Rose shivered and moved back into the house. She could not bear the beauty of the garden any more alone.
The Padrona met her with a letter in her hand. She had had it for two hours, but she could not make up her mind to give it to Rose. “How,” she asked her husband, “am I to slay happiness?--I am not a butcher.”
“Signora,” she said nervously, “here is a little letter--it is doubtless from the Signore. He is perhaps detained--hospitable friends have kept him--” Rose held out her hand for the letter. The Pinsents never made fusses. They didn’t believe in bad things happening, and when they happened they tried to look as if they weren’t bad.
This was the way Rose looked now. She smiled pleasantly at the Padrona, and moved slowly away towards her room with the letter. She would not hurry.
The Padrona gazed compassionately after her. “She is walking over a precipice,” said the Padrona to herself, “as if it were a path in our garden, Poverina!”
It was a very short letter.
“My dear,” Léon wrote in French, “I find I must go to Naples. It will not be for long I leave you, and I have told them all to look after you until my return. Forgive me. Léon.”
After all he could not lie to Rose.
She read his letter three times. The first two times she translated his letter into English, and wondered why Léon had gone to Naples. The third time she read it without translating it, and then she knew everything. She knew everything in all the world.
But she could not quite believe it. The arrogance in her rose up and fought against the truth.
Rose had very little arrogance, but all women who have been loved must have some. Surely he who was so much her lover could not have left her so soon?
She remembered that when she had said to her mother, “But I could never leave Léon,” Mrs. Pinsent had made no direct response. Her mother had realized that that wasn’t the only question. How had she realized this? Had her father ever--? Rose buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. “Oh, poor mother!” she murmured, “poor mother!” She could not see herself as wholly poor yet.
And then she remembered Léon’s face as he passed her, his sad, ashamed face, and she knew now why he had left her; but that he did not want to leave her.
She sat up very straight and stopped crying when she realized this.
She thought it very strange, for she knew quite well that Madame Gérard didn’t love Léon, either. She loved her own husband, Rose had seen this; she knew it as if it were in the multiplication table; but she couldn’t think of Madame Gérard now, she wasn’t her business. Léon was her business. She must understand, why he had done this thing. It wasn’t any use being silly and just crying, then it might happen again, and it should never happen again; she wasn’t going to have Léon looking ashamed twice.
From the first what wrung her heart was that Léon would feel it so! He had meant to be such a help, he nearly had been, and if he hadn’t been wasn’t it because Rose had failed him? She hadn’t meant to fail him of course, she had meant just the opposite; but that was before she knew all about everything, and before you know how to mean, meaning isn’t going to be much of a help.
She had thought Léon was strong. He wasn’t strong, but in the rush of her passionate reasoning she carried this feather-weight of disadvantage into the fathomless sea of her love and left it safely there. No, he wasn’t strong--but he was Léon--he was hers.
It was she who should have realized his weakness. She remembered now that once or twice lately he had turned back from his excursions with Madame to suggest that Rose should join them, but she had refused in her foolish pride because she had wanted to prove to him how magnanimous she was. She shouldn’t have done that at all, she shouldn’t have had any pride--and it didn’t matter in the least whether she was magnanimous or not! She should have held him to her by whatever could have kept him there. Tears, if tears were necessary; pity, duty, pleading--anything and everything that would have helped him.
She had been thinking of what he would think of her--not of what he needed in her! She saw now it only mattered what he thought of her in so far as it helped her to save him. Her magnanimity hadn’t saved him. Something less beautiful but more practical might have saved him, her just being, for instance, a little more there.
But he hadn’t lied to her, she came back to that as if it was something on which her heart might rest. Ah! if he had done that she would have known that he no longer loved her!
But he had given her no reason--no excuse; he had flung his sin before her because he was ashamed, because he wanted his soul to be naked in her sight--because he knew that she would never fail him.
In the dark she caught sight of the hovering Peppina. “Signora,” Peppina pleaded, “will you not dine?”
Rose stood up. “Yes,” she said in a voice that sounded strange. “Yes, please, I will dine.”
The Pinsents always dined.
“Tell the Padrona,” Rose said steadily, “that the Signore has had to go to Naples on business. He will not return to-night.”
Peppina still hovered. “Si Signora,” she said, “and the black cat, the one I brought to the Signora earlier in the evening, he has found for himself the room of the Signora. Behold, he lies there curled-up on her bed. He is there now--a miracle! The Signora remembers that I told her ‘a black cat means good fortune’?”
Rose hurried into the room, and found him. He was not quite so good as her fox terrier at home, but he was a comfort. She buried her cheek against the round black ball of the fortunate kitten, and wept with easier tears.
Then she went down and had her dinner in the garden.
CHAPTER XIII
They sat on a terrace overlooking the most beautiful view in the world. They did not look at it, nor did they look at each other. They were beautifully dressed, they lived in the same world and spoke the same tongue; they would have laughed at, if they would not have made, the same jokes. The materials for happiness were heaped before them; but neither of them stretched out a hand to take them. They were both like creatures under an invisible ban.
