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_ "Mad!" screamed Harriet,--"absolutely stark, staring, raving mad!"
Philip judged it better not to contradict her.
What's she here for? Answer me that. What's she doing
in Monteriano in August? Why isn't she in Normandy? Answer
that. She won't. I can: she's come to thwart us; she's
betrayed us--got hold of mother's plans. Oh, goodness, my head!"
He was unwise enough to reply, "You mustn't accuse her
of that. Though she is exasperating, she hasn't come here
to betray us."
"Then why has she come here? Answer me that."
He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too
much agitated to wait for one. "Bursting in on me--crying
and looking a disgusting sight--and says she has been to see
the Italian. Couldn't even talk properly; pretended she had
changed her opinions. What are her opinions to us? I was
very calm. I said: 'Miss Abbott, I think there is a little
misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton--'
Oh, goodness, my head! Of course you've failed--don't
trouble to answer--I know you've failed. Where's the baby,
pray? Of course you haven't got it. Dear sweet Caroline
won't let you. Oh, yes, and we're to go away at once and
trouble the father no more. Those are her commands.
Commands! COMMANDS!" And Harriet also burst into tears.
Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying,
but quite reasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss
Abbott had behaved even worse than she supposed.
"I've not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I
haven't exactly failed. I and Signor Carella are to have
another interview this afternoon, at the Caffe Garibaldi.
He is perfectly reasonable and pleasant. Should you be
disposed to come with me, you would find him quite willing
to discuss things. He is desperately in want of money, and
has no prospect of getting any. I discovered that. At the
same time, he has a certain affection for the child." For
Philip's insight, or perhaps his opportunities, had not been
equal to Miss Abbott's.
Harriet would only sob, and accuse her brother of
insulting her; how could a lady speak to such a horrible
man? That, and nothing else, was enough to stamp Caroline.
Oh, poor Lilia!
Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no
escape from the deadlock. For though he spoke cheerfully
about his second interview with Gino, he felt at the bottom
of his heart that it would fail. Gino was too courteous: he
would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he loved
this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling
his opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not
mind being fooled.
"Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily," he said at
last; "but at the same time--"
His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on
the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of
Caroline.
"Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop
crying. I have something quite important to say."
"I shall not stop crying," said she. But in time,
finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop.
"Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She
said nothing to him about the matter. He assumes that she
is working with us: I gathered that."
"Well, she isn't."
"Yes; but if you're careful she may be. I interpret her
behaviour thus: She went to see him, honestly intending to
get the child away. In the note she left me she says so,
and I don't believe she'd lie."
"I do."
"When she got there, there was some pretty domestic
scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in
a gush of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know
anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. She'll
be swept back."
"I don't understand your long words. Say plainly--"
"When she's swept back, she'll be invaluable. For she
has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice
with the baby. You know, she washed it for him."
"Disgusting!"
Harriet's ejaculations were more aggravating than the
rest of her. But Philip was averse to losing his temper.
The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the
theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than
heretofore to be charitable towards the world.
"If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with
Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better
than I can."
"There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet
gloomily.
"Did you--"
"Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had
finished speaking--just like those cowardly people! --into the
church."
"Into Santa Deodata's?"
"Yes; I'm sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--"
In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his
sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over
his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always
thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he
had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing
Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the
second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was
not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the
outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested.
It was now nearly midday, and the streets were
clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a
pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three
great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate
Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul,
and the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment
Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and
thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city,
however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of
civilization and as a student of character, and, after a
sigh, he entered Santa Deodata's to continue his mission.
There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church
still smelt of incense and of garlic. The little son of the
sacristan was sweeping the nave, more for amusement than for
cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes
and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan himself had
propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills one
of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its
wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon
the floor--for the church can look as fine as any theatre--and
the sacristan's little daughter was trying to fold it up.
She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged
to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down
over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so
absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the
FIESTA began, and had given it to the sacristan's daughter.
"Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?"
The man's mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded
cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this
confusion Miss Abbott was praying.
He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was
quite to be expected. For though he was growing more
charitable towards mankind, he was still a little jaunty,
and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be
pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him,
however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of
the sour self-consciousness of a person who had just risen
from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of Santa
Deodata's, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse
of because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbour.
"I am sure that I need it," said she; and he, who had
expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not
what to reply.
"I've nothing to tell you," she continued. "I have
simply changed straight round. If I had planned the whole
thing out, I could not have treated you worse. I can talk
it over now; but please believe that I have been crying."
"And please believe that I have not come to scold you,"
said Philip. "I know what has happened."
