Frances Peard (continued 2)

“Perhaps it is more than we think,” said Bice, still bitterly; “sometimes I feel almost sure it is.”

“It would give us some new dresses, to be sure,” Kitty said, with a general readiness to assent to her sister’s ideas, “and a piano. I should enjoy a piano.”

“It would do more than that,” Bice said abruptly. And then her voice softened, the beautiful eyes grew wistful; she put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and looked into her face. “Oh, Kitty,” she said, “if we only had a little money, you or I, we could save poor Clive without—”

She stopped suddenly, and Kitty looked startled, for something in Bice’s manner thrilled through her.

“But,” she said hesitatingly, “Oliver will do that. He has promised, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Bice, very slowly.

Alas! but it was she who had to promise also. “Then it’s all right. Oliver can do anything.”

“Only if he is to do this, I must marry him.”

She still spoke slowly, but her voice sounded strained and unnatural. Kitty answered cheerfully—

“Yes, I know. But you like him, don’t you? You made up your mind the last time he was here, and there has been nothing to make you change. And you always wanted to live in England. I don’t think Oliver would be at all a bad sort of person to marry.”

“I have never said I would marry him,” interrupted her sister.

“No,” said Kitty doubtfully, “not exactly. Still you intended it.”

“What has Clive done?” said Bice, looking at her with troubled eyes. “We know very little about it all. Oliver always says we cannot understand, and that it is better for us that he should not attempt to explain; but I think it would be better if he did explain; for now it is like some dreadful dark shadow of disgrace hanging over us, never off one’s mind day and night.” Kitty’s eyes filled with tears.

“Is it so bad for you, dear?” she said sadly. “I have not troubled myself much about it since Oliver said he would arrange. Surely he knows best, and he is the only person to do anything.”

“Why shouldn’t Mr Ibbetson help us?” said Bice in a low voice. Her sister cried out in astonishment, but the girl persisted. “There are kind people in the world,” she said, as her eyes brightened. “If you or I saw anyone in trouble we should do what we could; and he is a man, he knows about England and this world into which poor Clive has tumbled—he might advise us.”

“Not better than Oliver!” exclaimed Kitty, amazed. “Oh, I’m tired of Oliver,” cried Bice with petulant impatience. Her heart was rising up in revolt against its fate till it burned within her. She was angry with Clive, with Oliver, with Kitty, who could only praise him; most of all with herself, the self which had grown all of a sudden discontented, frightened, and indignant. How was it that the change had come, if it was a change and not rather an awakening? How was it that life had in a few hours blossomed into a hundred possibilities? She had thought of Oliver Trent before with a sort of dull satisfaction, as a means of helping Clive and of averting sorrow from those she loved; and as he had skilfully managed to make himself necessary to her, her feelings towards him were passive. But this calm was at an end. All that evening she had been comparing, watching, reflecting; a light seemed suddenly to have been turned upon him; she saw things written in his features which she had never discovered before—some, very likely, which were not there at all. “His eyes are close together, and there is a broad piece of face beyond them—that is not good, I know,” said the critic, “and his face is red and hard.” And all the time, joined with this revolt, some strong new hope seemed to have leapt into her heart, uncalled for and inexplicable. “There are kind people in the world,” she had said to Kitty, but what had brought her the sudden conviction? Is it not pathetic sometimes to see how little will win a heart, and yet how much fails to touch it? We take some trifling trouble, and, lo, an affection is laid at our feet which years cannot change or parting cool. And then, again, we give our life blood, and the gift is scorned. Jack had felt attracted and touched, and had looked and spoken as he felt—kindly, but it was no more than the commonest kindness, though to her it seemed altogether special and delightful.

When Ibbetson reached Villa Carlina that morning, only Mrs Masters, in her usual condition of good-natured drowsiness, was in the breakfast-room, eating grapes from a great golden bunch which had just been brought in with stalk and leaves attached; but before he had had much time to ponder where he should find the others, Bice came, flushed and smiling, and carrying a great bunch of flowers, jack felt himself again wondering at her beauty. She had a white dress—indeed, as yet, he had seen her in no other colour—but over her head she had flung a veil of black lace, Milanese fashion, and the bright flowers in her hands—big scarlet lilies, blue larkspurs, and another blue flower with green spikes—made a brilliant flash of colour against the cool white folds. Mrs Masters said plaintively—

“Where can you have been, Bice? They have been looking for you everywhere until Oliver is quite vexed; go and find them in the garden, and say that you are come.”

“There is no hurry,” said the girl lightly; “they do not want me.”

“But where have you been?”

“To gather flowers for the Virgin’s niche; and they are so scarce at this time of the year, that I had to go a long way.”

“So it is you who keep the flowers supplied?” said Ibbetson, remembering that on the day he first saw the villa he had wondered whose hand had placed the pretty nosegay.

“Yes. But we are English, and belong to the English Church,” said Beatrice quickly. “You will see us in Florence to-morrow. Only it seemed so sad to leave that little shrine in the wall desolate after flowers had been laid there for so many years; and the poor peasants who come along that dusty road like to see something fresh and pretty when they look up and pray; and so I am going there now,” she said smiling; “and you may come if you will, just to see how they get into the grating.”

“But there is Oliver,” said Mrs Masters anxiously. “He has Kitty,” Bice answered. “Or, if that does not content you, they are in the garden, for I heard their voices, and it is there we are going.”

Nevertheless Ibbetson fancied that she led him along paths which looked mossy and unfrequented. There was a gloom about these paths even on this bright day; dark ilexes shut out the sun overhead, long leaves of narcissus straggled about, weedy-looking and untidy, amid the undergrowth; one or two mutilated statues kept desolate ward over the silence and dimness. The girl glanced round her and shivered.

“I wish I had not brought you here,” she said uneasily; “there is something in this walk which always oppresses me.”

“If I had not seen it you would not have made me believe there was so cheerless a spot so near the villa. But then, if you had not told me the contrary, I could not have thought there was any dark shadow near you in your happy country life.”

Foolish, kind Jack! Ever since he had seen the tears in her eyes he had felt that he should like to help her.

Bice stopped and looked earnestly at him.

“That is why I asked you to come with me,” she said with a simple straightforwardness which he had noticed in her before. “I thought if I could tell you about Clive you might advise us what to do. I fancied I understood, but it has all got into a tangle in my head. May I really tell you?”

If Ibbetson had been less interested than he was, it would have been impossible to have remained untouched by the frank simplicity of her appeal.

“You may depend upon me,” he said gravely.

Then she told her little story in a quiet voice, trying to put it into as few words as possible. Clive was their brother, a lad of twenty-one. About two years before, he had gone to London, having, by Oliver’s help, got into some great business house; “because we are poor, and it was necessary he should do something to make money,” she explained. At first things had seemed to go well; he was quick and pleased his employers, so that lately he had been promoted, but since then all had been unsatisfactory. Oliver had been the kindest friend, and was the first to give them a warning that the young fellow was not going on so steadily. They had written imploring letters, and Clive had answered them with such a frank acknowledgment that he had been wrong, and such a clearly-expressed determination to turn over a new leaf, that they had been happier. But, alas, six weeks ago Oliver Trent had come out from England and had brought the worst news with him. He persistently refused to tell them in plain words what had happened, but he hinted at conduct on the part of Clive which had come to his knowledge though not as yet to his employers, conduct which—known—must bring terrible disgrace and ruin. The poor women were overwhelmed. He was not Mrs Masters’ son, but he was Kitty’s brother, and the others entirely accepted him as their own. What was to be done? Bice’s first impulse had been to write and question Clive, but that Mr Trent had absolutely forbidden. Clive must not know that he was aware of his guilt, or it would be impossible for him to help him. Whatever was done must be done through himself alone, and this at a great risk. Bice could not understand what plan Mr Trent had in his head; he did not confide it to her: she imagined only that there was some man whose silence he meant to buy; at any rate he had promised to help them provided everything was left in his hands. She flushed and looked down as she said these words, and Ibbetson, whose suspicions had been awakened the night before, guessed that there was another “provided” which had received a tacit acquiescence. But, good heavens, what was he to say! He had not bargained for a story like this, for being asked to assist in condoning a felony—to which it all pointed. Probably the unfortunate boy had forged a signature, and Trent held the proofs, and meant to use them. He remained altogether silent.

In the trouble of her own feelings the girl was not at first conscious of his dismay. She was walking along and looking down, but as he did not speak she glanced at him and stopped with a little cry.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I shouldn’t have told you, I have only set you against him. I should have believed Oliver when he said that no one must know.”

“You need not fear me,” said the young man gravely. “I mayn’t be able to help, but you may be sure I will never betray your trust. And if I can’t help, perhaps I may at least advise.”

She stood still and began nervously to pick off the leaves of a branch of ilex and to roll them together.

“If there is any way by which we could save him from disgrace,” she began hurriedly, when Ibbetson interrupted her—

“But if I understand you rightly, that is just what Mr Trent has promised to do?”

The girl became very pale.

