Chapter 5
At the time of Lilia's death Philip Herriton was just twenty-four yearsof age--indeed the news reached Sawston on his birthday. He was a tall,weakly-built young man, whose clothes had to be judiciously paddedon the shoulders in order to make him pass muster. His face was plainrather than not, and there was a curious mixture in it of good and bad.He had a fine forehead and a good large nose, and both observationand sympathy were in his eyes. But below the nose and eyes all wasconfusion, and those people who believe that destiny resides in themouth and chin shook their heads when they looked at him.
Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects.Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he wouldretire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, andhe would sigh and say, "It is a weak face. I shall never carve a placefor myself in the world." But as years went on he became either lessself-conscious or more self-satisfied. The world, he found, made aniche for him as it did for every one. Decision of character might comelater--or he might have it without knowing. At all events he had gota sense of beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts. Thesense of beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty towear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner onaccount of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles.At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbedinto one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns,saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the airof a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All theenergies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into thechampionship of beauty.
In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston orwithin himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with hissister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing couldhappen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquerwhere love of beauty fails.
A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, heresumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, thegift of humour. If he could not reform the world, he could at allevents laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority.Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and helaughed on contentedly, till Lilia's marriage toppled contentment downfor ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had nopower to change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produceavarice, brutality, stupidity--and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was onher soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad.He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life's ideal, and now that the sordidtragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but offinal disillusion.
The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a tryinglittle period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united.
"Are we to go into mourning, do you think?" She always asked herchildren's advice where possible.
Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Liliawhile she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attentionand sympathy. "After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake fornights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays whereno one is in 'the right.' But if we have mourning, it will mean tellingIrma."
"Of course we must tell Irma!" said Philip.
"Of course," said his mother. "But I think we can still not tell herabout Lilia's marriage."
"I don't think that. And she must have suspected something by now."
"So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, andlittle girls of nine don't reason clearly. She looks on it as a longvisit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receivea shock. All a child's life depends on the ideal it has of its parents.Destroy that and everything goes--morals, behaviour, everything.Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is whyI have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her."
"But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that thereis a baby."
"Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn't count. She is breakingup very quickly. She doesn't even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thankgoodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else."
"The child must know some time," persisted Philip, who felt a littledispleased, though he could not tell with what.
"The later the better. Every moment she is developing."
"I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn't it?"
"On Irma? Why?"
"On us, perhaps. We have morals and behaviour also, and I don't thinkthis continual secrecy improves them."
"There's no need to twist the thing round to that," said Harriet, ratherdisturbed.
"Of course there isn't," said her mother. "Let's keep to the main issue.This baby's quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, andit's no concern of ours."
"It will make a difference in the money, surely," said he.
"No, dear; very little. Poor Charles provided for every kind ofcontingency in his will. The money will come to you and Harriet, asIrma's guardians."
"Good. Does the Italian get anything?"
"He will get all hers. But you know what that is."
"Good. So those are our tactics--to tell no one about the baby, not evenMiss Abbott."
"Most certainly this is the proper course," said Mrs. Herriton,preferring "course" to "tactics" for Harriet's sake. "And why evershould we tell Caroline?"
"She was so mixed up in the affair."
"Poor silly creature. The less she hears about it the better she will bepleased. I have come to be very sorry for Caroline. She, if any one,has suffered and been penitent. She burst into tears when I told her alittle, only a little, of that terrible letter. I never saw such genuineremorse. We must forgive her and forget. Let the dead bury their dead.We will not trouble her with them."
Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical. But there was noadvantage in saying so. "Here beginneth the New Life, then. Do youremember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lilia off?"
"Yes, dear; but now it is really a New Life, because we are all ataccord. Then you were still infatuated with Italy. It may be fullof beautiful pictures and churches, but we cannot judge a country byanything but its men."
"That is quite true," he said sadly. And as the tactics were nowsettled, he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk.
By the time he came back two important things had happened. Irma hadbeen told of her mother's death, and Miss Abbott, who had called for asubscription, had been told also.
