And then she sat a long time in the dark, and thought, and thought. It was all very new and very strange. It roused her lively faculties with the pleasure of a novel sensation. She had taken her proposals of marriage with sedate contempt, and announced authoritatively to her father on each occasion that she had no intention of ever marrying, and that she liked him much better than any other man in the world, an assurance which the poor Vice-Consul took great comfort in, though it was not possible that any man in his senses could accept it as a matter of serious faith. But now Rita could not deny to herself that this strange new bewildering sensation was a pleasant one. Her former suitors would no doubt have gladly adopted it had it been thought that such an easy mode of love-making would have been permitted; but in their cases it would not have moved the foolish girl. To see somebody standing silent on the other side of the street, doing nothing to call her attention, not wishing to be noticed, doing it only for a little comfort to himself, was entirely different. That was the English way, she thought with awe. To be able to give love up for the sake of honour, and yet to have it so much at heart as to be driven to come and look at the house in which the beloved object lived, standing about alone in a cold night—Rita’s whole heart was penetrated by the sincerity, the modesty, the self-restraint, yet self-abandonment, which were English, only English, nothing else. It was not in the least a cold night: Harry outside felt it to be warm and genial: but there was a cool little night-breeze lifting the curtains, and she strove to call it cold to heighten the effect. This was how the Vice-Consul had mismanaged matters. He was not a happy man as he read his despatches; but he had no idea of the mischief which was going on under cover of the night.
RITA said nothing more to her father on this subject for a day or two, and the poor man, deceived once more, began to believe that it had made little impression upon her, and was to be allowed to pass as of no particular importance. He had even begun to congratulate himself on the beneficial effects of his system of training, and the knowledge of the world which her early initiation into life had given her. “Had I brought Rita up as most girls are brought up,” he said to himself; “had she been fresh from a convent, for instance, like some of her friends, or shut up indoors as Italian girls are, her head would have been turned by the first mention of a lover. But she has seen a great deal, though she is so young. In our position she could not help seeing a great deal. She knows how to discriminate, and can judge what is what. What a good thing that I did not follow the advice of all these ladies, but was bold enough to trust to my girl’s innocence and bring her up my own way!” Thus artlessly did the Vice-Consul console himself. And his mind was a great deal easier; for before he was always nervous lest she should question him about Harry, and afraid of betraying himself, even afraid of letting Rita perceive that there was something to betray. Now that he had made a clean breast and got it over, his mind was relieved, and he felt that he could carry his head as high as usual, and need not be afraid to look any girl in the face. For the first day he rejoiced with trembling, but after that had passed began to feel that he had really secured his footing, and might take comfort that the danger was over. Poor Vice-Consul! He had but just allowed this sensation of pleasure to enter his mind when Rita, looking up at him suddenly from a book in which she had all the air of being completely absorbed, addressed him suddenly as follows—
“Papa! I have been thinking over what you told me the other day—What is the matter?” she added, interrupting herself.
“Nothing, nothing,” said poor Mr. Bonamy, faintly. He had been lying back in a very comfortable chair, whiffing gently at intervals a mild cigarette, and giving himself up to the comfort, the ease of being done with a subject in which he had foreseen trouble. When his daughter began to speak, a presentiment of danger awoke in him, and he started up in his chair when she had said these words. “Nothing, nothing,” he repeated, letting himself drop again, but alas, with what different feelings; with the languor of a conflict foreseen, in which he knew he should be worsted. “What have you been thinking about, Rita?”
“About what you told me the other day. Of course it was not just an ordinary thing that one could think nothing more about. Poor Mr. Oliver! I think he has been badly treated. I want you to tell him just to come as usual. He must be on his guard, you know; but in any case he would be on his guard after speaking to you. He must not suppose that I know anything about it.”
“But, my dear,” said the Vice-Consul, with a troubled face, “I don’t think that would do at all; he would think that he had my permission to—to pay you his addresses, as people used to say?”
“What are addresses?” said Rita, with much appearance of innocence. “You must tell him, of course, that there is to be nothing of that kind; but only just that he is to come as before. I don’t see that it need do him any harm—I mean any further harm,” said the girl, correcting herself. She spoke with unusual airiness and carelessness, so lightly indeed that her indifference had the aspect of being somewhat studied.
“Him—harm! that was not the question,” the perplexed father said.
“I hope you don’t mean to infer that it would do me any harm?” said Rita, turning upon him with a smile of superb disdain. She even laughed a little at the folly of the idea, opening and shutting a fan which she held in her hand. “That would be too ridiculous—too ridiculous,” she said.
“But, my dear child, you are young and inexperienced, and—”
“Don’t insult me, please, papa,” she said, fanning herself. If she had been fifty she could not have looked more superior to any such temptation. “And, on the other hand,” she added, “I don’t see why poor Mr. Oliver should be punished, positively punished for liking me. It is not a sin to like me. Of course he must learn to keep it to himself; it will be a good lesson in self-control—which everybody is the better for,” said this young oracle, “and especially, as I have always heard, young men.”
This wisdom took away the Vice-Consul’s breath. “That is very true:” he said “but I am not at all sure that this is a safe way of teaching it. I think, if it is the same to you, Rita—”
“But it is not the same to me,” she cried, impatiently. “If you will not set poor Mr. Oliver right and do him justice, I think I will go and pay that visit my aunt Ersilia always wants me to make her. You said yourself I must go one day or other. I will go now.”
Now if there was one thing more than another which Mr. Bonamy was afraid of, it was this visit to her aunt Ersilia, her mother’s Italian sister, with which she threatened him from time to time. He said hurriedly, “I don’t think this is a good time for going further south, Rita. Of course, if you wish it so much, I will gladly remove the embargo on poor Oliver, who is a very good, honest sort of fellow; but I can’t have him tormented, poor boy—and you must promise to be very distant with him, which is the kindest thing you can do.”
