CHAPTER VII
Latein June Mrs. Wilbur and Erard went again to Rome with several other members of the Circle. There a gradual languor stupefied her will. The year with its multiform passions had scorched her, and she found herself feeble before the fierce heat, the parched season of Italy. Over her drawing her arm would relax, and she would gaze vacantly at the object before her, wondering where the beauty in it lay. Beauty, which she had worshipped so passionately had escaped her, was fleeing further every dead day, and behind the smile of creation which had roused her pulses, she was now feeling the dull, earthy matter. How could Erard find sensations in this pulverizing atmosphere! Dust, dust,—the pictures and frescos were crumbling in dust, and the hard white marble had died long ago: it was crumbling now, and the fragments were disintegrating. Behind her in the forum there was a mound of dead dust, and she and Erard were handling mould of a later date. It would all crumble some day, and lie baking in the hard sun, silent for centuries while the world trod it out for vulgar uses.
Yet she did not complain. She was ashamed to whimper now. The morning came when she could not drag herself out into the glare, and she lay numb in the stuffy room of the little Albergo Nero where Erard hadplaced the party. One day something like a miracle occurred—a new infusion of will. Jennings appeared, and saying merely, “Come! you are worn out,” brought her back to Florence like a sick child. There had been a scene with Erard, who scoffed at her indisposition, and scolded her for leaving him in the lurch. Jennings had repeated his compelling “Come.” The two men had exchanged a few innuendoes, Erard betraying his gutter-blood, and Jennings preserving his ironical good-humour. She had not made a sign, until Jennings remarked softly,—“So Freedom has come to this! In the last resort you must act.”
The household on Bello Sguardo had received her as a prodigal,—Luisa with loud exclamations of joy, Pina with roses, and Molly with a kiss. Yet she knew that the end was not yet. Erard would not let her slip so simply, and in a way that humiliating retreat from Rome had left her more powerless than ever. While she waited Walter Anthon came with real news: the divorce had been granted in chambers. Or, in Walter’s solemn words,—
“Your husband has taken the measure which society allows him. You are no longer Mrs. John Wilbur.”
His sister turned her weary eyes on him.
“The mail would have sufficed to tell me. Have you come all the way from London to preach me a sermon?”
He had not been so simple. He had a plan as usual.
“You are free now. I suppose that will please you, even if your husband that was, has made off with your money and is about to marry again.”
The three ideas in this pungent little speech sank into her mind one after the other. She was free. How she had agonized over that! And how little it meant to be free, now that the courts had declared it to society! The creases in her mind could not be ironed out by any judge’s decree. When she realized the next step, she remarked hastily, “He has taken only what I gave him.”
“Are you willing to give him your father’s money to enjoy with another woman?”
She had had a vague idea that in giving up her original fortune to her husband she was atoning in part for breaking the contract of partnership. It seemed, however, that he had sought and obtained his own satisfaction, and that her sacrifice was useless.
“He will do what is right,” she protested.
“Do you think this Mrs. Stevans will let him give up what he has got his hands on?”
At the mention of this name her mind swept swiftly back to Chicago, to the night of the reception when the new house was opened. She had introduced Mrs. Stevans to Erard, and Erard had had a good deal to do with her ever since. Singular freak of fate that Erard should be connected with the two women in whom this man of business had sought happiness! Perhaps something would come out later, betweenthesetwo, and a second scandal follow. She played with her morbid fancy.
“Now,ma chère sœur,” Anthon resumed, attempting the difficult passage with a light touch, “you have had your fling in the world like the best of us, and haveshown your heels rather freely. Don’t you think it’s time to take in sail and make some port?” He could not hit upon quite the right figure. “In other words, consolidate the present position which you have chosen to create.” No phrase seemed delicate enough for the business. But his sister helped him out.
“You mean you would like to have me induce Mr. Erard to marry me?”
Her brother nodded. She laughed a long, low, relishing laugh. “So this is the decision of the family. I am to marry the villainous Erard at last!” She laughed again shrilly.
