that they are like the air we breathe, and become almost as much a matter of course. And now Jack remembered with a pang that of late he had written but briefly to his aunt, and that except from a general longing to hear news from Rome he had not noticed that her own letters had become few and short. He pulled out her last from his pocket; the feeble writing smote him to the heart, and he impatiently gave his orders, sent off a hurried note to Clive, and found himself at the station at least twenty minutes before the time for starting.
He travelled as fast as he could, and happily there were no unusual or vexatious delays. But at its best the journey is one which, when a pressing anxiety goads on the traveller, seems as if it would never end. It drags you along past Chambery, and pretty Aix lying under its hills, lingers hopelessly at Modane, and then goes clambering slowly up to the land of snows, before it will take you into the land of sunshine. Afterwards you sweep down to Turin and the vast Lombardy plains, and going towards Florence, creep again into a belt of mountains honey-combed with tunnels, where the gorges in February are just awaking to the first promises of spring, and by-and-by see the twinkling lights of cheery Pistoija, and then the brighter ones of Florence. Jack, leaning out, thought of other evenings, when those lights had shone in the beautiful Val d’Arno. He stopped there now for a few hours’ rest, and the place seemed laden with memories which yet were younger than it was easy to believe. It was a warm night; even already the air was touched with sweet flowery scents, and all the carnival people were flashing about, making the place merry with their laughter.
His journey began again early the next morning, and in the afternoon he reached Rome. Who does not know that approach? As the train passed through the golden brown campagna the sun was setting; no words can describe the rich glow which tinged the mountains: too rich for lilac, too delicate and warm for purple, it seemed the very embodiment of colour, and where on the highest points the snow of winter yet rested, it was on fire with rosy lights; while Tiber, rolling sluggishly through the Sabine meadows, gave back the soft reflections as faithfully and placidly as though he were only a quiet country stream, untouched by history, and untainted by blood.
Ibbetson was not long in driving from the station to the house in the Via della Croce. At the station he caught sight of a familiar face, though he had a little difficulty in recalling that it belonged to young Giovanni Moroni. He would not linger to speak to him, though he had always liked the young fellow, for the nearer he drew to the end of his journey the more acute became his anxieties, and the more annoying every small delay. He rattled quickly down the hill by the Costanzi, and along the streets which lead to the Spanish Place, and then into his own particular street. Nothing was to be gained by looking at the outside of the house, and some hidden fear kept him from questioning the old porter, who lived in a little glass room and mended shoes. Miss Cartwright’s rooms were high; a dark dirty staircase went up, up. He lingered for a moment at the window half way, which looked upon picturesque and irregular backs of houses; women were peeping out, creepers hanging, there were the usual converging lines of a network of wires, up and down which swing the brass pitchers, that fill themselves where the fresh water pours out from the lion’s head below; at one small square window a little owl was sitting, blinking solemnly at the world. It all seemed just as he had left it, and gave him a momentary unreasonable relief. But at the top of the stairs stood some one watching and waiting. It was Phillis, and she put out her hands with a cry of thankfulness.
“You are come!” she said. “We heard wheels, but scarcely thought it possible you could be here so soon.”
“How is she? Not worse?”
“She is very ill—very. I am afraid it would be false comfort if I told you there was any improvement, but the pain has gone off, and her one wish was to see you again. This waiting has been terrible. It was pleurisy. We wrote to tell you, but she grew suddenly worse.”
“And you have been with her?”
“How could I leave her?”
Her lips quivered. She was shaken and upset with the nursing, perhaps, too, with the feeling that he was coming, and with other things which had risen up. They stood face to face with each other, these two, for a minute, utterly silent, before Phillis said hurriedly—
“I must tell her that you are here. Will you come into the little anteroom and wait until she is ready?”
In the anteroom were two or three doors; one led into the salon, another into Miss Cartwright’s bedroom. At this second a black object was crouched, which at sound of Jack’s voice reared itself up, and came eagerly towards him.
“Yes,” said Phillis, answering the young man’s look with a sad little smile, “Cartouche is the most faithful of watchers, poor fellow! At first he lay under her bed, but that worried her, and she asked that he might be sent out. And since then, strange as it seems, he has never attempted to go into the room, but has taken up his position here.”
She signed to Jack to stay where he was, and passed through the curtained door. He stood with his eyes fixed upon it, feeling that pause of solemn expectation with which we wait when we know that we are to enter on an awful Presence, awful both for its strangeness and its nearness. All sounds intensify themselves in such a waiting: it seemed to him that a hundred things were going on; he heard the distant cry of the water-sellers, the roll of wheels, the laughter of the crowd, a fly buzzing at the window. Cartouche gave a low whine, and went back to his station, sitting against the door with bent attentive head. No one came. At last a woman bustled into the room, and lit a small brass lamp with four wicks branching out on different sides and slender chains hanging. Then she, too, paused and listened.
“The poor Signora!” she said to Jack, clasping her hands. “It is near the end. And we all loved her. Eh, and look at the dog! It is strange.”
Just at that moment Phillis opened the door and signed to Jack.
“Her weakness is so great,” she said in a whisper, “that the very joy of your coming is almost more than she can bear. But she will not wait.”
No. He understood why she would put nothing off when he saw the white changed face, lit up as it was with happiness as he knelt down and kissed her. “My boy!” was all she said at first, but lay holding his hand and smiling now and then. Miss Preston, who had been standing at the window, went softly out, crying. Phillis only paused to tell Jack that one of them would be in the anteroom, before she followed her. Those two were left behind—two, and the shadowy Presence.
“You’re not in pain, Aunt Mary?” said Jack brokenly. “Not now. It has quite gone now. God has been so good all through, and He has brought you back.”
“I came at once, but I wish I could have heard before.”
“Yes, my dear, I know, I know. I hope it was not selfish to want you, but you always were my boy. And, Jack—”
“Yes, Aunt Mary?”
Speech was very difficult, but she struggled with it, and he put his ear down near her face—
”—You have never known her—Phillis. And I was foolish and urged it. Now I see that I was wrong—we can’t tell what is best, can we?—only I think—I pray you two may have whatever is best for you both. I think you will. God knows—and I have prayed—”
The words died away, but she made a sign to him not to call anyone, and lay in peaceful waiting, every now and then touching his face or hair with a feeble yet caressing hand. In that waiting the room darkened, the little lamp glimmered in the shadows, a strange hush seemed to have fallen. Presently Winter came in, looked at her, went out and brought the others. She smiled at them, and whispered something which they made out with difficulty. It was “Cartouche.” Phillis brought him, a little anxious lest he might show any wild demonstrations of delight. She need not have feared. He came eagerly in, put his paws upon the bed, and licked his mistress’s hand. Then he dropped down, looked wistfully at the faces round, as if he wanted reassurance from them, and finding none, he turned quickly, ran to the door, pushed it open, and settled himself in his old position of intent watchfulness.
Afterwards they none of them knew how these long hours had passed, but at the time there was the usual mixture of the awful and the commonplace. Our thoughts cannot remain long on heights; they wander down, concerning themselves with the oddest things, and causing us sharp pangs of self-reproach, for what, after all, is no more than a law of our being. Once there came a ring of the bell, and Winter went out and brought in a little note for Phillis. When she had read it, standing at the table by the lamp, she laid it down and came back to the bedside. Jack had to go to the table presently to get something that was wanted, and his eye was caught by the clear bold signature—“Arthur Penington.” He hated himself for having seen it, but there it was.
The doctor came and went, Cartouche walking growling behind him to the top of the stains. The streets grew more silent; the occasional cry of the masquers, the carnival laughter, died away; and still they all watched, and still the feeble breathing was audible in the quiet of the room, with now and then a word. It was not until a pale gleam of light had grown into the sky above the hills of Tivoli, touching the broad flank of Soracte, and showing Michael the Archangel guarding the great city from his castle, that the last word faltered on her lips, and the hand which had moved feebly towards Jack lay still and cold in his warm clasp.