“Yes,” she said at last with an effort. “You are right. I don’t know why I appealed to you. Forget it, and don’t let us say any more.”

Her voice was proud and hurt. She looked straight before her, and was moving forwards when Jack detained her.

“You must let me give you my advice,” he said kindly. “It will not be the same as Mr Trent’s, and I fear you mayn’t like it so well, but if I had a brother in the same position as your brother, I should not rest until—”

“Until—?” she asked with eagerness.

“Until I had induced him to make a clean breast of it.”

“You mean to us?”

“No: I mean to his employers.”

The girl started as if she had been stung. She stood still, her breast heaved, the burning colour rushed into her face.

“But that is the very disgrace we are trying to avoid!” she cried with a sharp ring in her voice. “It is cruel to mock me with such words. Why, why that is the worst that could happen, and you speak of it as calmly as if—”

“Mock you!” cried Jack, hurt in his turn. “Have I ever said anything which should make you think me such a brute? At least hear me until I have explained myself. This affair, whatever it is, if it is covered up and concealed in the manner in which you have hinted, will hang over your heads with a never-ending dread. Something may always bring it to light, and your brother will be haunted by fear of it. But if he takes courage and speaks openly, his employers will be at once half won over, I am sure of it; they will think of his youth, of his inexperience—even business men have hearts, Miss Masters. Believe me, it is the most honourable way.”

She listened very quietly, though her face was still flushed, and when he had finished she remained silent. Suddenly, at a little distance, they heard voices, and Bice said hurriedly—

“This is your only advice?”

“I can think of nothing else.”

“I must have time for considering it, and I don’t want Oliver to guess that we have been talking: if you will go straight along this path you will come to a door in the wall by which you can get into the road. Do not be vexed with me for sending you away.”

“One word—how is your hand?”

“Oh, almost well.”

“And when shall I see you again?”

“When you like to come,” said Bice smiling; “or, perhaps, to-morrow in Florence. We shall be there, as I said, for the service.”

“Then will you come afterwards to luncheon at my aunt’s—Casa Giulia? She is longing to make your acquaintance, and I shall feel sure you have forgiven me.”

“Oh, I have forgiven you,” said Bice, after a pause, “Well, we will come—”

Chapter Six.

Cartouche Interrupts.

When Ibbetson had left her, Bice hastened to that part of the wall where was the niche to which she was carrying the flowers. A little terrace ran along by means of which she could reach and open the grating, and take out the vase with its withered blossoms. She carried it to a small fountain close by, filled it with clear water, and put in her flaming lilies. Then she took it back to the niche, closed the grating, came down from the terrace, and after a moment’s consideration walked slowly towards the place where she had heard the voices.

Kitty and Mr Trent were standing under a large acacia tree, and turned quickly round to greet her. Kitty poured out her questions—Where had she been? what had she been doing? did she know they had been looking for her?

“Mamma told me,” said Bice carelessly; “surely you two might have amused each other for an hour. And it would not have required any superhuman sagacity, Kitty, to guess that I had gone for the flowers.”

“If you are cross, I shall go to the terrace and leave Oliver to his fate,” said Kitty, laughing and escaping.

The two who were left looked at each other as she ran off—he with open admiration, she with a tremulous quiver of her lips not lost upon him. Oliver Trent was a man of about five and thirty, tall and thin, with dead, dusty-coloured hair; his features were not ill-looking, but, as Bice had remarked, hard in their lines, and he spoke with a slow sweetness curiously out of keeping with his face. He now slowly repeated—

“To my fate. I wonder if Kitty quite understood what happy prognostications lay in her words? Yes, this is the fate I have been looking forward to all these weary weeks; and I began to think, Bice, that you delighted in cruelty, or else had learned the woman’s art of tantalising. Come and sit here in the shade.”

She followed him more readily than he, perhaps, expected, for he half-suspected that she was bent upon avoiding a tête-à-tête; but in actual truth she had scarcely heard his words, or at any rate had not taken in their meaning. Another thought possessed her. As they sat down she turned and looked steadily into his face.

“What is Clive’s exact position?” she said sharply.

He hesitated. She repeated the question.

“You had better not ask for particulars, for they can only give you pain.”

“I can bear pain.”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at her hand, “such pain as that; but there are other and worse pangs, and from those, Bice, I shall always endeavour to shield you. Clive has been doing his utmost to ruin himself and make you all miserable; I am trying to save him. It is a hard task, and unless you trust me and follow my directions, I tell you honestly that I have no chance of success.”

“You threaten us with shadows,” said the girl moodily.

“Oh, Bice,” he said—and his voice became yet softer and more slow—“you are not yourself to-day. What has changed you? I have often found you hasty, wilful, unreasonable, but never before ungenerous. Is it I that threaten? Is it not rather I that at any cost am trying to keep the danger a shadow? Once let me remove my hand, and it will be real and tangible enough—”

She could not endure such a reproach; it seemed horrible to her, and also true. She stretched out her hand to him with a quick gesture of kindness.

“You have been our very good friend, I know, Oliver,” she said, looking at him gratefully, “and I ought to be content and not tease you. Only tell me, is it absolutely necessary there should be this secrecy?”

“Absolutely. I am obliged to use the greatest caution.”

“Out here, how would it be possible for us to interfere with any plans?”

He began to be vexed with her unusual importunity, but allowed no trace of his vexation to appear in his face or voice. On the contrary, he said with a smile, “Excuse me; if there were no other way, I should feel by no means certain what you and Kitty might not write to Clive. No. Complete ignorance is the safest state of things for you; for of one thing I am sure, nature never intended either of you for a conspirator.”

Bice turned and looked at him thoughtfully. He felt uneasy, for her eyes seemed to be asking whether it was for that he was intended. He said more abruptly than he had yet spoken—

“Do you not care any longer that Clive should be saved?”

“Do I not care!”

The sudden fire which leapt into her eyes answered him. He had at last touched the right string.

“You have considered it thoroughly?” he said, speaking deliberately again. “I particularly desire that you should do so. If this act of Clive’s is brought home to him, it means dishonour and disgrace; I cannot hide it from you. Your mother is very fond of Clive, she will never hold up her head again. As for Kitty, you know best whether she will care or not. It may not be so bad for you, it is true, because you bear another name.”

Bice interrupted him in a low passionate voice. “You shall not say that!”

“You refuse to separate yourself from them? Well, then, for you too the shame and the disgrace. And poor Clive, so young, so foolish, not wicked, but led away. He writes to you all, I know, as if nothing had happened, but if you could see him as I do, you would long to save him!”

“You must save him.”

The girl’s voice was choked. Oliver leant forward and looked at her.

“At all costs?”

“At all costs.”

“And by all means, whether right or wrong?”

“Whether right or wrong.”

He leant forward still further and forced her to look at him.

“I will,” he said slowly. “For you.”

They were silent after that for a time. He felt that he had won a victory, but her moods were so changeful that he was afraid of endangering it by trying to push his advantage further. And yet he wanted more. More than ever since this other man, of whom he felt insanely jealous, had appeared on the scene. At this moment, when her feelings were all stirred and thrilled, he knew that skilfully led she would be capable of any self-sacrifice, that it would even have an attraction for her. Once get her to make a definite promise, and he felt certain the generosity of her nature would keep her to it. And once his—he looked at her beautiful face, grew pale, and set his teeth—he would make her love him: his work should not be left half done.

Now, if ever, was his time.

He said presently, in a pained and gloomy tone—“I could almost envy Clive.”

“Why?” she said, looking round quickly.

“Clive, and Kitty, and your mother. Do you ever think of anyone else? Would you care if I—we—the rest of the world were swept away in a common deluge? Would it matter to you in the least, supposing you four were safe?”

“You are very unjust, Oliver,” she said in a low tone, and he saw tears shining in her eyes.

“I think not,” he said gently. “So long as I can save Clive you are quite willing for me to run any risk—and the risk is great, remember. I am a chancery barrister, working upwards with quite my share of difficulties. Suppose my attempt fails—yes, it is always necessary to look what one undertakes in the face.”

“Clive would be ruined,” she said as he paused. Then, as he did not speak, she looked at him again and saw him smiling. “What do you mean?” she said half angrily.

“What did I tell you?” he answered. “It was not of Clive that I was speaking at that moment but of myself. I should be ruined as effectually as Clive, but that, of course, is not worth mentioning.” She started from her seat as if she had been stung, but he laid his hand on her arm and drew her down again beside him. “Wait a moment, Bice,” he said in a changed voice, “wait and listen; I have a right at least to ask so much from you. I am not saying this to you because I have any dream of retracting my promise; it is given, and there is an end of scruple. It is dangerous, perhaps wrong; I shall have to use means that I detest, and mix myself up with scoundrels who will be on the look-out to catch me tripping—never mind. I have promised. Only understand what it is you ask me to do, and understand also that I do it for you—solely and entirely for you. What is Clive to me? Nothing. Do you suppose that one’s cousins are so dear that one would risk reputation and honour for them. But what are you to me? Everything. Everything in the whole world, and you know it, you know it. Have you no word for me? Am I to sacrifice everything and to have nothing in return? Bice, Bice, can’t you give anything for Clive?”