“But not too distant, papa,” said Rita; “for I think it a great deal better that he should suppose I do not know. Far better. I will behave to him just as usual. I will withdraw gradually, bit by bit, that he may not feel too much difference. Indeed, unless he is different to me, I don’t see why I should be different to him. Of course he will be on his guard. You see he knows now. Naturally he will be more careful. He will understand that if you let him come back he is upon his honour. So, on the whole, I will make very little difference. I think it is far better that everything should have the look of being just the same as before.”
With this Mr. Bonamy was obliged to be satisfied. He had known very well when the discussion began that Rita’s will, whatever it might be, was the thing that would be done. He had in his own mind a great many troubled reflections, considering how he was to do it, so as not to excite false hopes or vain expectations in the young man’s mind; but it was, from the moment when she declared her sovereign will, a foregone conclusion. He had not resolved the question how it was to be done, up to the time he went into his office in the morning, and then thought it best to leave it to chance and the inspiration of the moment. When he sent for Harry to speak with him he had still but a very faint idea what to say. The young man came in looking somewhat dull and depressed, as he did always now, and no longer expectant of anything better, as he had been at the first. It was a moment of leisure, and the Vice-Consul had the air of a man with something disagreeable rather than something pleasant to say. His look was artificial, and the smile which adorned his face was forced and uncomfortable.
“Come in, Oliver, come in,” he said, with an air of affected geniality. Harry thought he was going to receive his dismissal; he did not think that anything less could give his kind and friendly patron an aspect so little natural. “Sit down,” said the Vice-Consul, “I have something to say before business begins this afternoon. Oliver, I have been going through quite a passage of arms on your account.”
“On my account?” said Harry, feeling as if his heart stopped beating; he thought within himself, that this passage of arms must have been with some of the authorities of the F. O., who perhaps had been stirred up to ask what a stranger, without recommendations, was doing there. It seemed to him that the next thing which would be said must be, “I have no further occasion for your services,” and braced himself for these words.
“Don’t be frightened; yes, you look frightened,” said Mr. Bonamy, still with that false geniality, “but no harm has come of it. You met—my daughter—the other day.”
“Yes.” Harry’s heart re-commenced beating, and went so fast that it almost choked him. “It was an accident, Sir; I did not see Miss Bonamy till I was close upon her, I could not escape.”
“Yes, she told me. And she asked what had become of you, and you answered ‘Very well, thank you!’ You will allow that was strange. No doubt she had been much puzzled by your disappearance before, and she assailed me directly what was the meaning of it? I had to say all sorts of things, that you were too busy to come, that you were otherwise engaged, and I don’t know what; but the short and the long of it is, Oliver, that, if you want to keep her from knowing all about it, you must begin to come back again. Things cannot go on as they are now without arousing her suspicions. This is her night, you know; you must look in for an hour. Of course I don’t want to enter into explanations with her,” said the Vice-Consul, becoming more at ease now he had made out his statement, and done it, he thought with some complacence, very cleverly. “You must really, by way of supporting what I have been obliged to say, look in to-night.”
Harry’s heart was making up tremendously now for its momentary pause. He felt as if it must be audible all over the house. A flush of warmth went over him. He spoke with little breaks in his voice, so much excited and disturbed was he.
“If you—have no objections, Sir. It cannot be but—a favour to me.”
“That’s a good fellow,” cried the Vice-Consul relieved. “I was afraid you would tell me it was too painful, and leave me in the lurch.”
“If I did that, Sir,” said Harry, “I should be a worthless creature indeed, however much it might cost me; but this—this—— If you have no objections, Sir—you can’t have any doubt that I——”
Here he stopped, not knowing what to say more.
“You must understand, Oliver,” said Mr. Bonamy, gravely, “that if I have no objections it is because I don’t want to enter into explanations with Rita; and then I have missed you, I would never deny that. But you must not suppose, because of this, that I mean you, you know, to depart from our—bargain, or to do anything to change the position. In short, I don’t intend, Oliver, that you should take advantage of the change to—in short, to——”
This was not very explanatory, but Harry hastened to reply as if it had been the clearest statement in the world.
“You may be sure I will take no advantage of the change,” he said.
“Well, that is just what I expected from you,” said the Vice-Consul, falling into his natural tone; “but, my dear fellow,” he added, with a little alarm, “I must be sure that you can depend upon yourself. You told me you were afraid you would betray your feelings if you continued to come; you told me even that you had done so, or almost done so——”
“Ah, Sir,” cried Harry, “that was when I found myself out! I know exactly all about it now, and I am on my guard.”
“Bless me,” said the Vice-Consul, “that is exactly what——” here he stopped short with the guiltiest look. He was just about to say—what Rita said.
“You need not have any fear on my account,” said Harry: and then he paused a little, and added with feeling, “and I am proud that you have confidence in me. I will do nothing to shake it; you may be sure of that. I should be a poor creature indeed if my heart did not respond to such trust.”