Irma had wept loudly, had asked a few sensible questions and a good manysilly ones, and had been content with evasive answers. Fortunately theschool prize-giving was at hand, and that, together with the prospect ofnew black clothes, kept her from meditating on the fact that Lilia, whohad been absent so long, would now be absent for ever.
"As for Caroline," said Mrs. Herriton, "I was almost frightened. Shebroke down utterly. She cried even when she left the house. I comfortedher as best I could, and I kissed her. It is something that the breachbetween her and ourselves is now entirely healed."
"Did she ask no questions--as to the nature of Lilia's death, I mean?"
"She did. But she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy. She saw that Iwas reticent, and she did not press me. You see, Philip, I can say toyou what I could not say before Harriet. Her ideas are so crude. Reallywe do not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All peace andcomfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it."
His mother knew how to manage him. He agreed enthusiastically. And a fewdays later, when he chanced to travel up to London with Miss Abbott,he had all the time the pleasant thrill of one who is better informed.Their last journey together had been from Monteriano back acrossEurope. It had been a ghastly journey, and Philip, from the force ofassociation, rather expected something ghastly now.
He was surprised. Miss Abbott, between S
awston and Charing Cross,revealed qualities which he had never guessed her to possess. Withoutbeing exactly original, she did show a commendable intelligence, andthough at times she was gauche and even uncourtly, he felt that here wasa person whom it might be well to cultivate.
At first she annoyed him. They were talking, of course, about Lilia,when she broke the thread of vague commiseration and said abruptly, "Itis all so strange as well as so tragic. And what I did was as strange asanything."
It was the first reference she had ever made to her contemptiblebehaviour. "Never mind," he said. "It's all over now. Let the dead burytheir dead. It's fallen out of our lives."
"But that's why I can talk about it and tell you everything I havealways wanted to. You thought me stupid and sentimental and wicked andmad, but you never really knew how much I was to blame."
"Indeed I never think about it now," said Philip gently. He knew thather nature was in the main generous and upright: it was unnecessary forher to reveal her thoughts.
"The first evening we got to Monteriano," she persisted, "Lilia went outfor a walk alone, saw that Italian in a picturesque position on a wall,and fell in love. He was shabbily dressed, and she did not even knowhe was the son of a dentist. I must tell you I was used to this sortof thing. Once or twice before I had had to send people about theirbusiness."
"Yes; we counted on you," said Philip, with sudden sharpness. After all,if she would reveal her thoughts, she must take the consequences.
"I know you did," she retorted with equal sharpness. "Lilia saw himseveral times again, and I knew I ought to interfere. I called her tomy bedroom one night. She was very frightened, for she knew what it wasabout and how severe I could be. 'Do you love this man?' I asked. 'Yesor no?' She said 'Yes.' And I said, 'Why don't you marry him if youthink you'll be happy?'"
"Really--really," exploded Philip, as exasperated as if the thing hadhappened yesterday. "You knew Lilia all your life. Apart from everythingelse--as if she could choose what could make her happy!"
"Had you ever let her choose?" she flashed out. "I'm afraid that'srude," she added, trying to calm herself.
"Let us rather say unhappily expressed," said Philip, who always adopteda dry satirical manner when he was puzzled.
"I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella and said the sameto him. He--well, he was willing. That's all."
"And the telegram?" He looked scornfully out of the window.
Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possiblyin defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. "Ah, the telegram! That waswrong. Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have told thetruth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaningto tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I gotfrightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again andcame with you."
"Did you really mean to stop?"
"For a time, at all events."
"Would that have suited a newly married pair?"
"It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him--I can'thelp feeling I might have got influence over him."
"I am ignorant of these matters," said Philip; "but I should havethought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation."
The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the rawover-built country, and said, "Well, I have explained."
"But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given adescription rather than an explanation."
He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse.To his surprise she answered with some spirit, "An explanation may boreyou, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics."
"Oh, never mind."
"I hated Sawston, you see."
He was delighted. "So did and do I. That's splendid. Go on."
