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_ "He will have to marry her," said Philip. "I heard from him
this morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone
too far to back out. It would be expensive. I don't know
how much he minds--not as much as we suppose, I think. At
all events there's not a word of blame in the letter. I
don't believe he even feels angry. I never was so
completely forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me,
it has been a vision of perfect friendship. He nursed me,
he lied for me at the inquest, and at the funeral, though he
was crying, you would have thought it was my son who had
died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to;
he was so distressed not to make Harriet's acquaintance, and
that he scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says
so again."
"Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott,
"and give him my kindest regards."
"Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide
away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound
by ties of almost alarming intimacy. Gino had the southern
knack of friendship. In the intervals of business he would
pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and
advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was
pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator.
But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner
left. In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a
refuge from domestic difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott,
even if her dowry is small." And how Miss Abbott herself,
after such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions
and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could
understand.
"When will you see him again?" she asked. They were
standing together in the corridor of the train, slowly
ascending out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel.
"I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red
for a day or two with some of the new wife's money. It was
one of the arguments for marrying her."
"He has no heart," she said severely. "He does not
really mind about the child at all."
"No; you're wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the
rest of us. But he doesn't try to keep up appearances as we
do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once
will probably make him happy again--"
"He said he would never be happy again."
"In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say
it when we are calm--when we do not really believe it any
longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of
the many things I like him for.
"Yes; I was wrong. That is so."
"He's much more honest with himself than I am,"
continued Philip, "and he is honest without an effort and
without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will
you be in Italy next spring?"
"No."
"I'm sorry. When will you come back, do you think?"
"I think never."
"For whatever reason?" He stared at her as if she were
some monstrosity.
"Because I understand the place. There is no need."
"Understand Italy!" he exclaimed.
"Perfectly."
"Well, I don't. And I don't understand you," he
murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the
corridor. By this time he loved her very much, and he could
not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the
spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her
nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all
its gestures had become transfigured by them. The beauties
that are called obvious--the beauties of her hair and her
voice and her limbs--he had noticed these last; Gino, who
never traversed any path at all, had commended them
dispassionately to his friend.
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her
once--what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her
actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all
the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he
needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again?
Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening
that she had saved their lives? The train was nearly
empty. Harriet slumbered in a compartment by herself. He
must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to
her down the corridor.
She greeted him with a question of her own. "Are your
plans decided?"
"Yes. I can't live at Sawston."
"Have you told Mrs. Herriton?"
"I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things;
but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the
affair is settled--sadly settled since the baby is dead.
Still it's over; our family circle need be vexed no more.
She won't even be angry with you. You see, you have done us
no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about
Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and
work. What is yours?"
"Poor Harriet!" said Miss Abbott. "As if I dare judge
Harriet! Or anybody." And without replying to Philip's
question she left him to visit the other invalid.
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked
mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All
the excitement was over--the inquest, Harriet's short
illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent,
both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy.
In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his
face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight
of the sling. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it
was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous
work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very
little way those things would go.
"Is Harriet going to be all right?" he asked. Miss
Abbott had come back to him.
"She will soon be her old self," was the reply. For
Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was
quickly returning to her normal state. She had been
"thoroughly upset" as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to
realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor
little child. Already she spoke of "this unlucky accident,"
and "the mysterious frustration of one's attempts to make
things better." Miss Abbott had seen that she was
comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she
returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered
the affair as settled.
"I'm clear enough about Harriet's future, and about
parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?"
"Sawston and work," said Miss Abbott.
"No."
"Why not?" she asked, smiling.
"You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done
more than I have."
"But it's so different. Of course I shall go to
Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn't there,
I've a hundred ties: my district--I'm neglecting it
shamefully--my evening classes, the St. James'--"
"Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have
the whole thing out with her. "You're too good--about a
thousand times better than I am. You can't live in that
hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand
you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again
and again."
"Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I
hope that it will mean often."
"It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way,
each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's
not good enough."
"We can write at all events."
"You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure.
At times his hopes seemed so solid.
"I will indeed."