Chapter Twenty Two.Once More, No.Tired as he was with his quick journey and with the hurrying emotions of the past night, Jack was too restless to stay in the house. He called Cartouche, and the dog, after a little hesitation, went with him, though without any of his usual excitement. He kept close at Ibbetson’s heels, from which nothing drew him, and walked along with his tail depressed, and his whole appearance spiritless. Jack’s own heart was very heavy. The kind, gentle woman had been like a mother to him, and a hundred remembrances of her unselfishness came thronging. He was vexed with himself for having left her, for having neglected to write as often as she liked—for many things of which he knew very well she had kept no record, nor so much as blamed him in her heart. Those tender cancellings are the sharpest reproaches of all, when Death has laid his finger on the page.Then, as he walked on, his mind wandered off to the speculations from which who can be free, when one who has been near to them passes away from their reach? Could she still see him? What was the actual separation between them? What infinite mysteries had already been made known to her? Jack had no fixed aim, but he thought he would go on to the English cemetery and choose the place where she was so soon to lie. He did not know the exact way, and found himself by San Gregorio: the bell was tolling, and he went up the broad steps. There is a little chapel connected with it, one of a group of three, in which he remembered having long ago seen a quire of angels painted by Guido, which had haunted him. He found the sacristan, and went with him across a little untidy picturesque garden, sweet with violets, and gay with great irises, purple and white. The chapel is very bare and like a barn, but at one end is the beautiful fresco; the white wings seem to clash, the blissful faces glow down upon you—over what might be the battlements of heaven—with a purity and grace which are rare in Guido. Jack paid the sacristan to let him stay there by himself for a little while; he was glad he had come, thankful to have had this quiet and peaceful hour with the praising angels above and the sweet scent of spring violets stealing through the door. Then, as he came out and stood on the steps of San Gregorio, the full glory of the sun was shining on that stately and beautiful view which stretches before the church. Feathery clouds dappled the blue of the sky, tender and yet deep: golden and ruddy lights fell on the convent which crowns the ridge of the Palatine, the convent whose nuns pray patiently on the spot where emperors held their revels; up against the buildings two palms stood proudly; the great arches of Nero and Severus were black with shadows; here and there an almond blossomed, rosy red, and all the light cloud of trees below was touched with the mysterious and indescribable promise of the spring.Jack walked slowly back, and Cartouche followed sadly behind him. There was something in the dog’s mute sympathy very grateful to the man, piteous though it was to see the wistful questioning of his eyes. They went home through little back streets, to avoid the crowded thoroughfares where all Rome was making her carnival holiday. It does not penetrate much into those crooked and picturesque byeways, and, indeed the day was as yet too early for great attempts at gaiety. All about the Forum was quite undisturbed, the beautiful pillars stood in quiet beauty, while the sun played in golden lights upon their stone, and the Capitol looked down upon them from its prouder height.When he reached the Via della Croce he found, as he might have expected without allowing it to cause him a sharp disappointment, that Phillis had left it, and had gone back to the hotel. It was not possible for him to follow her until quite late in the day. Miss Preston, who, it might have been imagined, would have liked to have kept matters in her own hands, was so subdued and full of grief, as to be quite helpless and unable even to offer a suggestion. She had been rather disposed to blame Miss Cartwright for not throwing off her invalid habits when first she came to Rome, and now reproached herself bitterly. Indeed it seemed as if the sweetness of that death had touched and softened all; Winter went quietly about on tip-toe, with oddly gentle movements. As for Cartouche, who could tell what was passing in his mind? How much did he know? This much they all noticed, that having watched patiently for so many hours in the anteroom, he would not now go near it. He buried himself in a corner of the kitchen, and only came out or took food when Jack went there and coaxed him.Necessarily, every arrangement fell on Ibbetson, and it was necessary they should be made with a promptitude which at such a time seems almost inhuman. They occupied him all the day, so that, as has been said, it was quite late before he was able to follow Phillis to the hotel.She was alone when he was shown up, sitting, in the dusk, near the wood fire. He had longed all day for this moment, and came in quickly, with a sudden delight at finding her there by herself. Something in her manner checked him instantly. It was nothing upon which he could seize, and it was perfectly gentle, but he felt that, in some way or other, it recalled to him the change in their position, which in his eagerness he had seemed to forget. And it vexed him the more because the night before certain vague thoughts had almost taken the form of hope. She was sitting with her back to the fading light; he could not see the expression of her eyes, nor much more than a pale face, the outline of a slender figure, the hands clasped on her lap. Every now and then as she gave him the details of his aunt’s illness, or repeated some tender message, her voice faltered, but she carefully avoided the least allusion to her own feelings, and he was certain that she intended him to feel that the barrier between them remained unmoved. A chill restraint crept over them both. Once, when his words took a somewhat warmer and more personal form as he thanked her for all she had done, she interrupted him, although still quite gently:“Do you know,” she said, “that I have been very glad to have had this talk with you without the others being here? There are many things one can’t talk of before friends, however kind they are. But they may come back at any moment now, and I have a great many things to say. So don’t let us waste our time.” Jack muttered something about the others. She did not seem to hear him, but went on hurriedly:“You ought to know how things are going on with the Masters. I’m afraid it is not very satisfactory. Has anyone told you that Mr Trent is still here?”“Still? Well, certainly I did think that circumstances would have ousted him by this time.”She gave him a quick, inquiring glance.“I thought your letter would have been strong enough to do it. But—please excuse me—did you speak plainly enough? I couldn’t help having a feeling that you were making the best of his conduct, and—and it almost seems a pity,” said Phillis, provoked at her own lame ending. She had thought she knew exactly what to say.“Didn’t I speak out?”“Well, it is certain that man can twist everything to suit his purpose, even his own misdeeds.”“Yes,” assented Jack quietly. “He has a wonderful strength of plausibility.”“And he has managed to persuade Bice—I don’t know what he hasn’t persuaded them all—that it was a mistake about the fifty pounds, and that though now he no longer doubts that Clive paid it, the man never repaid it to him. Somehow or other he has made her believe that he has acted straightforwardly, and has suffered for it. And, myself, I can’t help fearing that there are some other complications, and that he has that foolish Mrs Masters in his power. But now that you are here, things will be put straight, I hope.”“Yes. I suppose there will have to be a blow up,” said Jack, not very cheerfully.There was a curious thrill—was it pity or reluctance?—in her voice when she went on rapidly:“I blame myself for something. I ought to have told you before you went away that Bice was engaged to Mr Trent. I believe I thought something would be sure to happen to put an end to it.”“I heard it from Trent himself. And it still goes on?”“Yes. The marriage is to be at Easter—or was.” If there had been a clearer light in the room, Jack might have read something in Phillis’s face, some hidden pain, some struggle with herself which might have disarmed him. As it was, he was hurt by her persistent belief in his caring for Bice. He said in a hard and strained voice, which she interpreted as pain from her own point of view—“Here is a budget of news, indeed! It seems one should be a villain if one desires to succeed successfully.”Phillis only thought of the pain in his voice. She leant forward and said with eagerness—“But of course you will not allow her to be sacrificed?”“I? Why not? I suppose she knows what she is about—most women do,” he said with gloom. But the next moment he turned towards her. “Really, I can’t tell what she wishes, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. She shall hear the precise facts as fairly as I can put them, without exaggeration. After that she must judge for herself. A woman ought to have some sort of notion what the man is like whom she intends to marry, unless, indeed, she cares for him so much that she is content to be blind. In that case—”He stopped. Phillis repeated quickly:“In that case—”“Hadn’t she better remain undeceived?”She sighed. It seemed to her that he made her task very difficult.“Well, at any rate, let her judge fairly,” she said. “Yes, that’s due to her.” He leant his arms on the table, and began pulling some cyclamen out of a great bunch. “Viole pazze,” he went on; “Rome seems to have as many flowers as Florence. By the way, do you remember hearing me speak of a young Moroni who used to be a good deal at the villa? He came in my train yesterday from Florence.”“Did he?” said Phillis absently. The constraint between them seemed to increase; they might have been strangers. Her effort had been greater than she knew, and she felt more sad and weary than before Jack came in, while something told her that the hardest part was to come. Jack himself went on playing with the poor cyclamen, no less uncomfortable than she. He wanted to say something about Hetherton, and did not know how to begin. Phillis relieved him of the difficulty. “Tell me something about Aunt Harriet, please,” she said. “It is an age since she wrote. Of course you saw her while you were in England?”“Yes. I went to Hetherton at once, and to my amazement found that fellow Trent spending his Christmas there. Did you know he was so thick with them?”“I? No. They hardly write to me,” said she, with a forlorn sense of loneliness. “But they were well, weren’t they?”“My uncle was horribly cut up by—by your determination, Phillis.”“I was afraid he might be sorry.”She knew that what she dreaded was coming, and her heart beat wildly; but she said the words quite calmly, and as if they related to someone else. Jack crushed a flower in his hand, and leant forward.“Shewas sorry, too,” he said in a low voice. “Can’t you think differently? I know I was the one to blame, but can’t you let me—”She interrupted him with a hasty gesture.“That subject is at an end between us; pray do not return to it.”But that it was so unlike her, he could have sworn he detected a slight accent of scorn in her voice.“Well, Phillis,” he said, getting up, “I daren’t do it, if you forbid me. I don’t suppose I’ve gone the way to work to make you believe what I want to say. Perhaps I’d better have held my tongue, as I intended. It was the seeing you with her, I suppose, and thinking that perhaps—however, if it is as you say, and the subject must be at an end, will you give me a kiss, Phillis, before we part?”She covered her face with her hands, and drew back quickly and without a word to soften the gesture.