"I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the pettyunselfishness."
"Petty selfishness," he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been hisspecialty.
"Petty unselfishness," she repeated. "I had got an idea that every onehere spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects theydidn't care for, to please people they didn't love; that they neverlearnt to be sincere--and, what's as bad, never learnt how to enjoythemselves. That's what I thought--what I thought at Monteriano."
"Why, Miss Abbott," he cried, "you should have told me this before!Think it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!"
"Now Lilia," she went on, "though there were things about her I didn'tlike, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. AndGino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body,and sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn't they doso? Why shouldn't she break with the deadening life where she had gotinto a groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more--worsethan unhappy--apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She onlychanged one groove for another--a worse groove. And as for him--well,you know more about him than I do. I can never trust myself to judgecharacters again. But I still feel he cannot have been quite bad whenwe first met him. Lilia--that I should dare to say it!--must have beencowardly. He was only a boy--just going to turn into something fine,I thought--and she must have mismanaged him. So that is the one time Ihave gone against what is proper, and there are the results. You have anexplanation now."
"And much of it has been most interesting, though I don't understandeverything. Did you never think of the disparity of their socialposition?"
"We were mad--drunk with rebellion. We had no common-sense. As soon asyou came, you saw and foresaw everything."
"Oh, I don't think that." He was vaguely displeased at being creditedwith common-sense. For a moment Miss Abbott had seemed to him moreunconventional than himself.
"I hope you see," she concluded, "why I have troubled you with this longstory. Women--I heard you say the other day--are never at ease till theytell their faults out loud. Lilia is dead and her husband gone tothe bad--all through me. You see, Mr. Herriton, it makes me speciallyunhappy; it's the only time I've ever gone into what my father calls'real life'--and look what I've made of it! All that winter I seemed tobe waking up to beauty and splendour and I don't know what; and when thespring came, I wanted to fight against the things I hated--mediocrityand dulness and spitefulness and society. I actually hated society fora day or two at Monteriano. I didn't see that all these things areinvincible, and that if we go against them they will break us to pieces.Thank you for listening to so much nonsense."
"Oh, I quite sympathize with what you say," said Philip encouragingly;"it isn't nonsense, and a year or two ago I should have been saying ittoo. But I feel differently now, and I hope that you also will change.Society is invincible--to a certain degree. But your real life is yourown, and nothing can touch it. There is no power on earth that canprevent your criticizing and despising mediocrity--nothing that can stopyou retreating into splendour and beauty--into the thoughts and beliefsthat make the real life--the real you."
"I have never had that experience yet. Surely I and my life must bewhere I live."
Evidently she had the usual feminine incapacity for grasping philosophy.But she had developed quite a personality, and he must see more of her."There is another great consolation against invincible mediocrity," hesaid--"the meeting a fellow-victim. I hope that this is only the firstof many discussions that we shall have together."
She made a suitable reply. The train reached Charing Cross, and theyparted,--he to go to a matinee, she to buy petticoats for the corpulentpoor. Her thoughts wandered as she bought them: the gulf between herselfand Mr. Herriton, which she had always known to be great, now seemed toher immeasurable.
These events and conversations took place at Christmas-time. TheNew Life initiated by them lasted some seven months. Then a littleincident--a mere little vexatious incident--brought it to its close.
Irma collected picture post-cards, and Mrs. Herriton or Harriet alwaysglanced first at all that came, lest the child should get hold o
fsomething vulgar. On this occasion the subject seemed perfectlyinoffensive--a lot of ruined factory chimneys--and Harriet was about tohand it to her niece when her eye was caught by the words on the margin.She gave a shriek and flung the card into the grate. Of course no firewas alight in July, and Irma only had to run and pick it out again.
"How dare you!" screamed her aunt. "You wicked girl! Give it here!"
Unfortunately Mrs. Herriton was out of the room. Irma, who was not inawe of Harriet, danced round the table, reading as she did so, "View ofthe superb city of Monteriano--from your lital brother."