“Yes,” Anthon pursued, discomfited. “That’s the only thing to do now for all parties, for Erard’s sake as well as your own. He is a very clever fellow, and I have no doubt in time we can get him some respectable place. He will make his niche in the world. I am told that he is very strong in his line. But you probably know that as well as I.
“Of course,” he continued, as Mrs. Wilbur seemed occupied with her own thoughts, “you would have to observe theconvenancesfor a time, live over here very quietly and not appear publicly in America or London.”
“And suppose I have no wish to marry Mr. Simeon Erard?” his sister asked at length.
“Not marry him!” Anthon gasped. “Good Lord, Adela, what do you mean? You haven’t any objection to marriage in itself,—and when it’s to save your reputation.”
Mrs. Wilbur reddened at the concluding phrase.“You didn’t think that it would require any urging to make a woman who is compromised accept the honourable position of wife?”
“Don’t speak so shockingly, pray.”
“But you are wrong, dear Walter,” she gave a sarcastic laugh. “There is really no illegal relation between us—pray don’t squirm atwords. There was a time when the outcome might have been different. But now that you have planned it all nicely, I am sorry that I cannot please you. Marriage with Mr. Erard at present does not really seem to me so possible.”
This attitude mystified the young man; he caught on the words “at present.”
“Oh, take your own time, Adela. Satisfy your own prejudices. But don’t let this opportunity escape,—of squaring yourself with the world.”
He sat back in his chair, satisfied that he had put his case well and had the logic of events on his side. He would teach this irrepressible sister that he knew what he was about, after all. Mrs. Wilbur opened her lips to retort; then lay back in her chair. At last she turned towards him as if her mind had come back to an errand-boy who was waiting for his message.
“Walter, you are young enough to learn a lesson and profit by it, if you care to. Don’t meddle. Especially in what are courteously called affairs of the heart. Good people think they are courageous when they say unpleasant things, and try to run the universe their way. It is a blunder, and mere vanity on their part. You have bustled about over me ever since I came from America,and you haven’t the excuse for your impertinence of any great affection. You are a vain young man, and you are weak. You are pretty to look at, and you have good manners—when you are properly subdued. No! listen, for this is the last time you are likely to hear what is good for you. I am willing to believe that you are clever, though a list of brilliant acquaintances and a post in London journalism are really not great heights to reach. You are a little man, Walter, an amiable little man, and that is why the big world tolerates you. But you mustn’t become didactic! Now run in and ask Pina to bring tea out on the terrace and to call Miss Parker and Mr. Jennings, if they’re at home.”
A good deal of the romance of his mission was reft from Walter Anthon by this incisive lecture. So far his diplomacy and tact had ended in his being corrected like a small boy, and sent into the house to order tea. He went, however, without further words, resolving to bring up his plan at another time, when his beautiful sister was more amenable to reason.
The sight of Miss Parker comforted him. She was soséduisante, he confided to her, in a summer dress, pouring tea under the lemon blossoms, while she inquired tenderly after all his little interests. She had the feminine art his grand sister so brutally lacked, of keeping in mind all your personal affairs. It was adroitly flattering to mention his article in the AprilBook-Grower, and to discuss theéclatantcynicism with which he had flourished into his peroration. Finally, perceiving that Mrs. Wilbur was preoccupied, she had suggested taking him for a walk inthe cool of the evening. There was a view behind the hill into a side valley that was especially fine in this light. Then she had some errands for the household; he could exercise his Italian. It was all so daintily, so coquettishly managed, Anthon thought with complacency. No London girl could rub you just the right way like that. It was delicious to feel yourself falling into such toils. But she would have to make them strong! If folly were to be his lot, it must be a long-drawn-out, sweet folly.
After they had left, Mrs. Wilbur lay quite still in her large wicker chair, watching the pale silver plain at her feet shimmer in the blinding flood of light from the western hills. The sea of heat seething in myriad lanes above the trees hypnotized her flickering will. Why had she rejected her brother’s plan for her salvation?