"But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old
life if you wanted to. Too much has happened.
"I know that," she said sadly.
"Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that
tower in the sunlight--do you remember it, and all you said
to me? The theatre, even. And the next day--in the church;
and our times with Gino."
"All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is
just where it is."
"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The
most wonderful things may be to come--"
"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and
looked at him so mournfully that he dare not contradict
her. The train was crawling up the last ascent towards the
Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the tunnel.
"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if
their free intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the
matter with you? I thought I understood you, and I don't.
All those two great first days at Monteriano I read you as
clearly as you read me still. I saw why you had come, and
why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful
courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment,
as you used to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You
see I owe too much to you--my life, and I don't know what
besides. I won't stand it. You've gone too far to turn
mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't be
mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something
else: 'I and my life must be where I live.' You can't live
at Sawston."
He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself
hurriedly. "It is tempting--" And those three words threw
him into a tumult of joy. What was tempting to her? After
all was the greatest of things possible? Perhaps, after
long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had brought
them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre,
those silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a
departed spring, all had helped, and sorrow had helped also,
and so had tenderness to others.
"It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious.
I've wanted often to tell you, and then been afraid. I
could never tell any one else, certainly no woman, and I
think you're the one man who might understand and not be
disgusted."
"Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?"
"Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He
was resolved that though a dozen people were looking, he
would yet take her in his arms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I
wouldn't speak. I think you must know already." Their
faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging
through them both.
"Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could
speak instead. But if you will say the word plainly you'll
never be sorry; I will thank you for it all my life."
She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke
down. Her body was shaken with sobs, and lest there should
be any doubt she cried between the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino!
He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When
I can forget how he hurt me that evening. Though whenever
we shake hands--" One of them must have moved a step or two,
for when she spoke again she was already a little way apart.
"You've upset me." She stifled something that was
perilously near hysterics. "I thought I was past all this.
You're taking it wrongly. I'm in love with Gino--don't pass
it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I mean. So laugh at me."
"Laugh at love?" asked Philip.
"Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or
worse--that he's a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in
love with him. That's the help I want. I dare tell you
this because I like you--and because you're without passion;
you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it; you
only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure
me. Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh
herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He's not a
gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He's never
flattered me nor honoured me. But because he's handsome,
that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a
pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm
against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then,
to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not
ashamed of it. I love him, and I'm going to Sawston, and if
I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die."
In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not
of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even
speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand
it. A flippant reply was what she asked and
needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed
it was the only reply he could trust himself to make.
"Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"
She shook her head. Even this question was too
pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself,
she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I
saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is
like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so
nothing can alter me now."
"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all,
he could say what he wanted.
"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"
"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"
"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her
exactly as she had hoped.
"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of
them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the
gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae.
Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not
escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in
common?"
"Nothing except the times we have seen each other."
Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away.
"Which--which times?"
"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went
instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I
know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us
to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and
light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you
opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy.
Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for
anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with
the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the
place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again.
I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming
near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."
"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is
parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in
danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For
the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but
himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he
was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad
that she had once held the beloved in her arms.
"Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr.
Herriton, I think. Only don't be charitable and shift or
take the blame. Get over supposing I'm refined. That's
what puzzles you. Get over that."
As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have
indeed no part with refinement or unrefinement any longer.
Out of this wreck there was revealed to him something
indestructible--something which she, who had given it, could
never take away.
"I say again, don't be charitable. If he had asked me,
I might have given myself body and soul. That would have
been the end of my rescue party. But all through he took me
for a superior being--a goddess. I who was worshipping every
inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that saved me."
Philip's eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo.
But he saw instead the fair myth of Endymion. This woman
was a goddess to the end. For her no love could be
degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This episode,
which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for
him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he
lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that
he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling
her? For all the wonderful things had happened.
"Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank
you for everything."
She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had
made her life endurable. At that moment the train entered
the San Gothard tunnel. They hurried back to the carriage
to close the windows lest the smuts should get into
Harriet's eyes.
THE END
Where Angels Fear to Tread, by E. M. Forster _
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