________________________________________________
_ The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is
impossible to say "yesterday I was happy, today I am not."
At no one moment did Lilia realize that her marriage was a
failure; yet during the summer and autumn she became as
unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be. She had no
unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband.
He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do
"business," which, as far as she could discover, meant
sitting in the Farmacia. He usually returned to lunch,
after which he retired to another room and slept. In the
evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air on the
ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning
till midnight or later. There were, of course, the times
when he was away altogether--at Empoli, Siena, Florence,
Bologna--for he delighted in travel, and seemed to pick up
friends all over the country. Lilia often heard what a
favorite he was.
She began to see that she must assert herself, but she
could not see how. Her self-confidence, which had
overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed away. If she left
the strange house there was the strange little town. If she
were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that
would be stranger still--vast slopes of olives and vineyards,
with chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes,
with more olives and more farms, and more little towns
outlined against the cloudless sky. "I don't call this
country," she would say. "Why, it's not as wild as Sawston
Park!" And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness
in it--some of those slopes had been under cultivation for
two thousand years. But it was terrible and mysterious all
the same, and its continued presence made Lilia so
uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect.
She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony
had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they
were, were not those of the Church of England. Lilia had no
religion in her; but for hours at a time she would be seized
with a vulgar fear that she was not "married properly," and
that her social position in the next world might be as
obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the
thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of
Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she
called it, "Santa Deodata's." Gino approved; he, too,
thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the
priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good
slap in the face for the people at home.
The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed,
there were few left for her to give it to. The Herritons
were out of the question; they would not even let her write
to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to write to
her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and,
as far as she could be definite about anything, had
definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did
likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false
friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would
"do," and that the Herritons would come round to it, and
then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to
England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the
long list of those who should never be written to, and who
should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was
not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly
sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite
sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on
her fancy in the reply.
At first she had seen a few English people, for
Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two
inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel
with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly,
and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a
charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the
season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no
one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed,
Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading,
or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy
high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according
to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was
cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton
might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At
first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand.
But it was galling to discover that he could not do
otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use
it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts
and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of
brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched
it.
It was the old question of going out alone.
"I always do it in England."
"This is Italy."
"Yes, but I'm older than you, and I'll settle."
"I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had
finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep.
Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting
more and more angry, said, "And I've got the money."
He looked horrified.
Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the
statement again. He got up from his chair.
"And you'd better mend your manners," she continued,
"for you'd find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques."
She was no reader of character, but she quickly became
alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his
clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in
another." His figure rather than his face altered, the
shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the
back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms.
He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she
sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened
to speak or to move. He looked at her with round,
expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand.
Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It
seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his
room without a word.
"What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He
is ill--ill."
Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account.
"What did you say to him?" She crossed herself.
"Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also.
Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male.
It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her
for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any
place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was
frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet,
embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define
things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house
for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But
for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never
threatened to cut off supplies again.
Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention
demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it
to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a
lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was
uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome
creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He
hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be
only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down
among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the
Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing
mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he
was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife
should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion
was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and
South had had their brief contention, and this time the
South had won.
It would have been well if he had been as strict over
his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity
never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that
of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the
position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not
behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she
asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might
possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband
as well as a better man, and at all events he could have
adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is
higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia
been different she might not have married him.
The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by
accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her
life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed
and cried in Perfetta's arms. Perfetta was kind and even
sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to
Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia
agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because
it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do.
She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her
relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries
of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break
away, there was no one who would receive her now. The
Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against
her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off. So it
was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel,
endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right.
"Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be
different. I know he wants a son."
Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are
some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not
Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves our tears.
She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain
and old, which distressed her husband. He was particularly
kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted
his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude, so
docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as she
had never loved him; with her it was only when she was
excited that the semblance of either passion arose. People
said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left her cold.
Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament,
and the wisest of women could hardly have suffered more.
As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried
his iniquities like a feather. A favourite speech of his
was, "Ah, one ought to marry! Spiridione is wrong; I must
persuade him. Not till marriage does one realize the
pleasures and the possibilities of life." So saying, he
would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place
as infallibly as a German strikes his in the wrong place,
and leave her.
One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could
stand it no longer. It was September. Sawston would be
just filling up after the summer holidays. People would be
running in and out of each other's houses all along the
road. There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs.
Herriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden
for the C.M.S. It seemed impossible that such a free, happy
life could exist. She walked out on to the loggia.
Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky. The walls of
Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. But
the house faced away from them.
Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down
led past the kitchen door. But the stairs up to the
attic--the stairs no one ever used--opened out of the
living-room, and by unlocking the door at the top one might
slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for
ten minutes walk in freedom and peace.