She was looking straight before her, the colour had faded out of her face; his voice, dangerously low and sweet, sounded in her ears. All her life long she never forgot that moment. Long afterwards, if she shut her eyes, she could see the great leaves of the trees of Paradise swaying backwards and forwards against the deep blue sky; a vine, golden in the sunshine; a pumpkin with its odd parti-coloured gourds flinging itself down a steep bank; a clump of lilac crocuses breaking through the grass—her eyes wandered over them all while he waited for her answer. She knew quite well what it must be; her poor little generous untaught heart had felt all the time he was speaking that he had a right so to speak, that it was not for her to hold back. Never before had it seemed to her so terrible—Oliver would have been bitterly disappointed had he known—but not for that could she hesitate. She hated herself because the sacrifice seemed so unendurable. Why did she not speak? What years were dragging slowly by while he waited, holding her hand in his—waited, waited!

There was a rush, a swoop. A great black dog came tearing through the bushes, springing upon Bice. Old Andrea followed, breathless and panting.

“He is a demon, that dog of the English signore,” he cried, “and he has lost his master. Signorina, for pity’s sake take him where he is, or he will knock the house down. He has been in my kitchen and gobbled up a heap of amoretti, and broken half the eggs, and upset the milk, and before that he had frightened the padrona out of her senses. Che, che, che, we cannot have such doings! Signorina, where is his master?”

“He is gone,” said Bice, jumping up; “he has been gone a long time. What shall we do, Andrea? Can one of the men take him into Florence?”

“Would he go?—the signorina should rather ask that question. Otherwise the cart from the podere is here, going in with a couple of pigs that have been sold. But the creature would not follow.”

“Then we must tie him to the back.”

“Già, già, that is it, the signorina has always got her ideas.” Old Andrea, who had recovered his good humour, stood shaking his broad shoulders and pointing at Cartouche, who kept close to Beatrice. “And he really is clever, too, he knows he has found a friend. Come along, come along, signorina mia.”

“You will not go?” said Oliver, holding her back. He was furious with the dog, with the old cook, and with the knowledge that Ibbetson had already been there that morning. One other moment and the girl would have been his, he had known it, and now—

It seemed to Bice as if a weight had fallen from her, she caught her hand from his and stood breathing quickly.

“Yes, I must go,” she said, almost angrily. “Don’t you see they cannot manage him by themselves. Come, Cartouche; come, Andrea.”

She ran towards the house, the dog followed her, leaping and barking. Oliver turned sharply away and went to the Virgin’s niche. He wanted to see if she had really taken fresh flowers there. Had Ibbetson helped her; was she playing a double game? He stood for some time thinking, his head bent and a frown on his face; and while he was there, a cart came jolting down the white and stony road. Behind it, and dragged unwillingly along, was poor Cartouche on his way to his home. Bice was walking by his side to console him for a little part of the road by encouraging words. She did not see Oliver Trent, nor hear his exclamation of rage, but she looked like a creature who had escaped to freedom, and had thrown off a burden. He was half disposed to follow her, but something seemed to warn him that the spell was broken, and must be re-woven before he could succeed.

Perhaps people do not very often—except, indeed, in books—lay those elaborate schemes, those widely-spread toils of villainy, which are supposed to belong to a bad man’s career. It is probable that they open out to them almost as unexpectedly as to us, time and opportunity seeming to throw themselves on their side. Certainly Trent, who was growing more involved week by week, had laid no such plans when he took his first step; nay, more, he was made very uneasy by a clear perception of the dangers to which he was exposing himself as he went on. He would gladly have pulled himself up before, and looked forward almost feverishly to laying down the net which he told himself he was forced to weave, with the full intention of never again engaging in such rash work. He had no dislike of Clive to make it easier to do him a mischief, though he salved his conscience in the curious short-sighted way in which that work is often done, telling himself that the means he was obliged to use would not really injure the young man, although they might seem to cloud his prospects for a time:—nay, he sometimes almost succeeded in assuring himself that they were likely to work for Clive’s advantage, giving him just the lesson he needed, and putting him through a wholesome time of trial. But as this view of himself as a kind of abstract justice was one which no effort could keep always in the position where he would have liked to find it, he was subject to fits of impatience, wishing very heartily that he could reach his end and wash his hands of all this miserable business, which both irritated and annoyed him. When he had reached the villa he had confidently looked forward to being free in a week. And already he was feeling as if his acts were turning into scourges. Yet he had no thought of giving up Bice; the more he saw her, the more determined he grew to make her his wife, and when he was in her company all compunctions for Clive and fears for himself vanished in reckless resolution.

Chapter Seven.

A Sunday in Florence.

No one who has not seen Tuscany in its golden autumn can have any idea of its deepest, its most enchanting beauty. For, whatever men say, autumn in these colder northern lands carries, in every gorgeous tint and flaming leaf, a profound melancholy. A shiver of coming winter creeps over you in spite of yourself; it is a farewell, a dirge which comes sighing through the crimson and yellow woods, where the leaves are dropping to decay. In Italy there is no such sadness. Winter there is, to be sure—wind and snow, and sharpness of frost; but through it all the sun is laughing out, wonderful colours glow; spring, hope, youth, are never lost, or even for a moment forgotten. And therefore autumn brings no dread, only its own rich fruition and the joy of fulfilled toil.

As they drove down from the villa into Florence on the Sunday morning, the beauty of the time seemed at its height. The road, after descending between the high walls over which here and there the roses thrust themselves, branched off and ran gaily down to the Arno and to Florence through bordering vineyards, where the purple and yellow grapes hung in luminous clusters between the intense fresh green of their leaves as they tossed themselves from one tall tree to another against a clear brightness of sky. All round lay the soft and delicate glory of the mountains, and below them the town glowed white in the sunshine, even the cool shadows on the towers and walls gleaming with a strange translucent golden pink. There are no words for such colours; they burn and blend, everything is touched with an enchanter’s wand; it is only when you try to hold them fast, or come away to our cold greens and greys, that you learn something of their power.

Oliver Trent had done his utmost to get Bice again by herself, but she had as yet contrived to avoid him, and he was a good deal more disquieted by her doing so than he ventured to show; for hers was not a nature which it would be safe to stir into opposition, or to attempt to intimidate, and he had studied her closely enough to be aware that she would resent nothing so much as suspicion or distrust. Every hour that passed endangered his plans, and yet he could do nothing but wait. He was even obliged to see them drive off to Casa Giulia after service without him, as he was to go to other friends, and to meet them afterwards at Miss Cartwright’s. All that he could do was to whisper into Bice’s ear, as he put her into the carriage, “Remember,” and then he stood and watched them go with a black cloud on his face, which he no longer troubled himself to mask.

Bice’s spirits rose as they left him behind; at any rate, she was free for a few hours. The sun was shining, the bands were playing, all Florence was alive with gaiety, and the girl’s Italian blood leapt into answering life. Something else, too, there was, another spring of joy, none the less real that it was hidden away from touch or sight—was she not going where Jack would be? would she not at least see him, and hear his kind voice? He had not helped her as she had hoped, she acknowledged to herself. She could read in his face only strong condemnation of Clive and contempt for his weakness, and condemnation and contempt seemed to leave the burden just where it was before. But she forgot all that now. She was content to ask herself no questions, to take the joy of the moment. She had seen him in the distance, at church, with some ladies; and as she thought of him, such a sweet and gentle expression stole into her face, that the people who looked at her smiled with the ready sympathy of their country.

“She is a girl, and she is happy,” said old Bertuccia, who on week-days sits in the Borgo Ognissanti, near the church, selling her flowers and vegetables.

A brown old man who was standing by chuckled.

“Altro! But where is he?” he said, and they all laughed.

Miss Cartwright was at home alone, she had not been well enough to go to church, and a hot, nervous flush was on her cheeks when she arose to receive three strangers. But Bice’s face, its beauty, its happiness, won her heart at once. Jack, who, in spite of his condemnation, had been greatly touched by the pathetic little story, had asked her to be kind to the girl, and though this radiant beauty was different from her expectations, it was charming in itself. When Jack came in, after taking the others to the hotel, he found them on the best of terms. Even Miss Preston thawed at intervals, especially when Mrs Masters showed a docile inclination to adopt her favourite prescription for a chill. Cartouche welcomed them with patronising dignity. There was a striped awning running out from the window, and under this they sat and chatted. It seemed to Bice like a little haven of rest and kindness, for, perhaps unfortunately, Ibbetson took, particular care that she should be looked after and amused. Presently they went for luncheon into the cool little dining-room. Miss Cartwright asked her nephew a question in a low voice, and Bice heard him say that they were all coming by-and-by. Who were they, she wondered; little knowing, poor child, what the knowledge would cost her. Then there were other questions. Miss Cartwright was interested about the old villa and their solitary life; Miss Preston was alarming Mrs Masters by searching demands for statistics of the farm expenses, of the vintage.

