Frances Peard (continued 5)

Jack walked slowly back, and Cartouche followed sadly behind him. There was something in the dog’s mute sympathy very grateful to the man, piteous though it was to see the wistful questioning of his eyes. They went home through little back streets, to avoid the crowded thoroughfares where all Rome was making her carnival holiday. It does not penetrate much into those crooked and picturesque byeways, and, indeed the day was as yet too early for great attempts at gaiety. All about the Forum was quite undisturbed, the beautiful pillars stood in quiet beauty, while the sun played in golden lights upon their stone, and the Capitol looked down upon them from its prouder height.

When he reached the Via della Croce he found, as he might have expected without allowing it to cause him a sharp disappointment, that Phillis had left it, and had gone back to the hotel. It was not possible for him to follow her until quite late in the day. Miss Preston, who, it might have been imagined, would have liked to have kept matters in her own hands, was so subdued and full of grief, as to be quite helpless and unable even to offer a suggestion. She had been rather disposed to blame Miss Cartwright for not throwing off her invalid habits when first she came to Rome, and now reproached herself bitterly. Indeed it seemed as if the sweetness of that death had touched and softened all; Winter went quietly about on tip-toe, with oddly gentle movements. As for Cartouche, who could tell what was passing in his mind? How much did he know? This much they all noticed, that having watched patiently for so many hours in the anteroom, he would not now go near it. He buried himself in a corner of the kitchen, and only came out or took food when Jack went there and coaxed him.

Necessarily, every arrangement fell on Ibbetson, and it was necessary they should be made with a promptitude which at such a time seems almost inhuman. They occupied him all the day, so that, as has been said, it was quite late before he was able to follow Phillis to the hotel.

She was alone when he was shown up, sitting, in the dusk, near the wood fire. He had longed all day for this moment, and came in quickly, with a sudden delight at finding her there by herself. Something in her manner checked him instantly. It was nothing upon which he could seize, and it was perfectly gentle, but he felt that, in some way or other, it recalled to him the change in their position, which in his eagerness he had seemed to forget. And it vexed him the more because the night before certain vague thoughts had almost taken the form of hope. She was sitting with her back to the fading light; he could not see the expression of her eyes, nor much more than a pale face, the outline of a slender figure, the hands clasped on her lap. Every now and then as she gave him the details of his aunt’s illness, or repeated some tender message, her voice faltered, but she carefully avoided the least allusion to her own feelings, and he was certain that she intended him to feel that the barrier between them remained unmoved. A chill restraint crept over them both. Once, when his words took a somewhat warmer and more personal form as he thanked her for all she had done, she interrupted him, although still quite gently:

“Do you know,” she said, “that I have been very glad to have had this talk with you without the others being here? There are many things one can’t talk of before friends, however kind they are. But they may come back at any moment now, and I have a great many things to say. So don’t let us waste our time.” Jack muttered something about the others. She did not seem to hear him, but went on hurriedly:

“You ought to know how things are going on with the Masters. I’m afraid it is not very satisfactory. Has anyone told you that Mr Trent is still here?”

“Still? Well, certainly I did think that circumstances would have ousted him by this time.”

She gave him a quick, inquiring glance.

“I thought your letter would have been strong enough to do it. But—please excuse me—did you speak plainly enough? I couldn’t help having a feeling that you were making the best of his conduct, and—and it almost seems a pity,” said Phillis, provoked at her own lame ending. She had thought she knew exactly what to say.

“Didn’t I speak out?”

“Well, it is certain that man can twist everything to suit his purpose, even his own misdeeds.”

“Yes,” assented Jack quietly. “He has a wonderful strength of plausibility.”

“And he has managed to persuade Bice—I don’t know what he hasn’t persuaded them all—that it was a mistake about the fifty pounds, and that though now he no longer doubts that Clive paid it, the man never repaid it to him. Somehow or other he has made her believe that he has acted straightforwardly, and has suffered for it. And, myself, I can’t help fearing that there are some other complications, and that he has that foolish Mrs Masters in his power. But now that you are here, things will be put straight, I hope.”

“Yes. I suppose there will have to be a blow up,” said Jack, not very cheerfully.

There was a curious thrill—was it pity or reluctance?—in her voice when she went on rapidly:

“I blame myself for something. I ought to have told you before you went away that Bice was engaged to Mr Trent. I believe I thought something would be sure to happen to put an end to it.”

“I heard it from Trent himself. And it still goes on?”

“Yes. The marriage is to be at Easter—or was.” If there had been a clearer light in the room, Jack might have read something in Phillis’s face, some hidden pain, some struggle with herself which might have disarmed him. As it was, he was hurt by her persistent belief in his caring for Bice. He said in a hard and strained voice, which she interpreted as pain from her own point of view—

“Here is a budget of news, indeed! It seems one should be a villain if one desires to succeed successfully.”

Phillis only thought of the pain in his voice. She leant forward and said with eagerness—

“But of course you will not allow her to be sacrificed?”

“I? Why not? I suppose she knows what she is about—most women do,” he said with gloom. But the next moment he turned towards her. “Really, I can’t tell what she wishes, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. She shall hear the precise facts as fairly as I can put them, without exaggeration. After that she must judge for herself. A woman ought to have some sort of notion what the man is like whom she intends to marry, unless, indeed, she cares for him so much that she is content to be blind. In that case—”

He stopped. Phillis repeated quickly:

“In that case—”

“Hadn’t she better remain undeceived?”

She sighed. It seemed to her that he made her task very difficult.

“Well, at any rate, let her judge fairly,” she said. “Yes, that’s due to her.” He leant his arms on the table, and began pulling some cyclamen out of a great bunch. “Viole pazze,” he went on; “Rome seems to have as many flowers as Florence. By the way, do you remember hearing me speak of a young Moroni who used to be a good deal at the villa? He came in my train yesterday from Florence.”

“Did he?” said Phillis absently. The constraint between them seemed to increase; they might have been strangers. Her effort had been greater than she knew, and she felt more sad and weary than before Jack came in, while something told her that the hardest part was to come. Jack himself went on playing with the poor cyclamen, no less uncomfortable than she. He wanted to say something about Hetherton, and did not know how to begin. Phillis relieved him of the difficulty. “Tell me something about Aunt Harriet, please,” she said. “It is an age since she wrote. Of course you saw her while you were in England?”

“Yes. I went to Hetherton at once, and to my amazement found that fellow Trent spending his Christmas there. Did you know he was so thick with them?”

“I? No. They hardly write to me,” said she, with a forlorn sense of loneliness. “But they were well, weren’t they?”

“My uncle was horribly cut up by—by your determination, Phillis.”

“I was afraid he might be sorry.”

She knew that what she dreaded was coming, and her heart beat wildly; but she said the words quite calmly, and as if they related to someone else. Jack crushed a flower in his hand, and leant forward.

“She was sorry, too,” he said in a low voice. “Can’t you think differently? I know I was the one to blame, but can’t you let me—”

She interrupted him with a hasty gesture.

“That subject is at an end between us; pray do not return to it.”

But that it was so unlike her, he could have sworn he detected a slight accent of scorn in her voice.

“Well, Phillis,” he said, getting up, “I daren’t do it, if you forbid me. I don’t suppose I’ve gone the way to work to make you believe what I want to say. Perhaps I’d better have held my tongue, as I intended. It was the seeing you with her, I suppose, and thinking that perhaps—however, if it is as you say, and the subject must be at an end, will you give me a kiss, Phillis, before we part?”

She covered her face with her hands, and drew back quickly and without a word to soften the gesture.

“Not?” said Jack, in the same slow tone. “Well, don’t fear. Whatever I am, I won’t be a bore. I understand fully all that you mean—all. It was you, remember, who promised we should always be friends—There, don’t be afraid, I am going. Good-bye. God bless you, Phillis.”

But long after he had gone she kept her face covered—perhaps because she was trying to shut out even the remembrance of what had past, perhaps because she feared her own impulses. For as the door shut, she had felt as if her very senses went out in a wild cry to him to come back. Not? If he had but known how hard that moment was, how it was against herself that she shrank with the movement which had wounded him, how she had fought with the longing that his request called up! If she had kissed him she could have fought no longer, she must have flung down her arms. Why not? Why not? For the first time this persistent question seemed to have gained strength, and she set herself to answer it reasonably. Why not?

She went back to the early days of their engagement. Its romance had come to her very quietly, and untroubled by fears or doubts. Jack had always been her hero from the time when he had embodied one by one all that her storybooks offered in that line. She used to listen triumphantly to the school exploits which he poured into her fascinated ears. She could have no greater delight than to go with him to feed the rabbits, or the wild-fowl on the lake. He filled a far more important part in her life than she did in his, and so, though the gladness was great, she felt neither surprise nor misgivings when he asked her to marry him. Her inexperience was even greater than her youthfulness; she loved him, and it was both natural and sweet that he should love her.

But when, little by little, she understood that his feeling was of a very different nature from hers, an uneasy shame that she should have been so lightly won added a sting to her sorrow.