Stupid Harriet caught her, boxed her ears, and tore the post-card intofragments. Irma howled with pain, and began shouting indignantly, "Whois my little brother? Why have I never heard of him before? Grandmamma!Grandmamma! Who is my little brother? Who is my--"
Mrs. Herriton swept into the room, saying, "Come with me, dear, and Iwill tell you. Now it is time for you to know."
Irma returned from the interview sobbing, though, as a matter offact, she had learnt very little. But that little took hold of herimagination. She had promised secrecy--she knew not why. But what harmin talking of the little brother to those who had heard of him already?
"Aunt Harriet!" she would say. "Uncle Phil! Grandmamma! What do yousuppose my little brother is doing now? Has he begun to play? Do Italianbabies talk sooner than us, or would he be an English baby bornabroad? Oh, I do long to see him, and be the first to teach him the TenCommandments and the Catechism."
The last remark always made Harriet look grave.
"Really," exclaimed Mrs. Herriton, "Irma is getting too tiresome. Sheforgot poor Lilia soon enough."
"A living brother is more to her than a dead mother," said Philipdreamily. "She can knit him socks."
"I stopped that. She is bringing him in everywhere. It is mostvexatious. The other night she asked if she might include him in thepeople she mentions specially in her prayers."
"What did you say?"
"Of course I allowed her," she replied coldly. "She has a right tomention any one she chooses. But I was annoyed with her this morning,and I fear that I showed it."
"And what happened this morning?"
"She asked if she could pray for her 'new father'--for the Italian!"
"Did you let her?"
"I got up without saying anything."
"You must have felt just as you did when I wanted to pray for thedevil."
"He is the devil," cried Harriet.
"No, Harriet; he is too vulgar."
"I will thank you not to scoff against religion!" was Harriet's retort."Think of that poor baby. Irma is right to pray for him. What anentrance into life for an English child!"
"My dear sister, I can reassure you. Firstly, the beastly baby isItalian. Secondly, it was promptly christened at Santa Deodata's, and apowerful combination of saints watch over--"
"Don't, dear. And, Harriet, don't be so serious--I mean not so seriouswhen you are with Irma. She will be worse than ever if she thinks wehave something to hide."
Harriet's conscience could be quite as tiresome as Philip'sunconventionality. Mrs. Herriton soon made it easy for her daughter togo for six weeks to the Tirol. Then she and Philip began to grapple withIrma alone.
Just as they had got things a little quiet the beastly baby sent anotherpicture post-card--a comic one, not particularly proper. Irma receivedit while they were out, and all the trouble began again.
"I cannot think," said Mrs. Herriton, "what his motive is in sendingthem."
Two years before, Philip would have said that the motive was to givepleasure. Now he, like his mother, tried to think of something sinisterand subtle.
"Do you suppose that he guesses the situation--how anxious we are tohush the scandal up?"
"That is quite possible. He knows that Irma will worry us about thebaby. Perhaps he hopes that we shall adopt it to quiet her."
"Hopeful indeed."
"At the same time he has the chance of corrupting the child's morals."She unlocked a drawer, took out the post-card, and regarded it gravely."He entreats her to send the baby one," was her next remark.
"She might do it too!"
"I told her not to; but we must watch her carefully, without, of course,appearing to be suspicious."
Philip was getting to enjoy his mother's diplomacy. He did not think ofhis own morals and behaviour any more.
"Who's to watch her at school, though? She may bubble out any moment."
"We can but trust to our influence," said Mrs. Herriton.
Irma did bubble out, that very day. She was proof against a singlepost-card, not against two. A new little brother is a valuablesentimental asset to a school-girl, and her school was then passingthrough an acute phase of baby-worship. Happy the girl who had herquiver full of them, who kissed them when she left home in the morning,who had the right to extricate them from mail-carts in the interval, whodangled them at tea ere they retired to rest! That one might singthe unwritten song of Miriam, blessed above all school-girls, who wasallowed to hide her baby brother in a squashy place, where none butherself could find him!