The key was in the pocket of Gino's best suit--the
English check--which he never wore. The stairs creaked and
the key-hole screamed; but Perfetta was growing deaf. The
walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they were in
shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round the
town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the
rising moon. She looked anxiously at the house, and started.
It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside
the ramparts. The few people she met wished her a civil
good-night, taking her, in her hatless condition, for a
peasant. The walls trended round towards the moon; and
presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough
towers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the
ramparts into cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of
beauty, but she was sentimental, and she began to cry; for
here, where a great cypress interrupted the monotony of the
girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in
March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was
looking at the view and sketching. Round the comer was the
Siena gate, from which the road to England started, and she
could hear the rumble of the diligence which was going down
to catch the night train to Empoli. The next moment it was
upon her, for the highroad came towards her a little before
it began its long zigzag down the hill.
The driver slackened, and called to her to get in. He
did not know who she was. He hoped she might be coming to
the station.
"Non vengo!" she cried.
He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the
corner. As the diligence came round she saw that it was empty.
"Vengo . . ."
Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry. The horses
swung off.
"Vengo! Vengo!"
He had begun to sing, and heard nothing. She ran down
the road screaming to him to stop--that she was coming; while
the distance grew greater and the noise of the diligence
increased. The man's back was black and square against the
moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she would be
saved. She tried to cut off the comer of the zigzag,
stumbling over the great clods of earth, large and hard as
rocks, which lay between the eternal olives. She was too
late; for, just before she regained the road, the thing
swept past her, thunderous, ploughing up choking clouds of
moonlit dust.
She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and
fainted; and when she revived she was lying in the road,
with dust in her eyes, and dust in her mouth, and dust down
her ears. There is something very terrible in dust at night-time.
"What shall I do?" she moaned. "He will be so angry."
And without further effort she slowly climbed back to
captivity, shaking her garments as she went.
Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the
nights when Gino happened to come in. He was in the
kitchen, swearing and smashing plates, while Perfetta, her
apron over her head, was weeping violently. At the sight of
Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of
miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less
alarming than he had been that day when he edged after her
round the table. And Lilia gained more courage from her bad
conscience than she ever had from her good one, for as he
spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him no
longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical,
dissolute upstart, and spoke in return.
Perfetta screamed for she told him everything--all she
knew and all she thought. He stood with open mouth, all the
anger gone out of him, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool.
He was fairly and rightfully cornered. When had a husband
so given himself away before? She finished; and he was
dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity
of his own position grew upon him, and he laughed--as he
would have laughed at the same situation on the stage.
"You laugh?" stammered Lilia.
"Ah!" he cried, "who could help it? I, who thought you
knew and saw nothing--I am tricked--I am conquered. I give
in. Let us talk of it no more."
He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half
amused and half penitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to
himself, ran quietly out of the room.
Perfetta burst into congratulations. "What courage you
have!" she cried; "and what good fortune! He is angry no
longer! He has forgiven you!"
Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the
true reason of all the misery that followed. To the end he
thought that kindness and a little attention would be enough
to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman,
and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one
realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the
struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good,
bad, or indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous
to the northern woman, the northern woman to forgive the
Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton
foresaw it from the first.
Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal
standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come
round. He hated discomfort and yearned for sympathy, but
shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case
they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was
told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful
letter. His other great friend, whom he trusted more, was
still serving in Eritrea or some other desolate outpost.
And, besides, what was the good of letters? Friends cannot
travel through the post.
Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned
for comfort and sympathy too. The night he laughed at her
she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page,
analysing his character, enumerating his iniquities,
reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and
the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with
passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she
suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a
practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a
diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom
it was meant.
"Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost
forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I
want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too
soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless
your miserable mother."
Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter
arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom.
Another moment, and Irma's placid childhood would have been
destroyed for ever.
Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again
forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter,
and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her
mad.
"Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting
together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often
sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and
anxious, but not contrite.
"It's nothing." She went in and tore it up, and then
began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and
save me."
It is not good to see your wife crying when she
writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole,
your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is
not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to
see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her
fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression
that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her.
Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many
things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino's,
and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter.
So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the
autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he
wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His
one desire was to become the father of a man like himself,
and it held him with a grip he only partially understood,
for it was the first great desire, the first great passion
of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical
triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine
hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa
Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and
sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude
uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all
his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need,
and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the
darkened room.
"My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I
have never loved any one but you."
She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too
broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees.
Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said,
"I have prayed all night for a boy."
Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said
faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino."
He answered, "Then we shall be brothers."
He lay outside the room with his head against the door
like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they
found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears.
As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful
boy!" But she had died in giving birth to him. _
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