Jack had not been mistaken in fancying that there was a touch of scorn in her voice when he made that last appeal. The scorn, however, was directed rather against herself than him. She knew so well why he had made it. She had been expecting it all the time. She had always had a presentiment that Miss Cartwright, who loved her very dearly, would say something to her nephew which would bear this sort of fruit, and his speaking only assured her that her dread was well founded. If Jack had but known it, he had chosen the worst possible moment for his appeal. Did he think that she was going to make another mistake? And Mr Thornton too—as he had almost admitted—had probably spoken very strongly, and had no doubt weighted his words with threats about the future of Hetherton. Phillis started up and walked to the window, locking her hands together as she walked, but there was not the slightest hesitation hidden behind the movement. Though she loved Jack so well that she thought it would almost break her heart to see him shut out from Hetherton, she would never suffer herself to become its price.

For Jack did not love her, of that she felt sure. He pitied her, perhaps; liked her, possibly; reproached himself, she did not doubt; but these were only shadows with which she would never again content herself.

Somebody else loved her, or so she had begun to fear, and it was curious that her clear judgment failed as she thought of Mr Penington. For she was wondering whether she should ever marry him. He was very good, and kind, and clever, and—

“In the dark, my poor Phillis?” said a cheerful voice. “And all alone? I am afraid it was very inhuman of us to leave you. Come, confess, haven’t you been thinking so? At any rate, somebody else was almost rude to me about it. I felt quite horrid.”

“I’ve not been alone,” said Phillis, thinking as she spoke that her own voice sounded curiously odd and unsteady. “Mr Ibbetson only went away a few minutes ago. I almost wonder you did not meet him.”

“I thought I caught sight of a coat like his. I will say for him that his coats are well cut. However, his companionship can hardly have been cheerful.”

“We had a good deal to talk about,” said Phillis, gravely.

“Of course, my poor dear. But I think it is very hard so much has fallen on you. And do tell me, for I am dying to know—”

“What?”

“Did he ask a great many questions about the Masters? Has he seen any of them yet?”

“No.”

“No? Are you sure? Well, I suppose he could hardly hurry there at once, but I’m much mistaken if he waits long, and then what will be the next act in the play? Will poor Mr Trent receive his dismissal? Now, Phillis, it’s too dark to see you, but I know exactly how you’re looking. I can’t help it; I shall always say that Mr Ibbetson has behaved abominably. There was no one to call him out, for Harry could never have been brought to comprehend that was part of his duty. But I must speak.”

“Don’t blame him to-day, at any rate,” said Phillis in a low voice that was full of pain.

“Is he so much cut up? Well, poor fellow, I really am sorry for him, though I pity Cartouche more. And you, too, my dear. You have had a terrible time of it while we have all been going on in a most shamefully selfish way. Not Mr Penington. I must do him the justice to say that I don’t think you’ve been out of his thoughts for a minute. And how nice he is! Oh, dear, there’s the table-d’hôte bell! You’ll not go down, of course? No, I told Giuseppe so as I passed. But you won’t mind Mr Penington coming up afterwards? He wanted to so very much that I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. Besides, he is very understanding and won’t tease you; you needn’t even try to talk, for he has a whole heap of Etruscan tomby things from Corneto, and wants Harry to take us all there. I shan’t go. I know exactly what it’s like, one of those horrid dirty little places where one can only eat the middles of things.”

She lit the candles and went away, leaving Phillis just where she had found her, so that the girl’s thoughts, which this conversation had hardly broken in upon, rapidly shaped themselves again in the same form. She would have told herself that Miss Cartwright made the centre, and perhaps she did, but round that centre, with its tender and gentle recollections, how many other fancies grouped themselves.

And somehow or other that evening the question, which she had not yet answered to her own satisfaction, became more persistent. Mr Penington, whom she had not seen for a day or two, was radiant with the delight of being near her again, and his pleasure sent a sort of answering glow into her own heart. It was impossible for her to remain untouched by the kind thoughtfulness with which he contrived to shield and leave her in peace, or by the swiftness with which he seemed to anticipate her wishes. Gradually he drew her out of her silence into an interest in the curious things he had got together, and to promise to go to the Etruscan Museum, in the Vatican to see the collection of cottage tombs, the curious little vessels like miniature hats which were dug out of an ancient burying place in the Campagna.

“You shall go when you like,” he said eagerly.

Mrs Leyton, who was very warmly on Mr Penington’s side, looked at her husband and smiled. She had noticed something different in Phillis’s manner that night, a more passive acquiescence, perhaps, from which she augured well. Really liking her, she would have been glad that the Roman winter should end in this satisfactory fashion, and was prepared even to go through the catacombs, if Mr Penington proposed it, though she hated anything underground. Mr Penington had learnt exactly the things which Phillis liked.

“I have come round to your thinking about Titian’s picture in the Borghese,” he said to her in a low voice, when the others were talking; “I think it is the best thing in all the gallery.”

“In all Rome, I think,” said Phillis brightening. “I care for it so much that it quite hints me to hear people abuse it.”

“Are you talking of the Sacred and Profane Love?” asked Mrs Leyton, chiming in. “Mr Ibbetson could not make out which was which, don’t you remember? I can’t say it spoke very well for his artistic feeling.”

Somehow or other this little speech had a different effect from what was intended: it hurt Phillis, and though Mr Penington did not know much about Jack’s position with her, he was watching her and saw that she was vexed. He said quietly—

“That is not a very uncommon mistake at first sight, indeed, you may find it immortalised in print. But at every fresh visit the marvellous beauty comes out. Very likely the name is altogether imaginary. Vanity and Modesty would do as well for it as for Da Vinci’s picture in the Sciarra. You must come and see that one day, soon, Miss Grey; I can get an order.”

“You can get everything, I believe,” said Phillis with a smile.

He said quickly, so that only she could hear—

“I like you to say so—I shall take it as an omen;” and he then turned away, and talked for the rest of the evening to Mrs Leyton. Phillis leaned back in a kind of dream, thinking that friendship was pleasant and soothing, and wishing that others would be content with it. But they would not. And if—if only she could make up her mind to marry him, not only could she save him—this was what she thought—from the pangs of disappointment, but her own unrest might perhaps be hushed into—contentment.

And yet she would not marry Jack without an equal love. Certainly Phillis could lay no claim to be what is called a consistent character.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Brought to Bay.

And so Miss Cartwright was laid in that peaceful cemetery at Rome where the sweet violets clamber over the graves, and the cypresses grow tall against the blue sky, throwing shadows alike on the Christian resting-place, and on the tomb of the old republican, who had himself enclosed in a pyramid of marble. They were obliged to shut Cartouche into a room from which there was no possible exit, or the dog would have forced his way after them; and indeed, after they came back, Jack could hardly endure the questioning look of his eyes. As for Miss Preston, she could not pet him enough. She asked Jack with tears in her eyes whether he would let her take him back to Florence, where she meant to return at once, not caring to remain in Rome; but Jack would not part with the dog. For a week or two longer he intended to stay on in the house in the Via della Croce, for there were certain arrangements to make which made it necessary for him to be in Rome; then he thought he would go back to his work in London, and if the prospect looked a little forlorn, he told himself that he must get used to it, and put his shoulder to the wheel. All his aunt’s property had come to him, but this winter had also brought him a contempt of idleness, and it did not in any way modify his plans for his future life. He had seen Mrs Leyton, and something, which she purposely let drop, had confirmed his impression that Phillis was lost to him. He could not quite give up hope, but told himself that time only could answer his doubts, and meanwhile thought with some reluctance of the task which must be undertaken before Phillis would feel satisfied that Bice knew how Oliver Trent had really acted.

Two days after the funeral, three people were standing in a room in the Palazzo Capponi, the windows of which looked into a square courtyard, round which ran a covered way, and which for its centre had a slender fountain, with camellias growing round it. The room itself was certainly ugly. The proportions were fine, and some good pictures hung on the walls, but the panels, doors, and ceiling were painted heavily and in bad taste, while the furniture was hideously covered with yellow satin. In the furthest window, an old Italian servant with a brown and wrinkled face sat knitting, and turning her back to the three, who were Bice, Trent, and young Moroni. It was to this last that Bice was talking eagerly in his own language, paying no attention to Trent’s looks of annoyance. At this moment the servant brought in a card.

“It is Mr Ibbetson,” said Bice, after a moment’s pause. “Yes; of course we are at home to him.”

If her colour rose a little, Trent did not see it. He had expected this meeting, but no preparation could subdue the feeling of dismay which seized him. He said sharply,—

“I hope you will not be anything of the sort. You ought not to admit him.”

“Do you suppose I will allow you to dictate to me?” she said, looking at Trent with flashing eyes.

“Your mother is not here,” he said, biting his lips.

“There is Brigitta—”

The servant had retired into the anteroom; Bice was moving towards him, when Trent placed himself before her.

“Listen to reason,” he said beseechingly. “I tell you I can’t promise to keep my temper with this man.”

“And what do I care!” she retorted. “Are you afraid of him? I don’t suppose he comes to see you, and so if you like you can go away. Certainly I shall receive him.”

