“What’s she here for? Answer me that. What’s she doing in Monteriano in August? Why isn’t she in Normandy? Answer that. She won’t. I can: she’s come to thwart1 us; she’s betrayed us—got hold of mother’s plans. Oh, goodness, my head!”
He was unwise enough to reply, “You mustn’t accuse her of that. Though she is exasperating2, she hasn’t come here to betray us.”
“Then why has she come here? Answer me that.”
He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too much agitated3 to wait for one. “Bursting in on me—crying and looking a disgusting sight—and says she has been to see the Italian. Couldn’t even talk properly; pretended she had changed her opinions. What are her opinions to us? I was very calm. I said: ‘Miss Abbott, I think there is a little misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton—’ Oh, goodness, my head! Of course you’ve failed—don’t trouble to answer—I know you’ve failed. Where’s the baby, pray? Of course you haven’t got it. Dear sweet Caroline won’t let you. Oh, yes, and we’re to go away at once and trouble the father no more. Those are her commands. Commands! COMMANDS!” And Harriet also burst into tears.
Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying, but quite reasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved even worse than she supposed.
“I’ve not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven’t exactly failed. I and Signor Carella are to have another interview this afternoon, at the Caffe Garibaldi. He is perfectly4 reasonable and pleasant. Should you be disposed to come with me, you would find him quite willing to discuss things. He is desperately5 in want of money, and has no prospect6 of getting any. I discovered that. At the same time, he has a certain affection for the child.” For Philip’s insight, or perhaps his opportunities, had not been equal to Miss Abbott’s.
Harriet would only sob7, and accuse her brother of insulting her; how could a lady speak to such a horrible man? That, and nothing else, was enough to stamp Caroline. Oh, poor Lilia!
Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no escape from the deadlock8. For though he spoke9 cheerfully about his second interview with Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino was too courteous10: he would not break off negotiations11 by sharp denial; he loved this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling his opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being fooled.
“Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily12,” he said at last; “but at the same time—”
His sister would not hear him. She burst forth13 again on the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline.
“Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have something quite important to say.”
“I shall not stop crying,” said she. But in time, finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop.
“Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to him about the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gathered that.”
“Well, she isn’t.”
“Yes; but if you’re careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus: She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note she left me she says so, and I don’t believe she’d lie.”
“I do.”
“When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush14 of sentimentalism. Before very long, if I know anything about psychology15, there will be a reaction. She’ll be swept back.”
“I don’t understand your long words. Say plainly—”
“When she’s swept back, she’ll be invaluable16. For she has made quite an impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she washed it for him.”
“Disgusting!”
Harriet’s ejaculations were more aggravating17 than the rest of her. But Philip was averse18 to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world.
“If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can.”
“There can be no peace between me and her,” said Harriet gloomily.
“Did you—”
“Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking—just like those cowardly people!—into the church.”
“Into Santa Deodata’s?”
“Yes; I’m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian—”
In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing20 Cross—that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only extremely interested.
It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza21, with its three great attractions—the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body—had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered Santa Deodata’s to continue his mission.
There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt22 of incense23 and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping24 the nave25, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes26 and the scattered27 worshippers. The sacristan himself had propped28 a ladder in the centre of the Deluge—which fills one of the nave spandrels—and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet29 calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor—for the church can look as fine as any theatre—and the sacristan’s little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began, and had given it to the sacristan’s daughter.
“Please,” cried Philip, “is there an English lady here?”
The man’s mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was praying.
He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown30 was quite to be expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind, he was still a little jaunty31, and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata’s, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbour. “I am sure that I need it,” said she; and he, who had expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply.
“I’ve nothing to tell you,” she continued. “I have simply changed straight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have treated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I have been crying.”
“And please believe that I have not come to scold you,” said Philip. “I know what has happened.”
“What?” asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively32 she led the way to the famous chapel33, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of the dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to be important.
“What might have happened to me—he had made you believe that he loved the child.”
“Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up.”
“At present it is still unsettled.”
“It will never be settled.”
“Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that you have done us no harm, and will do none.”
“I can do no more,” she said. “But I tell you plainly I have changed sides.”
“If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?”
“Oh, certainly. I don’t want to speak to him again; I shan’t ever see him again.”
“Quite nice, wasn’t he?”
“Quite.”
“Well, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll go and tell Harriet of your promise, and I think things’ll quiet down now.”
But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be near her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had carried her away had only made her more alluring34. He was content to observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that dwelt within her.
“Why aren’t you angry with me?” she asked, after a pause.
“Because I understand you—all sides, I think,—Harriet, Signor Carella, even my mother.”
“You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a general view of the muddle35.”
He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed mother’s dresser there stood just such another copper36 pot. The saint looked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed mother still less. For lo! she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding like some miraculous37 enamel38 along the rough-cast wall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see her die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplish much.
“So what are you going to do?” said Miss Abbott.
Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in the voice. “Do?” he echoed, rather dismayed. “This afternoon I have another interview.”
“It will come to nothing. Well?”
“Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably39.”
She had often been decided40. But now behind her decision there was a note of passion. She struck him not as different, but as more important, and he minded it very much when she said—
“That’s not doing anything! You would be doing something if you kidnapped the baby, or if you went straight away. But that! To fail honourably! To come out of the thing as well as you can! Is that all you are after?”