It could not be said that Léon had any cause for a grievance. Madame Gérard had given him what she had offered him, but he had fatally under-estimated how far this gift would fall short of what he wanted.
From the moment of their departure from Capri it had come over him that Elise was not beautiful, that she had no particular charm of person nor of mind; she neither touched nor soothed him. There was a fatal alteration in her. She was accessible.
Léon could not tell what had caused this change in his feelings--he had been covered so lightly by a rare and perfect tenderness that he had not realized how it warmed and nourished him, until he found himself sharply deprived of it.
He felt like some one suddenly pushed into the dark. He fumbled and knocked himself against obstacles, possessed by an intolerable fear, a fear that he shouldn’t get out, shouldn’t ever get back into his light again. He knew now what the light was, he had been in relation to perfect purity, and it was not until the relation ceased that he realized it had not left him as it found him.
He no longer wanted anything less. He wanted only his flawless jewel, the deep and incorruptible heart of Rose. And as for the first time he knew the hunger of a real desire, he knew also that he shrank from returning to her after so light and base a sin.
He had thought this three days could be nothing, an episode, a chance wayside plucking of a flower, something that he could quite easily put away from him and forget on his return to Rose.
He now discovered that it would burn into his heart like a corrosive fluid, and make him fear to seek her presence. It was not that he doubted Rose would forgive him; but he came up against something in himself which would not yield forgiveness. He had too easily gone wrong.
He kept his eyes carefully away from Madame Gérard. He hated her with a cold antagonism; he could not make love to her. He fell back on a sharpened irony of attention. She should have all that she wanted and he waited upon her with an exaggerated courtesy; but she was as oblivious of his coldness as she had been of his warmth.
Léon had never known so strange a woman.
As for Madame Gérard, she had effected her purpose. Last night at the Opera, seated in the front of a box with Léon beside her, she had caught and held the eyes of her enraged husband. That was what she had come to Naples for.
Léon had not seen him. Monsieur Gérard sufficiently accompanied to feel that a scene would have been out of place, had swiftly withdrawn.
But before he had withdrawn, his eyes had crossed swords with his wife’s.
After that there seemed very little to do. She was conscious that the rest of her life lay before her, and that her husband would never forgive her. The prospect once accepted, ceased to stimulate.
From time to time she was conscious of Léon, but never as a consideration requiring much effort. She had fulfilled her bargain and nothing more seemed to be asked of her. She felt with relief that rather less was required of her than might have been expected, and she was vaguely grateful to Léon for leaving her so much alone.
He was a man of tact and could be trusted to look out her trains for her and see her eventually back to France. She supposed she would have sooner or later to rejoin her parents; but she wished she could forget what she had done to Rose.
Now that her purpose was accomplished this fact became more and more troublesome to her. Léon she had no qualms about, for she realized neither his unhappiness nor what she had cost him, but she did realize Rose.
It made her a little sharp with Léon when she thought of him at all; but it was quite easy not to think of him.
Madame Gérard wanted to ask him if he had succeeded in keeping Rose unaware, but she shrank from speaking of Rose. Neither of them spoke of her, and neither of them thought of anything else. It made the silence heavy between them.
“You would like something to eat or drink, perhaps?” Léon at length roused himself to ask her. “No,” she said, “thank you.”
He lit a cigarette and smoked it through, then he said, “It is, I believe, considered very beautiful to drive to Posilippo in the sunset--to dine out there and return. Shall I order a carriage?”
She turned her head for a brief moment and glanced at him. She wished he would go away now--drive to Posilippo by himself, for instance. “Do as you like,” she said without stirring, “I stay here--” “Then, of course,” he said gravely, “I shall not leave you.” It was like being in prison--and not being quite sure whether you were the prisoner or the jailer.
It was a relief to know that some one else was advancing along the terrace. Léon sprang to his feet; he was not a clumsy man, but he very nearly upset the table by which they sat.
Rose was walking slowly towards them. She held a Baedeker in one hand and a parasol in the other. She was very tall, and she looked taller than usual. Her wide blue eyes rested on the wonderful sea beyond--but she had seen Léon and Madame Gérard. She walked towards them without speaking or smiling.
When she came up to them she smiled a little nervously, but in a very friendly way, as if she was glad to see them both, but didn’t want, of course, to make a fuss about it.
“They told me,” she said, “that I should find you out here.”
Madame Gérard could not rise. Her lips moved as if she tried to speak, but she dared not speak. This was her judgment. She was the cleverest of women, but she no longer knew what to say.
Léon stood there with his eyes on the ground, white as a sheet and trembling. He could not look at Rose at all. He felt as if her eyes were fire from Heaven.
Rose spoke again. “Léon,” she said, “do you think I might have some tea?”
“Mon Dieu--Rose--” he whispered under his breath. “Mon Dieu--what must you think--”
“If I could have some roll and butter, too,” she went on, ignoring his murmur, “it would be very nice. I am rather hungry.” Léon turned and without speaking passed quickly into the house. Rose sat down opposite Madame and put the Baedeker on the table. Madame Gérard lifted her heavy eyelids and looked at Rose.