How could Irma keep silent when pretentious girls spoke of baby cousinsand baby visitors--she who had a baby brother, who wrote her post-cardsthrough his dear papa? She had promised not to tell about him--she knewnot why--and she told. And one girl told another, and one girl told hermother, and the thing was out.
"Yes, it is all very sad," Mrs. Herriton kept saying. "Mydaughter-in-law made a very unhappy marriage, as I dare say you know.I suppose that the child will be educated in Italy. Possibly hisgrandmother may be doing something, but I have not heard of it. I do notexpect that she will have him over. She disapproves of the father. It isaltogether a painful business for her."
She was careful only to scold Irma for disobedience--that eighth deadlysin, so convenient to parents and guardians. Harriet would have plungedinto needless explanations and abuse. The child was ashamed, and talkedabout the baby less. The end of the school year was at hand, and shehoped to get another prize. But she also had put her hand to the wheel.
It was several days before they saw Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton had notcome across her much since the kiss of reconciliation, nor Philip sincethe journey to London. She had, indeed, been rather a disappointment tohim. Her creditable display of originality had never been repeated:he feared she was slipping back. Now she came about the CottageHospital--her life was devoted to dull acts of charity--and though shegot money out of him and out of his mother, she still sat tight in herchair, looking graver and more wooden than ever.
"I dare say you have heard," said Mrs. Herriton, well knowing what thematter was.
"Yes, I have. I came to ask you; have any steps been taken?"
Philip was astonished. The question was impertinent in the extreme. Hehad a regard for Miss Abbott, and regretted that she had been guilty ofit.
"About the baby?" asked Mrs. Herriton pleasantly.
"Yes."
"As far as I know, no steps. Mrs. Theobald may have decided onsomething, but I have not heard of it."
"I was meaning, had you decided on anything?"
"The child is no relation of ours," said Philip. "It is thereforescarcely for us to interfere."
His mother glanced at him nervously. "Poor Lilia was almost a daughterto me once. I know what Miss Abbott means. But now things have altered.Any initiative would naturally come from Mrs. Theobald."
"But does not Mrs. Theobald always take any initiative from you?" askedMiss Abbott.
Mrs. Herriton could not help colouring. "I sometimes have given heradvice in the past. I should not presume to do so now."
"Then is nothing to be done for the child at all?"
"It is extraordinarily good of you to take this unexpected interest,"said Philip.
"The child came into the world through my negligence," replied MissAbbott. "It is natural I should take an interest in it."
"My dear Caroline," said Mrs. Herriton, "you must not brood over t
hething. Let bygones be bygones. The child should worry you even less thanit worries us. We never even mention it. It belongs to another world."
Miss Abbott got up without replying and turned to go. Her extremegravity made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. "Of course," she added, "if Mrs.Theobald decides on any plan that seems at all practicable--I must sayI don't see any such--I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma'ssake, and share in any possible expenses."
"Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should liketo join as well."
"My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it."
"And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know inany case."
Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her.
"Is the young person mad?" burst out Philip as soon as she had departed."Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought tobe well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school."
His mother said nothing.
"But don't you see--she is practically threatening us? You can't puther off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is anonentity. If we don't do anything she's going to raise a scandal--thatwe neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still she'llsay it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! Weknew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in thetrain; and here it is again. The young person is mad."
She still said nothing.
"Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I'd really enjoy it."
In a low, serious voice--such a voice as she had not used to him formonths--Mrs. Herriton said, "Caroline has been extremely impertinent.Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the childto grow up in that place--and with that father?"
Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere.Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening whenused against himself.
"Let us admit frankly," she continued, "that after all we may haveresponsibilities."
"I don't understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. Whatare you up to?"
In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them.They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off ontactics of her own--tactics which might be beyond or beneath him.
His remark offended her. "Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not toadopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?"
"And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?"
"It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the lessshe is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia's baby from thathorrible man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel--who willcertainly bring it up to be vicious--I shall do it."
"You talk like Harriet."