This was a very fine speech for Harry. He was carried altogether beyond himself by the emergency. These last lonely evenings had been wonderful teachers for him. He had learned to read, he had learned to understand. He had even learned many things more than reading and understanding in these days of solitude. The thought of going back to her, to that little world in which she reigned, was delightful to him, but he wondered what change there would be in it to balance the strange change in his own breast. It seemed to him that he was a new man, with deeper feelings and an expanded mind. And she? Would she just be the same, and all the things and people round her? Harry did not want her to be the least different. He thought she was perfect, the most wonderful of all beings; but he felt himself so much altered that he was excited by the thought that she might be changed too. He went away from his audience not knowing whether he walked on solid earth or air. Certainly he would not take advantage; unquestionably he would be upright and honest, and bind himself as with ropes rather than betray his kind friend’s confidence; but with all this he was very much excited, and a glow of warmth and hopefulness began to circulate in his veins. The new concession meant no change in the circumstances; this the Vice-Consul had been anxious to impress upon him; and he was equally anxious to assent, to assure Rita’s father on the other hand that he expected nothing, scarcely desired anything except this trust in him. But, nevertheless, it would be impossible to deny that a something of hope, a trembling yet happy expectation, had come into his heart.
How carefully he dressed himself that night! Never in all his life had he made so careful a toilette before. And Paolo, having heard what had happened (which Harry, reticent as he was, could not keep from him), was excited too, and came and sat by him while he dressed, and wanted to help him, as if they had been two girls. Paolo ran out and bought him a bouquet for his button-hole. He brought in a fresh bottle of eau-de-Cologne. He was very anxious to lend him something to wear—his studs, which were little cameos set in gold, or a ring, with a doubtful gem in it, of which he was very proud, thinking it a genuine antique. “It is not brilliant like a diamond,” said Paolo, “but it is art, which is more precious, and pleases much to the Signorina. Take it, amico mio, you have no ring, which is an absence that is felt; and the studs, that will make your appearance so much more perfect—what you call finished.” Harry rejected these aids to the effectiveness of his dress, but he took great pains about his tie, and rebrushed his coat himself, and gave particular attention to the arrangement of his hair. He said to himself, as he walked along in the summer dusk, that all this was very foolish, that he was not on his promotion, when it might have been wise to make the best of all his advantages, that he was going only because he was nobody, because the Vice-Consul was not afraid of him, and thought it wiser to run the risk of him than to disturb Rita’s mind about any such petty suitor. It was very much like giving him the crumbs from the table, but he was willing to accept these, or anything. He went into the lighted room with his heart beating. Several of the ladies who were habituées exclaimed on his entrance, and made haste to tell him that they had thought he was gone altogether, and to ask where he had been. Rita took no part in these questions, but she gave him her left hand as a sign of friendship, and smiled and nodded to him without stopping her conversation with somebody else. Indeed, she treated him as if there had been no break in their intercourse, as though they had met yesterday and were to meet again to-morrow. This pleased Harry, and yet it wrung his heart. Was he of so little importance to her that she had not even noticed his absence? But that could not be. He began to wonder whether it was perhaps a good sign. She had noticed his absence, speaking to her father about it. Was it perhaps—? His heart began to beat again as at first. But Rita took very little notice of him all the evening. She was perfectly sweet and smiling, and when she did address him did it with all her old friendliness; but Harry could not persuade himself that she had remarked him and his careful tie, and his well-brushed curls at all.
After that there ensued a time of mingled torture and happiness, when Rita played with the young man as a cat plays with a mouse. She was more interested in him than she had ever been in any young man before. He was a study to her of the most attractive kind. A young man who was in love—not a young man who was wanting to marry, a species of which she had seen several specimens—but one who was actually, really, warmly in love—and with herself. She wanted to see how such a person behaved. It was as good as a play to her. She would laugh to herself secretly, thinking of it, so much amused was she; and it seemed to her almost a duty to try him in every way, to see how far this love would carry him, and how long he would manage to keep it under. It did not occur to Rita that this was a somewhat cruel process, or that Harry was pledged in honour to her father not to betray himself. The cat most likely has no idea of cruelty in her play with the mouse. Sometimes Rita would take no notice of him at all, neglecting all the wistful attention which poor Harry felt it was within his bond to bestow so long as he looked for nothing in return. For a whole evening she would not so much as look at him; then would suddenly turn with her most cordial smile, with a few words more sweet than he thought she had ever bestowed upon him before. Sometimes she would call him to her side, and ply him with seductions which poor Harry did not know how to resist; sometimes she would devote all her efforts to the task of making him betray himself, tempting him with all sorts of opportunities. But Harry stood fast. He had given his promise, and nothing would make him break it. He wavered like a tree in the wind, but he never yielded. Sometimes she made him think that she was ready to listen to anything he might say, and another time would take the first opportunity of showing him that he was nothing to her. It was hard upon the mouse; yet we doubt whether he would have exchanged this agitated existence for the most happy calm. He went to the Consulate with a continued expectation, with his heart always beating loudly, not knowing what he was to look for; but a more calm level of kindness would not have given him those variations of feeling, that dramatic interest in his life; so that, perhaps, there was not much harm done, the tortured liking the play as much as the torturer. As for Rita she was very much interested too; the pursuit amused her—it was a new sensation. She wanted above all things to overcome his resolution, and make him betray himself. But here her efforts were vain against the rock of Harry’s invincibility. He would not, whatever she might do, break his promise. He kept a watch upon himself which was not to be overcome.
The Vice-Consul did not know what to make of the business altogether. It gave him a great deal of thought. He watched the young man with a jealous eye: but Harry met every scrutiny with an unflinching front. And Mr. Bonamy did what he could to watch his daughter, but that was not so easy. She was amusing herself, but whether she was going too far in her trial of Harry’s constancy he could not tell. She bewildered her father, which was not difficult; but what was more wonderful, after a while, this venturous person began to bewilder herself. She thought she was tired of Harry, who could not be got to swerve out of the right way. She began to think that it was all a fiction, or that this love after the English fashion was far too self-commanded and restrained for a half Italian girl. She had thought at first that it would be quite easy and extremely amusing to make him betray himself. And she had resolved in such a case that his downfall should do him no harm; she would not betray him; she would keep his secret. But she had not supposed that he would stand out, that he would be able to resist her: and at length she got confused about her own notions, and about his conduct and everything around her, and knew no longer what to think.