"What?" asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the
way to the famous chapel, the fifth chapel on the right,
wherein Giovanni da Empoli has painted the death and burial
of the saint. Here they could sit out of the dust and the
noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to be important.
"What might have happened to me--he had made you believe
that he loved the child."
"Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up."
"At present it is still unsettled."
"It will never be settled."
"Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has
happened, and I am not here to scold you. But I must ask
you to withdraw from the thing for the present. Harriet is
furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that you
have done us no harm, and will do none."
"I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I
have changed sides."
"If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise
not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?"
"Oh, certainly. I don't want to speak to him again; I
shan't ever see him again."
"Quite nice, wasn't he?"
"Quite."
"Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'll go and tell
Harriet of your promise, and I think things'll quiet down now."
But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure
to him to be near her, and her charm was at its strongest
today. He thought less of psychology and feminine
reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had carried her
away had only made her more alluring. He was content to
observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the
wisdom that dwelt within her.
"Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked, after a pause.
"Because I understand you--all sides, I think,--Harriet,
Signor Carella, even my mother."
"You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of
us who has a general view of the muddle."
He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had
ever praised him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa
Deodata, who was dying in full sanctity, upon her back.
There was a window open behind her, revealing just such a
view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed
mother's dresser there stood just such another copper pot.
The saint looked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at
her widowed mother still less. For lo! she had a vision:
the head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding like
some miraculous enamel along the rough-cast wall. It is a
gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see
her die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did
not accomplish much.
"So what are you going to do?" said Miss Abbott.
Philip started, not so much at the words as at the
sudden change in the voice. "Do?" he echoed, rather
dismayed. "This afternoon I have another interview."
"It will come to nothing. Well?"
"Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for
instructions. I dare say we may fail altogether, but we
shall fail honourably."
She had often been decided. But now behind her decision
there was a note of passion. She struck him not as
different, but as more important, and he minded it very much
when she said--
"That's not doing anything! You would be doing
something if you kidnapped the baby, or if you went straight
away. But that! To fail honourably! To come out of the
thing as well as you can! Is that all you are after?"
"Why, yes," he stammered. "Since we talk openly, that
is all I am after just now. What else is there? If I can
persuade Signor Carella to give in, so much the better. If
he won't, I must report the failure to my mother and then go
home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can't expect me to follow you
through all these turns--"
"I don't! But I do expect you to settle what is right
and to follow that. Do you want the child to stop with his
father, who loves him and will bring him up badly, or do you
want him to come to Sawston, where no one loves him, but
where he will be brought up well? There is the question put
dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settle
which side you'll fight on. But don't go talking about an
'honourable failure,' which means simply not thinking and
not acting at all."
"Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and
of you, it's no reason that--"
"None at all. Fight as if you think us wrong. Oh,
what's the use of your fair-mindedness if you never decide
for yourself? Any one gets hold of you and makes you do
what they want. And you see through them and laugh at
them--and do it. It's not enough to see clearly; I'm
muddle-headed and stupid, and not worth a quarter of you,
but I have tried to do what seemed right at the time. And
you--your brain and your insight are splendid. But when you
see what's right you're too idle to do it. You told me once
that we shall be judged by our intentions, not by our
accomplishments. I thought it a grand remark. But we must
intend to accomplish--not sit intending on a chair."
"You are wonderful!" he said gravely.
"Oh, you appreciate me!" she burst out again. "I wish
you didn't. You appreciate us all--see good in all of us.
And all the time you are dead--dead--dead. Look, why aren't
you angry?" She came up to him, and then her mood suddenly
changed, and she took hold of both his hands. "You are so
splendid, Mr. Herriton, that I can't bear to see you
wasted. I can't bear--she has not been good to you--your
mother."
"Miss Abbott, don't worry over me. Some people are born
not to do things. I'm one of them; I never did anything at
school or at the Bar. I came out to stop Lilia's marriage,
and it was too late. I came out intending to get the baby,
and I shall return an 'honourable failure.' I never expect
anything to happen now, and so I am never disappointed. You
would be surprised to know what my great events are. Going
to the theatre yesterday, talking to you now--I don't suppose
I shall ever meet anything greater. I seem fated to pass
through the world without colliding with it or moving it--and
I'm sure I can't tell you whether the fate's good or evil.
I don't die--I don't fall in love. And if other people die
or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.
You are quite right; life to me is just a spectacle,
which--thank God, and thank Italy, and thank you--is now more
beautiful and heartening than it has ever been before."
She said solemnly, "I wish something would happen to
you, my dear friend; I wish something would happen to you."
"But why?" he asked, smiling. "Prove to me why I don't
do as I am."
She also smiled, very gravely. She could not prove it.