“Not?” said Jack, in the same slow tone. “Well, don’t fear. Whatever I am, I won’t be a bore. I understand fully all that you mean—all. It was you, remember, who promised we should always be friends—There, don’t be afraid, I am going. Good-bye. God bless you, Phillis.”But long after he had gone she kept her face covered—perhaps because she was trying to shut out even the remembrance of what had past, perhaps because she feared her own impulses. For as the door shut, she had felt as if her very senses went out in a wild cry to him to come back.Not? If he had but known how hard that moment was, how it was against herself that she shrank with the movement which had wounded him, how she had fought with the longing that his request called up! If she had kissed him she could have fought no longer, she must have flung down her arms. Why not? Why not? For the first time this persistent question seemed to have gained strength, and she set herself to answer it reasonably. Why not?She went back to the early days of their engagement. Its romance had come to her very quietly, and untroubled by fears or doubts. Jack had always been her hero from the time when he had embodied one by one all that her storybooks offered in that line. She used to listen triumphantly to the school exploits which he poured into her fascinated ears. She could have no greater delight than to go with him to feed the rabbits, or the wild-fowl on the lake. He filled a far more important part in her life than she did in his, and so, though the gladness was great, she felt neither surprise nor misgivings when he asked her to marry him. Her inexperience was even greater than her youthfulness; she loved him, and it was both natural and sweet that he should love her.But when, little by little, she understood that his feeling was of a very different nature from hers, an uneasy shame that she should have been so lightly won added a sting to her sorrow.Jack had not been mistaken in fancying that there was a touch of scorn in her voice when he made that last appeal. The scorn, however, was directed rather against herself than him. She knew so well why he had made it. She had been expecting it all the time. She had always had a presentiment that Miss Cartwright, who loved her very dearly, would say something to her nephew which would bear this sort of fruit, and his speaking only assured her that her dread was well founded. If Jack had but known it, he had chosen the worst possible moment for his appeal. Did he think that she was going to make another mistake? And Mr Thornton too—as he had almost admitted—had probably spoken very strongly, and had no doubt weighted his words with threats about the future of Hetherton. Phillis started up and walked to the window, locking her hands together as she walked, but there was not the slightest hesitation hidden behind the movement. Though she loved Jack so well that she thought it would almost break her heart to see him shut out from Hetherton, she would never suffer herself to become its price.For Jack did not love her, of that she felt sure. He pitied her, perhaps; liked her, possibly; reproached himself, she did not doubt; but these were only shadows with which she would never again content herself.Somebody else loved her, or so she had begun to fear, and it was curious that her clear judgment failed as she thought of Mr Penington. For she was wondering whether she should ever marry him. He was very good, and kind, and clever, and—“In the dark, my poor Phillis?” said a cheerful voice. “And all alone? I am afraid it was very inhuman of us to leave you. Come, confess, haven’t you been thinking so? At any rate, somebody else was almost rude to me about it. I felt quite horrid.”“I’ve not been alone,” said Phillis, thinking as she spoke that her own voice sounded curiously odd and unsteady. “Mr Ibbetson only went away a few minutes ago. I almost wonder you did not meet him.”“I thought I caught sight of a coat like his. I will say for him that his coats are well cut. However, his companionship can hardly have been cheerful.”“We had a good deal to talk about,” said Phillis, gravely.“Of course, my poor dear. But I think it is very hard so much has fallen on you. And do tell me, for I am dying to know—”“What?”“Did he ask a great many questions about the Masters? Has he seen any of them yet?”“No.”“No? Are you sure? Well, I suppose he could hardly hurry there at once, but I’m much mistaken if he waits long, and then what will be the next act in the play? Will poor Mr Trent receive his dismissal? Now, Phillis, it’s too dark to see you, but I know exactly how you’re looking. I can’t help it; I shall always say that Mr Ibbetson has behaved abominably. There was no one to call him out, for Harry could never have been brought to comprehend that was part of his duty. But I must speak.”“Don’t blame him to-day, at any rate,” said Phillis in a low voice that was full of pain.“Is he so much cut up? Well, poor fellow, I really am sorry for him, though I pity Cartouche more. And you, too, my dear. You have had a terrible time of it while we have all been going on in a most shamefully selfish way. Not Mr Penington. I must do him the justice to say that I don’t think you’ve been out of his thoughts for a minute. And how nice he is! Oh, dear, there’s the table-d’hôte bell! You’ll not go down, of course? No, I told Giuseppe so as I passed. But you won’t mind Mr Penington coming up afterwards? He wanted to so very much that I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. Besides, he is very understanding and won’t tease you; you needn’t even try to talk, for he has a whole heap of Etruscan tomby things from Corneto, and wants Harry to take us all there. I shan’t go. I know exactly what it’s like, one of those horrid dirty little places where one can only eat the middles of things.”She lit the candles and went away, leaving Phillis just where she had found her, so that the girl’s thoughts, which this conversation had hardly broken in upon, rapidly shaped themselves again in the same form. She would have told herself that Miss Cartwright made the centre, and perhaps she did, but round that centre, with its tender and gentle recollections, how many other fancies grouped themselves.And somehow or other that evening the question, which she had not yet answered to her own satisfaction, became more persistent. Mr Penington, whom she had not seen for a day or two, was radiant with the delight of being near her again, and his pleasure sent a sort of answering glow into her own heart. It was impossible for her to remain untouched by the kind thoughtfulness with which he contrived to shield and leave her in peace, or by the swiftness with which he seemed to anticipate her wishes. Gradually he drew her out of her silence into an interest in the curious things he had got together, and to promise to go to the Etruscan Museum, in the Vatican to see the collection of cottage tombs, the curious little vessels like miniature hats which were dug out of an ancient burying place in the Campagna.“You shall go when you like,” he said eagerly.Mrs Leyton, who was very warmly on Mr Penington’s side, looked at her husband and smiled. She had noticed something different in Phillis’s manner that night, a more passive acquiescence, perhaps, from which she augured well. Really liking her, she would have been glad that the Roman winter should end in this satisfactory fashion, and was prepared even to go through the catacombs, if Mr Penington proposed it, though she hated anything underground. Mr Penington had learnt exactly the things which Phillis liked.“I have come round to your thinking about Titian’s picture in the Borghese,” he said to her in a low voice, when the others were talking; “I think it is the best thing in all the gallery.”“In all Rome, I think,” said Phillis brightening. “I care for it so much that it quite hints me to hear people abuse it.”“Are you talking of the Sacred and Profane Love?” asked Mrs Leyton, chiming in. “Mr Ibbetson could not make out which was which, don’t you remember? I can’t say it spoke very well for his artistic feeling.”Somehow or other this little speech had a different effect from what was intended: it hurt Phillis, and though Mr Penington did not know much about Jack’s position with her, he was watching her and saw that she was vexed. He said quietly—“That is not a very uncommon mistake at first sight, indeed, you may find it immortalised in print. But at every fresh visit the marvellous beauty comes out. Very likely the name is altogether imaginary. Vanity and Modesty would do as well for it as for Da Vinci’s picture in the Sciarra. You must come and see that one day, soon, Miss Grey; I can get an order.”“You can get everything, I believe,” said Phillis with a smile.He said quickly, so that only she could hear—“I like you to say so—I shall take it as an omen;” and he then turned away, and talked for the rest of the evening to Mrs Leyton. Phillis leaned back in a kind of dream, thinking that friendship was pleasant and soothing, and wishing that others would be content with it. But they would not. And if—if only she could make up her mind to marry him, not only could she save him—this was what she thought—from the pangs of disappointment, but her own unrest might perhaps be hushed into—contentment.And yet she would not marry Jack without an equal love. Certainly Phillis could lay no claim to be what is called a consistent character.
Tired as he was with his quick journey and with the hurrying emotions of the past night, Jack was too restless to stay in the house. He called Cartouche, and the dog, after a little hesitation, went with him, though without any of his usual excitement. He kept close at Ibbetson’s heels, from which nothing drew him, and walked along with his tail depressed, and his whole appearance spiritless. Jack’s own heart was very heavy. The kind, gentle woman had been like a mother to him, and a hundred remembrances of her unselfishness came thronging. He was vexed with himself for having left her, for having neglected to write as often as she liked—for many things of which he knew very well she had kept no record, nor so much as blamed him in her heart. Those tender cancellings are the sharpest reproaches of all, when Death has laid his finger on the page.
Then, as he walked on, his mind wandered off to the speculations from which who can be free, when one who has been near to them passes away from their reach? Could she still see him? What was the actual separation between them? What infinite mysteries had already been made known to her? Jack had no fixed aim, but he thought he would go on to the English cemetery and choose the place where she was so soon to lie. He did not know the exact way, and found himself by San Gregorio: the bell was tolling, and he went up the broad steps. There is a little chapel connected with it, one of a group of three, in which he remembered having long ago seen a quire of angels painted by Guido, which had haunted him. He found the sacristan, and went with him across a little untidy picturesque garden, sweet with violets, and gay with great irises, purple and white. The chapel is very bare and like a barn, but at one end is the beautiful fresco; the white wings seem to clash, the blissful faces glow down upon you—over what might be the battlements of heaven—with a purity and grace which are rare in Guido. Jack paid the sacristan to let him stay there by himself for a little while; he was glad he had come, thankful to have had this quiet and peaceful hour with the praising angels above and the sweet scent of spring violets stealing through the door. Then, as he came out and stood on the steps of San Gregorio, the full glory of the sun was shining on that stately and beautiful view which stretches before the church. Feathery clouds dappled the blue of the sky, tender and yet deep: golden and ruddy lights fell on the convent which crowns the ridge of the Palatine, the convent whose nuns pray patiently on the spot where emperors held their revels; up against the buildings two palms stood proudly; the great arches of Nero and Severus were black with shadows; here and there an almond blossomed, rosy red, and all the light cloud of trees below was touched with the mysterious and indescribable promise of the spring.
Jack walked slowly back, and Cartouche followed sadly behind him. There was something in the dog’s mute sympathy very grateful to the man, piteous though it was to see the wistful questioning of his eyes. They went home through little back streets, to avoid the crowded thoroughfares where all Rome was making her carnival holiday. It does not penetrate much into those crooked and picturesque byeways, and, indeed the day was as yet too early for great attempts at gaiety. All about the Forum was quite undisturbed, the beautiful pillars stood in quiet beauty, while the sun played in golden lights upon their stone, and the Capitol looked down upon them from its prouder height.
When he reached the Via della Croce he found, as he might have expected without allowing it to cause him a sharp disappointment, that Phillis had left it, and had gone back to the hotel. It was not possible for him to follow her until quite late in the day. Miss Preston, who, it might have been imagined, would have liked to have kept matters in her own hands, was so subdued and full of grief, as to be quite helpless and unable even to offer a suggestion. She had been rather disposed to blame Miss Cartwright for not throwing off her invalid habits when first she came to Rome, and now reproached herself bitterly. Indeed it seemed as if the sweetness of that death had touched and softened all; Winter went quietly about on tip-toe, with oddly gentle movements. As for Cartouche, who could tell what was passing in his mind? How much did he know? This much they all noticed, that having watched patiently for so many hours in the anteroom, he would not now go near it. He buried himself in a corner of the kitchen, and only came out or took food when Jack went there and coaxed him.
Necessarily, every arrangement fell on Ibbetson, and it was necessary they should be made with a promptitude which at such a time seems almost inhuman. They occupied him all the day, so that, as has been said, it was quite late before he was able to follow Phillis to the hotel.