IT was like a play the intercourse which went on between these two; the perpetual aggressions of the girl and defences of the young man, the troubled spectatorship of the father, who saw that slave of his word resisting, fighting always, more or less feebly, but yet resisting all the agaceries, all the temptations, which a spirit of mischief could throw in his way. Sometimes the sight was laughable, sometimes it was almost tragic, to the looker on; and he was much disturbed at the same time on his own account, not knowing what Rita meant by it all. “Take care what you are doing,” he would say to her, with mingled pity and alarm—pity for the young man, alarm for himself and her. “What am I doing, papa?” Rita would ask, with the greatest innocence. “That is exactly what I can’t tell,” poor Mr. Bonamy said. But his warnings never came to more than this. And nothing in all her life had so amused Rita as her torture of this unfortunate young man. One day they happened to be alone for a little while, Mr. Bonamy having been called away. It was on a Sunday evening, after dinner, a day when the Bonamys, following the old-fashioned English rule, were always alone. Harry had avoided opportunities of being alone with Rita as much as lovers generally scheme for that privilege, but to-day there was no help for it. She was seated at the open window in her usual dress of vapoury white; the summer was advancing, and it would soon be time for the removal of the household to the country, where they went every year. Mr. Bonamy had been called away, quite unexpectedly, to his own dreadful vexation and the terror of Harry, but to Rita’s secret delight. The night-air puffed the white curtains over her head and about her white, half-visible figure. The window looked out upon the garden, and there was a little moisture of the sea in the air. Harry was standing at the other side of the window, half concealed by the floating veil of the curtain. Rita was half buried in a great chair. A shaded lamp stood on a table in the other part of the room, but that was all, not light enough to see each other by. There had been a somewhat long silence, and Harry was trying hard to break loose from this enchantment and go away. But his heart was faint with the sweetness of it, poor fellow! and he could not get free, especially now that they were alone. If it could have been helped, he would not have stayed; but he had not been able to help it, and it was sweet. He was snatching a fearful joy, not saying anything, scarcely daring to breathe. Then into the soft silence came her voice.
“Mr. Oliver, they tell me summer nights in England are so much sweeter than here. What are those long twilights? I have read about them, but I don’t understand it. Tell me.” He could make out that she leaned forward in her chair, putting her hands together, which was a way she had.
“I don’t think,” said Harry, catching his breath, “that anything can be sweeter than the evenings here.”
“Ah, but there is a difference; tell me. You know that I am never to go to England,” said Rita, plaintively; “though I remember you said you would not be afraid to take me. What made you say that, Mr. Oliver? perhaps you forget that you ever did.”
“Oh, no; I don’t forget.”
“You never would enter into any particulars; but I am glad at least that you don’t forget. Now papa is away, we may talk of it. It always hurts papa when I speak of England. So tell me—tell me quick—how was it that you thought you could make it safe? Ah, how I wish you could!” she said, clasping her hands.
Harry said never a word. His heart was thumping so against his breast that he thought every moment it would burst forth from that uneasy house. Now it got into his throat, and seemed to choke him; he could not speak.
“You don’t say anything,” said Rita, with again a little tone of complaint. “Do you think that is kind, or fair? You rouse my expectations, and then you never say another word. I have thought of it all this time, and always wondered if you would ever tell me. How could Mr. Oliver manage to take me to England without danger? that is what I have always been saying to myself. What, Mr. Oliver! won’t you say a word?”
Here there burst a cry from Harry’s breast. “Don’t torture me,” he said; then collecting all his strength, “It was my presumption. I thought only that to take—the most precious care of you——”
His voice shook, and at last his little torturer felt that she had got almost to the end of his powers.
“That is a very pretty way of saying it, Mr. Oliver; precious care; it is not slang, is it? I am sure you would be kind—very, very kind.”
“Oh, kind!” cried poor Harry, grasping unconsciously the white curtains that kept blowing between him and her, in his strong, hot hands.
“Don’t you like the word? I think it is such a nice word. There is nothing like it in Italian, and you can apply it so widely. You can be kind to a horse or a dog; and then to children, and sick people and poor people; and then—to everybody—me. You have always been, ever since I knew you, very kind to me.”
“Don’t say so—don’t say so—not that word,” Harry cried.
“But there is no other word half so good. Other words express other feelings; kind means, just kind. There is nothing else expresses it. English is a wonderfully fine language. It is so strong and so trustworthy. You feel as if you could believe it, every word. Mr. Oliver,” said Rita, in her little, soft, insinuating voice, “did you really, really believe that—that I might go to England, if—someone were to take care of me, such care as you call precious; but, then, who would do that? not papa, for he is so frightened. No one I know.”
“Miss Bonamy, I must say good night,” said Harry, very shortly, taking himself out of the floating curtain, almost tearing it down in his agitation.
“Good night! before papa comes back? Oh, but that would be unkind. Don’t. Why should you run off in such a hurry in the very middle of our talk?”
“Because,” he said, with the crushed curtain like a wisp in his hands, “I can’t stay—I mustn’t stay. Forgive me, and, if you will, excuse me: and—good night!”
He was rushing away, when she put out her hand. He saw that, though there was so little light. He could not refuse to shake hands with her; and instead of leaving the pressure to him, she took hold of his hand for a second, lightly but firmly detaining him. “Mr. Oliver,” she said, with that little plaintive tone, “you should not run away.”