No argument existed. Their discourse, splendid as it had
been, resulted in nothing, and their respective opinions and
policies were exactly the same when they left the church as
when they had entered it.
Harriet was rude at lunch. She called Miss Abbott a
turncoat and a coward to her face. Miss Abbott resented
neither epithet, feeling that one was justified and the
other not unreasonable. She tried to avoid even the
suspicion of satire in her replies. But Harriet was sure
that she was satirical because she was so calm. She got
more and more violent, and Philip at one time feared that
she would come to blows.
"Look here!" he cried, with something of the old manner,
"it's too hot for this. We've been talking and interviewing
each other all the morning, and I have another interview
this afternoon. I do stipulate for silence. Let each lady
retire to her bedroom with a book."
"I retire to pack," said Harriet. "Please remind Signor
Carella, Philip, that the baby is to be here by half-past
eight this evening."
"Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of
reminding him."
"And order a carriage to take us to the evening train."
"And please," said Miss Abbott, "would you order a
carriage for me too?"
"You going?" he exclaimed.
"Of course," she replied, suddenly flushing. "Why not?"
"Why, of course you would be going. Two carriages,
then. Two carriages for the evening train." He looked at
his sister hopelessly. "Harriet, whatever are you up to?
We shall never be ready."
"Order my carriage for the evening train," said Harriet,
and departed.
"Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my
interview with Signor Carella."
Miss Abbott gave a little sigh.
"But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall
have the slightest influence over him?"
"No. But--I can't repeat all that I said in the church.
You ought never to see him again. You ought to bundle
Harriet into a carriage, not this evening, but now, and
drive her straight away."
"Perhaps I ought. But it isn't a very big 'ought.'
Whatever Harriet and I do the issue is the same. Why, I can
see the splendour of it--even the humour. Gino sitting up
here on the mountain-top with his cub. We come and ask for
it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equally
pleasant. I'm agreeable to spend the whole week bargaining
with him. But I know that at the end of it I shall descend
empty-handed to the plains. It might be finer of me to make
up my mind. But I'm not a fine character. And nothing
hangs on it."
"Perhaps I am extreme," she said humbly. "I've been
trying to run you, just like your mother. I feel you ought
to fight it out with Harriet. Every little trifle, for some
reason, does seem incalculably important today, and when you
say of a thing that 'nothing hangs on it,' it sounds like
blasphemy. There's never any knowing--(how am I to put
it?)--which of our actions, which of our idlenesses won't
have things hanging on it for ever."
He assented, but her remark had only an aesthetic value.
He was not prepared to take it to his heart. All the
afternoon he rested--worried, but not exactly despondent.
The thing would jog out somehow. Probably Miss Abbott was
right. The baby had better stop where it was loved. And
that, probably, was what the fates had decreed. He felt
little interest in the matter, and he was sure that he had
no influence.
It was not surprising, therefore, that the interview at
the Caffe Garibaldi came to nothing. Neither of them took
it very seriously. And before long Gino had discovered how
things lay, and was ragging his companion hopelessly.
Philip tried to look offended, but in the end he had to
laugh. "Well, you are right," he said. "This affair is
being managed by the ladies."
"Ah, the ladies--the ladies!" cried the other, and then
he roared like a millionaire for two cups of black coffee,
and insisted on treating his friend, as a sign that their
strife was over.
"Well, I have done my best," said Philip, dipping a long
slice of sugar into his cup, and watching the brown liquid
ascend into it. "I shall face my mother with a good
conscience. Will you bear me witness that I've done my best?"
"My poor fellow, I will!" He laid a sympathetic hand on
Philip's knee.
"And that I have--" The sugar was now impregnated with
coffee, and he bent forward to swallow it. As he did so his
eyes swept the opposite of the Piazza, and he saw there,
watching them, Harriet. "Mia sorella!" he exclaimed. Gino,
much amused, laid his hand upon the little table, and beat
the marble humorously with his fists. Harriet turned away
and began gloomily to inspect the Palazzo Pubblico.
"Poor Harriet!" said Philip, swallowing the sugar. "One
more wrench and it will all be over for her; we are leaving
this evening."
Gino was sorry for this. "Then you will not be here
this evening as you promised us. All three leaving?"
"All three," said Philip, who had not revealed the
secession of Miss Abbott; "by the night train; at least,
that is my sister's plan. So I'm afraid I shan't be here."
They watched the departing figure of Harriet, and then
entered upon the final civilities. They shook each other
warmly by both hands. Philip was to come again next year,
and to write beforehand. He was to be introduced to Gino's
wife, for he was told of the marriage now. He was to be
godfather to his next baby. As for Gino, he would remember
some time that Philip liked vermouth. He begged him to give
his love to Irma. Mrs. Herriton--should he send her his
sympathetic regards? No; perhaps that would hardly do.