The girl had changed in some way or other. Her beauty was, if possible, more remarkable than ever, so large were her eyes, and so curved the lines of her mouth, but instead of the frank and open manner which had been as simple as that of a child, there was noticeable a touch of hard recklessness, of defiance which was almost like despair. Young Moroni, standing by, had also changed. He had grown older, and now looked from one to the other, understanding nothing of the words, but aware that something was amiss, and ready at a sign from Bice to fling himself upon the other man. He, poor fellow, was feeling as if all his old hopes had come to an end. Trent was very pale, but had recovered his coolness. He said scornfully,—

“No, I am not quite such a fool. I imagine the meeting will be less agreeable for him than for me, on the whole. But these knight-errants of yours, my dear Bice, should learn to conduct themselves less offensively when they meddle with what does not concern them. Pray, is this other also to take part in the coming interview?”

“He will not be the wiser,” said the girl indifferently. Her anger seemed to have died out, and she said a few careless words to Moroni, who brightened, nodded, and took a newspaper with him into a recess where he was half hidden by a heavy yellow curtain. Then she walked to the door and threw it open. “Ask the English gentleman to come in,” she said to the servant who was waiting, and came back to the middle of the room, flinging a triumphant and haughty glance at Trent.

As for him in these moments he had rapidly reviewed his position. Ever since he had heard of Ibbetson’s sudden arrival in Rome, he had known that this meeting must in all probability take place, and had prepared for it, thinking carefully over his chances, so that it did not take him by surprise, although he had had a faint hope of inducing Bice to refuse to see him. He had played a bold game, calculating that interest and the hope of regaining his uncle’s favour would keep Ibbetson in England, and managing to persuade Bice that he was misjudged from having really befriended Clive. What was she to think! Clive’s own letters almost took his part; she had already promised, and was sick at heart, while her strong will failed in spite of its bold front. Trent had worked warily with her, and had all but won. But at this moment, though this flashed through his mind, and though he was well aware how perilous was his position and how much depended on his own coolness and audacity, he felt despairingly that he was not cool. He loved this girl so passionately that it irritated him almost beyond endurance to feel that the man he looked upon as his rival was eagerly welcomed by her in the face of his expressed wish. No dread of possible consequences fell upon him so painfully as this fact.

As for Bice her heart was beating fast, she did not know what she felt. When Jack came in she was standing alone in the middle of the room with all its heavy adornments. Somehow they only seemed to add to her beauty, which struck him as freshly as ever. He greeted her kindly, and exchanged a stiff bow with Trent.

“We have been so shocked and grieved,” she said with eagerness. “I shall always feel as if she were the kindest person I have ever known.”

“Thank you,” Jack replied gravely. “I, for one, have good reason to say so.”

“Did she suffer very much?”

“At first. By the time I saw her it was more weakness than pain.”

“And you were in time? We have heard very few particulars.”

“Yes. I arrived the afternoon before.”

He was sitting next Bice on a sofa. Trent had flung himself on a chair, and taken up a book, but he was keenly on the watch. Bice, whose contemptuous mood had passed, looked at him nervously.

“I thought that when you left Rome you intended to come back again? Why did you stay all that time in England?” she asked in a hesitating voice.

“I did intend to return when I left, but circumstances are sometimes too strong for intentions,” said Jack, feeling a comical conviction that he was growing sententious. Pope’s line flashed through his mind: “And mark the point where sense and dulness meet.”

“I hope the sense is equal to the dulness,” he thought.

“And you saw Clive?”

She glanced at Oliver again as she put the question, but this time her looks were defiant. She thought that Ibbetson had gathered a false impression of what Trent had done; at the same time she took a certain pleasure in introducing a subject which would perhaps irritate Trent. He at once accepted the challenge, laying down the book and saying in his soft tones:

“You need hardly put that question, Bice; Mr Ibbetson not only saw Clive, but, as you know, made discoveries so new and startling, that if they had not had the misfortune to place me in a very unenviable light, I should really have been disposed to congratulate him upon their extraordinary ingenuity.”

“You would be giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jack replied calmly. “My discoveries were so far from ingenious that I might have wondered at their results if I had not remembered an old saying.”

“Pray allow us to benefit.”

“You may go by different roads, and yet reach the same end.”

Jack was getting irate at what he considered insolence, though he was ready to spare him if Bice made any sign.

“Most oracular. May I ask whether the application is intended for my use?” said Trent without any change of countenance. But Ibbetson noticed that his hand which was resting on the arm of the chair, grasped it closely. He bent forward and answered,—

“Certainly I have no wish to be your fellow-traveller.”

Bice, who had been glancing doubtfully from one to the other, interposed.

“You are not quite fair on Mr Trent. Has it ever been explained to you? Oh, then, it is no wonder. He was deceived as well as poor Clive by that wicked man.”

“Was he?”

“Yes, indeed. What a friend for Clive to choose! Do you think he will be more careful now? Because, if not, I am sure he will be ruined.”

“He has had a lesson, of course.”

“And it was all through you that the man was found out. Imagine his telling you that he had repaid the money! I suppose he is too ill to be punished?”

“He is dead,” Ibbetson answered briefly.

“Dead!” she looked questioningly at him; something which he could not shut out of his manner, gave her suspicions. She said with her old imperativeness, “Why do you speak in such little sentences? Are you hiding something, or are you offended? Don’t you know that we can never, never, thank you enough?”

“You don’t include me in your ‘we,’ I hope,” said Trent with a sharp change of voice.

“Certainly personal relations need not be discussed between us,” replied Jack haughtily. “May I ask how the history of the money continues after reaching this point?”

“If it were not for this lady, I might decline to answer your questions,” said Trent in the same tone. “She being present, and considering herself under obligations to you, I will inform you that it does not continue at all. It ends with Mr Smith.”

“Who is dead?”

“Who is dead.”

Surely there was some triumph in his voice.

“And therefore beyond the possibility of being called as a witness.”

“That may be your way of looking at the case. From my view I should say that he was beyond the possibility of being called to account for dishonesty.”

“Take care, Mr Trent,” returned Jack gravely. Oliver glanced swiftly at him, something in his face giving him a thrill of uneasiness. Then he looked at Bice; her eyes were fixed eagerly, inquiringly upon him, the breath came quickly through her parted lips as she leaned forward. The sight of these two, sitting side by side, maddened him.

“May I be permitted to ask to what your warning relates?” he said with an attempt at scorn.

“Certainly. Do you wish me to enter into particulars now, or would you prefer them to be given in private?” Before Trent said “Now,” he rapidly reviewed his chances. If he could have had a hope that Ibbetson would not tell all to Bice, he would have chosen a private interview, but he felt certain that sooner or later she would be informed, and, therefore, determined to meet the charge boldly. Besides, he could see she would not be put off. And after all, was not his word as good any day as that wretched Smith’s. He said, “Now,” briefly.

“Then, to put it in the fewest possible words, I may tell you that, although Smith is dead, I have in my possession such strong and clear evidence of his having paid you the money, that there would not be the smallest difficulty in proving it in a court of law.”

“Perhaps a receipt,” sneered Trent.

“No. But a deposition, taken when he knew himself dying, and signed in the presence of the clergyman and another witness.”

“Your court of law would require a little stronger evidence than this document, however interesting, Mr Ibbetson.”

He still spoke without flinching.

“Oh, they would have it. The chain is very complete. There would be the evidence of the London landlady that she had furnished you with Smith’s address and refused it to others by your advice. That of Clive that you denied all knowledge of it. And lastly that of the Broadwater lodging-house keeper that you saw Smith there on such a day. What took you there?”

“What’s that to you?” asked Trent firmly. But he was livid. Then suddenly changing his tone he turned imploringly to Bice, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, though she had drawn her hands tightly against her chest, and was shrinking backwards. “Bice! You at least will not believe this ridiculous slander. You and I both know that Clive would not listen to advice. I was very uneasy about him—for your sake, remember—could I have done him any harm? Perhaps I had better have treated him more openly, better for myself certainly it would have been, but I thought he would grow desperate, and lose all self-respect if I let him know that I knew his story to be false. It was for that reason that I never told him I had traced Smith. For Smith utterly denied it to me then. I believe now that he was lying, as, according to Mr Ibbetson, he has lied about me, but at the time I took his word for his statement. And then I lent Clive the money, calling it lending, but never intending to take it from him, only feeling that the effort of repaying it would make more impression than words. You understand this, Bice?”

She did not answer his appeal. A mute horror seemed to have seized her. Ibbetson looked at him with more pity than she did, and bent his eyes on the ground as he went on.

“Finally, there is the man Elias Brooks.”

“What of him?” said Trent hoarsely.

“It is never safe to buy silence, because speech will always be ready for a higher bidder. Indeed, I doubt if you knew what most required hushing up. He was interested in your interview with Smith, and is prepared to repeat the greater part of it.”

“Confound you and him together,” said Trent, springing up. “Are these your tools? And you believe him?”

“Yes I do; because the corroboration is exact.”