Harry was hoarse with agitation and distress. That soft, light touch of detention made him wild. “I must fly,” he said, “fly! Do you think I want to go? I must fly, and come no more.”
And he turned and disappeared like an arrow, as swift, but not so noiselessly, stumbling through the dark room. She lay back in her chair and listened to him all the way rushing down the stairs, shutting the great door with a clang. Then his steps were audible along the street hurrying away. The very foot, Rita thought, spoke English among the other footsteps. She seemed to hear them ever so far off, hurrying, flying. She was a spoiled child. She had not succeeded in her wicked attempt, and some other feeling mingled with the childish disappointment which provoked and mortified her. When the Vice-Consul came back, not without a great deal of anxiety in his mind, he found her still sitting there, crying as if her perverse heart would break. It gave him a mingled sense of fright and relief to see that there was no one else in the room; but when he found that Rita was crying, his foolish, fatherly heart was melted altogether. He hurried across the half-lighted room. “What is the matter, my darling, what is the matter? Where is Oliver? Is it his fault?” he said.
“Papa,” cried Rita, with sobs, “do not speak to me of Mr. Oliver; he is a clod, he is a stone. It is not a bit true what you told me of him. He must have been laughing at you—or perhaps at me. It is not a bit true.”
“What is it that is not true? My pet, this young fellow has been saying something to vex you? Bless my heart! he shall go to-morrow if he has broken his word and said anything to annoy you.”
And the Vice-Consul, very wroth, drew a chair to the side of Rita’s, and put his arm round her, soothing her with soft words and caresses, and launching thunderbolts of anger at the supposed culprit. Rita cried softly for some time on her father’s shoulder. Then she interrupted him, putting her hand upon his mouth.
“Papa, don’t; you don’t know. What provokes me is different. It is not because he said anything. Listen,” said Rita, putting her lips to his ear; “I know it is not true what he said to you. It can’t be true, because I have tried him and tried him, and he won’t say anything. He has no feeling at all in him, and it cannot be true.”
“Rita! Rita! what are you saying?” Mr. Bonamy cried.
The horror in his voice brought her to herself. She sat up suddenly, drying her eyes. “Well, papa, it is your fault. You gave me a puzzle to make out. I thought it would be fun; but it is not fun. As for Mr. Oliver, he is just an excellent, trustworthy Englishman. You need not fear that he will ever be carried away. As for feeling, I don’t think he knows what it is. He is English—English all over.” She clapped her hands together to give emphasis to her sentence, like a true Italian, which by turns she was.
“Yes, he is English—very English. I thought you liked everything that was English,” the surprised father said.
“And so I do; but what does it matter if you will never, never let me go to England? Take me to England, papa!”
“My darling! when you know what my feeling is on that subject—anything but that, Rita; ask me anything but that.”
“Well,” she replied, “Mr. Oliver said there would be no difficulty about it; he said he would take the most precious care of me. Is that slang, papa?”
“Slang? bless my heart, it sounds like something quite different to me,” cried the Vice-Consul, frowning. But Rita once more put her hand upon his mouth.
“You know better than I do,” she said, demurely. “I could not be sure which it was; but you may make yourself quite comfortable, papa, for Mr. Oliver is very conscientious, and never said a word. I begin,” she said pensively, “to understand English now.”
“Rita, I think you must be taking leave of your senses. You begin to understand English! your own language!”
She nodded her head a great many times in reply.
“Yes, I begin to understand it,” she said. And this was all he could get out of her. She began presently to talk upon other subjects, and kept him amused all the rest of the evening, and Harry was not mentioned again between them.
But Harry himself, poor fellow, went home like the wind, or rather like a straw blown before the wind; hastening, without any apparent movement of his own, to the bare rooms which were his only refuge. He arrived there panting like a man pursued, and shut his door as if it were a fence between him and his pursuers. He could not have explained to himself why he did this, for Rita, though she had certainly assailed him, had not come after him through the streets, as by his appearance one might have thought she had done, forcing him to his best speed. But when he sat down and thought it all over, though Harry was excited to the highest degree, it could scarcely be said of him that he was unhappy. He was breathless with the excitement of his escape. He said to himself that he must not go again; that he would not run such risks again, that another time he must betray himself; but all the time, underneath everything, he had the consciousness that his very flight had told his story as effectually as words could have done it, and that she could not now be at any loss to know what was the moving spring of all his recent life. He felt that she had suspected him all these days. He knew that she had meant to surprise his secret somehow, whether in simple love of mischief and curiosity, or whether with some other motive, who could tell? but certainly this was what she had been doing: and there dawned upon him a light of something which was not exactly hope, but which yet warmed and brightened his horizon, and made the whole world somehow a better, a less heavy and tedious place. He did not say even to himself that anything definite was in his hope; what he said was that he could not go back, that he would run no more risks, that, whatever might be said to him on the subject, his policy was to keep away. But this had no such tragic meaning to him as it had on the previous occasion, when his life had been cut off in half, and his heart, he thought, rent in twain. If he was ever made to go back again—a thought which made Harry’s heart jump, but which he did not feel, as before, was impossible—then it would not be to hold his tongue. And whatever happened there was one thing which he could not be doubtful about. He had saved his honour, hard as had been the trial, and yet she knew. She could not, he was sure, either mistake him or ignore him any longer. Reject him, yes; allow him to languish far from her, which would be the kindest thing, unless—— but certainly now she knew.