“Beatrice is my manager,” said her mother apologetically. “I was never a woman of business, or able to understand accounts. Fortunately she has taken to that sort of thing from the time she was a child. But we shall soon be going to Rome, for we have let the villa for a few months, and shall spend that time with a relation of the Capponis.”

“You are going to Rome?” said Ibbetson to Bice, with interest. “Then we shall meet, for I too am to be there this winter.” He hesitated whether he would or would not say “after my marriage,” but he did not add the words, and the girl looked up brightly.

“Oh, I am glad!” she said in a shy, quick voice.

How swiftly the moments flew! Every now and then a thought of Oliver and of Clive forced its way up into her mind, but she crushed it down again before it had time to shape itself—for this one half-day she would be free, she would be happy. Kitty, who had seen her the night before, looked with wonder at her smiles.

They were in the garden again when four more people arrived—Captain Leyton, his wife, Phillis Grey, and Mr Trent. When Bice saw Oliver, a sudden sickness seemed to overpower her, but she was still bent upon defying fate; and when he made his way to her side as if to claim her, she turned away with something more like a movement of dislike than she had ever yet shown to him. That he saw it was evident, for he drew back at once, but it was with a smile on his lips which a close observer might have called triumphant.

“The world is so small,” some one was proclaiming. “Who would have supposed that Mr Trent, whom we met at Bologna, and who lunched with us to-day, would have been coming to this very house on quite another account? It is almost provoking, I think, the way everybody knows everybody. One can never make discoveries on one’s own account.”

Mrs Leyton, who said this, was a fair, bright-faced woman, with a wish to be pathetic and a face which belied the attempt. She was a very popular person, for she had the power of adapting herself readily to those in whose society she happened to find herself, and was never unwilling to do a little kindness.

“I can’t quite agree with you, Mrs Leyton,” said Trent, in his deliberate voice. “It seems to me just the means by which one can make discoveries.”

“What does the fellow mean?” said Jack to himself. “He looks as hard at me as if he had raked out an escaped convict. Why did Phillis not tell me they had met him?”

When they first came into the room, Phillis sat down close to the door, and Ibbetson only nodded to her, and went on talking to Bice. Kitty was nearest to her, and the two began to talk, shyly, and with many pauses. Cartouche rushed up to Phillis and lay down at her feet. Miss Preston looked first at her, then at Bice, and shook her head. Certainly the contrast was great. Bice’s beautiful face was sparkling, her eyes were bright and soft, her colour came and went; it was like watching the changing lights of a spring day, there was so much youth and sweet freshness in the face. Phillis looked still and grave by comparison. No one could have called her beautiful, many the reverse. She was pale, and her features were irregular, her mouth large, though her teeth were charming, and her eyes clear brown, such as one sees sometimes in a dog—as honest and as faithful. Bice, looking at her once when she was smiling at Kitty, was struck by the feeling of restfulness which her face suggested; it smote her own poor little storm-tossed heart with a sharp pang of envy.

“Who is that lady? Is she one of your party?” she said quickly to Jack.

“Miss Grey? Yes. You will see her in Rome also,” he said, rather oddly, Bice thought.

“I am glad of that,” said the girl with a sigh; “she looks as if she could help one.”

It was proposed presently that some of them should go to the American Church, on the other side of the Arno, for the afternoon service. Mrs Masters was afraid of the walk, and would stay with Miss Cartwright, the others set out. The day was cooler, and the Lung’ Arno was crowded with gay people strolling down to the Cascine. It was like plunging from the present into the past, to cross the river and reach the dark dirty little streets which lead to the Carmine Church. Captain Leyton dragged a well-worn Baedeker out of his pocket and turned in there, where Masaccio’s frescoes glow in soft sad colours in his chapel, and the old beggars keep guard over the doors; the rest of the party were faithful to their aim, and went on to the little whitewashed building close by.

He rejoined them when they came out, and they wound through more dark crooked historic streets—streets where, as you pass, memories jostle you, and the famous dead come to life again, streets which are gloomy and yet brightened by flashes of gay colour; until they came to the Pitti, and so on to the Old Bridge. There, on either side, are the goldsmiths’ shops, which long years have kept unchanged, where, in little dens scarcely big enough to hold their master, twisted coils of yellow-looking pearls hang in long loops, and diamonds flash, and forget-me-nots of blue turquoises are heaped up; while behind, the quaint buildings bulge out in all sorts of strange shapes, with red roofs stuck on, and rooms hanging over those great stone arches under which Arno comes swooping down in all his winter strength and fulness. And there, in the centre, is the opening through which Tito leapt to his death, hounded on by the people behind him, the opening through which you may see the sunset lights softly touching the Carrara mountains, and turning the muddy river into a tawny sheet of gold.

To Bice it was full of strange new beauty; it seemed to her as if she had never known before what it was like. Ibbetson had been separated from her when they came out from the church, and had walked for a little while with Phillis, but he had come back to her again, and talked quietly and kindly. Phillis and Beatrice were not very much thrown together, but the girl often looked at the other, whose face attracted her powerfully. She noticed, too, that when information was wanted, if Phillis were asked she invariably had it to give, and she said something of the sort to Jack.

“Is it so?” he said, with a little surprise in the question. “I had no notion Miss Grey had had time to read up much about the place.”

Mr Trent kept out of Bice’s way, it seemed as if nothing were to interfere with her happiness, or as if, by sheer force of will, she were able to ward off whatever threatened. They were to drive back in the cool evening, and when they reached Casa Giulia, there was tea, and more sitting about in the pleasant drawing-room or under the glossy magnolias. Somehow or other, Ibbetson was generally near Bice. He had no intention of neglecting Phillis, but the last few days had thrown him into another circle of interests from which she was shut out, and the strong pity he felt for Bice demanded a good deal of attention for her—or so he thought. He was pretty sure, too, that Phillis would have shrunk from any open appearance of claiming her on his part, she was too shy to stand it. “And, after all, she has got what she wants,” he said in his heart with a bitterness which was not like himself, but which showed itself when he thought of Hetherton.

It was settled that they should all drive out to the villa on Tuesday and see something of the vintage, which would be at its height in the vineyards. Then the carriage came round and the little party separated. Florence was no longer white but golden, and there was a sort of golden mist before Bice’s eyes as they drove away into the Cascine woods. Was it over? Had it been no more than a dream, and was she going back to a reality which grew darker and darker every hour? Her heart cried out in passionate denial. Clive should be saved by other means—for she was in one of those moods when anything seems possible—and she would act in defiance of Oliver. She looked at him as she made the resolution, and it is possible that he read the defiance in her eyes. But for the moment he did nothing more than address a few languid remarks to Mrs Masters, who was getting drowsy. They went climbing slowly up the stony roads, through the vineyards. The glow faded away, a fragrant stillness seemed to rest; here and there an olive tree stretched out its grey and solemn boughs. Only once they passed a peasant; he had his dog with him, and a gun, and was perhaps going home from watching the vines. No one had spoken for at least ten minutes, when Oliver Trent touched Kitty.

“Are you dreaming, too?” he asked softly. “Wake up, child, you are too young to be tired and sleepy with the rest of us. And I have not inquired how you enjoyed your day, or how you liked my Bologna acquaintances? It is strange, is it not, that your new friend, Mr Ibbetson, should have been travelling with them? Leyton told me the reason, he is engaged to Miss Grey, and they are to be married very shortly.”

Chapter Eight.

“Blue Bubbles of Grapes down a Vineyard Row.”

The cleverest men make mistakes, and Oliver Trent had made a second. He had not told Bice his news about Ibbetson cruelly, or in such a manner as to force her to feel that either by start or word she had revealed to another the secret of which she had not actually been conscious until that moment. He had only mentioned it in her hearing, when the dusk of evening was there to hide any sign of emotion, treating it as a trivial matter with which Kitty was at least as much concerned as she, and he had talked on so as to give her time to recover her composure. His mistake lay in telling her at all. A woman who has received a wound of this kind may be brave enough to hide the wound, but she never forgets the hand that has wounded her. To the day of her death its touch recalls something of the sharpness of the first pang.

No one saw much of Bice through the next day. Trent let her alone, having a perception that she would not brook interference, and that, at whatever cost, he must be patient. Mrs Masters, when he asked her, said that she had taken Andrea’s daughter, Chiara, and had gone up to the podere to speak about the vintage.

“You let her do too much of that sort of work,” said Trent, frowning.

“How can I help it?” asked Mrs Masters, moving uneasily in her chair. “She has been accustomed to it ever since she was a child. I am quite unfitted for it, and, as you know, it is impossible for me to keep an agent. This poverty is odious. I suppose we shall save something this winter by letting the villa, and living with the Capponis in Rome; otherwise I have spent all the money you lent me, and have never even dared tell Bice I had it from you.”

“And how do you mean to help Clive?”

“I cannot, I cannot!” she said, beginning to cry helplessly. “How is it possible? You will do something for the poor boy, Oliver?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

She looked at him in bewilderment.