“I shall expect satisfaction for these insults, Mr Ibbetson.” Oliver’s voice was choked.

“Not really, I think,” Jack said coolly.

“Stop!” interrupted Bice. She stood up, trembling so much that she had to rest her hand on the sofa. Trent’s eyes fell before hers which seemed to blaze with the fire of her indignation. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. “Go away, go!” she said at last with a shudder.

He made a step towards her.

“Bice, my darling, hear me!”

“You could treat Clive like that!”

“Let me explain—”

“Not a word,” she interrupted. She spoke in a strained high voice, but words had come back to her. “You have deceived me from first to last. I have never loved you, but I thought you were good to Clive. Every day of my life I will thank God that He has saved me from becoming your wife. Do you hear? Now go.”

The scorn, the sweeping indignation of her voice startled them all. Brigitta looked round; Moroni, whom Jack had not seen until that moment, came hurriedly forward, and stood looking from one to another. Trent caught her hand.

“Take care!” he said in a sharp whisper; then, as she shook him off with such a vehement movement as that with which she would have flung some reptile from her, he went on desperately, “Are you mad? I have borne a great deal, but I cannot bear everything. Have you forgotten that there are other ties between us besides those which you are so ready to cast off? Perhaps you wish your mother to be ruined. How is she to pay her debts?”

She had drawn herself to her full height, her face was very pale, her eyes seemed as if he must wither up before them. Then she laughed.

“That is well, that is very, very well; I think it is the only thing that was wanted,” she said, letting her words drop one by one. “Mr Ibbetson, Giovanni, will you come and hear Mr Trent’s last appeal, and my answer.”

Jack, who had turned away from a scene that pained him, and had been standing at the window, looking out at the court with its fountain, its camellias, and the rain splashing on its great paving stones, came back unwillingly. Moroni, hearing his name, though he understood nothing more, hastened forward and stood at Bice’s side, with a ready purpose in his eyes to do anything she could ask.

“Not now,” said Trent, drawing back.

“Yes, now,” she asserted. “Do you suppose I will ever look at your face again? Listen, then, both of you. We owe him money, and he threatens me with it—He! He supposes that even a prison would not be preferable to being his wife!”

As all the passion of her Italian nature leapt forth, the scorn in her voice might have swept him away before it, but that his own rage was ungovernable. He said with a sneer:—

“Oh, I imagine you have taken care to arrange for something better than a prison. Pray, is this a preconcerted scene, and is Mr Ibbetson to pay your debts and marry you?”

Jack made a step forward, then he stopped himself by a strong effort. Trent had fallen beneath his punishment, he would not even speak to him; he turned to Bice and said with great gentleness:—

“I am very sorry you should have been exposed to this man’s gross insults, although they cannot touch you. Will you go to your room and leave him to me?”

“Signorina, what is it? what has he done?” asked Moroni, seizing her hands.

But the girl was speechless. Her eyes dilated, she was deadly pale, and looked like one who had received a heavy blow. Ibbetson, who was very much grieved, said a few words in Italian to Moroni.

“But it is impossible! Does he dare to reproach you—you! because your mother owes him some money! It should have been a great honour to him to have been so happy as to do her a little service. Signorina, carina,” cried the young fellow, with passionate entreaty in his voice, “I am rich, all that I have is yours!” His face was glowing, he pressed her hands to his lips; in the eagerness of his devotion he seemed to have forgotten that any others were in the room. “Only suffer me to act for you, I beseech of you!”

Trent came forward once more, and though his voice shook it had regained its old softness:—

“Bice!”

She turned away her head.

“I spoke hastily. Say one word.”

She remained silent, and Ibbetson turned sharply round.

“You had better go,” he said, in a low voice. “Why?” asked Trent, eyeing him sullenly,—

“I should think you could answer the question for yourself; perhaps before you find yourself kicked out.”

“Well, that spectacle is hardly pleasant for you or for me,” said Oliver, pointing to Moroni, who stood close to Bice as if he were her champion; “and so I leave you with greater satisfaction than might have been the case. But you have not heard the last of me, Mr Ibbetson.”

He walked out of the room slowly, and except, perhaps, for the pallor of his face, no one would have guessed that he was a disgraced and disappointed man. There was a moment’s silence between them all when he had lifted the curtain and passed out, nothing breaking it except the patter of the rain on the stones of the courtyard, the click-click of old Brigitta’s needles, and the distant clang of some church bell. Moroni clenched his hands, and muttered something under his breath. Jack stood looking after Trent, uncertain what to do himself, whether to go or stay. He was roused from his thoughts by Bice’s voice:—

“Is he gone?”

“Yes; he is gone,” said Jack, coming back, and speaking gravely. “I’m afraid this has been a very trying interview for you. Perhaps I ought to have managed that you should have been spared. And yet—”

“No, no,” she said faintly. “You have nothing to reproach yourself with. It was better that it should have been like this; it was necessary. And you must not think that it is the sort of grief you would perhaps expect—is it very wicked to feel as I do, as if a burden were lifted off my life? Because I do feel it already in spite of his threats.”

“I am sure I don’t wonder,” said Ibbetson kindly, “I only wonder—”

“That I ever promised to many him? Phillis would never have done so, I know, but then—I am not so brave as Phillis. And I always believed he was very good to Clive, and then he persuaded me that what he had done had been misrepresented, and I thought it was from something I had said; and so—”

“Signorina, do not shut me out any longer, talk in our own language,” said young Moroni impatiently.

The girl smiled; a sad little smile it was. “Poor Giovanni, whether you hear little or much, you believe always that I am right, don’t you?”

“Altro, I know it, signorina!”

She looked wistfully at him for a moment. Then she put out a hand to him and to Jack, with a simple confiding impulse which touched them both. “Good-bye, dear friends,” she said softly in Italian, “try always to think as kindly.”

As the heavy curtain fell behind her, Moroni turned impetuously to Ibbetson.

“Now, signore,” he said, “I must hear more.”

“Wait a moment,” said Jack. “Is it because you love her?”

“Do I not? And I mean to win her. He is dismissed, is he not? Let me hear it all, I beseech you, I burn with impatience. I will walk back with you, and then I shall hasten to her mother. What is this about the money? Shall I not call out that Trent?”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Which will Succeed?

Moroni did not call out Trent but took some other measures which were vigorous and a good deal more sensible. But it was a proof of curious and dogged perseverance in the man, that, although baffled, Trent did not give up all hope. He had played a desperate game, in which he told himself—and truly enough, as far as it went—that he had been led on from risk to risk, and so far as his wrong-doing had been a mistake, he bitterly regretted it. Bitterly, for his love for Bice was an absorbing passion, and he would not yet suffer himself to own that she was lost for ever.

His hope lay in Mrs Masters. First and last he had lent her a good deal of money, looking to it as another means of gaining a power over the girl. For he measured Bice’s strength and weakness accurately, knowing that she would resist obstinately and, after all, give way in a moment if she could spare a tear to those she loved. Impulse, as yet, was almost paramount with her; what Trent was ignorant of, or forgot to take into account, was the effect produced upon her by the steady influence of such a life as that of Phillis, in which a higher law ruled.

Trent lost no time. He knew that Mrs Masters had been teased by Kitty into taking her to the Capitol, and he at once followed them there. Everything looked grey and dreary, and unlike Rome; the pepper trees and mimosas by the Capitol steps hung dank, the poor wolf had slunk sullenly into his den, even the majestic and unmoved serenity of Marcus Aurelius, as the rain beat down upon him, dangerously approached the ridiculous. An old woman held out her hand, “Un soldo, per pietà, signore, un soldo.” Trent flung her a dozen soldi, having a feeling that he could not afford to lose the blessing of a beggar.

Mrs Masters and Kitty had gone to the side where the bronze wolf is preserved, and he was long in finding them. Mrs Masters—always provided with a camp-stool—was in her usual condition of repose, letting her daughter look about as she liked, so that nothing could have been more desirable for Trent. Any other woman might have noticed the unusual dull pallor of his face, as he leaned against a pedestal by her side, but observation was growing more and more an unknown exercise to her, and she made no more than her ordinary remarks about heat or cold and the like, when he joined her. He did not trouble himself to answer them, but said abruptly:—

“Have you any idea how much money I have let you have?”

“Not much,” she said placidly. It had seemed to her part of the arrangement to which belonged Bice’s engagement, and she expected Trent to look upon it in the same light.

“Well, you had better understand. It is over two hundred pounds.”

For a moment she was a little startled, “I don’t really think it can be so much,” she said. “But, to be sure, I have a very poor head for business.”

“And do you know,” he went on without regarding, “that Bice has been listening to that young—fool, Ibbetson, and has been talked into throwing me over?”

He spoke in a low savage voice, which had in it so much concentrated bitterness that it frightened her. She looked up at him with a vaguely terrified expression.

“What do you mean?” she said. “She is going to marry you, isn’t she?”

“No,” he said in the same tone. “Can’t you understand plain English? I tell you he has been getting hold of her with his cock-and-bull stories about Clive, and this is the end of it.”

He had no dislike to Mrs Masters, and yet at that moment it gave him a fierce satisfaction to see that she was trembling. It seemed like an assurance that Bice was still in his power. And, indeed, one time of her life had taught her so thoroughly the language of threats that she had no difficulty in realising that he meant something by asking her about the money. She said imploringly:—

“But it is not my fault, Oliver. You must know that I have always taken your part with Bice, and that I cannot help it if she has one of these headstrong fits upon her.”

“Perhaps not. But I don’t mean to put up with them quietly. Choose for yourself. Can you repay me the money?”

“Oh, of course I cannot, you know I cannot! And you promised me that when you were married you would not ask for repayment.”

“Well? And I abide by that promise. But do you think me fool enough to lose everything? Keep your side of the compact and I keep mine.”

She looked at him helplessly. Her mind was not quick at resources, and Trent’s will always seemed to oppose a blank high wall when she wished to escape. Kitty came up with some remark. When she had left them again, her mother said slowly:—

“I can’t force Bice.”

“You can work upon her. If you succeed, I give you my word, the money shall be absolutely yours.” He was leaning forward and speaking earnestly, and a dull hope came into her face.

“Perhaps I can. And you will be kind?”

“I will be very kind—to success.”

Then he walked away after Kitty, who was his warm admirer and supporter, and took pains to make himself more than usually pleasant to her, before he confided what had past. Painted in his own colours it looked very different from the actual fact, and Kitty, flattered and pleased, scarcely needed persuasion. When he went back to Mrs Masters, he felt convinced that he had a chance of at least getting himself heard by Bice, who was only to be reached by those she loved, and once heard, his indomitable perseverance assured him that he could explain everything.

Somebody else was plotting and planning that day. Moroni, all the chivalry of whose nature had risen up in answer to what Ibbetson had told him, though that was not much, was dashing about here and there, looking pale and determined, and unlike the days of the guitar. Jack was very good-natured, and sincerely anxious that he should succeed, his liking and esteem for the young fellow having grown rapidly that day. But even Jack grew a little weary of giving advice, when, for the third time, Moroni came rushing up his stairs.

“My dear friend,” cried the young fellow, wringing his hands, “what should I do without you? I ask you twenty thousand pardons, I am an impertinent, an intruder, but—will you only answer me one question, and I go?”

Ibbetson, who had had to answer some dozens already, nodded good-humouredly.

“Do you really think I should delay pressing my suit? If she were altogether Italian I should know what to do, but she is partly English; she loves England, it is not impossible that I might shock her. You, too, are English. Advise me.”

He was trembling with eagerness, and thrusting his hands into his hair. Ibbetson leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said:—

“I wouldn’t be too abrupt. She will want a little breathing time after this affair. See Mrs Masters if you like, and for the rest go quietly to work.”

Moroni listened as eagerly as if he had not already had the advice again and again, nodded once or twice and jumped up.

“Enough! I shall go at once and see if her mother is returned. Addio, best of friends.” But at the door he came back: “You would really wait?”

“My dear fellow, I’m no prophet. I only say what I should do if I were in your shoes.”

“I shall do it. Ah, a thought strikes me! That is your dog, is it not? And she likes him, I have heard her speak of him—will you lend him to me? It would be so good to give her pleasure.”

Jack gave a laughing leave, but Cartouche refused all enticements. When the eager young fellow, with his hope and enthusiasm, had at last rushed out, Cartouche walked across the room and rested his black head on his master’s knee; looking in his face with the odd questioning that touched them all. “You and I are left pretty much to each other, old fellow, eh?” said Jack, pulling the shaggy locks; “and we miss her, too, don’t we? Well, we’ll hold together, and stick to each other, and, perhaps, the sooner we get away from here the better it may be for us both.” Then he began to imagine that future which turned a dreary side towards him at that time; Phillis in the vicarage at Whitcote, himself obliged every now and then to be at Elmsleigh to meet her, to meet the man whose wife she was. More than once in their last interview Phillis had hurt him as she had never done before; her shrinking reluctance to grant him that one request of his, had given him his sharpest pang, and his thoughts had gone back to it again and again. He was impatient with himself for his own folly, and stood up and shook himself, as if by that means he could get rid of it. Miss Preston and Winter had both gone, the porter’s wife kept his rooms, and his food was sent from a trattoria. Hardly ever had he been oppressed with such a sense of loneliness in the world, and somehow he was sure that Cartouche shared the oppression. The sooner he could get back to London the better, and he made a rapid calculation, and decided that in five days he might leave Rome. If, before then, he came across Phillis, well and good; but he told himself dejectedly that he must not try to see her alone, where another repulse would only pain them both. Friends they might be in time, but it is not a relationship which succeeds very easily to that of lovers, in spite of the fine words talked about it, or even the finer thoughts thought.

Moroni, meanwhile, went like a whirlwind to the Palazzo Capponi, and stormed Mrs Masters in the very yellow room where he had already been that day. Other people might have found it difficult to introduce the subject, but his simplicity and his eagerness saw no difficulties. He kissed her hand, and held it in his own while he said:—

“Dear signora, I have the greatest favour to ask. By what I hope may be a fortunate incident, I was in this room to-day, and saw the signorina act like a heroine. The Signor Trent is of your family, I believe, so I say nothing, I abstain to speak of him, if I did however, I do not; as I say, I abstain. But I gathered that—he being of your family—you had done him the great honour to permit him to be your banker. I am right, am I not?”

Poor Mrs Masters, who was unaccustomed to have her monetary transactions looked upon in this light, stared helplessly at him. She was feeling the pressure of Trent’s heavy hand, and dreading her interview with Bice, which might, she knew, turn out a failure. And if so, where would she be? But Moroni was afraid he had offended her.

“You think I have no right,” he said, with a gesture of despair. “Ah, forgive me, but remember, are we not of your oldest friends? Who will you permit to be of some little use, when inconveniences occur, but us? If I cannot speak of that man, it is impossible for me to express myself as I would, but I entreat you to leave it in my hands, to let me settle everything with him. Oh, I will be patient because he is your countryman. And the money shall come from you, you may trust me.”

Was this the favour he was asking? She could scarcely believe that she heard rightly, and that her perplexities could meet with such a gentle end. No scruples were likely to weigh with her. She sank into an arm-chair with a sigh of relief.

“Would you really do me this kindness, Giovanni? Oliver Trent has behaved cruelly, for I did not know I had to repay the two hundred; but he is angry with Bice and vents it upon me. It is very hard on me. But have you the money?”

“Listen, dear signora. I came here hoping to gain your consent to address myself to the signorina Beatrice. My father loves me, he is rich, he consents. I find her tied to this man. Imagine, if you can, my despair. But now I shall hope again, with your permission, I shall have every hope.”

“Oh, you have my permission,” said Mrs Masters, slowly. “But if she will not—”

“Do you think she will not? Do not say so, I implore you!”

“She is incomprehensible,” said her mother, with a sigh. “And then, perhaps, I shall have all this scene with the money over again—”

Moroni stared at her, grew pale and drew himself up with a grand air they had never seen in him.

“Signora, I am one of the Moroni,” he said proudly, “and I have asked two favours at your hands.”

She looked at him in wonder. Was this Bice’s boy-admirer, at whom they had sometimes laughed? It touched and shamed her.

“You are very good, my Giovanni; very good,” she said. “I hope poor Bice will have the blessing of so good a husband, if she really has made up her mind not to marry Oliver. Poor Bice! Perhaps she has thought too much of me and of others—and as for this you wish to do, I cannot thank you enough—”

“Say no more,” said the young man, radiant, and seizing her hand again in his fervour. “You have granted me permission, now I shall go to work very carefully. But you will never let her know of the favour you have given me, she would think it too presumptuous. Within an hour the money shall be here. How kind you have been to me, dear signora!”

The secret was one which Mrs Masters determined to keep.

When she went into Bice’s room, she found her pacing up and down, flushed and feverish.

“So you have seen that man,” the girl began vehemently; “Mamma, for pity’s sake say nothing about him. Kitty has gone away crying because I will not listen. I shall go mad, I believe—I cannot even tell you what he has done. Ask Mr Ibbetson. Only I will not marry him, whatever you owe him; are human beings to be sold like that in these days? Let us go back, I will work, I will—”

“My dear, you are so impetuous! do not wish you to marry him.”

Bice paused in her rapid movements.

“And the money?” She asked the question breathlessly.

“The money will be paid to-day.”

The change in her face seemed to light the very room. She flung her arms round her mother’s neck, tears were running down her face. “It is for joy,” she sobbed. “Do you mean that we are free, that he can do nothing more?” But after this she made none of the inquiries which her mother dreaded; sitting quietly, and looking out of the window, and every now and then drawing a long breath, as if a burden were lifted from her.

That evening a great bouquet came for the Signorina Capponi.

The next morning, as Moroni was again going to choose the best flowers he could find for his lady, Trent passed by him on his way to the station. He looked like what he was; a man who had aimed for an object and had lost it. Of Moroni he took no notice; it was Ibbetson to whom he attributed his defeat. But Moroni in the joy of his heart, bought a magnificent peacock made entirely of flowers, at which the Roman world had been staring for an hour or two, and gave orders for its being sent to Palazzo Capponi. And Jack, when he was called upon for advice that day, thought Giovanni’s views as to proceeding slowly were a good deal modified. At any rate, he saw Bice.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Father Tiber.

The carnival had ended and Lent begun with days of heavy and unusual rain. People who were bent upon sight-seeing were obliged to fall back upon the galleries and studios, and these were so dark that the general gloom seemed to have also affected them. One day, five or six people were wandering through Vertunni’s beautiful rooms. There are hangings of strange colours, damasks, tapestries, draperies over the doors, priceless bits of glass or bronze, out of the midst of which rich and soft surroundings the pictures glow. Sometimes it is Italy—the gloom of the Pontine marshes, the light of Paestum. Sometimes you lose yourself in a sea-mist were a boat floats between sky and earth; sometimes meet with Egypt’s dusky radiance, or the sweep of the sand on the desert...

Mrs Leyton was in her element, she went on from room to room, dragging her husband and the Peningtons after her. She wished Phillis to marry Mr Penington, but it would have annoyed her very much if she had absorbed him, which was quite another thing. And Phillis preferred to linger behind with Bice, who wandered restlessly from picture to picture. She touched one of the broad and deeply carved black frames with a slender finger, and went on with what she had been saying:—

“Did you ever know what it was to have a ton-weight lifted off you? But you needn’t answer. To get my sort of ton you must pull it on yourself, and you couldn’t do that. You would never have more than a pound at most. Only now the feeling is so delightful that it is almost worth all the past unhappiness to have got it. Everything seems different, even you!”

Phillis was looking at her curiously. Was not some hope added to this feeling of relief? The girl, who had told Phillis all her story, went on:—

“But do you know that I have been afraid to ask questions. How has it all been managed? Who can have set us free? Poor mamma never could raise the money, that I know, and therefore somebody has done it, and I dare not make her tell me. What do you think?”

What could Phillis say? No doubt rested in her own mind as to who it was had paid the debt, and set the girl free from the last links of that miserable bondage.

Jack had told her something of the scene which had taken place at the Palazzo Capponi, and had found it impossible to restrain a certain satisfaction and triumph over its conclusion. Phillis held her own opinion that it was he to whom the finishing touch was due, but it was not an opinion which she would have suggested to Bice for worlds. She turned her back to look at some Indian hanging of wonderful texture, hoping that she might not be asked that question again. But Bice intended to have an answer.

“Why don’t you speak?” she said quickly. “What are you thinking about? Not?”

She paused as if expecting some continuation of this “not.” Phillis, however, took no notice. If Bice guessed she could not help it, but she would not suggest the name which seemed to her ridiculously palpable. There was a little pause in which they could hear Mrs Leyton’s laugh in the next room. When Bice began to speak again it was in a slow strained voice.

“Did you really suppose it was Mr Ibbetson?” she demanded, “and did you really think that I should take it from him? I tell you I know as well as if he stood before us, and swore it, that he would not have dared to offer me such an insult, and sooner than accept it I would—I would almost marry Oliver Trent.”

Phillis was astonished. Perhaps she had not credited the girl with so much delicacy of feeling, perhaps she thought that of all men, Jack was the one from whom Bice would have been the most ready to accept an obligation.

“I beg your pardon,” she said with great meekness. “It really was Mr Ibbetson of whom I had thought, because he had already shown great interest—”

She stopped. Bice finished the sentence very calmly.

“In Clive, yes. He was very good to Clive. Very good indeed.”

Phillis was staring at her. “Clive! He didn’t know Clive when he went to England. Don’t you know that he went on purpose to see him? Has he never so much as told you? He went to see him, but he went on your account.”

While she spoke the girl’s face had flushed a soft and delicate colour, but she still kept her eyes fixed upon Phillis. And when Phillis had ended she said:—“No, I don’t know it, and I don’t believe it. If Mr Ibbetson went on our account, it was because you asked him. Did you not ask him?”

“I told him,” Phillis said, a little bewildered at this view of the matter which had never before presented itself to her. Bice looked at her wistfully and smiled.

“Yes, you told him. Are you blind, Phillis? Don’t you see that the one thing which Mr Ibbetson cares about is to do something to please you?”

It was Phillis’s turn to colour, and she would have attempted some disclaimer, but that the rest of the party came back to the room, and Mrs Leyton made a prompt attack upon them.

“You are disgracefully idle, you two! Come, acknowledge that I am the most consistent sight-seer of our party. However much I protest beforehand, when I am dragged to anything I do it.”

“I did not imagine that you were ever dragged anywhere, Mrs Leyton,” said Mr Penington, smiling. “I should have called you a very cheerful conductor. However, I agree with you that it would be a pity for Miss Grey to miss those Egyptian pictures. Won’t you come and see them?” he said, addressing her.

“Not now, thank you,” said Phillis hurriedly. He looked disappointed, and she was sorry; but Bice’s words were in her ears, she could scarcely think of anything else. Vague doubts had haunted her since her last interview with Jack; she had been really ashamed to own their presence to herself, but now to have them put into words by another brought a delicious thrill of happiness.

“Well, good people,” said Mrs Leyton, “if this is finished, will you be kind enough to inform me what we are to do with ourselves? It is so early in the day that hours upon hours remain on my conscience. Make a suggestion, everybody, please, and then we can choose.”

“I must go home,” said Bice. “Suppose you come with me?”

“Suppose we go and look at the Tiber?” suggested Mr Penington. “Do you know that there are serious fears of an inundation? At any rate I can assure you that it is worth seeing. The old stream swings along with a force absolutely amazing, and if you are not afraid of the rain, it would not take long to get as far as the Ripetta. There you would get a first-rate view.”

He addressed Mrs Leyton, but he looked at Phillis. Captain Leyton, who was peering into a picture, turned round briskly.

“That’s the thing to do, of course. Why didn’t we think of it? Come along.”

“Well, perhaps it is nice,” said his wife doubtfully. “But we must call at the hotel and get waterproofs.”

“Nothing easier.”

“And I won’t be led into any danger, mind.”

Bice still persisted that she must go back, indeed she was sufficiently Italian to think with horror of walking in the rain. At the foot of the stairs young Moroni was waiting, rather to everybody’s astonishment; but he only said simply that he had heard the Signorina Capponi was here, and had come to see if he could be of any use.

“What does he expect to do?” Bice whispered to Phillis. But she was smiling.

The four ladies drove to the Alemagna, while the gentlemen walked, and then Bice went home alone, and the others fitted themselves out for their little expedition. Just as they came down, ready to start, Jack Ibbetson, with Cartouche at his heels, turned into the entrance passage.

“The Tiber is rising,” he said eagerly. “West tells me the sight out by the Ponte Molle is very striking. It struck me some of you might like to go there.”

“Well, yes,” said Captain Leyton, pulling his whiskers. “We were going to the Ripetta, but I don’t know—suppose we make a bolder push. What do you say, Miss Penington?”

“I think it would be much nicer,” she said with great emphasis.

“Then we’ll do it.”

“You’ll come?” said Jack, turning quickly to Phillis.

It seemed to her afterwards as if she had been swept away by some impetuous force in his voice or manner. Was it the vibration of those words which she still heard, “Are you so blind? Don’t you see that the one thing he cares for is to please you?” Was it true—at last?

But the arrangement did not at all please Mrs Leyton. She said in an injured tone:—

“I think you are excessively disagreeable. You know I can’t walk all that way.”

“We can drive some distance.”

“Oh, I daresay! I should have miles to tramp. And I had made up my mind to go to the Ripetta. Mr Penington, do you intend to desert me, also?” What could he say? He said “No,” with a good deal of disappointment in the word. For the last few days it had seemed impossible to get any special sight or hearing of Phillis, and he had made this opportunity with the hope of speaking some words on which it seemed to him that the happiness of his life depended. It was hard to lose it. But Mrs Leyton had no intention of letting him go with them.

“No, I thought not,” she said cheerfully. “And I’m not sure that it isn’t a good plan to separate. One can see things better. We’ll meet by and by, and tell our experiences, if there is anything left of you, after this mad proceeding. But I predict we shall have the best of it.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Captain Leyton cheerfully. “Penington will take you, wife, and we four will start at once. Are you ready, good people?—thick boots, wraps, umbrellas?”

They would not consent so much as to be driven to the Porta del Popolo, and, indeed, the rain was no longer falling with the persistent force of the last few days. The sky was still heavy with leaden-looking clouds, but they were thinner, and in some places so far rent asunder that a glimmering brightness showed behind them. Coming along the Babuino was a picturesque file of donkeys of various ages, led by bronzed men in long blue cloaks; a contadina, also in a blue dress, and a little child, walked by their side. Presently they met other processions; goats, ox-carts piled high with household goods; the poor oxen came stumbling and sliding along over the slippery stones, the people looked dejected, they were straggling in from the campagna, escaping from the threatened inundation. Jack spoke to one woman and asked a question. “Mariaccia, che tempo!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands. “Already much has been swept away. If it goes on, we shall be ruined.” The Via Flaminia was full of these fugitives, but they could not tell them much.

And as yet they saw nothing of the river.

Ordinarily, indeed, they must have reached the Ponte Molle itself before they would catch a glimpse of the yellow waters, and the tears sprang into Phillis’s eyes as she remembered how about a month before she had driven out there with Miss Cartwright, and had stopped on the bridge to look at the loveliness of the view. Then, under a blue sky, even Tiber himself had caught all sorts of fair and delicate reflections; that indescribable golden brown which takes the place of green in a Roman landscape, lay on the banks and on the stretching campagna; a little watch-tower rose on a low hill above the river, and all along the line of distance ran a line of mountains flushed with tender lights of rosy lilac, and crowned with snow. It was very unlike that day. For now the mountains were blotted out by the darkness of grey mist, and if for a moment this was lifted up, it was only a shadowy gloom which grew out of the greyness; and before they reached the bridge, they could see the angry and tawny waters rolling towards them, at the very top of the confining banks—nay, here and there they had already forced a gap and spread themselves in a turbid sheet over the short grass. People were standing on the bridge, pointing; but not many, the greater number had something to do, some danger to avert. For those who looked, the sight could hardly be forgotten. A fierce purpose seemed to possess the dark mass of rushing water which rolled with incredible swiftness beneath the bridge, and every now and then there swirled past a scarcely distinguishable heap of something which the old river had already seized upon for his prey—branches of trees, bundles of maize, a struggling sheep, the spoil of some little farm, the torn ribs of a boat. Something in the vagueness of these objects, in the suddenness with which they were swept into and out of sight, in the triumphant might of the swollen river, had a horrible fascination for the lookers-on. What might not meet their eye next? They bent over the parapet and looked down; Cartouche sprang upon it and whined uneasily.

“Some houses must have been washed away, fry the last thing was a chair,” said Miss Penington.

“I can’t stand this,” said Jack, straightening himself. “Whatever came down, we couldn’t possibly do any good here. I shall go further down the river. There are one or two places where if anything living were swept, it might be caught and held. At any rate it won’t look quite so desperate as it does from the bridge. Leyton, you will see them home.”

“No, no,” said Phillis with great eagerness. “That is quite impossible. Do you suppose that we should let you go alone? Of course we will all go. I shall be giddy if I look at this much longer.”

And though she was generally the most considerate of companions, she did not once ask Miss Penington her wishes in the matter. Captain Leyton looked doubtful.

“I don’t know what sort of a path there may be,” he said.

“But I do,” said Jack with a happy smile. “If you’ll really come, I can take you quite safely; the rain has stopped. Will you and Miss Penington go in front and I’ll direct you.”

“I should have thought the shortest plan would have been for you to go in front yourself,” said Captain Leyton; but he fell into Jack’s arrangement, being the most good-natured of men.

“You have thick shoes, I hope?” said Jack to Phillis, as they followed.

“Look!” And she held up a pretty foot well protected. Phillis’s spirits were rising every moment, in spite of the wild scene all about them. The path was very wet and rough; once or twice he put out his hand to help her. Perhaps the little action brought back to her mind another rough road when he had helped, not her, but Bice, for she said suddenly, “I want to ask you a question; but you needn’t answer it unless you like.”

“That is very considerate,” said he smiling.

“Do you know the end of Mrs Masters’s debts?”

“Yes, I do. That is, I know they’ve been paid. Do you expect this to be the end?”

“Oh, well, for the present. But who paid them?” He hesitated. “I don’t believe it’s a secret,” he said presently, “but of course it’s not a thing to be talked about.” Then he suddenly turned and looked down into her face. “Did you really suppose it was I?”

“Why not?” she persisted. “Why not you as well as another?”

“I think I shall avail myself of your means of escape, and refuse to answer the question,” said Jack with gravity. “I can’t afford to lose my one opportunity of being considered a preux chevalier.”

“But, Jack!”

“But, Phillis!”

“Was it really not you?”

He did not answer her for a moment. Their path led them so close to the sweeping current of the river, already brimming over and tearing at the canes which bordered it, that he was seized with a fear that he had been mistaken in the strength of the banks, and had, perhaps, brought his companions into danger. But a short recollection assured him that they were safe. He pointed out an oozy bog to Phillis that she might avoid it, and then said:—

“I don’t think that Miss Capponi shares your misconception.”

“No, she does not,” said Phillis frankly. “But she doesn’t know where the money came from.”

“Does she not?” Jack lifted his eyebrows with a little incredulity. “Then I really think I ought to give you a hint to be used for her special benefit. But it seems to me that the blindness of the world is one of its chief wonders. Why, Phillis, can’t you see that young Moroni would think all he had well thrown away if he could get her?”

“Young Moroni! I fancied that was quite a hopeless devotion.”

“Not so hopeless now, I imagine. He had hard work to bring his father to his way of thinking, then he came here and found Trent to the fore; but now—”

“When did he make you this confidant?” asked Phillis quickly.

“On the day of the great blow up: I acted as interpreter, and then had to hear all his hopes and fears. And I wish him full success.”

Jack had leapt across a little running stream, and held out his hand to Phillis, looking into her eyes as he did so. What did he read there? What new happiness trembled in their brown depths, what deep and tender faithfulness did he discover? Was this the moment at last for which he had longed and hoped?

“Ibbetson! Ibbetson, for Heaven’s sake, what’s that?”

The cry came from Captain Leyton, who was running back and pointing eagerly towards the river. “Where?” shouted Jack, eager in his turn.

“There! Caught by that great tree.”

There is a point where the higher part of the bank juts out a little towards the river. Ordinarily this does not reach or interfere with the course of the water, only breaking into the line of pebbly reaches and of almost a thicket of bushes between them. But now the rage and fulness of the river swept high above bushes and reaches, and rushed along the inner bank which yet formed a barricade to its force, so that this little outpost was exposed to the full fury of the stream. Already it had been so battered and weakened, that more than half had been washed away, but still it formed a little natural breakwater, and, as the current apparently set in its direction, it followed that some of those things, which Tiber had relentlessly wrenched from the land, now and then caught on its point and lingered for perhaps a minute or two before they were again whirled away to their doom. But now a larger object had been driven against it, and was making a more obstinate resistance. A great uprooted tree, tossed wildly along by the turbulent stream, had probably been swept against this barrier with such force as to become partially embedded in it. For the moment it remained there, and its long network of boughs, broken and battered as they were, stretched themselves out across the waters with what looked like despairing efforts against its destroyer. They could not last. The tawny river leapt and foamed, seizing branch and twig, and tearing them off with a violence which was rapidly undermining the little promontory itself, and would soon sweep it and all that clung to it away. Meanwhile the branches caught at other spoil, wisps of poor drowned hay wrapped themselves round them, a contadino’s hat with the gay ribbons all dank and draggled was tossed on to a splintered bough; and Captain Leyton and his companion, watching the strange medley and the signs of ruined homestead which the flood was sweeping down, had seen another object which struck them with horror, and made them cry out to Jack.

For caught in its narrow end by the branches into which it had been jammed, with the other end swung violently from side to side by the yellow surging waves which claimed their prey, was a wooden cradle; and although they could not be sure—owing to the tossing unrest of the waters—whether it was or was not empty, it seemed to them, every now and then, as though they caught sight of a little dark head, a darker shadow under the shadow of the cover. Jack was on the alert in a moment.

“We must get hold of it somehow.”

“If we can,” said Captain Leyton doubtfully. “But think of the force of that current!”

Jack nodded, but by this time was already standing without coat or boots on the spot where the little promontory curved out from the bank.

They all knew something of the danger. At his quietest Tiber is no ordinary river, very rarely do you see a boat upon his surface, and the ferries have ropes stretched across, by which to bear up against the slow but mighty force of the old river.

And now he had done all this mischief higher up, and was within an ace of flooding Rome. What could live in those sweeping and turbulent eddies?

“For Heaven’s sake don’t be so mad, Ibbetson!” said Captain Leyton, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s hopeless to attempt to save the poor little beggar—utterly hopeless! If anything could be done, I wouldn’t say a word, but this is only throwing away life. Don’t, my dear fellow, don’t!”

Miss Penington broke into terrified appeals. Phillis, pale as death, was standing by Jack’s side, looking into his face, but not attempting to dissuade him. Perhaps he did not hear Captain Leyton; he was looking coolly and thoughtfully at the river as if to take in all the chances. A wave dashed up over their feet. Then he suddenly stooped down and kissed Phillis, held her, and gazed into her eyes for a moment. “God bless you, Phillis,” he said. Afterwards he did not look back.

For a few steps he walked along the top of the bank, sinking each instant into its yielding surface, until, as the water swept over it more and more, he let himself down by its inner side, and half swimming, half clinging, gained a little ground, though slowly. This was the easiest part of all, but one danger at least was as great here as elsewhere. Every instant added to the insecurity of the bank. Every moment it seemed almost a miracle that it should be left. So terrific, indeed, was the force of the current that it swept Ibbetson backwards and forwards against it like a battering ram, and these very blows were an additional peril. Still he was able to battle on, those on the bank watching with agonising anxiety; Cartouche running backwards and forwards, whining uneasily, looking in their faces, looking at the water.

“He has reached the tree,” Captain Leyton said in a breathless whisper.

It was the second stage. With it began the worst dangers of all, those of the undercurrents which naturally the bank had checked. He was obliged now to trust altogether to swimming, using the boughs as a support. Without them he must inevitably have been swept away, but their help was of the most frail and treacherous nature—tossed by the waters, swayed to and fro, twisted off and whirled into the centre of the flood, at any moment liable to be altogether detached from the bank, or with it to share a common destruction. Jack did not know it, but his face was bleeding from the twigs which whipped continually against it. Still the cradle was there, so near that it almost seemed to those on shore that he could have reached it, ignorant as they were of the terrible forces against which he was battling, or worst of all, of the feeling each moment that he must be sucked under in a resistless eddy.

Were they moments or hours that passed? Phillis, on the shore, fell down on her knees and held up her hands, but never for an instant did her eyes let go that spot in the yellow waters where he was fighting for life. Presently Captain Leyton drew a long breath, and spoke again.

“He has got the cradle. He is pushing it back.”

Then there was silence, that strained, intense silence, which is almost awful in its weight. Inch by inch, as it were, and only inch by inch, he came towards them, bruised, bleeding, hampered with the cradle. Once or twice it seemed as if he had disappeared. And, at last, just as he reached the point where the bank—by this time yet feebler—began, they heard—with an agony which to Phillis in her helpnessness was like that of death—his cry for help.

That moment Captain Leyton was in the water. How he got there he never knew, but before him there was another friend at least as faithful. Cartouche, at his master’s cry, had plunged in, and, swimming bravely, had seized the cradle and turned back to land. With a tremendous struggle he managed to bring it to the spot where Phillis was standing, disregarding the water which washed up round her, and when she had lifted it out, the brave dog turned round and fought his way again to his master.

Help was indeed needed, for Jack’s failure did not altogether arise from exhaustion, but from, if possible, a more serious cause. His foot had become entangled in some of the small submerged branches, and not having sufficient strength to extricate himself, he could only manage to keep himself afloat by clutching at a bough. But the support was too slender to avail him long, against the dreadful power of the undercurrents, even if the tree itself were not—as would surely be the case in a few minutes—swept down the stream. Captain Leyton, although he had bravely plunged in, was too inexperienced a swimmer to give any help, indeed his own situation was full of danger before he had so much as reached the tree, and only by clutching at some projection in the bank with the despair of a drowning man could he keep his head above water.

But Cartouche? Through the tossing waters the dog, with a faithfulness which never faltered, struggled slowly back to his master. Beaten by the waves, with safety close behind within his reach, he needed no call to keep him resolute to his purpose. To Jack, with the river hissing in his ears, with the angry dash of foam blinding his eyes, the sight of that black and curly head coming steadily towards him seemed to give hope and power once more. As the dog reached him he bent his head down, and Cartouche by a great effort licked his face. Then Jack called all his failing strength together; the tree itself swayed violently, he felt that he was free. Free, but could he reach the shore? The horror of that frightful imprisonment was so strong, that he dared not trust to the help of the branches, and the struggle was almost superhuman. Cartouche swam close to him, swam round him, more than once when he thought he must give up, the gaze of those faithful eyes, the touch of the dog’s body, brought back the hope which had all but deserted him—and now, he had just cleared the roots of the tree, was just venturing in towards the bank, when, caught in some tremendous eddy, the tree swung completely round, and with its bare branches tossing wildly upwards, the old river whirled away its prey in triumph.

A few moments sooner and Jack must have been drawn into the whirlpool. He had just escaped it, was just able to reach Captain Leyton, to give him help, to let the river, more merciful at the last, fling him where even a woman’s hands could succour. The two men were saved; when Jack opened his eyes, the woman he loved was bending over him, her eyes looked into his with an unutterable gladness. God had given him back, and with his life had given him Phillis.

But Cartouche?

He had been a little behind his master; a bough had struck him down as it swept round, a fierce current drew him under, a moment did it all. The faithfulness which never once had failed him, had not failed him now; Jack was safe, but Cartouche had died in the saving.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Only a Dog.

Only a dog. Other people said this afterwards, but not one of those who stood by the river, looking sadly where he had been carried away. Only a dog, indeed, and yet without his aid three of their number might never have been given back to those who loved them. Down Phillis’s face the tears were raining.

“Is it hopeless?” she said.

“Quite hopeless,” Jack replied in a dull and shaken voice. “I would give—well it’s no use talking about what I would give—”

And then they turned away. It was indeed necessary that the two men, in their chilled and dripping state, should get home as quickly as possible. And what of the little waif whose rescue had cost them so much? Phillis stooped down, and lifted her from the cradle which had been an ark, and in which she was sleeping as soundly as on her mother’s breast.

“I will carry her,” said the girl with a sob.

As they walked—silent and moved with many feelings—along the bank which would lead them back to the road, the sinking sun, which had been hidden for many days, broke out from behind a drifting mass of clouds, and flooded the whole scene with a sudden golden glory. The angry and turbid waters were transfigured by its radiance; here and there where they had spread themselves in desolating tracts, all the brilliance of the heavens seemed to be given back; and Rome herself, unmoved by the violence of the flood, lay in dark imperial purples against the western sky. They all looked silently and hurried on.

When they reached the road, other people had collected who stared in amazement at the strange figures, at the rescued baby. More than one had seen the cradle carried down under the bridge, but had never thought of possible deliverance. Now there were willing feet enough to start off after the cradle, to run in the opposite direction in order to get tidings of what little farm had been swept away. And fortunately one or two carriages had driven out from Rome, the owners of which almost contested the honour of taking the little party back. It was a strange drive. Joy and sorrow at times are almost inextricably interwoven. Phillis, with the baby’s dark and curly head pressed tightly against her, sat and looked at Jack, who was, indeed, given back to her from the dead, and all over the broken clouds golden lights were radiating, and flashing down upon a watery world. The little pools in the road reflected some of the brightness, the roofs were shining, the rain drops gleamed on the trees, it was like enchantment, so suddenly had all this opal light grown out of the gloom. And yet, not so far away, a mother was running wildly by the river, crying out for her lost baby; and, far down, men, with long poles trying to snatch some of his spoil from Tiber, touched a black and floating object, and let it go with a push—“only a dog,” was what they said, “and dead.”

Two nights afterwards some of those who had been dining at the table-d’hôte went out into the Piazza di Spagna. There was an eclipse, or something which gave them the excuse for coming into the solemn and wonderful darkness, lit by tremulous stars, and musical with the constant cool splash of the fountain. Carriages were flying backwards and forwards, people lounging about, but they did not interfere much with the beauty or the quiet. The group of friends broke into little knots, two stood a little way up the Spanish steps, and leaned against the parapet One of them, a man, was saying:—

“Do not be afraid. These disappointments may sadden, but they do not wreck our lives. You have given me memories to cherish for ever, although this is a good-bye we are saying; yes, good-bye, and God bless you, my dear. Susan and I are going off to-morrow; there is south Italy to see, it would never do for us, you know, to go home and to have nothing to report of Vesuvius and Pompeii.”

She was crying softly, she felt the kind pressure of his hand, she did not know that he had moved away because another figure was running up the steps. “Phillis!” said Jack in a low voice.

And then she turned and laid her head upon his shoulder.

“Oh, it is hard, hard!” she said. “Jack, must there always be pain with one’s deepest happiness!”

He did not quite understand, but perhaps he guessed enough, and he was very gentle with her. For indeed it seemed as if the joy of their life had come to them through death and sorrow of heart. Is it not so often? Will it not be so to the very end?

Presently he began to talk about the baby; the mother had been found the very day of the flood, and had walked and run all the way into Rome, almost mad with the bliss of the tidings. And Jack had been out to the spot where the little farm had stood, and had seen all the desolation and ruin, and was going to make his thank-offering and Phillis’s, take the form of a new building. Over the door there would be carved the figure of a dog, with a date.

Before this was done there were two weddings in Rome. Bice and young Count Moroni were married first, and two or three days after, Phillis Grey and John Ibbetson. It was one of those bright Easter days when Rome breaks into delicious harmonies of spring; when the banksia roses fling themselves over the walls like foam, and delicate plants spring out of the mighty brickwork, and the sky is one unbroken depth of blue, and the sun shines on the fountain of Trevi, on the falling waters which came rushing out, on the pigeons which fly backwards and forwards, and perch themselves on Neptune’s head. The wedding was very quiet. Scarcely half a dozen people were in the Church, and in an hour or two Jack and Phillis were to start for Florence on their way to Venice. But before this Phillis had a wish which naturally was to be gratified. They must drive to the Ponte Molle and see the spot where Cartouche had died for his master.