"And why not?" said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult."Say, if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen thething more clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. Sheshall have him. I don't care if I am impulsive."
He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Herability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let himworship Italy, and reform Sawston--just as she had let Harriet be LowChurch. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted athing she always got it.
And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him withreverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose washer diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Didthey make any one better or happier? Did they even bring happiness toherself? Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutchesafter pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered,active, useless machine.
Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus.But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go ondoing what she wanted. He watched with a cold interest the duel betweenher and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton's policy only appeared gradually. Itwas to prevent Miss Abbott interfering with the child at all costs, andif possible to prevent her at a small cost. Pride was the only solidelement in her disposition. She could not bear to seem less charitablethan others.
"I am planning what can be done," she would tell people, "and that kindCaroline Abbott is helping me. It is no business of either of us, butwe are getting to feel that the baby must not be left entirely to thathorrible man. It would be unfair to little Irma; after all, he is herhalf-brother. No, we have come to nothing definite."
Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by goodintentions. The child's welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matterof pride or even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo alittle of the evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To herimagination Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneathwhose towers no person could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with itssemi-detached houses and snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, wascertainly petty and dull; at times she found it even contemptible. Butit was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons orwith herself, the baby should grow up.
As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Watersand Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy ofit afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picturepostcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offeredto adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to comenear it, and would surrender some of Lilia's money for its education.
"What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to lethim know that we are anxious for it."
"Certainly he will never suppose that."
"But what effect will the letter have on him?"
"When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the longrun to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he willpart with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the lovingfather."
"Dear, you're shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How wouldthe sum work out?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby beingposted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I'm notcynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary ofthe whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston's a kind,pitiful place, isn't it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort."
He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When hehad left her she began to smile also.
It was to the Abbotts' that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, andCaroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in topour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella,and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success.
"Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott,who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter's exasperatingbehaviour. "I'm afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will getnothing out of Italy without paying."
"There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously.Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall havedifficulty with the man?"
"It depends," she replied, with equal caution.
"From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make anaffectionate parent?"
"I don't go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him."
"Well, what do you conclude from that?"
"That he is a thoroughly wicked man."
"Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at RodrigoBorgia, for example."
"I have also seen examples of that in my district."
With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keepup her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understandenthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He couldunderstand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either.Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from thestruggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere.Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. Sh
e must be professing onething and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did notstop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation foranything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a highideal.
"She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards.
"What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know hertactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended tohim that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted,and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally.
And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no faceof triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed."
Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laboriousEnglish translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was renderedas "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment andsuperlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled anox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesquememorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knewthe originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincereauguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from theCaffe Garibaldi. "I didn't know I was still such an ass," he thought."Why can't I realize that it's merely tricks of expression? A bounder'sa bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."
"Isn't it disheartening?" said his mother.
He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternalheart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deploredspouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly thatthey had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton,with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her forthose which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him?
"The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is puttingup the price."
"No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perversereason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poorCaroline. She will be equally distressed."
She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Herface was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round hereyes.
"The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I'm swearing.I don't care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I'll--Philip,dear, I'm sorry. It's no good. You must go."
"Go where? Do sit down. What's happened?" This outburst of violence fromhis elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known thatit was in her.
"She won't accept--won't accept the letter as final. You must go toMonteriano!"
"I won't!" he shouted back. "I've been and I've failed. I'll never seethe place again. I hate Italy."
"If you don't go, she will."
"Abbott?"
"Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; shesaid it was 'too late!' Too late! The child, if you please--Irma'sbrother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at ourvery gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you're aman! It doesn't matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what peoplesay; and that woman goes to Italy this evening."
He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy byherself. She'll come to grief somehow. Italy's too dangerous, too--"
"Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL havethe child. Pay all we've got for it. I will have it."
"Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn'tunderstand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her,or murder her, or do for her somehow. He's a bounder, but he's not anEnglish bounder. He's mysterious and terrible. He's got a country behindhim that's upset people from the beginning of the world."
"Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now,will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, shehad planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains.