CHAPTER XXXTHE QUALITIES OF IGNATIAIn amazement, John put out his hand. He touched her to see if she was real. Her hand answered. She caught his finger. Then she let it fall."Are you sorry?" she whispered.He looked up at the image of St. Anthony, then back at her; around the church, then back once more at her."Where have you come from?" he asked."From home--from London.""When?""I arrived last night.""Alone?""No! No! With the Crossthwaites.""Then what has happened?""Why--nothing has happened--and----" her voice dropped below the whisper--that strange pitch in which you hear not a syllable, yet know the worst--"and everything has happened.""You're going to be married?"It sounded no less terrible in his voice because he knew it."Yes.""Then why have you come here?""The Crossthwaites were going. They asked me to come too. It was the only chance I knew I should ever have--our City of Beautiful Nonsense--I had to come."Still John gazed at her, as though she were unreal. One does not always believe one's own eyes, for there are some things, which the readiness to see will constitute the power of vision. He put out his hand again."I can hardly believe it," he said slowly. "Here, just a minute ago, I was telling St. Anthony all I had lost. You--the best thing in my life--my ideal as well--even my sense of humour."She looked up at his face wondering. There had been strange lost things for which she had prayed to St. Anthony--things to which only a woman can act as valuer. But to pray for a lost sense of humour. She touched the hand that he put out."You're very funny," she said gently--"You're very quaint. Do you think you'll find the sense of humour again?""I've found it," said John."Already?""Yes--already." One eye lifted to St. Anthony.Then he told her about the hawker and that rare, that valuable coin--the English penny--and in two minutes, they were laughing with their heads in their hands.This is not a reverent thing to do in a church. The least that you can offer, is to hide your face, or, turning quickly to the burial service in the prayer-book--granted that you understand Latin--read that. Failing that of burial, the service of matrimony will do just as well.But before the image of St. Anthony, to whom you have been praying for a lost gift of laughter--well, you may be sure that St. Anthony will excuse it. After all, it is only a compliment to his powers; and the quality of saintliness, being nothing without its relation to humanity, must surely argue some little weakness somewhere. What better then than the pride that is pardonable?At length, when she had answered all his questions, when he had answered all hers, they rose reluctantly to their feet."I must go back to them," she said regretfully."But I shall see you again?""Oh, yes.""Does Mrs. Crossthwaite know that you have seen me?""Yes. Her husband doesn't. He wouldn't understand."John smiled."Men never do," said he. "They have too keen a sense of what is wrong for other people. When shall I see you?""This afternoon.""Where?""Anywhere----" she paused."You were going to say something," said John quickly. "What is it?"She looked away. In the scheme of this world's anomalies, there is such a thing as a duty to oneself. They have not thought it wise to write it in the catechism, for truly it is but capable of so indefinite a rendering into language, that it would be only dangerous to set it forth. For language, after all, is merely a sound box, full of words, in the noisy rattling of which, the finer expression of all thought is lost.But a thousand times, Jill had thought of it--that duty. Its phrases form quite readily in the mind; they construct themselves with ease; the words flow merrily.Why, she had asked herself, should she sacrifice her happiness to the welfare of those who had brought her into the world? What claim had they upon her, who had never questioned her as to a desire for existence?All this is so simply said. Its justice is so palpably apparent. And if she had gained nothing herself by the transaction, it would have been so easy of following. But the mere knowledge that she stood to win the very heart of her desire at the cost of some others' welfare, filled her with the apprehension that she was only inventing this duty of self for her own gratification, as a narcotic to the sleeplessness of her own conscience.The education of the sex has so persistently driven out egotism from their natures, that the woman who finds paramount the importance of herself, has but a small place in this modern community.Fast in her very blood, was bred in Jill that complete annihilation of selfishness, that absolute abandonment to Destiny. Strive as she might, she could not place her own desires before the needs of her father and mother; she could not see the first essential of happiness in that gain to herself which would crush the prospects of her brother Ronald.To such women as these--and notwithstanding the advent of the tradeswoman into the sex, there are many--to be able to give all, is their embarrassment of riches, to withhold nothing is their conception of wealth.In the ideal which she had formed of John, Jill knew that he was possessed of more in himself, than ever would be the bounty bequeathed to those three people dependent upon her generosity. And so, she had given her consent of marriage to one, whom she might have valued as a friend, whom, as a man, she respected in every way, but who well, since brevity is invaluable--like poor St. Joseph, had a brown beard.All this, in the pause that had followed John's question, had passed for the thousandth time through Jill's mind, bringing her inevitably once more to the realisation of her duty to others. And when he pressed her again, offering, not perhaps the penny for her thoughts, but an equivalent, just as valuable as that most valuable of coins, the promise of his eyes, she shook her head."Ah, but you were going to say something!" he pleaded."I was going to ask you," said she, "if you would take me to see your people." She hesitated. "I--I want to have tea with them out of the little blue and white cups with no handles. I want to go and buy lace with the little old white-haired lady in the arcades."He seized her hand so that she winced."You've not forgotten! You shall come this afternoon." And there, with a smile, she left him, still standing by the silent image of St. Anthony; and, gratitude being that part of prayer which belongs to the heart and has nothing in common with delay, John knelt down again. When Jill looked back over her shoulder, his head was buried in his hands.The little old white-haired lady was waiting over the mid-day meal for him when he returned. His father had taken his food and gone out again, leaving her alone to keep John company. She was sitting patiently there at the head of the table and, by the side of her empty plate, stood a small bottle containing white pills, over which she hurriedly laid her hand as he entered.But clever as they are, in their cunning, childish ways, old people lose all the superior craft of deceit. They go back to childhood when they imagine that once a thing is hidden, it is out of sight. That is not at all the case. There comes a moment when it is too late to conceal; when curiosity will bring the hidden thing twice vividly before the eyes. Under the very nose of John, was the best place for that secret bottle of pills, had she needed it not to be seen.As it was, his eyes travelled more quickly than her hand. She made a gentle little effort to hide her concern as well. She smiled up at him, asking where he had been. But it would not do. The child is parent to the man, he is parent to the woman too--a stern parent, moreover, who will brook no simple trifling with his authority, who overlooks nothing and whose judgments are the blind record of an implacable justice. John could not let that little deception pass. Instead of answering her question, instead of taking his place at the table, he came to her side and put one arm gently round her neck."What are you hiding, dearest?" he asked.Like a child, who is discovered in the act of nefarious negotiations with the good things of this world, she quietly took her hand away. There stood the innocent little bottle in all its nakedness. John stared at it questioningly--then at his mother."Is it something that you have to take, dearest?" he asked. "Aren't you well?""Yes, I'm quite well," she said, and she played nervously with the cork in the little bottle. It was a delicate subject. She began to wish that she had never embarked upon it at all. But faith brings with it a rare quality of courage, and so firmly did she believe, with the quaint simplicity of her heart, in the course she had determined to adopt, that the wish broke like a bubble on the moment."Well, what is in the bottle?" persisted John."Ignatia."There was just the faintness of a whisper in her voice. She had not found full courage as yet. Even in their firmest beliefs, old people are pursued by the fear of being thought foolish. The new generation always frightens them; it knows so much more than they."Ignatia?" John repeated."Yes--I--I want you to take it."She began uncorking the bottle."Me? What for? I'm all right. I'm not ill.""No--but----" she paused."But what?""It'll do you good. Try it, to please me."She hid her white head against his coat."But what for, dearest?""Have you never heard of Ignatia?" she asked.John shook his head."It's a plant. It's a homeopathic medicine. It's a cure for all sorts of things. People take it when their nerves are bad, for worry, for insomnia. It's a cure for trouble when--when you're in love."She said it so simply, in such fear that he would laugh; but when he looked down and found the hopefulness in her eyes, laughter was impossible. He caught it back, but his nostrils quivered."And do you want to cure me of being in love?" he asked with a straightened face."I thought you'd be happier, my dear, if you could get over it.""So you recommend Ignatia?""I've known it do wonders," she asserted. "Poor Claudina was very much in love with a worthless fellow--Tina--one of the gondolier!--surely you remember him. He lived on theGiudecca."John nodded smiling."Well, she came to me one day, crying her heart out. She declared she was in love with the most worthless man in the whole of Venice. 'Get over it then, Claudina,' I said. But she assured me that it was impossible. He had only to put up his little finger, she said and she had to go to his beckoning, if only to tell him how worthless she thought he was. Well--I prescribed Ignatia, and she was cured of it in a week. She laughs when she talks about him now."John was forced to smile, but as quickly it died away."And is that what you want me to do?" he asked. "Do you want me to be able to laugh when I talk about the lady of St. Joseph? You'd be as sorry as I should, if I did. It would hurt you as much as it would me.""Then you won't take it, John?" She looked up imploringly into his face."No--no charms or potions for me. Besides--" he bent down close to her ear--"the lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to see you this afternoon."With a little cry of delight, she threw the bottle of Ignatia down upon the table and caught his face in her trembling hands.CHAPTER XXXITHE SACRIFICEA belief in Ignatia argues a ready disposition for Romance.The mind of the little old white-haired lady belonged to that period when love was a visitation only to be cured by the use of simples, herbs, and magic. She called the treatment--homeopathic. It was her gentle way of assuring herself that she marched bravely with the times; that the superstition of the Middle-Ages had nothing whatever to do with it.This is all very well; but there is no such scientific name for the portents told by the flight of a magpie; you cannot take shelter behind fine-sounding words when you admit to the good fortune brought by a black cat; there is no marching with the times for you, if you are impelled to throw salt over your left shoulder. You are not stepping it with the new generation then. And all these things were essentials in the life of the little old white-haired lady. Certainly there were no flights of magpies over the tiny Italian garden at the back of thePalazzo Capelloto disturb the peace of her mind with joyous or terrible prognostications. But the resources of an old lady's suspicions are not exhausted in a flight of magpies. Oh, no! She has many more expedients than that.The very day before John's announcement of the advent of the lady of St. Joseph to Venice, she had seen the new moon, a slim silver sickle, over her right shoulder. There is good omen in that. She had gone to bed the happier because of it. What it betokened, it was not in the range of her knowledge at the time to conceive. Destiny, in these matters, as in many others, is not so outspoken as it might be. But immediately John told her, she remembered that little slip of a moon. Then this was what it had heralded--the coming of the lady of St. Joseph.As soon as their meal was finished, John went out to the Piazza, the meeting place which he had arranged with Jill, leaving his mother and Claudina to make all preparations for his return. How fast the heart of the little old white-haired lady beat then, it would be difficult to say. She was as excited as when Claudina put the treasures away to bed in their night-caps. Her little brown eyes sparkled, for a party to old people is much the same as is a party to a child. The preparations for it are the whirlwind that carries the imagination into the vortex of the event. And this, for which she was getting ready, was all illuminated with the halo of Romance.Sometimes, perhaps, a wave of jealousy would bring the blood warmly to her cheeks. Supposing the lady of St. Joseph was not equal to her expectations? Supposing she did not fulfil her hopes and demands of the woman whom she had destined in her mind to be the wife of her son? How could she tell him? How could she warn him that he was unwise? How could she show him that the woman he loved was unworthy of him? It would be a difficult task to accomplish; but her lips set tight at the thought of it. She would shirk no duty so grave or serious as that.Yet all these fears, with an effort, she put away from her. A generous sense of justice told her that she might judge when she had seen, so she sent out Claudina when everything was ready, to buy some cakes at Lavena's and, stealing into her bedroom, knelt down before the little altar at her bedside.There, some ten minutes later, her husband found her. It was not her custom to pray at that time of the afternoon, unless for some special request and, for a moment, he stood in silence, watching the white head buried in the pathetically twisted hands, the faint rays of the little coloured lamp before the image shining through the silken silver of her hair.When at last, she raised her head and found him standing there, a smile crept into her eyes. She beckoned to him silently to come to her, and when he reached her side, she pulled him gently to his knees."What is it?" he whispered."I'm praying for John," she whispered back, for when you kneel before an altar, even if it is only rough-made out of an old box, as was this, you are in a chapel; you are in a cathedral; you are at the very feet of God Himself and you must speak low."What about him?" he whispered again.She put her dear lips close to his ear with its tuft of white hair growing stiffly on the lobe, and she whispered:"The lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to tea this afternoon."And then, looking round over his shoulder, to see that he had closed the door--because old gentlemen are sensitive about these things--his arm slipped round her neck and both their heads bent together. It was, after all, their own lives they were praying for. Every prayer that is offered, every prayer that is granted, is really for the benefit of the whole world.What they prayed for--how they prayed; what quaint little sentences shaped themselves in her mind, what fine phrases rolled in his, it is beyond power to say. Certain it is that a woman comes before her God in all the simplest garments of her faith, while a man still carries his dignity well hung upon the shoulder.Presently, they rose together and went into the other room. Everything was in readiness. The blue and white cups were smiling in their saucers; the brass kettle was beginning its tempting song upon the spirit stove."Do you like my cap?" asked the little old white-haired lady and, looking down to see if his waistcoat was not too creased, the old gentleman said that it was the daintiest cap that he had ever seen."Poor John will be very shy," she continued, as she sat down and tried to fold her hands in her lap as though she were at ease."John! shy!"The old gentleman laughed at the idea of it and kissed her wrinkled cheek to hide his excitement. John, shy! He remembered the days of his own love-making. He had never been shy. It was like an accusation against himself. Besides, what woman worth her salt would have anything to do with the love-making of a man who was shy? John, shy! He straightened his waistcoat for the second time, because it was getting near the moment of their arrival, the kettle was nearly boiling, and he was beginning to feel just a little bit embarrassed."Did John say when they were going to be married?" he asked presently."Oh, but you mustn't say that to him!" she cried out quickly. "Why, he told me that he would never see her again. He said that they were friends--just friends. But d'you think I can't guess! Why has she come to Venice? She must have known he was here. Oh, he'll tell nothing about it. We must just treat her as if she were a friend. But----" She shook her head knowingly, not caring to finish her sentence.Of course, she guessed it all--their meeting in the chapel--their meeting in Kensington Gardens! A young man and a young woman do not meet like that, unless it be that there is some good reason for it. Besides--that last candle! What woman could fail to fall in love with a man, who had thought of such a gentle consideration as that, even letting alone the fact that that man was her son? There are some things in this world which a woman knows and it is not the faintest use trying to contradict her. To begin with, she is bound to be right, and secondly, if it were possible to prove her wrong, it would only convince her the more firmly of her opinion.The old lady knew quite well what she was talking about. These two were as fondly in love with each other as it was possible for them to be. Their meeting here in Venice, after John had assured her that they were never going to see each other again, was all the proof that she needed of it. And with this knowledge held firmly in the heart of her, she was already pre-disposed to see those signs by which, in spite of all their cleverness, two people are bound in this predicament to show their hands.At last the bell clanged loudly. Its jangling hammered like echoes beating to and fro against the walls of their hearts. The old lady set straight her cap for the twentieth time; for the twentieth time, the old gentleman pulled down his waistcoat, then he crept to the door and looked out into the big room."Claudina's going!" he whispered back over his shoulder. "She's opened the door. Yes--it's John!"He came back quickly to his seat and there, when the two visitors entered, they were sitting opposite to each other, quite placidly, quite calmly, as though there were nothing left to happen in the world. Yet I doubt if four hearts ever beat so quickly beneath such quiet exteriors as these."This is Miss Dealtry," said John--in much the same tone of voice as when he had told the cabman to drive to the opera.The old gentleman had risen from his chair and, coming forward, with that air--it is the air of courtesy--which makes a woman feel a queen, if she is only a washerwoman, he took her hand, bowed low as he gently shook it and then, drawing her further into the room, he bowed solemnly again."My wife," said he, just catching the last note from the tone of John's voice.The little old white-haired lady held out her hands and, as Jill saw the tortured, twisted fingers, her heart shuddered in pity. But before that shudder could be seen, she had bent down and kissed the wrinkled face that was lifted up to hers and from that moment, these two loved each other.With women, these things are spontaneous. A woman will go through the play of pretending to kiss another; she will put forward her cheek, mutter an affectionate word and kiss the air with her lips. No one is deceived by it. The lookers-on know quite well that these two must hate each other. The actors know it perfectly well themselves. But once the lips of two women meet, their hearts go with the touching.From the instant that the lips of the little old lady touched Jill's, there was sealed a bond. They both loved John, and in that kiss they both admitted it. The mother wanted no further proof than this. Then all jealousy vanished. With that kiss, she made the mother's sacrifice, the sacrifice which is the last that the incessant demands of nature makes upon her sex. She gave up the love of her son into the keeping of another woman. And when Jill stood up again, the old lady's heart had died down to a quiet, faint measure, fainter perhaps a little than it had been before. Her life was finished. There was only left the waiting and her eyes, still bright, sought John's, but found them fixed on Jill.CHAPTER XXXIITHE DEPARTURE--VENICEBefore that little tea party was over, these two old people had won the heart of Jill. For all the world, they were like two children, making believe with the most serious things in life. Like children, they looked at each other in surprise when anything happened, or when anything was said. Like children, they laughed or were intensely earnest over their game. Like children, it seemed as if they were playing at being old, he, with his nodding of the head, she, with her crumpled figure and withered hands.Sometimes at a thing that John would say, they would look at each other and smile. It had reminded them of something far back in the years of which neither John nor Jill knew anything. And in this again, they were like children, upon whose faces one may sometimes trace a distant look of memory--a look that is very marvellous and very wise--as though they were gazing back into the heart of Time from which the hand of destiny has brought them.Yet it was not only this--this charm of wonderful simplicity--but that whenever Jill looked up, she found their eyes resting tenderly on her. It seemed--she did not understand why just then--as though they were trying mutely to tell her how fond of her they were.Then, when the old gentleman handed her her cup of tea, she recognised from the description, the china of blue and white and turned with a smile to John."Aren't these the cups?" she asked gently.He nodded his head and tried to smile, too. The old lady watched those smiles. Her eyes never left them for a moment."I've been told about these cups," Jill explained to the others. "Your son told me one day when--when he was giving me a description of where you lived.""That's the real Chinese cobalt," said the old gentleman. "John told you that of course.""Well--no--they were not described in detail--at least----" suddenly she found the blood mounting to her cheeks. "I--I knew that they had no handles."Why did she blush? The little old lady had not failed to see that sudden flame of colour. Why did she blush? Something she had remembered? Something that John had said? She looked quickly at her son. His eyes were bent on Jill.Oh, yes, they loved. There was no fear of her mistaking that. There was a secret between them; a secret that had set free a flood of colour to Jill's cheeks, that had brought a look of fixed intent into John's eyes. What other could such secret be between a boy and girl, than love? No one can keep it; but it is the greatest secret in the world.Before the tea was over, they had betrayed it in a thousand different ways to the sharp, bright eyes of the little old white-haired lady. When vying with John to do honour to their guest, the old gentleman persuaded Jill to take from the plate he proffered, then she bent her head and smiled to see her husband's pride and poor John's discomfiture."She loves him! She loves him!" she whispered in her heart. "She is the very woman for my John!""A charming little girl," whispered the old man's vanity, as he proudly bore the plate back to the table. "Exactly the woman I would have chosen for John myself."And John was disconsolately wondering why, if she loved him, Jill had so patently refused his offering.Why had she refused? The little old white-haired lady knew that. She wanted to please his father, because she loved John. That was their secret. How it affected the blue and white china, she could not guess; but that was their secret--they loved.Only by exercising the greatest control over herself, could she refrain from drawing her aside and telling Jill all she had seen, all she had guessed, and all she hoped.Presently, without seeking for it, the opportunity presented itself. They had been eating little jam sandwiches--jam sandwiches, which Claudina knew how to cut so thin, that the bread was almost threadbare, and looked as if it wanted darning. They melted in your mouth, but then, they made your fingers sticky. Jill looked ruefully at hers when the tea was over. Holding them away from her at arm's length, she made a little grimace. When one was young, one's mouth was the best, the quickest, the most approved-of remedy for these matters. She might have wished she were a child then, but wishing was all. She asked to be allowed to wash them."You will come into my room, dear," said the little old lady eagerly, and away she led her, where John could not hope to follow.Ah, then she was cunning, when once she had her alone! What subtle little compliments she paid! You would scarcely believe how cunning she could be."That is your little altar?" said Jill, when she had dried her hands. As she walked across to it, the old lady took her arm. It needed but little manipulation from there to slip her hand into Jill's. It needed but little management to show her in a hundred tender ways as she clung to her for support, that she found her very dear, very loveable.The hearts of women are responsive things. When there is sympathy between them, they touch and answer, as though some current united them, as well indeed it may.So gentle, so expressive were those simple signs that passed between Jill and the little old white-haired lady, that Jill was stricken in conscience, realising all that they meant and wondering, almost guiltily, what they would think of her if they knew. They must never know. She could not bear the thought that these two old people, far away in Venice as they might be, should hold in their hearts anything but the affection which they were showing to her then."I was praying here just before you came," said the little old lady in a whisper.Jill pressed the withered hand."Do you know what I was praying for?"A sudden fear seized Jill. She felt her forehead cold."No----" she tried to smile--"How could I know?""I was praying for John." She looked up simply into Jill's face. "He's such a dear boy, you don't know. Look at the way he comes every year to see us--all the way from London. I wonder would any other son do as much. Do you think they would?"She asked the question as naïvely as if, were there any doubt about it, she really would like to know. You might have known there was no doubt in her mind.Before that little altar then, was a dangerous place to discuss such subjects. Jill drew her gently away towards the door."Do you think there are any other sons have such a mother?" she said. "Why don't you ask yourself that question?"The little old lady looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. "I thought perhaps you'd understand it better that way," she answered. "Besides--it's easy to be a mother. You have only to have a son. It's not so easy to be a son, because you need more than a mother for that."Jill looked at her tenderly, then bent and kissed her cheek."I think John's very like you," she whispered. She could not keep it back. And that was as much as the little old white-haired lady wanted; that was all she had been playing for. With her head high in triumph, she walked back with Jill to join the others.Soon afterwards Jill declared she must go; that her friends would be waiting for her."But when----" the old people began in a breath, then stopped together."You say, my dear," said the old gentleman--"I can wait."Oh, no--she would not hear of it. He began first. Let him say what he wanted to. He shook his head and bowed. John caught Jill's eye and they held their laughter."Then when----" they both began again together and this time, they finished out their sentence--"are we going to see you again?"We share the same thoughts when we know each other well. But life runs along in its separate channels with most people. They may be many years beneath the shadow of one roof, yet for all they know of each other, they might live at opposite ends of the earth, so little is it given to human beings to understand humanity; so little do people study it except in the desires which are in themselves.In these two old people, it was quite charming to see one standing out of the way to let the other pass on, as if they both were going in vastly different directions, and then, to find that one was but speaking the other's thoughts.They all laughed, but their laughter died away again when Jill announced that in two days she was leaving Venice for Milan, passing through the Italian lakes on her way back to England."You only stay three days!" exclaimed the little old lady, and she looked quickly at John. But John had known of it. There was no surprise in his face. He breathed deeply; looked away out of the window over the old Italian garden--that was all.They made her promise to come the next day to lunch--to tea again if she would--to stay with them the whole day. John looked to her appealingly for her answer."But I can't leave my friends all that time," she said reluctantly. "I'll come to lunch--I'll try and stay to tea. I can't do more than that."Then John took her down to her gondola. In the archway, before they stepped on to thefondamenta, he took her arm and held her near him."You're sure it's too late?" he said hoarsely, below his breath. "You're sure that there is nothing I could do to make things different--to make them possible?"She clung to him quietly. In the darkness, her eyes searched impenetrable depths; stared to the furthest horizons of chance, yet saw nothing beyond the track of many another woman's life before her."It is too late," she whispered--"Oh, I should never have come! I should never have seen these two wonderful old people of yours. Now I know all that the City of Beautiful Nonsense meant. You very nearly made them real to me that day in Fetter Lane; but now I know them. Oh, I don't wonder that you love them! I don't wonder that you would come every year--year after year to see them! If only my mother and father were like that, how different all of it would be then.""You haven't the courage to break away from it all?" asked John quietly--"to make these old people of mine--to make them yours. If I couldn't support you over in London, you could live with them here, and I would do as much of my work here as possible."Jill looked steadily into his eyes."Do you think I should be happy?" she asked. "Would you be happy if, to marry me, you had to give up them? Wouldn't their faces haunt you in the most perfect moments of your happiness? Wouldn't his eyes follow you in everything you did? Wouldn't those poor withered hands of hers be always pulling feebly at your heart? And if you thought that they were poor----?""They are," said John. He thought of the Treasure Shop; of that pathetic figure, hiding in the shadows of it, who would not sell his goods, because he loved them too well."Could you leave them to poverty then?" said Jill."So it's too late?" he repeated."I've given my word," she replied.He lifted her hand generously to his lips and kissed it."Then you mustn't come to-morrow," he said quietly."Not see them again?" she echoed."No. You must send some excuse. Write to my mother. Say your friends have decided to stop at Bologna on their way to Milan and that they are going to start at once. She loves you too well--she counts on you too much already. It'll be a long time before I can drive out of her head the thought that you are going to be my wife. And I don't want to do it by telling her that you are going to be married to someone else. She wouldn't understand that. She belongs to an old-fashioned school, where ringlets and bonnets and prim little black shoes over dainty white stockings, make a wonderful difference to one's behaviour. She probably couldn't understand your wanting to see them under such a circumstance as that. She could scarcely believe that you cared for me and, if she did, would think that we shouldn't see each other, as perhaps, after this, we shan't. No, I shall have quite enough difficulty in driving you out of her mind as it is. You mustn't come and see them to-morrow. She'll nearly break her heart when she hears it, but nearly is not quite.""Shan't I ever see them again then?" she asked below her breath.He shook his head."This is the last time you'll see any of us."She put her hands on his shoulders. For a moment, she clung to him, her face closely looking into his as though she must store him in her memory for the rest of time. He shut his eyes. He dared not kiss her. When the lips touch, they break a barrier through which floods a torrent there is no quenching. John shut his eyes and held back his head, lest the touching of her hair or the warmth of her breath should weaken his resolve."How am I to do it?" she whispered. "I feel as though I must stay now; as though I never wanted to go back home again."He said nothing. The very tone of his voice would have been persuasion to her then. Slowly, she unclasped her fingers; as slowly she drew herself away. That was the last moment when he could have won her. Then she was his as the blood was rushing through him, as her pulses were throbbing wildly in time to his. But in love--it may be different in war--these things may not be taken so. Some vague, some mystical notion of the good does not permit of it."You must be going," said John gently. "We can't stay here."She let him lead her to the door. As it came open to his hand and the greater light flooded in, he knew that it was all finished.She stepped down into her gondola that was waiting, and the gondolier pushed off from the steps. Until it swayed out of sight, John stood motionless on the fondamenta, watching its passing. Sometimes Jill looked back over her shoulder and waved a little handkerchief. John bent his head acknowledging it.But neither of them saw the two white heads that, close together in a window up above, were whispering to each other in happy ignorance of all the misery which that little white handkerchief conveyed."You see how long they took to get down the steps," whispered the old lady."Oh, I don't know that you can judge anything by that," replied her husband. "Those steps are very dark to anyone not accustomed to them."She took his arm. She looked up into his face. Her brown eyes twinkled."They are," she whispered back--"very dark--nearly as dark as that little avenue up to the house where I lived when you first met me."
CHAPTER XXX
THE QUALITIES OF IGNATIA
In amazement, John put out his hand. He touched her to see if she was real. Her hand answered. She caught his finger. Then she let it fall.
"Are you sorry?" she whispered.
He looked up at the image of St. Anthony, then back at her; around the church, then back once more at her.
"Where have you come from?" he asked.
"From home--from London."
"When?"
"I arrived last night."
"Alone?"
"No! No! With the Crossthwaites."
"Then what has happened?"
"Why--nothing has happened--and----" her voice dropped below the whisper--that strange pitch in which you hear not a syllable, yet know the worst--"and everything has happened."
"You're going to be married?"
It sounded no less terrible in his voice because he knew it.
"Yes."
"Then why have you come here?"
"The Crossthwaites were going. They asked me to come too. It was the only chance I knew I should ever have--our City of Beautiful Nonsense--I had to come."
Still John gazed at her, as though she were unreal. One does not always believe one's own eyes, for there are some things, which the readiness to see will constitute the power of vision. He put out his hand again.
"I can hardly believe it," he said slowly. "Here, just a minute ago, I was telling St. Anthony all I had lost. You--the best thing in my life--my ideal as well--even my sense of humour."
She looked up at his face wondering. There had been strange lost things for which she had prayed to St. Anthony--things to which only a woman can act as valuer. But to pray for a lost sense of humour. She touched the hand that he put out.
"You're very funny," she said gently--"You're very quaint. Do you think you'll find the sense of humour again?"
"I've found it," said John.
"Already?"
"Yes--already." One eye lifted to St. Anthony.
Then he told her about the hawker and that rare, that valuable coin--the English penny--and in two minutes, they were laughing with their heads in their hands.
This is not a reverent thing to do in a church. The least that you can offer, is to hide your face, or, turning quickly to the burial service in the prayer-book--granted that you understand Latin--read that. Failing that of burial, the service of matrimony will do just as well.
But before the image of St. Anthony, to whom you have been praying for a lost gift of laughter--well, you may be sure that St. Anthony will excuse it. After all, it is only a compliment to his powers; and the quality of saintliness, being nothing without its relation to humanity, must surely argue some little weakness somewhere. What better then than the pride that is pardonable?
At length, when she had answered all his questions, when he had answered all hers, they rose reluctantly to their feet.
"I must go back to them," she said regretfully.
"But I shall see you again?"
"Oh, yes."
"Does Mrs. Crossthwaite know that you have seen me?"
"Yes. Her husband doesn't. He wouldn't understand."
John smiled.
"Men never do," said he. "They have too keen a sense of what is wrong for other people. When shall I see you?"
"This afternoon."
"Where?"
"Anywhere----" she paused.
"You were going to say something," said John quickly. "What is it?"
She looked away. In the scheme of this world's anomalies, there is such a thing as a duty to oneself. They have not thought it wise to write it in the catechism, for truly it is but capable of so indefinite a rendering into language, that it would be only dangerous to set it forth. For language, after all, is merely a sound box, full of words, in the noisy rattling of which, the finer expression of all thought is lost.
But a thousand times, Jill had thought of it--that duty. Its phrases form quite readily in the mind; they construct themselves with ease; the words flow merrily.
Why, she had asked herself, should she sacrifice her happiness to the welfare of those who had brought her into the world? What claim had they upon her, who had never questioned her as to a desire for existence?
All this is so simply said. Its justice is so palpably apparent. And if she had gained nothing herself by the transaction, it would have been so easy of following. But the mere knowledge that she stood to win the very heart of her desire at the cost of some others' welfare, filled her with the apprehension that she was only inventing this duty of self for her own gratification, as a narcotic to the sleeplessness of her own conscience.
The education of the sex has so persistently driven out egotism from their natures, that the woman who finds paramount the importance of herself, has but a small place in this modern community.
Fast in her very blood, was bred in Jill that complete annihilation of selfishness, that absolute abandonment to Destiny. Strive as she might, she could not place her own desires before the needs of her father and mother; she could not see the first essential of happiness in that gain to herself which would crush the prospects of her brother Ronald.
To such women as these--and notwithstanding the advent of the tradeswoman into the sex, there are many--to be able to give all, is their embarrassment of riches, to withhold nothing is their conception of wealth.
In the ideal which she had formed of John, Jill knew that he was possessed of more in himself, than ever would be the bounty bequeathed to those three people dependent upon her generosity. And so, she had given her consent of marriage to one, whom she might have valued as a friend, whom, as a man, she respected in every way, but who well, since brevity is invaluable--like poor St. Joseph, had a brown beard.
All this, in the pause that had followed John's question, had passed for the thousandth time through Jill's mind, bringing her inevitably once more to the realisation of her duty to others. And when he pressed her again, offering, not perhaps the penny for her thoughts, but an equivalent, just as valuable as that most valuable of coins, the promise of his eyes, she shook her head.
"Ah, but you were going to say something!" he pleaded.
"I was going to ask you," said she, "if you would take me to see your people." She hesitated. "I--I want to have tea with them out of the little blue and white cups with no handles. I want to go and buy lace with the little old white-haired lady in the arcades."
He seized her hand so that she winced.
"You've not forgotten! You shall come this afternoon." And there, with a smile, she left him, still standing by the silent image of St. Anthony; and, gratitude being that part of prayer which belongs to the heart and has nothing in common with delay, John knelt down again. When Jill looked back over her shoulder, his head was buried in his hands.
The little old white-haired lady was waiting over the mid-day meal for him when he returned. His father had taken his food and gone out again, leaving her alone to keep John company. She was sitting patiently there at the head of the table and, by the side of her empty plate, stood a small bottle containing white pills, over which she hurriedly laid her hand as he entered.
But clever as they are, in their cunning, childish ways, old people lose all the superior craft of deceit. They go back to childhood when they imagine that once a thing is hidden, it is out of sight. That is not at all the case. There comes a moment when it is too late to conceal; when curiosity will bring the hidden thing twice vividly before the eyes. Under the very nose of John, was the best place for that secret bottle of pills, had she needed it not to be seen.
As it was, his eyes travelled more quickly than her hand. She made a gentle little effort to hide her concern as well. She smiled up at him, asking where he had been. But it would not do. The child is parent to the man, he is parent to the woman too--a stern parent, moreover, who will brook no simple trifling with his authority, who overlooks nothing and whose judgments are the blind record of an implacable justice. John could not let that little deception pass. Instead of answering her question, instead of taking his place at the table, he came to her side and put one arm gently round her neck.
"What are you hiding, dearest?" he asked.
Like a child, who is discovered in the act of nefarious negotiations with the good things of this world, she quietly took her hand away. There stood the innocent little bottle in all its nakedness. John stared at it questioningly--then at his mother.
"Is it something that you have to take, dearest?" he asked. "Aren't you well?"
"Yes, I'm quite well," she said, and she played nervously with the cork in the little bottle. It was a delicate subject. She began to wish that she had never embarked upon it at all. But faith brings with it a rare quality of courage, and so firmly did she believe, with the quaint simplicity of her heart, in the course she had determined to adopt, that the wish broke like a bubble on the moment.
"Well, what is in the bottle?" persisted John.
"Ignatia."
There was just the faintness of a whisper in her voice. She had not found full courage as yet. Even in their firmest beliefs, old people are pursued by the fear of being thought foolish. The new generation always frightens them; it knows so much more than they.
"Ignatia?" John repeated.
"Yes--I--I want you to take it."
She began uncorking the bottle.
"Me? What for? I'm all right. I'm not ill."
"No--but----" she paused.
"But what?"
"It'll do you good. Try it, to please me."
She hid her white head against his coat.
"But what for, dearest?"
"Have you never heard of Ignatia?" she asked.
John shook his head.
"It's a plant. It's a homeopathic medicine. It's a cure for all sorts of things. People take it when their nerves are bad, for worry, for insomnia. It's a cure for trouble when--when you're in love."
She said it so simply, in such fear that he would laugh; but when he looked down and found the hopefulness in her eyes, laughter was impossible. He caught it back, but his nostrils quivered.
"And do you want to cure me of being in love?" he asked with a straightened face.
"I thought you'd be happier, my dear, if you could get over it."
"So you recommend Ignatia?"
"I've known it do wonders," she asserted. "Poor Claudina was very much in love with a worthless fellow--Tina--one of the gondolier!--surely you remember him. He lived on theGiudecca."
John nodded smiling.
"Well, she came to me one day, crying her heart out. She declared she was in love with the most worthless man in the whole of Venice. 'Get over it then, Claudina,' I said. But she assured me that it was impossible. He had only to put up his little finger, she said and she had to go to his beckoning, if only to tell him how worthless she thought he was. Well--I prescribed Ignatia, and she was cured of it in a week. She laughs when she talks about him now."
John was forced to smile, but as quickly it died away.
"And is that what you want me to do?" he asked. "Do you want me to be able to laugh when I talk about the lady of St. Joseph? You'd be as sorry as I should, if I did. It would hurt you as much as it would me."
"Then you won't take it, John?" She looked up imploringly into his face.
"No--no charms or potions for me. Besides--" he bent down close to her ear--"the lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to see you this afternoon."
With a little cry of delight, she threw the bottle of Ignatia down upon the table and caught his face in her trembling hands.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE SACRIFICE
A belief in Ignatia argues a ready disposition for Romance.
The mind of the little old white-haired lady belonged to that period when love was a visitation only to be cured by the use of simples, herbs, and magic. She called the treatment--homeopathic. It was her gentle way of assuring herself that she marched bravely with the times; that the superstition of the Middle-Ages had nothing whatever to do with it.
This is all very well; but there is no such scientific name for the portents told by the flight of a magpie; you cannot take shelter behind fine-sounding words when you admit to the good fortune brought by a black cat; there is no marching with the times for you, if you are impelled to throw salt over your left shoulder. You are not stepping it with the new generation then. And all these things were essentials in the life of the little old white-haired lady. Certainly there were no flights of magpies over the tiny Italian garden at the back of thePalazzo Capelloto disturb the peace of her mind with joyous or terrible prognostications. But the resources of an old lady's suspicions are not exhausted in a flight of magpies. Oh, no! She has many more expedients than that.
The very day before John's announcement of the advent of the lady of St. Joseph to Venice, she had seen the new moon, a slim silver sickle, over her right shoulder. There is good omen in that. She had gone to bed the happier because of it. What it betokened, it was not in the range of her knowledge at the time to conceive. Destiny, in these matters, as in many others, is not so outspoken as it might be. But immediately John told her, she remembered that little slip of a moon. Then this was what it had heralded--the coming of the lady of St. Joseph.
As soon as their meal was finished, John went out to the Piazza, the meeting place which he had arranged with Jill, leaving his mother and Claudina to make all preparations for his return. How fast the heart of the little old white-haired lady beat then, it would be difficult to say. She was as excited as when Claudina put the treasures away to bed in their night-caps. Her little brown eyes sparkled, for a party to old people is much the same as is a party to a child. The preparations for it are the whirlwind that carries the imagination into the vortex of the event. And this, for which she was getting ready, was all illuminated with the halo of Romance.
Sometimes, perhaps, a wave of jealousy would bring the blood warmly to her cheeks. Supposing the lady of St. Joseph was not equal to her expectations? Supposing she did not fulfil her hopes and demands of the woman whom she had destined in her mind to be the wife of her son? How could she tell him? How could she warn him that he was unwise? How could she show him that the woman he loved was unworthy of him? It would be a difficult task to accomplish; but her lips set tight at the thought of it. She would shirk no duty so grave or serious as that.
Yet all these fears, with an effort, she put away from her. A generous sense of justice told her that she might judge when she had seen, so she sent out Claudina when everything was ready, to buy some cakes at Lavena's and, stealing into her bedroom, knelt down before the little altar at her bedside.
There, some ten minutes later, her husband found her. It was not her custom to pray at that time of the afternoon, unless for some special request and, for a moment, he stood in silence, watching the white head buried in the pathetically twisted hands, the faint rays of the little coloured lamp before the image shining through the silken silver of her hair.
When at last, she raised her head and found him standing there, a smile crept into her eyes. She beckoned to him silently to come to her, and when he reached her side, she pulled him gently to his knees.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"I'm praying for John," she whispered back, for when you kneel before an altar, even if it is only rough-made out of an old box, as was this, you are in a chapel; you are in a cathedral; you are at the very feet of God Himself and you must speak low.
"What about him?" he whispered again.
She put her dear lips close to his ear with its tuft of white hair growing stiffly on the lobe, and she whispered:
"The lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to tea this afternoon."
And then, looking round over his shoulder, to see that he had closed the door--because old gentlemen are sensitive about these things--his arm slipped round her neck and both their heads bent together. It was, after all, their own lives they were praying for. Every prayer that is offered, every prayer that is granted, is really for the benefit of the whole world.
What they prayed for--how they prayed; what quaint little sentences shaped themselves in her mind, what fine phrases rolled in his, it is beyond power to say. Certain it is that a woman comes before her God in all the simplest garments of her faith, while a man still carries his dignity well hung upon the shoulder.
Presently, they rose together and went into the other room. Everything was in readiness. The blue and white cups were smiling in their saucers; the brass kettle was beginning its tempting song upon the spirit stove.
"Do you like my cap?" asked the little old white-haired lady and, looking down to see if his waistcoat was not too creased, the old gentleman said that it was the daintiest cap that he had ever seen.
"Poor John will be very shy," she continued, as she sat down and tried to fold her hands in her lap as though she were at ease.
"John! shy!"
The old gentleman laughed at the idea of it and kissed her wrinkled cheek to hide his excitement. John, shy! He remembered the days of his own love-making. He had never been shy. It was like an accusation against himself. Besides, what woman worth her salt would have anything to do with the love-making of a man who was shy? John, shy! He straightened his waistcoat for the second time, because it was getting near the moment of their arrival, the kettle was nearly boiling, and he was beginning to feel just a little bit embarrassed.
"Did John say when they were going to be married?" he asked presently.
"Oh, but you mustn't say that to him!" she cried out quickly. "Why, he told me that he would never see her again. He said that they were friends--just friends. But d'you think I can't guess! Why has she come to Venice? She must have known he was here. Oh, he'll tell nothing about it. We must just treat her as if she were a friend. But----" She shook her head knowingly, not caring to finish her sentence.
Of course, she guessed it all--their meeting in the chapel--their meeting in Kensington Gardens! A young man and a young woman do not meet like that, unless it be that there is some good reason for it. Besides--that last candle! What woman could fail to fall in love with a man, who had thought of such a gentle consideration as that, even letting alone the fact that that man was her son? There are some things in this world which a woman knows and it is not the faintest use trying to contradict her. To begin with, she is bound to be right, and secondly, if it were possible to prove her wrong, it would only convince her the more firmly of her opinion.
The old lady knew quite well what she was talking about. These two were as fondly in love with each other as it was possible for them to be. Their meeting here in Venice, after John had assured her that they were never going to see each other again, was all the proof that she needed of it. And with this knowledge held firmly in the heart of her, she was already pre-disposed to see those signs by which, in spite of all their cleverness, two people are bound in this predicament to show their hands.
At last the bell clanged loudly. Its jangling hammered like echoes beating to and fro against the walls of their hearts. The old lady set straight her cap for the twentieth time; for the twentieth time, the old gentleman pulled down his waistcoat, then he crept to the door and looked out into the big room.
"Claudina's going!" he whispered back over his shoulder. "She's opened the door. Yes--it's John!"
He came back quickly to his seat and there, when the two visitors entered, they were sitting opposite to each other, quite placidly, quite calmly, as though there were nothing left to happen in the world. Yet I doubt if four hearts ever beat so quickly beneath such quiet exteriors as these.
"This is Miss Dealtry," said John--in much the same tone of voice as when he had told the cabman to drive to the opera.
The old gentleman had risen from his chair and, coming forward, with that air--it is the air of courtesy--which makes a woman feel a queen, if she is only a washerwoman, he took her hand, bowed low as he gently shook it and then, drawing her further into the room, he bowed solemnly again.
"My wife," said he, just catching the last note from the tone of John's voice.
The little old white-haired lady held out her hands and, as Jill saw the tortured, twisted fingers, her heart shuddered in pity. But before that shudder could be seen, she had bent down and kissed the wrinkled face that was lifted up to hers and from that moment, these two loved each other.
With women, these things are spontaneous. A woman will go through the play of pretending to kiss another; she will put forward her cheek, mutter an affectionate word and kiss the air with her lips. No one is deceived by it. The lookers-on know quite well that these two must hate each other. The actors know it perfectly well themselves. But once the lips of two women meet, their hearts go with the touching.
From the instant that the lips of the little old lady touched Jill's, there was sealed a bond. They both loved John, and in that kiss they both admitted it. The mother wanted no further proof than this. Then all jealousy vanished. With that kiss, she made the mother's sacrifice, the sacrifice which is the last that the incessant demands of nature makes upon her sex. She gave up the love of her son into the keeping of another woman. And when Jill stood up again, the old lady's heart had died down to a quiet, faint measure, fainter perhaps a little than it had been before. Her life was finished. There was only left the waiting and her eyes, still bright, sought John's, but found them fixed on Jill.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE DEPARTURE--VENICE
Before that little tea party was over, these two old people had won the heart of Jill. For all the world, they were like two children, making believe with the most serious things in life. Like children, they looked at each other in surprise when anything happened, or when anything was said. Like children, they laughed or were intensely earnest over their game. Like children, it seemed as if they were playing at being old, he, with his nodding of the head, she, with her crumpled figure and withered hands.
Sometimes at a thing that John would say, they would look at each other and smile. It had reminded them of something far back in the years of which neither John nor Jill knew anything. And in this again, they were like children, upon whose faces one may sometimes trace a distant look of memory--a look that is very marvellous and very wise--as though they were gazing back into the heart of Time from which the hand of destiny has brought them.
Yet it was not only this--this charm of wonderful simplicity--but that whenever Jill looked up, she found their eyes resting tenderly on her. It seemed--she did not understand why just then--as though they were trying mutely to tell her how fond of her they were.
Then, when the old gentleman handed her her cup of tea, she recognised from the description, the china of blue and white and turned with a smile to John.
"Aren't these the cups?" she asked gently.
He nodded his head and tried to smile, too. The old lady watched those smiles. Her eyes never left them for a moment.
"I've been told about these cups," Jill explained to the others. "Your son told me one day when--when he was giving me a description of where you lived."
"That's the real Chinese cobalt," said the old gentleman. "John told you that of course."
"Well--no--they were not described in detail--at least----" suddenly she found the blood mounting to her cheeks. "I--I knew that they had no handles."
Why did she blush? The little old lady had not failed to see that sudden flame of colour. Why did she blush? Something she had remembered? Something that John had said? She looked quickly at her son. His eyes were bent on Jill.
Oh, yes, they loved. There was no fear of her mistaking that. There was a secret between them; a secret that had set free a flood of colour to Jill's cheeks, that had brought a look of fixed intent into John's eyes. What other could such secret be between a boy and girl, than love? No one can keep it; but it is the greatest secret in the world.
Before the tea was over, they had betrayed it in a thousand different ways to the sharp, bright eyes of the little old white-haired lady. When vying with John to do honour to their guest, the old gentleman persuaded Jill to take from the plate he proffered, then she bent her head and smiled to see her husband's pride and poor John's discomfiture.
"She loves him! She loves him!" she whispered in her heart. "She is the very woman for my John!"
"A charming little girl," whispered the old man's vanity, as he proudly bore the plate back to the table. "Exactly the woman I would have chosen for John myself."
And John was disconsolately wondering why, if she loved him, Jill had so patently refused his offering.
Why had she refused? The little old white-haired lady knew that. She wanted to please his father, because she loved John. That was their secret. How it affected the blue and white china, she could not guess; but that was their secret--they loved.
Only by exercising the greatest control over herself, could she refrain from drawing her aside and telling Jill all she had seen, all she had guessed, and all she hoped.
Presently, without seeking for it, the opportunity presented itself. They had been eating little jam sandwiches--jam sandwiches, which Claudina knew how to cut so thin, that the bread was almost threadbare, and looked as if it wanted darning. They melted in your mouth, but then, they made your fingers sticky. Jill looked ruefully at hers when the tea was over. Holding them away from her at arm's length, she made a little grimace. When one was young, one's mouth was the best, the quickest, the most approved-of remedy for these matters. She might have wished she were a child then, but wishing was all. She asked to be allowed to wash them.
"You will come into my room, dear," said the little old lady eagerly, and away she led her, where John could not hope to follow.
Ah, then she was cunning, when once she had her alone! What subtle little compliments she paid! You would scarcely believe how cunning she could be.
"That is your little altar?" said Jill, when she had dried her hands. As she walked across to it, the old lady took her arm. It needed but little manipulation from there to slip her hand into Jill's. It needed but little management to show her in a hundred tender ways as she clung to her for support, that she found her very dear, very loveable.
The hearts of women are responsive things. When there is sympathy between them, they touch and answer, as though some current united them, as well indeed it may.
So gentle, so expressive were those simple signs that passed between Jill and the little old white-haired lady, that Jill was stricken in conscience, realising all that they meant and wondering, almost guiltily, what they would think of her if they knew. They must never know. She could not bear the thought that these two old people, far away in Venice as they might be, should hold in their hearts anything but the affection which they were showing to her then.
"I was praying here just before you came," said the little old lady in a whisper.
Jill pressed the withered hand.
"Do you know what I was praying for?"
A sudden fear seized Jill. She felt her forehead cold.
"No----" she tried to smile--"How could I know?"
"I was praying for John." She looked up simply into Jill's face. "He's such a dear boy, you don't know. Look at the way he comes every year to see us--all the way from London. I wonder would any other son do as much. Do you think they would?"
She asked the question as naïvely as if, were there any doubt about it, she really would like to know. You might have known there was no doubt in her mind.
Before that little altar then, was a dangerous place to discuss such subjects. Jill drew her gently away towards the door.
"Do you think there are any other sons have such a mother?" she said. "Why don't you ask yourself that question?"
The little old lady looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. "I thought perhaps you'd understand it better that way," she answered. "Besides--it's easy to be a mother. You have only to have a son. It's not so easy to be a son, because you need more than a mother for that."
Jill looked at her tenderly, then bent and kissed her cheek.
"I think John's very like you," she whispered. She could not keep it back. And that was as much as the little old white-haired lady wanted; that was all she had been playing for. With her head high in triumph, she walked back with Jill to join the others.
Soon afterwards Jill declared she must go; that her friends would be waiting for her.
"But when----" the old people began in a breath, then stopped together.
"You say, my dear," said the old gentleman--"I can wait."
Oh, no--she would not hear of it. He began first. Let him say what he wanted to. He shook his head and bowed. John caught Jill's eye and they held their laughter.
"Then when----" they both began again together and this time, they finished out their sentence--"are we going to see you again?"
We share the same thoughts when we know each other well. But life runs along in its separate channels with most people. They may be many years beneath the shadow of one roof, yet for all they know of each other, they might live at opposite ends of the earth, so little is it given to human beings to understand humanity; so little do people study it except in the desires which are in themselves.
In these two old people, it was quite charming to see one standing out of the way to let the other pass on, as if they both were going in vastly different directions, and then, to find that one was but speaking the other's thoughts.
They all laughed, but their laughter died away again when Jill announced that in two days she was leaving Venice for Milan, passing through the Italian lakes on her way back to England.
"You only stay three days!" exclaimed the little old lady, and she looked quickly at John. But John had known of it. There was no surprise in his face. He breathed deeply; looked away out of the window over the old Italian garden--that was all.
They made her promise to come the next day to lunch--to tea again if she would--to stay with them the whole day. John looked to her appealingly for her answer.
"But I can't leave my friends all that time," she said reluctantly. "I'll come to lunch--I'll try and stay to tea. I can't do more than that."
Then John took her down to her gondola. In the archway, before they stepped on to thefondamenta, he took her arm and held her near him.
"You're sure it's too late?" he said hoarsely, below his breath. "You're sure that there is nothing I could do to make things different--to make them possible?"
She clung to him quietly. In the darkness, her eyes searched impenetrable depths; stared to the furthest horizons of chance, yet saw nothing beyond the track of many another woman's life before her.
"It is too late," she whispered--"Oh, I should never have come! I should never have seen these two wonderful old people of yours. Now I know all that the City of Beautiful Nonsense meant. You very nearly made them real to me that day in Fetter Lane; but now I know them. Oh, I don't wonder that you love them! I don't wonder that you would come every year--year after year to see them! If only my mother and father were like that, how different all of it would be then."
"You haven't the courage to break away from it all?" asked John quietly--"to make these old people of mine--to make them yours. If I couldn't support you over in London, you could live with them here, and I would do as much of my work here as possible."
Jill looked steadily into his eyes.
"Do you think I should be happy?" she asked. "Would you be happy if, to marry me, you had to give up them? Wouldn't their faces haunt you in the most perfect moments of your happiness? Wouldn't his eyes follow you in everything you did? Wouldn't those poor withered hands of hers be always pulling feebly at your heart? And if you thought that they were poor----?"
"They are," said John. He thought of the Treasure Shop; of that pathetic figure, hiding in the shadows of it, who would not sell his goods, because he loved them too well.
"Could you leave them to poverty then?" said Jill.
"So it's too late?" he repeated.
"I've given my word," she replied.
He lifted her hand generously to his lips and kissed it.
"Then you mustn't come to-morrow," he said quietly.
"Not see them again?" she echoed.
"No. You must send some excuse. Write to my mother. Say your friends have decided to stop at Bologna on their way to Milan and that they are going to start at once. She loves you too well--she counts on you too much already. It'll be a long time before I can drive out of her head the thought that you are going to be my wife. And I don't want to do it by telling her that you are going to be married to someone else. She wouldn't understand that. She belongs to an old-fashioned school, where ringlets and bonnets and prim little black shoes over dainty white stockings, make a wonderful difference to one's behaviour. She probably couldn't understand your wanting to see them under such a circumstance as that. She could scarcely believe that you cared for me and, if she did, would think that we shouldn't see each other, as perhaps, after this, we shan't. No, I shall have quite enough difficulty in driving you out of her mind as it is. You mustn't come and see them to-morrow. She'll nearly break her heart when she hears it, but nearly is not quite."
"Shan't I ever see them again then?" she asked below her breath.
He shook his head.
"This is the last time you'll see any of us."
She put her hands on his shoulders. For a moment, she clung to him, her face closely looking into his as though she must store him in her memory for the rest of time. He shut his eyes. He dared not kiss her. When the lips touch, they break a barrier through which floods a torrent there is no quenching. John shut his eyes and held back his head, lest the touching of her hair or the warmth of her breath should weaken his resolve.
"How am I to do it?" she whispered. "I feel as though I must stay now; as though I never wanted to go back home again."
He said nothing. The very tone of his voice would have been persuasion to her then. Slowly, she unclasped her fingers; as slowly she drew herself away. That was the last moment when he could have won her. Then she was his as the blood was rushing through him, as her pulses were throbbing wildly in time to his. But in love--it may be different in war--these things may not be taken so. Some vague, some mystical notion of the good does not permit of it.
"You must be going," said John gently. "We can't stay here."
She let him lead her to the door. As it came open to his hand and the greater light flooded in, he knew that it was all finished.
She stepped down into her gondola that was waiting, and the gondolier pushed off from the steps. Until it swayed out of sight, John stood motionless on the fondamenta, watching its passing. Sometimes Jill looked back over her shoulder and waved a little handkerchief. John bent his head acknowledging it.
But neither of them saw the two white heads that, close together in a window up above, were whispering to each other in happy ignorance of all the misery which that little white handkerchief conveyed.
"You see how long they took to get down the steps," whispered the old lady.
"Oh, I don't know that you can judge anything by that," replied her husband. "Those steps are very dark to anyone not accustomed to them."
She took his arm. She looked up into his face. Her brown eyes twinkled.
"They are," she whispered back--"very dark--nearly as dark as that little avenue up to the house where I lived when you first met me."