So the two young men parted with a good deal of genuine
affection. For the barrier of language is sometimes a
blessed barrier, which only lets pass what is good. Or--to
put the thing less cynically--we may be better in new clean
words, which have never been tainted by our pettiness or
vice. Philip, at all events, lived more graciously in
Italian, the very phrases of which entice one to be happy
and kind. It was horrible to think of the English of
Harriet, whose every word would be as hard, as distinct, and
as unfinished as a lump of coal.
Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to
know that her brother had failed again, and with unwonted
dignity she accepted the situation. She did her packing,
she wrote up her diary, she made a brown paper cover for the
new Baedeker. Philip, finding her so amenable, tried to
discuss their future plans. But she only said that they
would sleep in Florence, and told him to telegraph for
rooms. They had supper alone. Miss Abbott did not come
down. The landlady told them that Signor Carella had called
on Miss Abbott to say good-bye, but she, though in, had not
been able to see him. She also told them that it had begun
to rain. Harriet sighed, but indicated to her brother that
he was not responsible.
The carriages came round at a quarter past eight. It
was not raining much, but the night was extraordinarily
dark, and one of the drivers wanted to go slowly to the
station. Miss Abbott came down and said that she was ready,
and would start at once.
"Yes, do," said Philip, who was standing in the hall.
"Now that we have quarrelled we scarcely want to travel in
procession all the way down the hill. Well, good-bye; it's
all over at last; another scene in my pageant has shifted."
"Good-bye; it's been a great pleasure to see you. I
hope that won't shift, at all events." She gripped his hand.
"You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don't
forget that you return victorious."
"I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than
ever, and got into the carriage. He concluded that she was
thinking of her reception at Sawston, whither her fame would
doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. Herriton do?
She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it
right. She might think it right to be silent, but then
there was Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet's tongue?
Between the two of them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad
time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral
enthusiasm, would be lost for ever.
"It's hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good
person. I must do for her anything I can." Their intimacy
had been very rapid, but he too hoped that it would not
shift. He believed that he understood her, and that she, by
now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a long
time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after
her carriage.
He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet.
Harriet was not to be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty.
All that was left of her was the purple prayer-book which
lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, and
saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war
and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket,
and began to brood over more profitable themes.
Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage
was on, and still Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon
it," said the landlady, "she has gone to Signor Carella's to
say good-bye to her little nephew." Philip did not think it
likely. They shouted all over the house and still there was
no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without
Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him
wonderfully, even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was
sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of
Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of
the great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh
papered with the advertisements of quacks.
A man came up the street with a note. Philip read,
"Start at once. Pick me up outside the gate. Pay the
bearer. H. H."
"Did the lady give you this note?" he cried.
The man was unintelligible.
"Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?"
Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of
the man.
"Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on
the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out
of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak.
He takes messages for us all."
Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly
creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching
nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here
he was accepted as a public institution, and part of
Nature's scheme.
"Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find
out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it
mean? Where did he see her?"
"It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands
everything but he can explain nothing."
"He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove
the cab.
"But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?"
"She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It
was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the
English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye
to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way,
she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting
for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this."
There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He
shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel
piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage
stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind.
"Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty."
A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was
part of the idiot's malady only to receive what was just for
his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece.
"Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the
road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life
had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena
gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there
was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana
men. But they had seen no English lady pass.
"What am I to do?" he cried; "it is not like the lady to
be late. We shall miss the train."
"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall
call her by name as we go."
So they started down into the night, Philip calling
"Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting
for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag.
"Harriet, why don't you answer?"
"I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not
till then did he see that she carried a bundle.
"What's that?"
"Hush--"
"Whatever is that?"
"Hush--sleeping."
Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had
failed. It was the baby.
She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was
asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from
the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture
the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between
the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to
conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense
conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that
he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money,
perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He's no
greater than I am, after all."
Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be
descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his
easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he
had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew
this day's sombre and unexpected close.
"You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell
me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we've got?"
"Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle
laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah,
or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees
of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view
behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that
remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and
the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow
and with the expectation of sorrow to come.
Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see
nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their
lamp illumined as they passed it. They travelled quickly,
for this driver did not care how fast he went to the
station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle
perilously round the curves.
"Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I
want to see the baby."
"Hush!"
"I don't mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him.
I've as much right in him as you."
Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the
child's face. "Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she
could stop him he had lit a match under the shelter of her
umbrella. "But he's awake!" he exclaimed. The match went out.