“He is my cousin, certainly,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, “but, on the whole, I have a good many cousins, and have never committed myself to the idea that I was bound to be general guardian and protector to all the young idiots among them who run their heads against stone walls. I don’t even profess to be a benevolent philanthropist. I have told you before that I will do what I can for Clive on one condition—that Bice marries me. You had better urge her not to keep me too long in suspense. Patience is not my chief virtue.”

“I will, indeed—to-day.”

“Not to-day,” said Oliver, considering. “To-morrow. Say as much as you like about Clive, but do not let her know I have desired you to speak to her. And stay, you had better own that you have borrowed money from me.”

“It will make her so angry,” said Mrs Masters piteously.

“No matter, I wish her to know the fact. You will want more, I suppose, when Bice is my wife, and you will not find me ungenerous.”

He left her crying, but her tears lay very near the surface, and he was not even made uncomfortable by them. It was curious how, in a scene of this sort, all his softness of manner and voice seemed, without any remarkable change, to become frozen or petrified, so as to give the impression that it was in vain to attempt to affect him. He had been disappointed when he came back to find Bice a little further from him than when he had left her, and he was determined to risk everything to put matters on a secure footing. Why should they not marry at once?

As for Bice, she was not angry, as he had hoped, or even hurt, her dream having been too short and vague for any hopes to have actually shaped themselves in her heart. She was conscious that during the last few days some sweet atmosphere had seemed to have surrounded her, and that suddenly, after Trent’s words to Kitty the evening before, a dull weight had fallen which told her what it all meant. Her heart ached with the burden of this weight, but the poor child did not cry out against any other for having brought it on her. She was humble with all her pride. Nobody’s fault, only a man’s kindness and a girl’s mistake—a common story enough; something which a day had brought and long years must carry as bravely as they could, and without a word. She thought of Phillis without any bitterness of jealousy. He had been hers all the time, nothing to any one else—that was all. She walked on and on, up the steep hill, through the pleasant grassy paths between the vines. Chiara toiled after, chattering, exclaiming, every now and then when she stumbled or grew hot, saying, Florentine fashion, naughty things of the Madonna or the saints.

It was the time which, of all the times of the year, Bice loved the best. As she turned into a larger vineyard, its exceeding beauty flashed upon her in spite of her heavy-heartedness. It was as well kept, as daintily trim as a garden, only the vines swept freely from tree to tree, climbing, curving, flinging their long tendrils, with all the bounty of unchecked luxuriance. The sun was shining on the gleaming leaves, on the purple and yellow splendours of the fruit, on the women’s gay dresses as they stood under the trees and caught the branches which the men cut off with their sickles. Carts, painted in brightest vermilion, stood in the cool shadows of higher trees, the beautiful white oxen, with soft eyes and huge wide-stretching horns, waiting patiently until their rich load was ready. The padrona was welcomed volubly; the contadino in charge brought a couple of great bunches for her and for Chiara; the whole scene was so gay, so busy, and so bright, that poor Bice, who had come with a sort of determination to seek what might change her thoughts, turned away sick at heart. It was not only the fading of a shadowy dream; something there was more tangible, more oppressive; her own fate seemed to be closing round her; with the shattering of her visions had come the keener realisation of what hung over her—of Clive, of Oliver. All the pretty sights and sounds jarred. She gave her orders, and called Chiara away from her chatter, and went home, avoiding them all, or keeping Kitty close by her side whenever it became absolutely necessary to meet Oliver. That she must yield she did not doubt. All her castings about for deliverance from her doom seemed childish and hopeless. She must yield, but she clung to every hour gained as an infinite boon.

To-morrow, perhaps. Not at any rate to-day.

To-morrow, which must be so full of pain that a little more or less would scarcely be noted, and yet to which her foolish heart was flinging itself forward, dreading and longing for. After they had come and gone, after she had seen Jack once more, she thought she could do what had to be done, but not till then.

Phillis was looking with great interest at the old villa when they drove up to it early the next day. Miss Cartwright was not strong enough to venture on the drive, but Miss Preston was there laden with projects for the moral improvement of the contadini, and bent upon collecting a fund of valuable information as to the vintage of Tuscany and its shortcomings. Cartouche, with his head full of sweet recollections of amoretti, plunged at once into the thicket of scarlet geraniums which led down to Andrea’s domain, and presently they heard the old cook’s voice raised in high indignation as he drove him out. Captain Leyton was very much delighted with his own prospects. He was slung all over with sketch-books and water-bottles, and carried a great white sunshade with a pointed stick.

“Capital bits about the place, capital bits,” he said cheerfully. “Nice tone of colour, plaster peeling off, fine arch, acanthus leaves against the stone—plenty to do here, and no mistake.”

As they went into the house the sisters met them in the hall; Bice paler, and without the radiance of the day in Florence, but quiet and smiling. She gave one long and rather wistful look at Phillis, and Phillis noticed and flushed slightly under it.

“Will you come to the little room?” she said. “My mother is there, for the steps outside the window are cooler than any other place at this time of day.”

She had scarcely spoken to Jack, and when she moved away he followed her with a dissatisfied feeling. As they passed through the silence of the great rooms he could not help contrasting this day with the first on which he had seen her, when he had been alone with her, and her frank determination had made him smile. Miss Preston, who was close to him now, was a very unwelcome substitute.

“It is too distressing,” she was saying in a sharp undertone. “I have always known that the Italians had no idea of what was fitting, but not a carpet, not so much as a hearth-rug!”

“How would it answer to speculate in a few, and to bring them out for the good of this benighted people?” asked Jack dreamily.

Meanwhile Mrs Leyton, who liked it all, was genuinely enthusiastic.

“What a room for a dance! You do dance here, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! Sometimes Kitty and I dance together, or the Moronis come over, and then we are more,” said Bice simply. “If you would like it, by-and-by we can wheel in the piano, and I will play for you.” But seeing an irrepressible smile in Mrs Leyton’s face, she coloured and said hotly, “You think us foolish—you don’t do such things in England!”

It was Phillis who came to the rescue, eagerly and yet a little shyly.

“If we don’t, it is not that you are foolish, only wiser than we are, and lighter-hearted. It takes a great deal to make us dance in England—”

“Lights and music and a month’s preparation, and then enough people to prevent the risk of anyone being seen,” added Jack. “Your plan is much the most sensible, Miss Masters. But you see we have all been brought up to think it a serious matter, and so for the moment you shocked our prejudices.”

But Bice was vexed. It always vexed her that anything, however slight, should mark her as un-English in her ways. She walked gravely through the other rooms holding her head with a little haughtiness. It passed, however, directly they had joined her mother and Oliver Trent in the smaller room—she was watching Ibbetson and Phillis.

Phillis, as often seemed the case, happened to be a little apart from the others. She sat quietly, saying little herself, but evidently interested in what was going on. Twice Bice saw her, apparently unperceived by the others, do a trifling kindness; once in disentangling Miss Preston’s veil which was in danger of being torn, and once in placing outside the window a stray butterfly which was blundering up and down against the glass. But she seemed to have a little difficulty in joining the gay-spirited chat which flowed with unbroken ease from Mrs Leyton, and if Jack addressed her, she showed a greater hesitation. Here was no secure and haughty rival to sting poor Bice by contempt; the girl, who would have had the worst side of her nature roused by such treatment, felt for Phillis a strange thrill of pitying sympathy. Yet pitying is hardly the right word. There was something about her which Bice envied, a kind of sweet dignity, of self-possession, in spite of shyness.

Captain Leyton very soon began to fidget over his opportunities.

“And if he once sits down to a sketch there will be no moving him!” said his wife with good-humoured impatience.

“Let somebody suggest a means of prevention, then,” said Jack. “You shall have mine first—the vineyards.”

“Perhaps that would be the best plan—”

“You will miss the long shadows,” Bice said doubtfully.

“But we shall get them in this enchanting garden,” exclaimed Mrs Leyton. “I know exactly how it will be with Arthur otherwise. Cart ropes won’t drag him away when once he has begun a sketch.”

She had her way, as she generally had, and the eight started, a merry party to all appearance, though there were doubts and heart sinkings pressing heavily on more than one of the eight. Cartouche was left behind, to his great disgust, but too many dogs were employed in the vineyards for it to be safe to take him.

“It always seems strange to me that your vineyards should be so undefended,” Jack said, determined to speak to Bice. “Have you such perfect trust in the honesty of your fellow-creatures?”

“Touch a grape and you will see,” answered the girl briefly.

“What shall I see?”

“A man with a gun. And he will be quite ready to use it. The very dogs are trained to watch.”

“You excite my curiosity. I shall experimentalise to-day.”

“To-day you will be safe, because you will be with the padrona. But I do not advise you to try elsewhere.” He noticed with vexation that her manner was abrupt, and that she evidently tried to avoid him. Had anything offended her? He determined to win her back to the easy frankness which he had found so charming that he had no mind to part with it.

“So that is why Cartouche was not allowed to come?” he said with a smile. “Do you know how he distinguished himself last night? Somehow or other he got on the roof and sat there. Quite a crowd gathered round the house before we had any idea what was the attraction, and Winter, my aunt’s maid, went into hysterics. But I assure you his effect among the chimneys was absolutely demoniacal.”

She smiled, but she was looking straight before her. Why did not some one join them? she thought with a throb. Why did he talk to her? Why was fate so cruel and yet so sweet that she could not get away from it? Apparently her coldness only provoked Jack, who wanted nothing more than her past friendliness, but thought himself ill-used at its withdrawal. He said at last boldly—

“Something has vexed you. What is it? Has anything fresh turned up about your brother?”

She coloured and caught at his second question, feeling that sooner than let her secret betray itself she would talk with him, walk with him, and endure any torture.

“Nothing new,” with a faltering voice. “We have not heard again from Clive, any of us. But it is impossible to forget; and oh, Mr Ibbetson, I wanted to say that I have thought it over a great deal—I mean what you were so kind as to suggest the other day. But it is impossible; it is of no use. Nothing seems as if it could be of use.” She corrected herself. “I should not say that; Mr Trent will do his utmost.”

“Anyone would do his utmost,” said Jack, more warmly than he need have spoken. It was almost impossible for poor Bice to repel his eagerness and kindness. They were a little in advance of the others, the path went twisting and clambering upwards. Once, perhaps because she was not thinking of the rough stones, she slipped, and he put out his hand and caught hers. It was not for more than a minute, but those behind saw the movement. Jack did not know it himself, but this shrinking, this apparent coldness of the girl’s was stirring him to a stronger interest. All his life as yet he had had pretty much what he cared for—liking, popularity, success; finally, a fortune and a wife were waiting for him. The things had come too easily, so that a charm was wanting in them all. It piqued and roused him when he found a difficulty in the way. If he had known what he was heaping up for Bice it would have shocked him. She did know, and had thought that she would avoid him; but he would not be avoided, he was bent, as it seemed, upon monopolising her. The poor child was bewildered, miserable, happy, all at once. Trent, who had fancied he had stopped it, was furious.

Along the slopes of those hills of Florence there are lovely delicate colours and sweet pastoral pictures meeting you at every turn. Looking upwards you see Pan leaning against a tree, his goats browsing round him, over his head a vine is flinging itself from bough to bough. Grey olives clothe the slopes; a sombre cypress rises like a sharp blot against the blue; an ox-cart comes rumbling down the road; far away in the plain the river shines till the mountains rise up beyond. In the vineyard to which they went that day you may look along a broad grass walk for a quarter of a mile at least; on either side of it the vines clamber from tree to tree, and at the end rises a distant line of Apennines, glowing faintly purple in the sunshine; the grapes—white, pink, yellow, purple, black—gleam with the most exquisite lights, the very shade seems to be lit up by them, luminous colours flash out from under fresh leaves, from wreaths of cool foliage.

Captain Leyton was in an ecstasy of despair. The head contadino came up to Bice smiling and showing his white teeth.

“Are there any grapes in particular the signorina would like for her friends?” he asked. “The biggest of all this year is Il Bordone.”

And then at a sign one of the men in the trees cut a branch or two with his sickle. Miss Preston began to demand particulars.

“The signora will see,” said the contadino, rather perplexed. “The women carry the grapes to the tubs; there is one close by which is just full.”

He was right. A girl had just brought the last load of long festooning branches to a tall wooden tub. She was cutting off the bunches with her sickle, and letting them drop among the others already piled high, a mass of beautiful colours. Then a man, standing by and leaning on a thick stick, began to thump and beat them down into a pulpy mass. Miss Preston was very much interested; Phillis turned away, she could not bear to look at all the beauty beaten out of shape. She strolled into a little grassy side path from which, out of the way, she could see the gay and busy scene. Two men passed her presently carrying the tub, suspended from a stick, to the ox-carts which stood, brilliant bits of colour, in the shade. Phillis was left quite to herself; every now and then she caught a glimpse of one of the party crossing an alley, moving here and there among the vines and the sweet changeful lights. She saw Jack and Bice together; he was bending down and speaking. The beauty of everything seemed to add to the pain in Phillis’s heart. If we want to describe pain we are inclined to throw its gloom upon all the surroundings, to paint the outward signs of sadness in greys and dim cheerless tones. But who knows whether to an aching heart the glow of sunshine and the fairness of nature do not bring the keenest sting of all?

Phillis’s pain was full of perplexity. She wanted to be sure what was right, what was best for Jack, and for all. Her nature was altogether true, simple, and free from the snare of self-torment, so that she was spared many doubts in her life; only at this time they seemed to gather about her like a mist. She knew little of the world. Mrs Thornton was her aunt, she had lived at Hetherton since she had been a child, and Mr Thornton was fond of her in his rough way, and had made out this plan of his with a good deal of satisfaction.

“Two disinterested young fools,” he had said to himself, chuckling, “or at any rate they think themselves so. Play them off against one another. See if that don’t bring them together.”

As it did.

Only it gave Jack the unjust impression that Phillis was swayed by the desire to keep her position, and left him quite unconscious that to her the threat of disinheriting him had been used. But, indeed, for her no threat was needed. Jack had been her hero from the time when she looked shyly at the big, fair-haired boy from the school-room window. It amazed her when he asked her to marry him, but she took his words with the simple trust which belonged to her character, and was quite content to be happy. Should she have done otherwise? she thought—looking back with a vague uneasiness. For, alas, she had begun to doubt, to wonder. In the long days of travelling together, in the letters he had written, something had forced itself upon her. Perhaps he had hardly cared it should be otherwise, hardly wished to profess more than the quiet liking he unquestionably felt, had no misgivings that she herself would desire more. At any rate she had reached Florence in some perplexity of mind, and by this time imagined that she had found the solution of her riddle.

It was curious how little Ibbetson knew of her true character. He believed her to be easily influenced by stronger wills, and, indeed, to require some such support. In reality her judgment was clear, and, once formed, no pain would turn her from what she felt to be the right course. There, sitting between the vines, she set herself to consider it. If Ibbetson did not love her, whether he loved another or not, it would be wrong for them to marry. No dreams of his or her inheritance must affect the question. No visions of self-sacrifice would be safe guides. She went to work honestly, asking—how earnestly!—for the “right judgment,” and she would not shrink though the answer came heavy with pain.

Phillis sat on, forgetting what was round her. The peasant girls looked with some wonder at the signorina who stayed there away from all her party. Presently Jack, who had missed her, came to search for her, a little vexed with her and with himself. But Phillis showed no displeasure, she only rose with a smile and told him that she had been resting, but that she would not be unsociable any longer.

Chapter Nine.

Bice Writes.

Oliver Trent had been too much enraged by Ibbetson’s monopolisation of Bice to be as prudent as was his wont; indeed, he began to feel as if he had been over cautious already, and that it would have been wiser to have checked matters more decidedly. She avoided him, but he was determined to give his warning, and when Jack went to seek Phillis he caught at the opportunity to say—

“New friends for old—is that your last motto, Bice?”

“What do you mean?” she said, faltering.

“I mean that I could envy you your powers of forgetfulness if I did not unfortunately happen to be one of the sufferers. Clive and I—have we really altogether dropped out of your mind?”

“You take care to prevent such a possibility, even for a moment,” she said angrily.

“Oh, I will not offend you again, if that is your feeling. I will leave Florence to-morrow morning, and nothing shall remind you of my existence. As for Clive, I am afraid I cannot make so large a promise.”

She was so changed and shaken, that for the first time in her life he frightened her. She felt as if she were powerless in a strong grasp. Where could she turn?

“Why do you say this to me, Oliver?” she said slowly. “What have I done? I have not forgotten your goodness about Clive, or—what you said. Why should I? There is no one else to whom I can turn. But you—you should not oblige me to speak of it here, with all these people as our guests.”

She said the words very softly and gently, but she did not look at him as she spoke.

“When will you speak, then?” he said moodily. “To-night?”

“Not to-night, not to-night, please! To-morrow.”

“I am tired of to-morrows. Why should it always be to-morrow? No. This evening in the garden.”

She did not contradict him any further. After all, it was hardly worth while.

Ibbetson could not get any more conversation with Bice on their way back to the villa, for Oliver quietly baffled his attempts, and Miss Preston was pouring out to every one her own views as to possible improvements in the vintage—the grapes should be trained differently, there should be a revolving wheel in the tubs, someone should read to the contadine.

“Still I own to one improvement, for I am pleased to have had ocular demonstration that the barbarous fashion of treading out the grapes is no longer in practice. It gives one a certain hope.”

“But that is another stage,” exclaimed Kitty innocently; “don’t you know? They put the grapes into huge shallow tubs and jump on them till the juice is extracted. All the boys and girls help. After our share has been weighed in the cellar we shall make it at home.”

The little party were playing at cross-purposes all the way back. Perhaps no one was content, not even Captain Leyton, who gazed moodily at a blot of green, purple, and golden, which was all he had got out of the vineyard. Bice looked pale and depressed, and said nothing to Oliver, who marched by her side all down the hill. Mrs Leyton tried to draw a little amusement out of the others by talking of them to Phillis, but Phillis, too, was silent.

After luncheon they went different ways. Bice took Miss Preston, who was anxious, as she said, to make the round of the premises; Captain Leyton became supremely happy over a promising sketch; the others strolled or sat about, eating figs and peaches, Mr Trent keeping near Jack, though with little pretence at cordiality. Phillis, who wanted time for herself, slipped away at last with Cartouche for a companion, and wandered about in the quiet alleys, of which there were so many. Suddenly she turned a corner and came upon Bice alone.

Something—stronger than circumstances—had all along attracted these two to each other. They were different, but each had a certain nobility of soul which may have had something to do with the attraction. Each had grown up out of the world, and though Bice had had sharp experience of evil, it was not the evil of petty spites and jealousies. Then for Phillis beauty alone had that intense charm and interest which it often has for those who themselves lack its power, and she felt a strong pity for the girl who had looked sad all the day, and now had evidently been crying; a pity no less real because she believed that she herself must take up the burden of pain if she were to relieve it. She could not pass by, or pretend not to see.

“I am afraid you are unhappy,” she said gently. “Mr Ibbetson said that you were very anxious about your brother, but he told us no particulars. Is he ill, or is he in trouble? Can we help you in any way? I should be very glad if you would try not to look upon me as a stranger, although I know it is difficult.”

Bice, whose heart was in a tumult, who did not know what to think, who believed she hated Oliver, Jack, Phillis, and herself most of all, was touched in a moment, not so much perhaps by the words, as by the kind, steadfast eyes which interpreted them.

“I don’t think it is difficult,” she said, and with a sudden impulse she caught Phillis’s hand and kissed her. “Ever since I saw you I have felt somehow as if you would do us good.”

For the moment she had forgotten Jack. Phillis, who read more in the words than the girl meant, felt her heart swell.

“Perhaps I can,” she said steadily. “Things often come about in the manner we least expect. Who knows whether you and I, if we put our heads together, may not find a way out of some of your troubles? Can you trust me with them?”

“Yes,” said Bice after a moment’s pause. “Oliver forbade me to speak, but I don’t see that he knows best. I don’t know who to consult. I asked Mr Ibbetson, and he seemed to think it all very bad indeed.” She went on hurriedly. “There were some things I could not tell him—but you! Oh, I am very, very miserable. Do you think it will be very ungrateful of me if Mr Trent saves Clive and yet I do not marry him?”

“Is that what he wishes?”

“Yes. He says he risks everything—that it is only for me.”

“And you don’t love him?”

“Oh, no, no, no!”

The girl shivered as she spoke. There was a little pause, then Phillis said—

“How long has he been asking you to do this?”

“I don’t know,” Bice said, letting her hands drop wearily. “Ever since he brought us the bad news of Clive, I suppose. But it is in the last few days that he has said the most, and every day it seems to grow worse and worse. To-night I must tell him.”

Phillis took her hands in hers and looked into her face.

“You must tell him you will not marry him,” she said quietly.

The girl’s face flushed with sudden joy, then the colour faded quite away.

“Ah! you don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “So much I do know. Nothing that you can tell me can make wrong right. But perhaps you will let me hear more.”

“Wrong?” repeated Bice, looking at her. To her, poor child, it seemed that she was only shrinking from a duty, from the stern call to self-sacrifice. That there could be any higher principle, that no aim, whether we call it self-sacrifice, or self-surrender, or anything else, can sanctify one step taken out of the right road, she did not realise. All her life she had been brought up to think of right and wrong as having somewhat hazy outlines. As she told Clive’s story over again, perhaps she dwelt more on the fear of disgrace than on his sin. But she could not help noticing the look of pain which gathered in Phillis’s brown eyes. She stopped and sighed.

“Now you are shocked,” she said. “So was Mr Ibbetson. You think it is hopeless.”

“Wait a moment,” said Phillis, “let me think.”

They walked on silently beneath the trees; the grass near them was lilac with autumnal crocuses, a great crimson rose swung itself down from a pole.

“I wonder if I am right,” Phillis said, hesitatingly. “It seems to me there might be some mistake. Mr Trent may not know, and you have no right to think hard things of your brother without proof. Surely you will ask him, ask him directly.”

“But Oliver said—”

“Oh, never mind,” said Phillis, with a touch of impatience. “Tell him that you can’t follow his advice in that respect. Suppose it is not so bad as he imagines, I don’t see how you can expect Mr Masters to forgive your want of confidence. No, be open and write. Perhaps he can clear himself. At any rate do not marry without love. If Mr Trent is an honourable man, he will not attempt to take advantage of your anxiety.”

Phillis had not meant to say so much, but feeling strongly as to Mr Trent’s conduct, she could not abstain. An instinctive aversion had risen in her mind when she first saw him at Bologna, and this story of Bice’s awoke more doubts, not to use the harsher word suspicions, than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. At the best his conduct was both ungenerous and unmanly.

Bice caught at her advice, which seemed to lift off some of her perplexities. She was very grave and quiet all the rest of the afternoon, keeping away as much as she could from both Jack and Oliver, and looking every now and then wistfully at Phillis. If she had known what Phillis, too, was thinking, what other resolutions had been made on that day, when doubts and fears seemed to be flying about in the air!

They dined at the marble table on the terrace, and the picture, with the piled-up fruits, the dancing shadows, was as pretty as when Jack first saw it, though he had a dissatisfied feeling of change. Cartouche sat on a balustrade, and caught grapes when anyone threw them to him. Captain Leyton was full of glee at having got one of the gardeners to stand as a foreground for his sketch. Trent looked uneasily at Bice; she was quieter, and did not shrink from his glance as she had done in the morning, and he was not sure that it was a good sign.

She did not shrink either when they had watched the others drive away; on the contrary, she told Kitty she had something to say to Oliver, and herself led the way to a seat under the banksia trellis close to the pond, where yellow and white water lilies were still flowering. He watched her very closely. Her mood puzzled him, and he wanted her to be the first to speak. She did speak at last, without looking at him. “You had something to say?”

“No,” he said quietly, “nothing. You mistook my meaning, Bice. I have said my say, and that perhaps was more than was wise or prudent. But I do not regret it. I said it, and already have taken steps to carry out what I promised. I have nothing either to add or to retract. But you!—have you not tried me enough? Do you ever think of the hours of torture you are inflicting?—such hours as to-day for instance, when I have been driven mad with doubts and fears? Is it not you who have something to say?”

She was silent. A month ago it would have been impossible for her to have listened unmoved to such an appeal, but a month ago she had never loved, and love—unreturned—hardens the heart strangely against another lover. His words seemed to her unreal and almost absurd. He put out his hand and took hers, and she caught it away angrily.

“Let me go, Oliver!” she exclaimed.

“Why do you turn from me, why do you hesitate?” he went on, in a voice which shook with his efforts at control. “You cannot doubt my love, for I could hardly give you a greater proof than I am giving. Danger, risk of ruin, all would seem to me as absolutely nothing compared with one word from you; and though all I do I do for your sake, you will not speak that word, Bice. Is this generous?”

“I don’t wish you to run those risks.”

“Do you forget what you said? ‘At all risks.’ That was your request.”

“Then I was wrong, and you were wrong,” said the girl, more faintly.

“Perhaps. But the alternative?”

“I have an alternative. I shall write to Clive.” Oliver grew pale.

“You have, then, no more wish to save him?”

“He may not have done it, he may be able to explain, and it is shameful of us to condemn him unheard.”

“I warn you, Bice, that you will put it out of my power to save him.”

“We must run the risk,” she answered, in a low, resolute voice.

Oliver could scarcely restrain his passion. He was certain that Ibbetson was at the bottom of her determination, and it seemed as if all his plots, his hopes, were to be baffled by this man. He longed to charge her with it, to taunt her with Jack’s engagement, but he did not dare, for Bice’s was not a nature which could be safely goaded into resentment, and he feared the flash of her eyes and what it might tell him. He controlled himself.

“Write, then,” he said, “write at once. Clive will not acknowledge that anything is wrong.”

“We shall see.”

“And am I still to be your shuttlecock?” he said hoarsely. “Have pity, Bice, have pity! Such love as mine deserves some return—”

She interrupted him.

“It deserves to find love, I know, and that is what I have not got to give. I am very sorry, Oliver, only I must be true with you, at all costs.”

“You are rather late in your resolves,” he said, biting his lip until the blood sprang.

“I have thought and hoped,” she said, looking down, “that one day I might feel differently, and be able to give you what you wanted, if only out of gratitude to you for your kindness. I thought, perhaps, it was that you had taken me by surprise, that I was ignorant and inexperienced, and that my feelings would change.”

“You were right!” he cried vehemently. “Think so still, Bice, my darling, my own! You do not know, how should you? Marry me, and I will teach you to love me. I have no fear, no doubt.”