She did not know what was coming, but she meant whatever came--scorn, anger or contempt--to take it.
She was not sure what Rose wanted--she waited to be sure.
Rose met her eyes with a grave and infinitely kindly look. “I am so sorry,” she said slowly in her hesitating French. “We meant to help you, but I’m afraid we didn’t.”
Madame drew a quick breath, she had not expected this. It had not occurred to her that Rose would be sorry; that hard, stubborn substance that was in her breast melted once and for all towards Rose. The tears filled her eyes and fell slowly into her lap.
“My dear,” she said, “no one could help me, and I have not even--helped myself.”
“I was stupid,” Rose went on gently, “and I didn’t understand; but I do understand now. What I wanted to say before Léon comes back was, that I know he meant not to make things worse. You will forgive him, won’t you, because it was my fault really. If I had understood, you see, I should have known he couldn’t help you--not in that way--and I think I could have stopped him.”
Madame Gérard nodded. “I have nothing to forgive your husband,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He has done me no great wrong; always I knew where his heart was--it is still there, Madame--it is in your hands. I--” said Madame Gérard, looking away from Rose’s pitying, tender eyes--“have what I deserve. I have nothing.”
The waiter came with the tea. Léon returned at the same time. He could not keep away, and yet it seemed to him as if there had never been less of him anywhere--his self-respect, his manhood had left him.
Rose turned to him, and with a little gesture of perfect tenderness and trust she slipped her hand over his. It was as if she gave him back his soul. He drew himself up--strength passed into him. She had come back, she was his--somehow or other she was there to save him, and at least he could be generous--he could let himself be saved. He no longer cared that he must be a poor figure in her sight, and he forgot that there was any other sight but hers.
She withdrew her hand again and went on very slowly, still in French, including him in the conversation with a little wave of the hand.
“I have just,” she said to Madame Gérard, “been talking to Monsieur Gérard. He thinks I have improved very much in my French.”
“My husband!” Madame cried, starting forward, then she sank back, white-lipped and trembling.
“Yes,” said Rose, “I went to see him. I found him in the Baedeker. He was in the sixth hotel I called at.”
“But why,” began Madame Gérard, “why did you seek him--Madame, what did you say to him? Forgive me, I do not understand?”
“I thought perhaps I had better see him first,” Rose explained. “I saw him in the hall. I think he was in a kind of rage--he said he had seen you last night at a theater with Léon, and I said, yes--that I never went to theaters in Italy because I didn’t understand the language, and then he asked me if I had been with you all the time.”
Madame Gérard held her breath. Her eyes seemed like a prayer.
Rose turned to Léon. “I’m afraid I didn’t tell him the truth,” she said hesitatingly. “I hope it wasn’t very dreadful--I said, yes, of course I had.”
“You lied to him!” gasped Léon. “Then--then--” for the first time he looked at Madame Gérard. She covered her face with her hands. Rose looked a little perturbed. “I didn’t know,” she said, “what else there was to be done. Of course I know it was very wrong. I never have been untruthful before. I--I don’t like telling lies, but I thought--I’d better. So I said we were all together. I was a little afraid he mightn’t believe me or that he might ask me where we were, but he didn’t. He quite believed me. He only asked me what I wanted to see him for.”
“Par exemple,” muttered Léon; “he asked you that?”
Rose poured herself out a second cup of tea. “I said,” she went on, “I came because I thought you might be sorry for leaving your wife all alone--just because she tried to turn over your music for you--and that I thought perhaps you might be wanting to tell her so--and not know where she was.”
Madame’s eyes fell from her face. “But yes--” she whispered, “and what did he say, Raoul, when you asked him that?”
There was a new look in her eyes now, and a little color in her pale cheeks.
“He said he was sorry,” said Rose, gently. “He said he never would have behaved like that, and never meant to--it was only the music, he said, he often lost his head over music, and that that afternoon he had felt how great a success his marriage was--so that it was doubly unfortunate. He said he wanted to come back to you very much.”
There was a moment’s pause. Madame Gérard’s voice was quite different when she spoke now, there was hope in it. “And what answer did you give him, Madame?” she said. “I think I can see by your eyes that you gave him an answer.”
Rose nodded. “I told him--I had a feeling that you would forgive him--and that I would ask you, if you did, to send him a line to-night--saying if you would see him, and where, of course! You see I didn’t know where you were at the time--but I found you quite easily, because I had remembered something that Léon had said to me about this special view.”
Léon buried his head in his hands and laughed wildly. He laughed to save himself from tears. Madame Gérard said nothing at all; but she stretched out her hand for the tea Rose had poured out for her and began to drink it.
Rose ate two rolls and a half. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m dreadfully greedy,” she explained, “but I haven’t had any lunch, or any breakfast either, properly.”
“But I,” said Léon, coming from behind his hands, “I cannot meet Monsieur Gérard to-morrow?”
“No,” said Rose, “but I left my luggage on the Quay. There is a boat that goes to Venice to-night, and I thought,” she murmured with a diffident, disarming smile, “that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we just went to Venice, Léon. It would be more gay.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.
[End of Helen of Troy and Rose by Phyllis Bottome]