“Why, yes,” he stammered41. “Since we talk openly, that is all I am after just now. What else is there? If I can persuade Signor Carella to give in, so much the better. If he won’t, I must report the failure to my mother and then go home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can’t expect me to follow you through all these turns—”
“I don’t! But I do expect you to settle what is right and to follow that. Do you want the child to stop with his father, who loves him and will bring him up badly, or do you want him to come to Sawston, where no one loves him, but where he will be brought up well? There is the question put dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settle which side you’ll fight on. But don’t go talking about an ‘honourable failure,’ which means simply not thinking and not acting42 at all.”
“Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and of you, it’s no reason that—”
“None at all. Fight as if you think us wrong. Oh, what’s the use of your fair-mindedness if you never decide for yourself? Any one gets hold of you and makes you do what they want. And you see through them and laugh at them—and do it. It’s not enough to see clearly; I’m muddle-headed and stupid, and not worth a quarter of you, but I have tried to do what seemed right at the time. And you—your brain and your insight are splendid. But when you see what’s right you’re too idle to do it. You told me once that we shall be judged by our intentions, not by our accomplishments43. I thought it a grand remark. But we must intend to accomplish—not sit intending on a chair.”
“You are wonderful!” he said gravely.
“Oh, you appreciate me!” she burst out again. “I wish you didn’t. You appreciate us all—see good in all of us. And all the time you are dead—dead—dead. Look, why aren’t you angry?” She came up to him, and then her mood suddenly changed, and she took hold of both his hands. “You are so splendid, Mr. Herriton, that I can’t bear to see you wasted. I can’t bear—she has not been good to you—your mother.”
“Miss Abbott, don’t worry over me. Some people are born not to do things. I’m one of them; I never did anything at school or at the Bar. I came out to stop Lilia’s marriage, and it was too late. I came out intending to get the baby, and I shall return an ‘honourable failure.’ I never expect anything to happen now, and so I am never disappointed. You would be surprised to know what my great events are. Going to the theatre yesterday, talking to you now—I don’t suppose I shall ever meet anything greater. I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it—and I’m sure I can’t tell you whether the fate’s good or evil. I don’t die—I don’t fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I’m just not there. You are quite right; life to me is just a spectacle, which—thank God, and thank Italy, and thank you—is now more beautiful and heartening than it has ever been before.”
She said solemnly, “I wish something would happen to you, my dear friend; I wish something would happen to you.”
“But why?” he asked, smiling. “Prove to me why I don’t do as I am.”
She also smiled, very gravely. She could not prove it. No argument existed. Their discourse44, splendid as it had been, resulted in nothing, and their respective opinions and policies were exactly the same when they left the church as when they had entered it.
Harriet was rude at lunch. She called Miss Abbott a turncoat and a coward to her face. Miss Abbott resented neither epithet45, feeling that one was justified46 and the other not unreasonable47. She tried to avoid even the suspicion of satire48 in her replies. But Harriet was sure that she was satirical because she was so calm. She got more and more violent, and Philip at one time feared that she would come to blows.
“Look here!” he cried, with something of the old manner, “it’s too hot for this. We’ve been talking and interviewing each other all the morning, and I have another interview this afternoon. I do stipulate49 for silence. Let each lady retire to her bedroom with a book.”
“I retire to pack,” said Harriet. “Please remind Signor Carella, Philip, that the baby is to be here by half-past eight this evening.”
“Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of reminding him.”
“And order a carriage to take us to the evening train.”
“And please,” said Miss Abbott, “would you order a carriage for me too?”
“You going?” he exclaimed.
“Of course,” she replied, suddenly flushing. “Why not?”
“Why, of course you would be going. Two carriages, then. Two carriages for the evening train.” He looked at his sister hopelessly. “Harriet, whatever are you up to? We shall never be ready.”
“Order my carriage for the evening train,” said Harriet, and departed.
“Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my interview with Signor Carella.”
Miss Abbott gave a little sigh.
“But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall have the slightest influence over him?”
“No. But—I can’t repeat all that I said in the church. You ought never to see him again. You ought to bundle Harriet into a carriage, not this evening, but now, and drive her straight away.”
“Perhaps I ought. But it isn’t a very big ‘ought.’ Whatever Harriet and I do the issue is the same. Why, I can see the splendour of it—even the humour. Gino sitting up here on the mountain-top with his cub50. We come and ask for it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equally pleasant. I’m agreeable to spend the whole week bargaining with him. But I know that at the end of it I shall descend51 empty-handed to the plains. It might be finer of me to make up my mind. But I’m not a fine character. And nothing hangs on it.”
“Perhaps I am extreme,” she said humbly52. “I’ve been trying to run you, just like your mother. I feel you ought to fight it out with Harriet. Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably important today, and when you say of a thing that ‘nothing hangs on it,’ it sounds like blasphemy53. There’s never any knowing—(how am I to put it?)—which of our actions, which of our idlenesses won’t have things hanging on it for ever.”
He assented54, but her remark had only an aesthetic55 value. He was not prepared to take it to his heart. All the afternoon he rested—worried, but not exactly
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