“But now I know,” she said, going on as if he had not spoken, “and it is all different. I can’t marry you, even to save Clive. I could not even if I had promised. Do not be sorry, Oliver, I am not worth it.”

“It is easy to say ‘Do not.’ Do you suppose our feelings are so under control that we can master them at pleasure?” he retorted with bitterness. “You let me hope, you hold the cup almost to my lips, and then tell me not to be sorry when it is dashed away. Who has been teaching you to play fast and loose, Bice? Who has shaken your faith in your friends? When will one of them do what I have done, what I am ready to do? Has your mother told you that she has borrowed money from me to pay her debts, because she did not doubt—”

He stopped. Bice had sprung up, pale, with flashing eyes.

“That is not true!” she cried.

“Is it not? Ask her.”

She looked at him as if she would pierce his soul. Alas, it is not always the most innocent souls which bear such looks without faltering! Her own eyes fell. “I will pay it,” she said in a low voice.

“That is folly.”

“I will pay it,” she repeated, this time angrily.

“Do so,” he said after a moment’s pause. And then he added, “but remember this. If your mother had had from me a hundred times as much she would not have done me as much harm as you will do me if you throw me over.”

Was it true? Had she indeed worked all this evil? Would it not be easier to yield as she had meant to do that morning? He was so persistent, he would not give her up. She hesitated, and then, strong and clear, Phillis’s words came back—“Do not marry him if you do not love him.” She looked him full in the face. “Let me pass,” she said, “I can give you no other answer.” He had read something of the struggle, and was bitterly disappointed, though his determined will gave up nothing of his intention.

“If you write to Clive, it had better be without delay,” he said.

“I’ll write to-morrow morning.” And then she turned and put out her hand. “Thank you for letting me write, Oliver.”

“I dare not advise you to build upon it, but you can try,” he said. “Yes, by all means try.”

The next morning, as Bice was passing through the hall, she met Trent.

“If you have any letters for the early post,” he said, “I will take them, I am going into Florence.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I had meant to send little ’Tista.”

“’Tista is wanted for the vintage, and is not an over-safe messenger. Is this all?”

“All. Thank you again. That letter is a weight off my mind. I am sure he will answer it.”

“I fancy not, but, as I said, one can but try. Nothing more? Rest in the garden, Bice, and do not go again to the vineyards. You look tired and pale. Such walks as yesterday do you no good.”

“Rest!” she repeated impatiently. “You talk as if one could turn all the thoughts out of one’s head whenever one liked. That might be rest.”

“I wish you would let me do your thinking for you.”

He spoke tenderly, and she turned suddenly and looked at him. He could not understand her look, which was at once inquiring and reproachful, and, indeed, at this time all her thoughts were in a tangle. Doubts, suspicions, generous impulses, womanly pride, womanly fears, seemed to shake her very soul, and drive it on one side and the other. Sometimes she felt as if she had not a friend in the world, as if the only haven open to her was one she loathed. Even with Phillis it was all a strange inexplicable problem. Phillis had brought her sharpest pangs, yet attracted her irresistibly. Phillis, too, was unhappy, of that she was certain; yet something about her, something which Bice felt without being able to explain, gave her a sense of rest and confidence. It was as if she had an anchor which must keep her from the tossing of such storms as were driving poor Bice here and there. Vague thoughts came floating about her, half prayers, half resolutions, feeble and fluttering, yet real and therefore not in vain.

Chapter Ten.

Sans Partir Adieu!

Miss Cartwright was really ill. And of all who loved and cared for her, there was not one who showed more affection than Cartouche. They had thought that he was only a puppy, that nothing in the world was so much to him as a run by the Arno or a frolic in the Cascine woods, but now, when his mistress was ill, he could not be coaxed to either the one or the other. He watched at her door, and, if he could get the chance, crept into her room, and looked at her with questioning, loving eyes. Once when the doctor came to her bed, to his alarm there rose up a black form from the other side, growling angrily, and bent on resolute defence of his mistress. And another time they found that he had dragged together a heap of her shoes and slippers, over which he was keeping watch and ward. Phillis was a great deal with her, Miss Cartwright evidently liking the girl’s companionship, and watching her as she sat at the window with wistful interest.

“My dear,” she said suddenly one day, “this stupid illness of mine mustn’t interfere with Jack’s happiness. Remember, the wedding was to be at Florence, and, perhaps, if it had not been for me, it would all have been settled by this time.”

Phillis turned away her head as she answered—

“I don’t think it can be so soon as you fancy.”

“But why?” Miss Cartwright persisted. “On my account? Come, my dear, tell me exactly whether that has not been on your mind and Jack’s.”

“He has not spoken about it,” said the girl with an effort. “Indeed, dear Miss Cartwright—”

“Call me Aunt Mary, my dear.”

“It can’t be yet.”

Miss Cartwright said no more, she was hardly equal to any sustained conversation, but she took an opportunity later in the day to tell Jack that Phillis should go out for a walk. “Take her to the Uffizi,” she said; “and, Jack—”

“Yes.”

“Don’t give me the sorrow of feeling that I am a hindrance. Let me hear that your marriage day is fixed.”

As she spoke he noticed with a pang how much she was altered, and with a sudden movement stooped down and kissed her.

“I would do anything in the world that could please you,” he said.

She held him fast with her feeble hands.

“My dear, she is worth much more than that,” she said eagerly. “But I don’t think you yet know how much, and I am sometimes afraid she will never let you know.”

“What do you mean?” he said, startled. But he could not get her to explain.

She had put into words what he had avoided forming into a definite idea. In his heart he knew that he ought to have spoken to Phillis about their wedding day, but it was so much more to his inclination that matters should go on as they had been going, that he had refused to think about the future. He had been out once or twice to the villa, and though Oliver was on guard, and though Bice showed the same reserve, it interested him to break through it, as he had once or twice succeeded in doing, and he was beginning to take a dangerous pleasure in thwarting Oliver. However, he had spoken quite truly when he told his aunt that he would do anything in the world to give her pleasure, and he had no intention of avoiding the conversation with Phillis, only looking forward to it somewhat ruefully, as leading matters to a point which he would have preferred to regard for some while yet in the distance.

She was quite ready to go to the Uffizi when he suggested it, but asked to go round by the Duomo and Giotto’s tower. The day was not very bright, but there was a still grave beauty about it. They went under the frowning walls of the Strozzi into the old market with its narrow, dirty, picturesque, unchanged alleys. Even when great bundles of yellow and scarlet tulips, fresh from the fields, and splendid in the glory of their colours, lie tossed upon the ground, or when myriads of lilies of the valley are gathered into fragrant sheaves, this old market of Florence is not a place in which you can linger without some offence to eye or ear. And yet joy, too, were it only for these things, or for the sweet Madonna with her lilies which Luca della Robbia set up with faithful reverence for the buyers and sellers below. But in autumn days flowers do not deck Florence with the bounty of spring or summer. Vegetables there are in plenty—cucumbers, and scarlet tomatoes, and crisp white lettuces; and as for the fruits, they are heaped in great piles; melons—striped, smooth, small, large—lie under cool green leaves; rosy peaches, figs, purple and green, wild strawberries, grapes of every shade of delicious colour, brighten the old stones; but a certain grace has fled with the flowers, and Florence is not quite herself.

And yet on that day it was difficult to think that anything was wanting, so tender were the lights, so soft the shadows, into and out of which—with here and there a rosy or a golden glow as a stronger gleam struck the marbles—rose the Duomo and the Shepherd’s bell-tower. Phillis lingered there a little, lingered looking at the gates of the Baptistery, at Giotto’s sculptures, at the little oratory of the Bigallo on the other side.

“There is so much, and it is all so close together!” she said, drawing a deep breath.

But, indeed, the wonder of Florence lies in her perpetual youth. She is old, and yet no touch of age seems to have passed over her. All around are the memories of past ages, but they are alive and present, and time scarcely seems to separate you from them. It would not surprise you to see Giotto standing under his tower, to meet Dante turning towards his house, Savonarola passing to the preaching, Romola—as real as any—hurrying back to old Bardi. Our past grows mouldy, whereas here it keeps life, and colour, and reality. Is it that we are always trying to escape from it?

The Uffizi was rather empty. There were plenty of copyists, most of all, as usual, round the great Fra Angelico, with its praising angels, in the passage, but otherwise strangers were few. Jack, who had a craze for Botticelli, would not let Phillis rest until he had taken her to the Judith in the room next the Tribune. She comes towards you more lightly than Judith would have done after the deed, but the strong purpose, the self-forgetfulness of the face, are wonderful; and as the yellow morning light catches the grey blue of her dress, she looks far beyond you, and beyond what you are ever likely to see. Presently from her lips will come the cry of deliverance, “Open, open now the gates!” and all Bethulia will press round to see and hear. Jack, who had learnt Botticelli from Ruskin, was full of enthusiasm, and dragged Phillis off to the Calumny, the Fortitude. He made her sit down in a corner where she could see the last-named well, and then a thought struck him.