And then a week or more elapsed. After the first twenty-four hours Harry began to have heats and chills, wondering if he would be forbidden to go again. He did not intend to go, but yet to be sent away is different; and he awaited a summons to the Vice-Consul with feelings of alarm. But though he was constantly summoned to the Vice-Consul’s presence, he heard nothing upon this all-interesting subject. Mr. Bonamy looked coldly upon him for the first day, but said nothing save about business. And afterwards Harry went on just as before. Rita’s “night” came round, but Harry did not go. He dressed himself as if he were going, and got rid of Paolo, who had been greatly disappointed by the total absence of confidence in him which his friend showed. Naturally, after his exertions on Harry’s behalf, the offer of the ring and the studs, the purchase of the flower and the eau-de-cologne, Paolo had felt that he had a right to hear all that had taken place, and how the lady had been won, which he did not think would be a difficult matter. The idea that his friend could be called back without the lady being won, did not occur to his swift Italian mind. And after that critical moment when he linked his arm in Harry’s, and led him eagerly off to the quietest promenade he could think of, to hear all about it, Paolo had treated Harry’s indignant denial that there was anything to tell with the contempt it deserved. “Nothing?” he had said, with an astonishment almost beyond speech. “Nothing? But that means that you do not wish to tell me—that you will not give your confidence to me.” When Harry disclaimed this, Paolo had only shook his head. “I see that you have not trust in me,” he said, and he had retired in his turn for a few days from his friend’s society, and a little coolness and momentary estrangement had ensued.
But some time had elapsed since then, and one of those reconciliations of which Harry was afraid had followed, and Paolo’s interest was warmer than ever. He watched his friend’s looks and noted every visit he paid, so that it required nothing less than the effort of dressing and setting out for the Vice-Consul’s to shake himself free from Paolo’s society and remarks. Harry went to the very street, to the opposite side, to watch the windows, and to get a glimpse if he could of the little white figure, which was the central point in the world to him. But long before the usual hour the party broke up, and Harry was surprised by a sudden outpouring of groups of people in evening dresses—ladies with scarfs thrown over their heads, and satin slippers, not adapted for the rough pavement. Some of these groups, departing guests, perceived him, before he was aware. “Oh! are you going to the Bonamys?” said a lady; “don’t go; the Vice-Consul has been taken ill; he has had a fit or something. You may see how early we are coming away.” The whole street was soon full of a babble of voices, all talking of this. The Vice-Consul had been suddenly taken ill; he had fainted in the midst of the assembly, and the doctor had been sent for in haste. When Harry looked up at the windows they were all deserted—the lights still burning, the white curtains faintly swaying about, but the rooms entirely empty. In a moment all had become miserable and neglected. Life had ebbed out of the room, and left everything cold and silent. He felt with a chill at his heart as if death had come in instead to fill up the vacant place; he went to the door to inquire about his kind patron, his trustful master, his fatherly friend, with a heart out of which all the previous thoughts had departed for the moment. He thought of Rita, indeed, with instant anxiety; but yet her father was foremost in his mind. “Very bad, sir,” the servant said, who was an Englishman, “very bad,” holding the door wide open as he said so; and Harry went in in his evening clothes, looking as if he had meant to go to the party. He was a little scared afterwards to think that Rita never could know that he did not mean to come to the party. He went upstairs into the empty drawing-room; there were a few signs of hasty disturbance about it, evidences of the sudden interruption; a card-table set out with all the cards as they had been dealt round it; groups of chairs standing together, and a tray of ices on a side-table. Such a forsaken room always raises an infinite crowd of suggestions. It is such a lesson upon the dangers and changes of life as no sermon can read. Harry stood in the midst of it, feeling as if he had seen the writing on the wall which startled the ancient king in the midst of his revel. It had been an innocent revel—nothing in it to offend earth or heaven; but the touch of a sudden calamity makes even the most innocent pleasure-making seem vain. He stood there feeling as if on the edge of a tomb, hearing in the distance muffled yet hasty steps running to and fro, and all the excitement of a sudden illness. And he had plenty of time to indulge these thoughts, for nobody came near the room for, he thought, hours; though, of course, this was a mistaken estimate of the time that really passed. At last Harry heard measured steps and voices coming downstairs, and hurrying to the door found the English doctor in company with one of the ladies of the English community who had known Rita all her life. They told him that the Vice-Consul’s attack was a very serious one, that he was still unconscious, and that no one as yet could say how it would turn. “I have told him for some time he ought to go away. He was struggling foolishly, when he ought to have given in as so many people do.” “And poor little Rita, what is to become of her?” the lady said.
Harry stood with his heart in his mouth, ready for any service. Alas! what can a young man do in such a case? An old woman is of more use. He was sent off, however, to fetch a nurse, and to get various articles that were necessary, and this gave him occupation. He was about the house all the night, hearing with faint pleasure that Rita would not leave her father’s bedside, and glad to share her vigil. He would have liked to be there too to help, not caring what he did. The Vice-Consul was very ill for many days, during which time Harry threw himself into the business of the office, and worked like a slave. He thought neither of reward nor of the manner in which his behaviour was being contemplated by the little community around, all as much interested as the population of a village, though they formed an important part of a large and busy town. He thought nothing of all this; his new life absorbed him so that he had no faculty or thought that was free for anything else. He did not seem to require either rest or regular meals, but took up Mr. Bonamy’s work during the day, and ran about on any errand of the sick-room all the night.
And at last the patient began to get better. The seizure had been a very bad one, but he mended, and was at last able to be removed. He was too confused even then to know what was being done for him, or to realise the state into which his work must have got but for the strenuous and anxious deputyship of his clerk. He was taken away even without knowing, without being able to say a word to Harry. But Rita, who had so tortured him, who even in the midst of her watch had heard without knowing it how Harry had taken her father’s place, and how he had made himself the servant of the house, did not leave him without a token of her gratitude. One day, while he was sitting absorbed in business, but not able to keep himself from thinking now and then wistfully whether he should see either of them before they went away, there came a soft little knock at the door of communication by which the Vice-Consul had introduced him first into his house. Harry was at Mr. Bonamy’s own table, taking his place, and feeling himself already so much at home in the work that the appeals which he had dreaded at first no longer affected him. But when he heard this knock his whole frame quivered. He did not know what to expect. He got up trembling from his chair, and opened the door. In the passage stood Rita, very worn and pale, with dark lines round the eyes that seemed to fill up all her face. She had scarcely left her father’s bedside, he had heard, watching over him night and day. Her slight little figure, always so slim and girlish, seemed to have shrunk to nothing. There was not a trace of colour in her face. “Miss Bonamy!” he said, with a sharp tone of surprise, though he was not surprised; the moment he had heard the knock he had been aware that Rita, and no other, must have made that appeal. The touch on the door had conveyed a plaintive sound to him like her voice. She smiled, but did not say anything. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and the soft lines of her mouth quivered. She came into the office, where he stood gazing at her, and held out to him both her hands, smiling up in his face like a child. “I have come to thank you,” she said, at last, the two big tears dropping like drops of rain in a thunder shower, “for all your—kindness.” She paused a little before that last word, and through the tears, through the angelical, pathetic smile, which wrung poor Harry’s heart, there came something that was like a ghost of mischief. She remembered their last conversation, though so much had happened since, and could not refrain, though her heart was moved to its depths, from throwing this ghost of a malicious shaft at him. Somehow the effect upon Harry was of a different kind from before. Perhaps he felt that he had now a standing-ground which no one could undervalue or take from him. At all events he kept her hands in his, and looked at her with a gaze under which her eyes swerved. “It was not kindness,” he said.
Rita drew back a step, though her hands were held fast. Her eyes drooped, she could not meet his, though Harry’s eyes were insignificant English eyes in comparison with those great dreamy lights that shone out of her little pale face. Then she gave one sudden glance at him, wavering and trembling. “I know it was not,” said Rita, with a great effort to steady her voice.
THE Bonamys had a little country-house near the sea, one of those grey houses, with its vineyard and its fields, which are so common in Italy, so homely, having so little of the picturesque grace which is suggested by everything Italian to our minds. The rooms were large and sparely furnished, one of them, the only pleasant one, opening upon a terrace which overlooked the sea. Here the Vice-Consul was brought, and laid upon a couch in the long warm days, after the sun had gone off the house, to breathe in the pleasant saltness, and refresh himself with that profound Mediterranean blue which is like nothing else. At first he was able for no mental, and not much physical, effort, but by degrees life came back to him; and with the earliest gleams of revival came the recollection of all that had dropped out of his hands, his work, the office, all that had depended upon him. When this first crisis came, which had been much dreaded by the doctors, Rita had to meet it alone. It came in a moment, after a day of listless enjoyment. There had been some cool breezes, and a little breath of more vigorous life had got into his relaxed and feeble frame. He had fallen asleep in the afternoon, his daughter sitting by him. All was tranquil round about, as became the surroundings of a convalescent, the air breathing softly, the violent sun, which is in Italy an enemy of the feeble, happily gone out of sight, the sea sounding softly upon the rocks, the cicala shrill in the trees. It was the only sharp note in all that quiet, but Rita, for one, no more knew of the existence of a country landscape without the shrill tones of the cicala, than an English girl could realise one without the birds. There were no great trees about, nothing but those which were useful according to the frugal custom of wealthy Tuscany, where everything is expected to bear fruit. The lattice-work overhead was partly covered with a vine, which made a green roof over one part of it; but the sick man wanted all the air he could get, so he was not below the pergola, but in the open part, the soft breeze blowing freely about him. He lay with his fine head turned towards the sea, a beard, the growth of his illness, softening the gauntness of the lower part of his face, sleeping with that utter abandon of weakness which seems to restore something of the charm of childhood to the sick. Rita sat by, with a book in her hands which she was not reading. It would be hard to tell what she was doing; not thinking either;—scenes in the past, scenes in the future, were gliding through her dreamy mind. Which was most real she could not tell. She was standing on the edge of fate, not knowing what a day or a moment might bring forth. All the world had paused with her in that suspense which was sweet. She did not want to be done with it or to shorten it, or to make anything advance a step faster; indeed she did not know what it was that was going to come. But it would not end there, she said sometimes to herself; it was impossible that it could end there; one thing or another must come of it. But what it was she wanted to come of it, Rita, even to herself, would not venture to say.
When all at once, everything being so quiet, the Vice-Consul suddenly woke up. He opened his eyes with more energy than usual, and made a little movement to rise, with an impulse of active life, such as he had not shown before.
“Ah, you are there, my pet,” he said. “I was dreaming that we were at home; that there had been despatches. I fear I have been sadly idle. How long have I been ill? It is too early for us to be here.”
“No, papa,” said Rita, alarmed. “Oh, not at all too early—at this time we are always here.”
He raised himself on his arm, and a startled look came upon his face.
“How long have I been ill?” he said.
“Never mind, papa—a—good while. You are not to think of that; but to get better, and not to trouble yourself.”
“That is nonsense, my dear; there is the office that must be thought of; if you knew the arrears that accumulate even in a few days. I seem to have lost count of time; oddly enough. I can’t remember anything. How many—days is it?”
His eyes opened wide, his under lip quivered a little, and a flush of weakness and excitement came upon his cheek. Rita threw down her book and came hastily to his side, kneeling down by the sofa.
“Papa! you must not be anxious; you must not ask any questions yet. This I can tell you, there are no arrears. Mr. Oliver has got the charge of everything, and he is doing it all so well, so well, Mr. Henderson told me. He said, ‘If it was not so heart-breaking to miss his dear face,’ and here Rita gave her father a sudden kiss to conceal, and at the same time to express, her own agitation, ‘one could scarcely see the difference. Mr. Oliver has behaved like—nobody ever behaved so well.’”
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Bonamy, putting up his hand to stroke his daughter’s face, “here is enthusiasm! I did not know you thought so much of Oliver.” Then it suddenly occurred to him to look at that hand. He held it up and contemplated it, at first with amusement, afterwards with a little alarm. “Here is a poor old claw,” he said, “that looks like—— why, Rita, it looks like a very bad bout; it looks like a—long illness. Good heavens! am I deceiving myself. How long have I been ill?” this he said in a very peremptory tone.
“Papa,” Rita said, putting her arms around him, “Mr. Oliver has managed everything, there is nothing to trouble yourself about. Mr. Henderson said so, and so did the man from Florence—that man, I forget his name.”
A look of anguish came upon Mr. Bonamy’s face. To come under the reproof, or subject himself to the interference of the Consul-General at Florence, had always been the terror of his official life. He had kept the danger at bay hitherto, acting with great independence, and being permitted to do so in an astonishing way; but he had known, or thought he knew, that they were ready to pounce upon him at the first opportunity. The idea of a man from Florence was bitter to him beyond conception. A dark colour came over his face, a sort of purple hue, which made Rita wild with terror.
“What—what—what?” he cried, stammering. Rita thought he was going to have another fit; she called out for Benedetta, Benedetta! and with anxious hands, caressing, yet half forcing him back upon his pillows, began to fan him with a great fan which lay on his sofa. He allowed her to lay him down, and perhaps the sight of her anxiety moved him to exert all his powers of self-control. He subdued the rising confusion of passionate mortification within him; in which effort he was helped by his weakness, which made any great convulsion of feeling impossible. By-and-bye he looked up at her with a half-smile. Benedetta had come at her call, and was bringing water and vinegar, and bandages of linen to put on his head. He waved all these appliances away with his hand.
“Don’t be afraid, I am not going to be—worse,” he said feebly. “I may be bad enough, but not worse. When did the man from Florence come? Tell me everything now.”
Then Rita, hesitating and faltering, told him the story of his illness, and all the long history burst confusedly upon his brain. He had thought he had been a few days, perhaps a week ill, and he had been six weeks. He had been preparing himself for a great deal to do when he should get well, and he found himself replaced, put aside. There were points in the story which consoled him. It was no man from Florence who had been doing his work—that was a wonderful comfort—but his own friend, the young fellow whom he had taken up and been kind to, who was the creature of his bounty. The Consul-General had not found a word to say; he had approved, and sanctioned, and authorised everything, and the character of Mr. Bonamy’s work had been kept up. He lay still and kept himself quiet, and listened to every word. Benedetta, who did not understand the English, stood by with all her appliances, her cold compresses, her bandages, the soft white folds of linen in which his hot forehead was to be bound. But the patient eluded her. He kept himself quiet in spite of all temptations.
“You can send her away, Rita,” he said. “What are you frightened for? I must have known sooner or later. It is far better that I should know. I have been surrounded by friends, everybody has been good to me; and if you have no objection, my darling, I should like to see Oliver here.”
“I don’t know,” said Rita, “why you should think I could have any objection to—anything you wished, papa.”
There was almost a glow of amusement in the Consul’s eyes. “My dear, you are very dutiful,” he said. And then the time came when he had to be carried back again in his couch indoors before the hour of sunset, which is feared throughout Italy, and to have his invalid meal brought to him. The evening was marked by a great event, for that night the Vice-Consul walked to bed, which was a thing which never had happened before. And from this time Mr. Bonamy began to accustom himself to all that had happened, and when the doctor came he extracted from him the full history of his illness, which interested him very greatly, and gave him something to think about. It was not unnatural that he should be startled. “It is a thing that is sure to recur again?” he asked.
“Well, we do not say that anything is sure to recur again. We say that, given the same disposition, the same symptoms might reappear.”
“And the third time kills?” the Vice-Consul said.
“My dear Bonamy, that again is not a thing we say. Every repetition of course weakens the patient,” said the judicious doctor.
The sick man laughed, but when he was alone his countenance was very grave. He lay and reflected upon everything, and thought how lonely his child would be when he was taken from her. She had some relations, but his anxiety to keep her from going to England had made him negligent of his own family at home; and he had something to leave her; he had not left his child altogether without provision. But what a change it would be to Rita, from the house where she was queen, where everybody worshipped and served her, where everything she said was reckoned wiser, and everything she did more wonderful, than any other sayings or doings, to be a semi-dependant in the house of her Aunt Ersilia, or some other of the Italian kindred, with their different ways! This thought filled Mr. Bonamy’s mind as he lay in the long unoccupied hours of his convalescence with his face turned to the blue Italian sea. Two days after he made a request to his child. “Will you write a note to Oliver,” he said, “and ask him to come and see me? But not if you have any objection.” He watched her intently, and he saw a quick, faint colour flash over her face.
“Why should I have any objection? I told you I had not any, papa; and if I had what would it matter?” she said.
“It would matter a great deal to me. But you do not dislike poor Oliver, Rita?”
“Dislike him! Do you think I am made of stone? He has done everything, everything, while you have been ill. I should be a demon if I did not—if I disliked him as you say.”
“But there is a great difference,” said the Vice-Consul, “between dislike and—I don’t know, my pet, what word to use.”
“Yes, there is a great difference,” she said, demurely; and having her paper neatly arranged before her, she proceeded to write the note which follows:—