She was alone when he was shown up, sitting, in the dusk, near the wood fire. He had longed all day for this moment, and came in quickly, with a sudden delight at finding her there by herself. Something in her manner checked him instantly. It was nothing upon which he could seize, and it was perfectly gentle, but he felt that, in some way or other, it recalled to him the change in their position, which in his eagerness he had seemed to forget. And it vexed him the more because the night before certain vague thoughts had almost taken the form of hope. She was sitting with her back to the fading light; he could not see the expression of her eyes, nor much more than a pale face, the outline of a slender figure, the hands clasped on her lap. Every now and then as she gave him the details of his aunt’s illness, or repeated some tender message, her voice faltered, but she carefully avoided the least allusion to her own feelings, and he was certain that she intended him to feel that the barrier between them remained unmoved. A chill restraint crept over them both. Once, when his words took a somewhat warmer and more personal form as he thanked her for all she had done, she interrupted him, although still quite gently:
“Do you know,” she said, “that I have been very glad to have had this talk with you without the others being here? There are many things one can’t talk of before friends, however kind they are. But they may come back at any moment now, and I have a great many things to say. So don’t let us waste our time.” Jack muttered something about the others. She did not seem to hear him, but went on hurriedly:
“You ought to know how things are going on with the Masters. I’m afraid it is not very satisfactory. Has anyone told you that Mr Trent is still here?”
“Still? Well, certainly I did think that circumstances would have ousted him by this time.”
She gave him a quick, inquiring glance.
“I thought your letter would have been strong enough to do it. But—please excuse me—did you speak plainly enough? I couldn’t help having a feeling that you were making the best of his conduct, and—and it almost seems a pity,” said Phillis, provoked at her own lame ending. She had thought she knew exactly what to say.
“Didn’t I speak out?”
“Well, it is certain that man can twist everything to suit his purpose, even his own misdeeds.”
“Yes,” assented Jack quietly. “He has a wonderful strength of plausibility.”
“And he has managed to persuade Bice—I don’t know what he hasn’t persuaded them all—that it was a mistake about the fifty pounds, and that though now he no longer doubts that Clive paid it, the man never repaid it to him. Somehow or other he has made her believe that he has acted straightforwardly, and has suffered for it. And, myself, I can’t help fearing that there are some other complications, and that he has that foolish Mrs Masters in his power. But now that you are here, things will be put straight, I hope.”
“Yes. I suppose there will have to be a blow up,” said Jack, not very cheerfully.
There was a curious thrill—was it pity or reluctance?—in her voice when she went on rapidly:
“I blame myself for something. I ought to have told you before you went away that Bice was engaged to Mr Trent. I believe I thought something would be sure to happen to put an end to it.”
“I heard it from Trent himself. And it still goes on?”
“Yes. The marriage is to be at Easter—or was.” If there had been a clearer light in the room, Jack might have read something in Phillis’s face, some hidden pain, some struggle with herself which might have disarmed him. As it was, he was hurt by her persistent belief in his caring for Bice. He said in a hard and strained voice, which she interpreted as pain from her own point of view—
“Here is a budget of news, indeed! It seems one should be a villain if one desires to succeed successfully.”
Phillis only thought of the pain in his voice. She leant forward and said with eagerness—
“But of course you will not allow her to be sacrificed?”
“I? Why not? I suppose she knows what she is about—most women do,” he said with gloom. But the next moment he turned towards her. “Really, I can’t tell what she wishes, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. She shall hear the precise facts as fairly as I can put them, without exaggeration. After that she must judge for herself. A woman ought to have some sort of notion what the man is like whom she intends to marry, unless, indeed, she cares for him so much that she is content to be blind. In that case—”
He stopped. Phillis repeated quickly:
“In that case—”
“Hadn’t she better remain undeceived?”
She sighed. It seemed to her that he made her task very difficult.
“Well, at any rate, let her judge fairly,” she said. “Yes, that’s due to her.” He leant his arms on the table, and began pulling some cyclamen out of a great bunch. “Viole pazze,” he went on; “Rome seems to have as many flowers as Florence. By the way, do you remember hearing me speak of a young Moroni who used to be a good deal at the villa? He came in my train yesterday from Florence.”
“Did he?” said Phillis absently. The constraint between them seemed to increase; they might have been strangers. Her effort had been greater than she knew, and she felt more sad and weary than before Jack came in, while something told her that the hardest part was to come. Jack himself went on playing with the poor cyclamen, no less uncomfortable than she. He wanted to say something about Hetherton, and did not know how to begin. Phillis relieved him of the difficulty. “Tell me something about Aunt Harriet, please,” she said. “It is an age since she wrote. Of course you saw her while you were in England?”
“Yes. I went to Hetherton at once, and to my amazement found that fellow Trent spending his Christmas there. Did you know he was so thick with them?”
“I? No. They hardly write to me,” said she, with a forlorn sense of loneliness. “But they were well, weren’t they?”
“My uncle was horribly cut up by—by your determination, Phillis.”
“I was afraid he might be sorry.”
She knew that what she dreaded was coming, and her heart beat wildly; but she said the words quite calmly, and as if they related to someone else. Jack crushed a flower in his hand, and leant forward.
“Shewas sorry, too,” he said in a low voice. “Can’t you think differently? I know I was the one to blame, but can’t you let me—”
She interrupted him with a hasty gesture.
“That subject is at an end between us; pray do not return to it.”
But that it was so unlike her, he could have sworn he detected a slight accent of scorn in her voice.
“Well, Phillis,” he said, getting up, “I daren’t do it, if you forbid me. I don’t suppose I’ve gone the way to work to make you believe what I want to say. Perhaps I’d better have held my tongue, as I intended. It was the seeing you with her, I suppose, and thinking that perhaps—however, if it is as you say, and the subject must be at an end, will you give me a kiss, Phillis, before we part?”
She covered her face with her hands, and drew back quickly and without a word to soften the gesture.
“Not?” said Jack, in the same slow tone. “Well, don’t fear. Whatever I am, I won’t be a bore. I understand fully all that you mean—all. It was you, remember, who promised we should always be friends—There, don’t be afraid, I am going. Good-bye. God bless you, Phillis.”
But long after he had gone she kept her face covered—perhaps because she was trying to shut out even the remembrance of what had past, perhaps because she feared her own impulses. For as the door shut, she had felt as if her very senses went out in a wild cry to him to come back.Not? If he had but known how hard that moment was, how it was against herself that she shrank with the movement which had wounded him, how she had fought with the longing that his request called up! If she had kissed him she could have fought no longer, she must have flung down her arms. Why not? Why not? For the first time this persistent question seemed to have gained strength, and she set herself to answer it reasonably. Why not?
She went back to the early days of their engagement. Its romance had come to her very quietly, and untroubled by fears or doubts. Jack had always been her hero from the time when he had embodied one by one all that her storybooks offered in that line. She used to listen triumphantly to the school exploits which he poured into her fascinated ears. She could have no greater delight than to go with him to feed the rabbits, or the wild-fowl on the lake. He filled a far more important part in her life than she did in his, and so, though the gladness was great, she felt neither surprise nor misgivings when he asked her to marry him. Her inexperience was even greater than her youthfulness; she loved him, and it was both natural and sweet that he should love her.
But when, little by little, she understood that his feeling was of a very different nature from hers, an uneasy shame that she should have been so lightly won added a sting to her sorrow.
Jack had not been mistaken in fancying that there was a touch of scorn in her voice when he made that last appeal. The scorn, however, was directed rather against herself than him. She knew so well why he had made it. She had been expecting it all the time. She had always had a presentiment that Miss Cartwright, who loved her very dearly, would say something to her nephew which would bear this sort of fruit, and his speaking only assured her that her dread was well founded. If Jack had but known it, he had chosen the worst possible moment for his appeal. Did he think that she was going to make another mistake? And Mr Thornton too—as he had almost admitted—had probably spoken very strongly, and had no doubt weighted his words with threats about the future of Hetherton. Phillis started up and walked to the window, locking her hands together as she walked, but there was not the slightest hesitation hidden behind the movement. Though she loved Jack so well that she thought it would almost break her heart to see him shut out from Hetherton, she would never suffer herself to become its price.
For Jack did not love her, of that she felt sure. He pitied her, perhaps; liked her, possibly; reproached himself, she did not doubt; but these were only shadows with which she would never again content herself.
Somebody else loved her, or so she had begun to fear, and it was curious that her clear judgment failed as she thought of Mr Penington. For she was wondering whether she should ever marry him. He was very good, and kind, and clever, and—
“In the dark, my poor Phillis?” said a cheerful voice. “And all alone? I am afraid it was very inhuman of us to leave you. Come, confess, haven’t you been thinking so? At any rate, somebody else was almost rude to me about it. I felt quite horrid.”
“I’ve not been alone,” said Phillis, thinking as she spoke that her own voice sounded curiously odd and unsteady. “Mr Ibbetson only went away a few minutes ago. I almost wonder you did not meet him.”
“I thought I caught sight of a coat like his. I will say for him that his coats are well cut. However, his companionship can hardly have been cheerful.”
“We had a good deal to talk about,” said Phillis, gravely.
“Of course, my poor dear. But I think it is very hard so much has fallen on you. And do tell me, for I am dying to know—”
“What?”
“Did he ask a great many questions about the Masters? Has he seen any of them yet?”
“No.”
“No? Are you sure? Well, I suppose he could hardly hurry there at once, but I’m much mistaken if he waits long, and then what will be the next act in the play? Will poor Mr Trent receive his dismissal? Now, Phillis, it’s too dark to see you, but I know exactly how you’re looking. I can’t help it; I shall always say that Mr Ibbetson has behaved abominably. There was no one to call him out, for Harry could never have been brought to comprehend that was part of his duty. But I must speak.”
“Don’t blame him to-day, at any rate,” said Phillis in a low voice that was full of pain.
“Is he so much cut up? Well, poor fellow, I really am sorry for him, though I pity Cartouche more. And you, too, my dear. You have had a terrible time of it while we have all been going on in a most shamefully selfish way. Not Mr Penington. I must do him the justice to say that I don’t think you’ve been out of his thoughts for a minute. And how nice he is! Oh, dear, there’s the table-d’hôte bell! You’ll not go down, of course? No, I told Giuseppe so as I passed. But you won’t mind Mr Penington coming up afterwards? He wanted to so very much that I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. Besides, he is very understanding and won’t tease you; you needn’t even try to talk, for he has a whole heap of Etruscan tomby things from Corneto, and wants Harry to take us all there. I shan’t go. I know exactly what it’s like, one of those horrid dirty little places where one can only eat the middles of things.”
She lit the candles and went away, leaving Phillis just where she had found her, so that the girl’s thoughts, which this conversation had hardly broken in upon, rapidly shaped themselves again in the same form. She would have told herself that Miss Cartwright made the centre, and perhaps she did, but round that centre, with its tender and gentle recollections, how many other fancies grouped themselves.
And somehow or other that evening the question, which she had not yet answered to her own satisfaction, became more persistent. Mr Penington, whom she had not seen for a day or two, was radiant with the delight of being near her again, and his pleasure sent a sort of answering glow into her own heart. It was impossible for her to remain untouched by the kind thoughtfulness with which he contrived to shield and leave her in peace, or by the swiftness with which he seemed to anticipate her wishes. Gradually he drew her out of her silence into an interest in the curious things he had got together, and to promise to go to the Etruscan Museum, in the Vatican to see the collection of cottage tombs, the curious little vessels like miniature hats which were dug out of an ancient burying place in the Campagna.
“You shall go when you like,” he said eagerly.
Mrs Leyton, who was very warmly on Mr Penington’s side, looked at her husband and smiled. She had noticed something different in Phillis’s manner that night, a more passive acquiescence, perhaps, from which she augured well. Really liking her, she would have been glad that the Roman winter should end in this satisfactory fashion, and was prepared even to go through the catacombs, if Mr Penington proposed it, though she hated anything underground. Mr Penington had learnt exactly the things which Phillis liked.
“I have come round to your thinking about Titian’s picture in the Borghese,” he said to her in a low voice, when the others were talking; “I think it is the best thing in all the gallery.”
“In all Rome, I think,” said Phillis brightening. “I care for it so much that it quite hints me to hear people abuse it.”
“Are you talking of the Sacred and Profane Love?” asked Mrs Leyton, chiming in. “Mr Ibbetson could not make out which was which, don’t you remember? I can’t say it spoke very well for his artistic feeling.”
Somehow or other this little speech had a different effect from what was intended: it hurt Phillis, and though Mr Penington did not know much about Jack’s position with her, he was watching her and saw that she was vexed. He said quietly—
“That is not a very uncommon mistake at first sight, indeed, you may find it immortalised in print. But at every fresh visit the marvellous beauty comes out. Very likely the name is altogether imaginary. Vanity and Modesty would do as well for it as for Da Vinci’s picture in the Sciarra. You must come and see that one day, soon, Miss Grey; I can get an order.”
“You can get everything, I believe,” said Phillis with a smile.
He said quickly, so that only she could hear—
“I like you to say so—I shall take it as an omen;” and he then turned away, and talked for the rest of the evening to Mrs Leyton. Phillis leaned back in a kind of dream, thinking that friendship was pleasant and soothing, and wishing that others would be content with it. But they would not. And if—if only she could make up her mind to marry him, not only could she save him—this was what she thought—from the pangs of disappointment, but her own unrest might perhaps be hushed into—contentment.
And yet she would not marry Jack without an equal love. Certainly Phillis could lay no claim to be what is called a consistent character.
Chapter Twenty Three.Brought to Bay.And so Miss Cartwright was laid in that peaceful cemetery at Rome where the sweet violets clamber over the graves, and the cypresses grow tall against the blue sky, throwing shadows alike on the Christian resting-place, and on the tomb of the old republican, who had himself enclosed in a pyramid of marble. They were obliged to shut Cartouche into a room from which there was no possible exit, or the dog would have forced his way after them; and indeed, after they came back, Jack could hardly endure the questioning look of his eyes. As for Miss Preston, she could not pet him enough. She asked Jack with tears in her eyes whether he would let her take him back to Florence, where she meant to return at once, not caring to remain in Rome; but Jack would not part with the dog. For a week or two longer he intended to stay on in the house in the Via della Croce, for there were certain arrangements to make which made it necessary for him to be in Rome; then he thought he would go back to his work in London, and if the prospect looked a little forlorn, he told himself that he must get used to it, and put his shoulder to the wheel. All his aunt’s property had come to him, but this winter had also brought him a contempt of idleness, and it did not in any way modify his plans for his future life. He had seen Mrs Leyton, and something, which she purposely let drop, had confirmed his impression that Phillis was lost to him. He could not quite give up hope, but told himself that time only could answer his doubts, and meanwhile thought with some reluctance of the task which must be undertaken before Phillis would feel satisfied that Bice knew how Oliver Trent had really acted.Two days after the funeral, three people were standing in a room in the Palazzo Capponi, the windows of which looked into a square courtyard, round which ran a covered way, and which for its centre had a slender fountain, with camellias growing round it. The room itself was certainly ugly. The proportions were fine, and some good pictures hung on the walls, but the panels, doors, and ceiling were painted heavily and in bad taste, while the furniture was hideously covered with yellow satin. In the furthest window, an old Italian servant with a brown and wrinkled face sat knitting, and turning her back to the three, who were Bice, Trent, and young Moroni. It was to this last that Bice was talking eagerly in his own language, paying no attention to Trent’s looks of annoyance. At this moment the servant brought in a card.“It is Mr Ibbetson,” said Bice, after a moment’s pause. “Yes; of course we are at home to him.”If her colour rose a little, Trent did not see it. He had expected this meeting, but no preparation could subdue the feeling of dismay which seized him. He said sharply,—“I hope you will not be anything of the sort. You ought not to admit him.”“Do you suppose I will allow you to dictate to me?” she said, looking at Trent with flashing eyes.“Your mother is not here,” he said, biting his lips.“There is Brigitta—”The servant had retired into the anteroom; Bice was moving towards him, when Trent placed himself before her.“Listen to reason,” he said beseechingly. “I tell you I can’t promise to keep my temper with this man.”“And what do I care!” she retorted. “Are you afraid of him? I don’t suppose he comes to see you, and so if you like you can go away. Certainly I shall receive him.”The girl had changed in some way or other. Her beauty was, if possible, more remarkable than ever, so large were her eyes, and so curved the lines of her mouth, but instead of the frank and open manner which had been as simple as that of a child, there was noticeable a touch of hard recklessness, of defiance which was almost like despair. Young Moroni, standing by, had also changed. He had grown older, and now looked from one to the other, understanding nothing of the words, but aware that something was amiss, and ready at a sign from Bice to fling himself upon the other man. He, poor fellow, was feeling as if all his old hopes had come to an end. Trent was very pale, but had recovered his coolness. He said scornfully,—“No, I am not quite such a fool. I imagine the meeting will be less agreeable for him than for me, on the whole. But these knight-errants of yours, my dear Bice, should learn to conduct themselves less offensively when they meddle with what does not concern them. Pray, is this other also to take part in the coming interview?”“He will not be the wiser,” said the girl indifferently. Her anger seemed to have died out, and she said a few careless words to Moroni, who brightened, nodded, and took a newspaper with him into a recess where he was half hidden by a heavy yellow curtain. Then she walked to the door and threw it open. “Ask the English gentleman to come in,” she said to the servant who was waiting, and came back to the middle of the room, flinging a triumphant and haughty glance at Trent.As for him in these moments he had rapidly reviewed his position. Ever since he had heard of Ibbetson’s sudden arrival in Rome, he had known that this meeting must in all probability take place, and had prepared for it, thinking carefully over his chances, so that it did not take him by surprise, although he had had a faint hope of inducing Bice to refuse to see him. He had played a bold game, calculating that interest and the hope of regaining his uncle’s favour would keep Ibbetson in England, and managing to persuade Bice that he was misjudged from having really befriended Clive. What was she to think! Clive’s own letters almost took his part; she had already promised, and was sick at heart, while her strong will failed in spite of its bold front. Trent had worked warily with her, and had all but won. But at this moment, though this flashed through his mind, and though he was well aware how perilous was his position and how much depended on his own coolness and audacity, he felt despairingly that he was not cool. He loved this girl so passionately that it irritated him almost beyond endurance to feel that the man he looked upon as his rival was eagerly welcomed by her in the face of his expressed wish. No dread of possible consequences fell upon him so painfully as this fact.As for Bice her heart was beating fast, she did not know what she felt. When Jack came in she was standing alone in the middle of the room with all its heavy adornments. Somehow they only seemed to add to her beauty, which struck him as freshly as ever. He greeted her kindly, and exchanged a stiff bow with Trent.“We have been so shocked and grieved,” she said with eagerness. “I shall always feel as if she were the kindest person I have ever known.”“Thank you,” Jack replied gravely. “I, for one, have good reason to say so.”“Did she suffer very much?”“At first. By the time I saw her it was more weakness than pain.”“And you were in time? We have heard very few particulars.”“Yes. I arrived the afternoon before.”He was sitting next Bice on a sofa. Trent had flung himself on a chair, and taken up a book, but he was keenly on the watch. Bice, whose contemptuous mood had passed, looked at him nervously.“I thought that when you left Rome you intended to come back again? Why did you stay all that time in England?” she asked in a hesitating voice.“I did intend to return when I left, but circumstances are sometimes too strong for intentions,” said Jack, feeling a comical conviction that he was growing sententious. Pope’s line flashed through his mind: “And mark the point where sense and dulness meet.”“I hope the sense is equal to the dulness,” he thought.“And you saw Clive?”She glanced at Oliver again as she put the question, but this time her looks were defiant. She thought that Ibbetson had gathered a false impression of what Trent had done; at the same time she took a certain pleasure in introducing a subject which would perhaps irritate Trent. He at once accepted the challenge, laying down the book and saying in his soft tones:“You need hardly put that question, Bice; Mr Ibbetson not only saw Clive, but, as you know, made discoveries so new and startling, that if they had not had the misfortune to place me in a very unenviable light, I should really have been disposed to congratulate him upon their extraordinary ingenuity.”“You would be giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jack replied calmly. “My discoveries were so far from ingenious that I might have wondered at their results if I had not remembered an old saying.”“Pray allow us to benefit.”“You may go by different roads, and yet reach the same end.”Jack was getting irate at what he considered insolence, though he was ready to spare him if Bice made any sign.“Most oracular. May I ask whether the application is intended for my use?” said Trent without any change of countenance. But Ibbetson noticed that his hand which was resting on the arm of the chair, grasped it closely. He bent forward and answered,—“Certainly I have no wish to be your fellow-traveller.”Bice, who had been glancing doubtfully from one to the other, interposed.“You are not quite fair on Mr Trent. Has it ever been explained to you? Oh, then, it is no wonder. He was deceived as well as poor Clive by that wicked man.”“Was he?”“Yes, indeed. What a friend for Clive to choose! Do you think he will be more careful now? Because, if not, I am sure he will be ruined.”“He has had a lesson, of course.”“And it was all through you that the man was found out. Imagine his telling you that he had repaid the money! I suppose he is too ill to be punished?”“He is dead,” Ibbetson answered briefly.“Dead!” she looked questioningly at him; something which he could not shut out of his manner, gave her suspicions. She said with her old imperativeness, “Why do you speak in such little sentences? Are you hiding something, or are you offended? Don’t you know that we can never, never, thank you enough?”“You don’t include me in your ‘we,’ I hope,” said Trent with a sharp change of voice.“Certainly personal relations need not be discussed between us,” replied Jack haughtily. “May I ask how the history of the money continues after reaching this point?”“If it were not for this lady, I might decline to answer your questions,” said Trent in the same tone. “She being present, and considering herself under obligations to you, I will inform you that it does not continue at all. It ends with Mr Smith.”“Who is dead?”“Who is dead.”Surely there was some triumph in his voice.“And therefore beyond the possibility of being called as a witness.”“That may be your way of looking at the case. From my view I should say that he was beyond the possibility of being called to account for dishonesty.”“Take care, Mr Trent,” returned Jack gravely. Oliver glanced swiftly at him, something in his face giving him a thrill of uneasiness. Then he looked at Bice; her eyes were fixed eagerly, inquiringly upon him, the breath came quickly through her parted lips as she leaned forward. The sight of these two, sitting side by side, maddened him.“May I be permitted to ask to what your warning relates?” he said with an attempt at scorn.“Certainly. Do you wish me to enter into particulars now, or would you prefer them to be given in private?” Before Trent said “Now,” he rapidly reviewed his chances. If he could have had a hope that Ibbetson would not tell all to Bice, he would have chosen a private interview, but he felt certain that sooner or later she would be informed, and, therefore, determined to meet the charge boldly. Besides, he could see she would not be put off. And after all, was not his word as good any day as that wretched Smith’s. He said, “Now,” briefly.“Then, to put it in the fewest possible words, I may tell you that, although Smith is dead, I have in my possession such strong and clear evidence of his having paid you the money, that there would not be the smallest difficulty in proving it in a court of law.”“Perhaps a receipt,” sneered Trent.“No. But a deposition, taken when he knew himself dying, and signed in the presence of the clergyman and another witness.”“Your court of law would require a little stronger evidence than this document, however interesting, Mr Ibbetson.”He still spoke without flinching.“Oh, they would have it. The chain is very complete. There would be the evidence of the London landlady that she had furnished you with Smith’s address and refused it to others by your advice. That of Clive that you denied all knowledge of it. And lastly that of the Broadwater lodging-house keeper that you saw Smith there on such a day. What took you there?”“What’s that to you?” asked Trent firmly. But he was livid. Then suddenly changing his tone he turned imploringly to Bice, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, though she had drawn her hands tightly against her chest, and was shrinking backwards. “Bice! You at least will not believe this ridiculous slander. You and I both know that Clive would not listen to advice. I was very uneasy about him—for your sake, remember—could I have done him any harm? Perhaps I had better have treated him more openly, better for myself certainly it would have been, but I thought he would grow desperate, and lose all self-respect if I let him know that I knew his story to be false. It was for that reason that I never told him I had traced Smith. For Smith utterly denied it to me then. I believe now that he was lying, as, according to Mr Ibbetson, he has lied about me, but at the time I took his word for his statement. And then I lent Clive the money, calling it lending, but never intending to take it from him, only feeling that the effort of repaying it would make more impression than words. You understand this, Bice?”She did not answer his appeal. A mute horror seemed to have seized her. Ibbetson looked at him with more pity than she did, and bent his eyes on the ground as he went on.“Finally, there is the man Elias Brooks.”“What of him?” said Trent hoarsely.“It is never safe to buy silence, because speech will always be ready for a higher bidder. Indeed, I doubt if you knew what most required hushing up. He was interested in your interview with Smith, and is prepared to repeat the greater part of it.”“Confound you and him together,” said Trent, springing up. “Are these your tools? And you believe him?”“Yes I do; because the corroboration is exact.”“I shall expect satisfaction for these insults, Mr Ibbetson.” Oliver’s voice was choked.“Not really, I think,” Jack said coolly.“Stop!” interrupted Bice. She stood up, trembling so much that she had to rest her hand on the sofa. Trent’s eyes fell before hers which seemed to blaze with the fire of her indignation. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. “Go away, go!” she said at last with a shudder.He made a step towards her.“Bice, my darling, hear me!”“You could treat Clive like that!”“Let me explain—”“Not a word,” she interrupted. She spoke in a strained high voice, but words had come back to her. “You have deceived me from first to last. I have never loved you, but I thought you were good to Clive. Every day of my life I will thank God that He has saved me from becoming your wife. Do you hear? Now go.”The scorn, the sweeping indignation of her voice startled them all. Brigitta looked round; Moroni, whom Jack had not seen until that moment, came hurriedly forward, and stood looking from one to another. Trent caught her hand.“Take care!” he said in a sharp whisper; then, as she shook him off with such a vehement movement as that with which she would have flung some reptile from her, he went on desperately, “Are you mad? I have borne a great deal, but I cannot bear everything. Have you forgotten that there are other ties between us besides those which you are so ready to cast off? Perhaps you wish your mother to be ruined. How is she to pay her debts?”She had drawn herself to her full height, her face was very pale, her eyes seemed as if he must wither up before them. Then she laughed.“That is well, that is very, very well; I think it is the only thing that was wanted,” she said, letting her words drop one by one. “Mr Ibbetson, Giovanni, will you come and hear Mr Trent’s last appeal, and my answer.”Jack, who had turned away from a scene that pained him, and had been standing at the window, looking out at the court with its fountain, its camellias, and the rain splashing on its great paving stones, came back unwillingly. Moroni, hearing his name, though he understood nothing more, hastened forward and stood at Bice’s side, with a ready purpose in his eyes to do anything she could ask.“Not now,” said Trent, drawing back.“Yes, now,” she asserted. “Do you suppose I will ever look at your face again? Listen, then, both of you. We owe him money, and he threatens me with it—He! He supposes that even a prison would not be preferable to being his wife!”As all the passion of her Italian nature leapt forth, the scorn in her voice might have swept him away before it, but that his own rage was ungovernable. He said with a sneer:—“Oh, I imagine you have taken care to arrange for something better than a prison. Pray, is this a preconcerted scene, and is Mr Ibbetson to pay your debts and marry you?”Jack made a step forward, then he stopped himself by a strong effort. Trent had fallen beneath his punishment, he would not even speak to him; he turned to Bice and said with great gentleness:—“I am very sorry you should have been exposed to this man’s gross insults, although they cannot touch you. Will you go to your room and leave him to me?”“Signorina, what is it? what has he done?” asked Moroni, seizing her hands.But the girl was speechless. Her eyes dilated, she was deadly pale, and looked like one who had received a heavy blow. Ibbetson, who was very much grieved, said a few words in Italian to Moroni.“But it is impossible! Does he dare to reproach you—you! because your mother owes him some money! It should have been a great honour to him to have been so happy as to do her a little service. Signorina,carina,” cried the young fellow, with passionate entreaty in his voice, “I am rich, all that I have is yours!” His face was glowing, he pressed her hands to his lips; in the eagerness of his devotion he seemed to have forgotten that any others were in the room. “Only suffer me to act for you, I beseech of you!”Trent came forward once more, and though his voice shook it had regained its old softness:—“Bice!”She turned away her head.“I spoke hastily. Say one word.”She remained silent, and Ibbetson turned sharply round.“You had better go,” he said, in a low voice. “Why?” asked Trent, eyeing him sullenly,—“I should think you could answer the question for yourself; perhaps before you find yourself kicked out.”“Well, that spectacle is hardly pleasant for you or for me,” said Oliver, pointing to Moroni, who stood close to Bice as if he were her champion; “and so I leave you with greater satisfaction than might have been the case. But you have not heard the last of me, Mr Ibbetson.”He walked out of the room slowly, and except, perhaps, for the pallor of his face, no one would have guessed that he was a disgraced and disappointed man. There was a moment’s silence between them all when he had lifted the curtain and passed out, nothing breaking it except the patter of the rain on the stones of the courtyard, the click-click of old Brigitta’s needles, and the distant clang of some church bell. Moroni clenched his hands, and muttered something under his breath. Jack stood looking after Trent, uncertain what to do himself, whether to go or stay. He was roused from his thoughts by Bice’s voice:—“Is he gone?”“Yes; he is gone,” said Jack, coming back, and speaking gravely. “I’m afraid this has been a very trying interview for you. Perhaps I ought to have managed that you should have been spared. And yet—”“No, no,” she said faintly. “You have nothing to reproach yourself with. It was better that it should have been like this; it was necessary. And you must not think that it is the sort of grief you would perhaps expect—is it very wicked to feel as I do, as if a burden were lifted off my life? Because I do feel it already in spite of his threats.”“I am sure I don’t wonder,” said Ibbetson kindly, “I only wonder—”“That I ever promised to many him? Phillis would never have done so, I know, but then—I am not so brave as Phillis. And I always believed he was very good to Clive, and then he persuaded me that what he had done had been misrepresented, and I thought it was from something I had said; and so—”“Signorina, do not shut me out any longer, talk in our own language,” said young Moroni impatiently.The girl smiled; a sad little smile it was. “Poor Giovanni, whether you hear little or much, you believe always that I am right, don’t you?”“Altro, I know it, signorina!”She looked wistfully at him for a moment. Then she put out a hand to him and to Jack, with a simple confiding impulse which touched them both. “Good-bye, dear friends,” she said softly in Italian, “try always to think as kindly.”As the heavy curtain fell behind her, Moroni turned impetuously to Ibbetson.“Now, signore,” he said, “I must hear more.”“Wait a moment,” said Jack. “Is it because you love her?”“Do I not? And I mean to win her. He is dismissed, is he not? Let me hear it all, I beseech you, I burn with impatience. I will walk back with you, and then I shall hasten to her mother. What is this about the money? Shall I not call out that Trent?”
And so Miss Cartwright was laid in that peaceful cemetery at Rome where the sweet violets clamber over the graves, and the cypresses grow tall against the blue sky, throwing shadows alike on the Christian resting-place, and on the tomb of the old republican, who had himself enclosed in a pyramid of marble. They were obliged to shut Cartouche into a room from which there was no possible exit, or the dog would have forced his way after them; and indeed, after they came back, Jack could hardly endure the questioning look of his eyes. As for Miss Preston, she could not pet him enough. She asked Jack with tears in her eyes whether he would let her take him back to Florence, where she meant to return at once, not caring to remain in Rome; but Jack would not part with the dog. For a week or two longer he intended to stay on in the house in the Via della Croce, for there were certain arrangements to make which made it necessary for him to be in Rome; then he thought he would go back to his work in London, and if the prospect looked a little forlorn, he told himself that he must get used to it, and put his shoulder to the wheel. All his aunt’s property had come to him, but this winter had also brought him a contempt of idleness, and it did not in any way modify his plans for his future life. He had seen Mrs Leyton, and something, which she purposely let drop, had confirmed his impression that Phillis was lost to him. He could not quite give up hope, but told himself that time only could answer his doubts, and meanwhile thought with some reluctance of the task which must be undertaken before Phillis would feel satisfied that Bice knew how Oliver Trent had really acted.
Two days after the funeral, three people were standing in a room in the Palazzo Capponi, the windows of which looked into a square courtyard, round which ran a covered way, and which for its centre had a slender fountain, with camellias growing round it. The room itself was certainly ugly. The proportions were fine, and some good pictures hung on the walls, but the panels, doors, and ceiling were painted heavily and in bad taste, while the furniture was hideously covered with yellow satin. In the furthest window, an old Italian servant with a brown and wrinkled face sat knitting, and turning her back to the three, who were Bice, Trent, and young Moroni. It was to this last that Bice was talking eagerly in his own language, paying no attention to Trent’s looks of annoyance. At this moment the servant brought in a card.
“It is Mr Ibbetson,” said Bice, after a moment’s pause. “Yes; of course we are at home to him.”
If her colour rose a little, Trent did not see it. He had expected this meeting, but no preparation could subdue the feeling of dismay which seized him. He said sharply,—
“I hope you will not be anything of the sort. You ought not to admit him.”
“Do you suppose I will allow you to dictate to me?” she said, looking at Trent with flashing eyes.
“Your mother is not here,” he said, biting his lips.
“There is Brigitta—”
The servant had retired into the anteroom; Bice was moving towards him, when Trent placed himself before her.
“Listen to reason,” he said beseechingly. “I tell you I can’t promise to keep my temper with this man.”
“And what do I care!” she retorted. “Are you afraid of him? I don’t suppose he comes to see you, and so if you like you can go away. Certainly I shall receive him.”
The girl had changed in some way or other. Her beauty was, if possible, more remarkable than ever, so large were her eyes, and so curved the lines of her mouth, but instead of the frank and open manner which had been as simple as that of a child, there was noticeable a touch of hard recklessness, of defiance which was almost like despair. Young Moroni, standing by, had also changed. He had grown older, and now looked from one to the other, understanding nothing of the words, but aware that something was amiss, and ready at a sign from Bice to fling himself upon the other man. He, poor fellow, was feeling as if all his old hopes had come to an end. Trent was very pale, but had recovered his coolness. He said scornfully,—
“No, I am not quite such a fool. I imagine the meeting will be less agreeable for him than for me, on the whole. But these knight-errants of yours, my dear Bice, should learn to conduct themselves less offensively when they meddle with what does not concern them. Pray, is this other also to take part in the coming interview?”
“He will not be the wiser,” said the girl indifferently. Her anger seemed to have died out, and she said a few careless words to Moroni, who brightened, nodded, and took a newspaper with him into a recess where he was half hidden by a heavy yellow curtain. Then she walked to the door and threw it open. “Ask the English gentleman to come in,” she said to the servant who was waiting, and came back to the middle of the room, flinging a triumphant and haughty glance at Trent.
As for him in these moments he had rapidly reviewed his position. Ever since he had heard of Ibbetson’s sudden arrival in Rome, he had known that this meeting must in all probability take place, and had prepared for it, thinking carefully over his chances, so that it did not take him by surprise, although he had had a faint hope of inducing Bice to refuse to see him. He had played a bold game, calculating that interest and the hope of regaining his uncle’s favour would keep Ibbetson in England, and managing to persuade Bice that he was misjudged from having really befriended Clive. What was she to think! Clive’s own letters almost took his part; she had already promised, and was sick at heart, while her strong will failed in spite of its bold front. Trent had worked warily with her, and had all but won. But at this moment, though this flashed through his mind, and though he was well aware how perilous was his position and how much depended on his own coolness and audacity, he felt despairingly that he was not cool. He loved this girl so passionately that it irritated him almost beyond endurance to feel that the man he looked upon as his rival was eagerly welcomed by her in the face of his expressed wish. No dread of possible consequences fell upon him so painfully as this fact.
As for Bice her heart was beating fast, she did not know what she felt. When Jack came in she was standing alone in the middle of the room with all its heavy adornments. Somehow they only seemed to add to her beauty, which struck him as freshly as ever. He greeted her kindly, and exchanged a stiff bow with Trent.
“We have been so shocked and grieved,” she said with eagerness. “I shall always feel as if she were the kindest person I have ever known.”
“Thank you,” Jack replied gravely. “I, for one, have good reason to say so.”
“Did she suffer very much?”
“At first. By the time I saw her it was more weakness than pain.”
“And you were in time? We have heard very few particulars.”
“Yes. I arrived the afternoon before.”
He was sitting next Bice on a sofa. Trent had flung himself on a chair, and taken up a book, but he was keenly on the watch. Bice, whose contemptuous mood had passed, looked at him nervously.
“I thought that when you left Rome you intended to come back again? Why did you stay all that time in England?” she asked in a hesitating voice.
“I did intend to return when I left, but circumstances are sometimes too strong for intentions,” said Jack, feeling a comical conviction that he was growing sententious. Pope’s line flashed through his mind: “And mark the point where sense and dulness meet.”
“I hope the sense is equal to the dulness,” he thought.
“And you saw Clive?”
She glanced at Oliver again as she put the question, but this time her looks were defiant. She thought that Ibbetson had gathered a false impression of what Trent had done; at the same time she took a certain pleasure in introducing a subject which would perhaps irritate Trent. He at once accepted the challenge, laying down the book and saying in his soft tones:
“You need hardly put that question, Bice; Mr Ibbetson not only saw Clive, but, as you know, made discoveries so new and startling, that if they had not had the misfortune to place me in a very unenviable light, I should really have been disposed to congratulate him upon their extraordinary ingenuity.”
“You would be giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jack replied calmly. “My discoveries were so far from ingenious that I might have wondered at their results if I had not remembered an old saying.”
“Pray allow us to benefit.”
“You may go by different roads, and yet reach the same end.”
Jack was getting irate at what he considered insolence, though he was ready to spare him if Bice made any sign.
“Most oracular. May I ask whether the application is intended for my use?” said Trent without any change of countenance. But Ibbetson noticed that his hand which was resting on the arm of the chair, grasped it closely. He bent forward and answered,—
“Certainly I have no wish to be your fellow-traveller.”
Bice, who had been glancing doubtfully from one to the other, interposed.
“You are not quite fair on Mr Trent. Has it ever been explained to you? Oh, then, it is no wonder. He was deceived as well as poor Clive by that wicked man.”
“Was he?”
“Yes, indeed. What a friend for Clive to choose! Do you think he will be more careful now? Because, if not, I am sure he will be ruined.”
“He has had a lesson, of course.”
“And it was all through you that the man was found out. Imagine his telling you that he had repaid the money! I suppose he is too ill to be punished?”
“He is dead,” Ibbetson answered briefly.
“Dead!” she looked questioningly at him; something which he could not shut out of his manner, gave her suspicions. She said with her old imperativeness, “Why do you speak in such little sentences? Are you hiding something, or are you offended? Don’t you know that we can never, never, thank you enough?”
“You don’t include me in your ‘we,’ I hope,” said Trent with a sharp change of voice.
“Certainly personal relations need not be discussed between us,” replied Jack haughtily. “May I ask how the history of the money continues after reaching this point?”
“If it were not for this lady, I might decline to answer your questions,” said Trent in the same tone. “She being present, and considering herself under obligations to you, I will inform you that it does not continue at all. It ends with Mr Smith.”
“Who is dead?”
“Who is dead.”
Surely there was some triumph in his voice.
“And therefore beyond the possibility of being called as a witness.”
“That may be your way of looking at the case. From my view I should say that he was beyond the possibility of being called to account for dishonesty.”
“Take care, Mr Trent,” returned Jack gravely. Oliver glanced swiftly at him, something in his face giving him a thrill of uneasiness. Then he looked at Bice; her eyes were fixed eagerly, inquiringly upon him, the breath came quickly through her parted lips as she leaned forward. The sight of these two, sitting side by side, maddened him.
“May I be permitted to ask to what your warning relates?” he said with an attempt at scorn.
“Certainly. Do you wish me to enter into particulars now, or would you prefer them to be given in private?” Before Trent said “Now,” he rapidly reviewed his chances. If he could have had a hope that Ibbetson would not tell all to Bice, he would have chosen a private interview, but he felt certain that sooner or later she would be informed, and, therefore, determined to meet the charge boldly. Besides, he could see she would not be put off. And after all, was not his word as good any day as that wretched Smith’s. He said, “Now,” briefly.
“Then, to put it in the fewest possible words, I may tell you that, although Smith is dead, I have in my possession such strong and clear evidence of his having paid you the money, that there would not be the smallest difficulty in proving it in a court of law.”
“Perhaps a receipt,” sneered Trent.
“No. But a deposition, taken when he knew himself dying, and signed in the presence of the clergyman and another witness.”
“Your court of law would require a little stronger evidence than this document, however interesting, Mr Ibbetson.”
He still spoke without flinching.
“Oh, they would have it. The chain is very complete. There would be the evidence of the London landlady that she had furnished you with Smith’s address and refused it to others by your advice. That of Clive that you denied all knowledge of it. And lastly that of the Broadwater lodging-house keeper that you saw Smith there on such a day. What took you there?”
“What’s that to you?” asked Trent firmly. But he was livid. Then suddenly changing his tone he turned imploringly to Bice, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, though she had drawn her hands tightly against her chest, and was shrinking backwards. “Bice! You at least will not believe this ridiculous slander. You and I both know that Clive would not listen to advice. I was very uneasy about him—for your sake, remember—could I have done him any harm? Perhaps I had better have treated him more openly, better for myself certainly it would have been, but I thought he would grow desperate, and lose all self-respect if I let him know that I knew his story to be false. It was for that reason that I never told him I had traced Smith. For Smith utterly denied it to me then. I believe now that he was lying, as, according to Mr Ibbetson, he has lied about me, but at the time I took his word for his statement. And then I lent Clive the money, calling it lending, but never intending to take it from him, only feeling that the effort of repaying it would make more impression than words. You understand this, Bice?”
She did not answer his appeal. A mute horror seemed to have seized her. Ibbetson looked at him with more pity than she did, and bent his eyes on the ground as he went on.
“Finally, there is the man Elias Brooks.”
“What of him?” said Trent hoarsely.
“It is never safe to buy silence, because speech will always be ready for a higher bidder. Indeed, I doubt if you knew what most required hushing up. He was interested in your interview with Smith, and is prepared to repeat the greater part of it.”
“Confound you and him together,” said Trent, springing up. “Are these your tools? And you believe him?”
“Yes I do; because the corroboration is exact.”
“I shall expect satisfaction for these insults, Mr Ibbetson.” Oliver’s voice was choked.
“Not really, I think,” Jack said coolly.
“Stop!” interrupted Bice. She stood up, trembling so much that she had to rest her hand on the sofa. Trent’s eyes fell before hers which seemed to blaze with the fire of her indignation. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. “Go away, go!” she said at last with a shudder.
He made a step towards her.
“Bice, my darling, hear me!”
“You could treat Clive like that!”
“Let me explain—”
“Not a word,” she interrupted. She spoke in a strained high voice, but words had come back to her. “You have deceived me from first to last. I have never loved you, but I thought you were good to Clive. Every day of my life I will thank God that He has saved me from becoming your wife. Do you hear? Now go.”
The scorn, the sweeping indignation of her voice startled them all. Brigitta looked round; Moroni, whom Jack had not seen until that moment, came hurriedly forward, and stood looking from one to another. Trent caught her hand.
“Take care!” he said in a sharp whisper; then, as she shook him off with such a vehement movement as that with which she would have flung some reptile from her, he went on desperately, “Are you mad? I have borne a great deal, but I cannot bear everything. Have you forgotten that there are other ties between us besides those which you are so ready to cast off? Perhaps you wish your mother to be ruined. How is she to pay her debts?”
She had drawn herself to her full height, her face was very pale, her eyes seemed as if he must wither up before them. Then she laughed.
“That is well, that is very, very well; I think it is the only thing that was wanted,” she said, letting her words drop one by one. “Mr Ibbetson, Giovanni, will you come and hear Mr Trent’s last appeal, and my answer.”
Jack, who had turned away from a scene that pained him, and had been standing at the window, looking out at the court with its fountain, its camellias, and the rain splashing on its great paving stones, came back unwillingly. Moroni, hearing his name, though he understood nothing more, hastened forward and stood at Bice’s side, with a ready purpose in his eyes to do anything she could ask.
“Not now,” said Trent, drawing back.
“Yes, now,” she asserted. “Do you suppose I will ever look at your face again? Listen, then, both of you. We owe him money, and he threatens me with it—He! He supposes that even a prison would not be preferable to being his wife!”
As all the passion of her Italian nature leapt forth, the scorn in her voice might have swept him away before it, but that his own rage was ungovernable. He said with a sneer:—
“Oh, I imagine you have taken care to arrange for something better than a prison. Pray, is this a preconcerted scene, and is Mr Ibbetson to pay your debts and marry you?”
Jack made a step forward, then he stopped himself by a strong effort. Trent had fallen beneath his punishment, he would not even speak to him; he turned to Bice and said with great gentleness:—
“I am very sorry you should have been exposed to this man’s gross insults, although they cannot touch you. Will you go to your room and leave him to me?”
“Signorina, what is it? what has he done?” asked Moroni, seizing her hands.
But the girl was speechless. Her eyes dilated, she was deadly pale, and looked like one who had received a heavy blow. Ibbetson, who was very much grieved, said a few words in Italian to Moroni.
“But it is impossible! Does he dare to reproach you—you! because your mother owes him some money! It should have been a great honour to him to have been so happy as to do her a little service. Signorina,carina,” cried the young fellow, with passionate entreaty in his voice, “I am rich, all that I have is yours!” His face was glowing, he pressed her hands to his lips; in the eagerness of his devotion he seemed to have forgotten that any others were in the room. “Only suffer me to act for you, I beseech of you!”
Trent came forward once more, and though his voice shook it had regained its old softness:—
“Bice!”
She turned away her head.
“I spoke hastily. Say one word.”
She remained silent, and Ibbetson turned sharply round.
“You had better go,” he said, in a low voice. “Why?” asked Trent, eyeing him sullenly,—
“I should think you could answer the question for yourself; perhaps before you find yourself kicked out.”
“Well, that spectacle is hardly pleasant for you or for me,” said Oliver, pointing to Moroni, who stood close to Bice as if he were her champion; “and so I leave you with greater satisfaction than might have been the case. But you have not heard the last of me, Mr Ibbetson.”
He walked out of the room slowly, and except, perhaps, for the pallor of his face, no one would have guessed that he was a disgraced and disappointed man. There was a moment’s silence between them all when he had lifted the curtain and passed out, nothing breaking it except the patter of the rain on the stones of the courtyard, the click-click of old Brigitta’s needles, and the distant clang of some church bell. Moroni clenched his hands, and muttered something under his breath. Jack stood looking after Trent, uncertain what to do himself, whether to go or stay. He was roused from his thoughts by Bice’s voice:—
“Is he gone?”
“Yes; he is gone,” said Jack, coming back, and speaking gravely. “I’m afraid this has been a very trying interview for you. Perhaps I ought to have managed that you should have been spared. And yet—”
“No, no,” she said faintly. “You have nothing to reproach yourself with. It was better that it should have been like this; it was necessary. And you must not think that it is the sort of grief you would perhaps expect—is it very wicked to feel as I do, as if a burden were lifted off my life? Because I do feel it already in spite of his threats.”
“I am sure I don’t wonder,” said Ibbetson kindly, “I only wonder—”
“That I ever promised to many him? Phillis would never have done so, I know, but then—I am not so brave as Phillis. And I always believed he was very good to Clive, and then he persuaded me that what he had done had been misrepresented, and I thought it was from something I had said; and so—”
“Signorina, do not shut me out any longer, talk in our own language,” said young Moroni impatiently.
The girl smiled; a sad little smile it was. “Poor Giovanni, whether you hear little or much, you believe always that I am right, don’t you?”
“Altro, I know it, signorina!”
She looked wistfully at him for a moment. Then she put out a hand to him and to Jack, with a simple confiding impulse which touched them both. “Good-bye, dear friends,” she said softly in Italian, “try always to think as kindly.”
As the heavy curtain fell behind her, Moroni turned impetuously to Ibbetson.
“Now, signore,” he said, “I must hear more.”
“Wait a moment,” said Jack. “Is it because you love her?”
“Do I not? And I mean to win her. He is dismissed, is he not? Let me hear it all, I beseech you, I burn with impatience. I will walk back with you, and then I shall hasten to her mother. What is this about the money? Shall I not call out that Trent?”