"Good ickle quiet boysey, then."
Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all
wrong."
"All wrong?"
"All puckered queerly."
"Of course--with the shadows--you couldn't see him."
"Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another
match. It went out quickly, but not before he had seen that
the baby was crying.
"Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him
if he cried."
"No, he's crying hard; I thought so before, and I'm
certain now."
Harriet touched the child's face. It was bathed in
tears. "Oh, the night air, I suppose," she said, "or
perhaps the wet of the rain."
"I say, you haven't hurt it, or held it the wrong way,
or anything; it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why
didn't you get Perfetta to carry it to the hotel instead of
muddling with the messenger? It's a marvel he understood
about the note."
"Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder.
"He tried to carry the baby--"
"But why not Gino or Perfetta?"
"Philip, don't talk. Must I say it again? Don't talk.
The baby wants to sleep." She crooned harshly as they
descended, and now and then she wiped up the tears which
welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes. Philip looked
away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were
travelling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the
mystery, all the persistency of woe were gathered to a
single fount. The roads were now coated with mud, and the
carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by
long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty
well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last
view of Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here.
Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets
were so plentiful in spring. He wished the weather had not
changed; it was not cold, but the air was extraordinarily
damp. It could not be good for the child.
"I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?" he said.
"Of course," said Harriet, in an angry whisper. "You've
started him again. I'm certain he was asleep. I do wish
you wouldn't talk; it makes me so nervous."
"I'm nervous too. I wish he'd scream. It's too
uncanny. Poor Gino! I'm terribly sorry for Gino."
"Are you?"
"Because he's weak--like most of us. He doesn't know
what he wants. He doesn't grip on to life. But I like that
man, and I'm sorry for him."
Naturally enough she made no answer.
"You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you
do us no good by it. We fools want some one to set us on
our feet. Suppose a really decent woman had set up Gino--I
believe Caroline Abbott might have done it--mightn't he have
been another man?"
"Philip," she interrupted, with an attempt at
nonchalance, "do you happen to have those matches handy? We
might as well look at the baby again if you have."
The first match blew out immediately. So did the
second. He suggested that they should stop the carriage and
borrow the lamp from the driver.
"Oh, I don't want all that bother. Try again."
They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the
third match. At last it caught. Harriet poised the
umbrella rightly, and for a full quarter minute they
contemplated the face that trembled in the light of the
trembling flame. Then there was a shout and a crash. They
were lying in the mud in darkness. The carriage had overturned.
Philip was a good deal hurt. He sat up and rocked
himself to and fro, holding his arm. He could just make out
the outline of the carriage above him, and the outlines of
the carriage cushions and of their luggage upon the grey
road. The accident had taken place in the wood, where it
was even darker than in the open.
"Are you all right?" he managed to say. Harriet was
screaming, the horse was kicking, the driver was cursing
some other man.
Harriet's screams became coherent. "The baby--the
baby--it slipped--it's gone from my arms--I stole it!"
"God help me!" said Philip. A cold circle came round
his mouth, and, he fainted.
When he recovered it was still the same confusion. The
horse was kicking, the baby had not been found, and Harriet
still screamed like a maniac, "I stole it! I stole it! I
stole it! It slipped out of my arms!"
"Keep still!" he commanded the driver. "Let no one
move. We may tread on it. Keep still."
For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl
through the mud, touching first this, then that, grasping
the cushions by mistake, listening for the faintest whisper
that might guide him. He tried to light a match, holding
the box in his teeth and striking at it with the uninjured
hand. At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the
bundle which he was seeking.
It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way,
and had fallen across a great rut. So tiny it was that had
it fallen lengthways it would have disappeared, and he might
never have found it.
"I stole it! I and the idiot--no one was there." She
burst out laughing.
He sat down and laid it on his knee. Then he tried to
cleanse the face from the mud and the rain and the tears.
His arm, he supposed, was broken, but he could still move it
a little, and for the moment he forgot all pain. He was
listening--not for a cry, but for the tick of a heart or the
slightest tremor of breath.
"Where are you?" called a voice. It was Miss Abbott,
against whose carriage they had collided. She had relit one
of the lamps, and was picking her way towards him.
"Silence!" he called again, and again they obeyed. He
shook the bundle; he breathed into it; he opened his coat
and pressed it against him. Then he listened, and heard
nothing but the rain and the panting horses, and Harriet,
who was somewhere chuckling to herself in the dark.
Miss Abbott approached, and took it gently from him.
The face was already chilly, but thanks to Philip it was no
longer wet. Nor would it again be wetted by any tear. _
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