Chapter 9
The details of Harriet's crime were never known. In her illnessshe spoke more of the inlaid box that she lent to Lilia--lent, notgiven--than of recent troubles. It was clear that she had gone preparedfor an interview with Gino, and finding him out, she had yielded to agrotesque temptation. But how far this was the result of ill-temper, towhat extent she had been fortified by her religion, when and how she hadmet the poor idiot--these questions were never answered, nor did theyinterest Philip greatly. Detection was certain: they would have beenarrested by the police of Florence or Milan, or at the frontier. As itwas, they had been stopped in a simpler manner a few miles out of thetown.
As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round theItalian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep passions andhigh hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one savehimself had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained thisvast apparatus of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemedto take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. Thepassion they have aroused lives after them, easy to transmute or totransfer, but well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that hewas still voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous sea, with the sunor the clouds above him, and the tides below.
The course of the moment--that, at all events, was certain. He and noone else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet'scrime--easy also to blame the negligent Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton athome. Every one had contributed--even Miss Abbott and Irma. If onechose, one might consider the catastrophe composite or the work of fate.But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledgedweakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must takethe news of it to Gino.
Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and peoplehad sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards somecottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and orderthe driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours'absence. Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully.Pain, physical and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time beforehe realized that she had never missed the child.
Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just asshe had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him onone of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guesta little lamp.
"I will be as quick as I can," she told him. "But there are many streetsin Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find himthis morning."
"Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi," said Philip, remembering that thiswas the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.
He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking--there wasnothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts--but in tryingto make a sling for his broken arm. The trouble was in the elbow-joint,and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual. Butinflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony. Thesling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying--
"So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting--"
Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told whathad happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end.In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby'sevening milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lampwithout a word, and they went into the other room.
"My sister is ill," said Philip, "and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I shouldbe glad if you did not have to trouble them."
Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where hisson had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.
"It is through me," he continued. "It happened because I was cowardlyand idle. I have come to know what you will do."
Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as ifhe was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven tointervene.
"Gently, man, gently; he is not here."
He went up and touched him on the shoulder.
He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things morerapidly--over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as highas he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But nowthe tension was too great--he tried.
"Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in fora little; you must break down."
There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.
"It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister.You will go--"
The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it exceptPhilip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has losthis old reason for life and seeks a new one.
"Gino!"
He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground.
"You are to do what you like with me, Gino. Your son is dead, Gino. Hedied in my arms, remember. It does not excuse me; but he did die in myarms."
The left hand came forward, slowly this time. It hovered before Philiplike an insect. Then it descended and gripped him by his broken elbow.
Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell tothe blow without a cry or a word.
"You brute!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Kill me if you like! But justyou leave my broken arm alone."
Then he was seized with remorse, and knelt beside his adversary andtried to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped his bodyagainst his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled withpity and tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that bothof them were safe at last.
Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment itseemed that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence,remembering everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards thelamp.
"Do what you like; but think first--"
The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It brokeagainst one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark.
Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spunround with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knewwhat was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fighthim, to kill him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door.It was open. He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs,he ran across the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down onthe floor between the stove and the skirting-board.
His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He evenknew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now hewas hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had notescaped down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and thena low growl like a dog's. Gino had broken his finger-nails against thestove.
Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it whenit comes by accident or for our good--as it generally does in modernlife--except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of aman, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears.Philip's one thought was to get away from that room at whateversacrifice of nobility or pride.
Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the littletables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to wherePhilip lay and had him clean by the elbow.
The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint,sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinionedagainst the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and waskneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelledwith all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. Theother hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat.
At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. Butit was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of hisancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers.Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revivedby the motion of his arm. And just as he w
as about to faint and gain atlast one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggleinstead against the pressure on his throat.
Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying some monthsback in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his motherat home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that hewas growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great.Not all Gino's care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells andgurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather thantrue notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horridtumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everythingwas quiet at last.
"But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son isdead."
The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders,holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, andher arms were trembling.
"What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?"
He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip,whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. MissAbbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gavea loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Belowthere was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby's milk.
"Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treathim kindly."
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were fillingwith trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.
"Help! help!" moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino.It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbottherself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.
"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me."
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then shesaid gravely to them both, "This thing stops here."
"Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.
"Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have nomore intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more."
"I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip.
"Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in withanother lamp and a little jug.
Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said."It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last.A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave apiercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child andclung to her.
All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, andmore than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and moreintimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, andremote, and he could not think that there was little difference inyears, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head waslaid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity andfull of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and sawunimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures butnever in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, strokinghim lightly, for even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemedfitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead withher lips.
Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictureswhere visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they haveshown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness inthe world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through theexample of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy ofthe things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers orbanging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved.
"That milk," said she, "need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, andpersuade Mr. Herriton to drink."
Gino obeyed her, and carried the child's milk to Philip. And Philipobeyed also and drank.
"Is there any left?"
"A little," answered Gino.
"Then finish it." For she was determined to use such remnants as lieabout the world.
"Will you not have some?"
"I do not care for milk; finish it all."
"Philip, have you had enough milk?"
"Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all."
He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm ofpain, broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. "Itdoes not matter," he told her. "It does not matter. It will never bewanted any more."
Chapter 10
"He will have to marry her," said Philip. "I heard from him thismorning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to backout. It would be expensive. I don't know how much he minds--not as muchas we suppose, I think. At all events there's not a word of blame in theletter. I don't believe he even feels angry. I never was so completelyforgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision ofperfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and atthe funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my sonwho had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to;he was so distressed not to make Harriet's acquaintance, and that hescarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again."
"Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott, "and give him mykindest regards."
"Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide away from theman so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarmingintimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervalsof business he would pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out,remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation waspleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philipcame away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In thatvery letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domesticdifficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small." Andhow Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resumethe conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he couldunderstand.
"When will you see him again?" she asked. They were standing together inthe corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the SanGothard tunnel.
"I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day ortwo with some of the new wife's money. It was one of the arguments formarrying her."
"He has no heart," she said severely. "He does not really mind about thechild at all."
"No; you're wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But hedoesn't try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the thingsthat have made him happy once will probably make him happy again--"
"He said he would never be happy again."
"In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we arecalm--when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamedof inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for."
"Yes; I was wrong. That is so."
"He's much more honest with himself than I am," continued Philip, "andhe is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott,what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?"
"No."
"I'm sorry. When will you come back, do you think?"
"I think never."
"For whatever reason?" He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity.
"Because I understand the place. There is no need."
"Understand Italy!" he exclaimed.
"Perfectly."
"Well, I don't. And I don't understand you," he murmured to himself, ashe paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her verymuch, and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by thespiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility hadmoved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had becometransfigured by them. The beauties that are called obvious--the beautiesof her hair and her voice and her limbs--he had noticed theselast; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended themdis
passionately to his friend.
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once--what shethought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knewthat he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from himjust as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Whyhad she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she hadsaved their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered ina compartment by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and hereturned quickly to her down the corridor.
She greeted him with a question of her own. "Are your plans decided?"
"Yes. I can't live at Sawston."
"Have you told Mrs. Herriton?"
"I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she willnever understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled--sadlysettled since the baby is dead. Still it's over; our family circle needbe vexed no more. She won't even be angry with you. You see, you havedone us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk aboutHarriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan--London and work. What isyours?"
"Poor Harriet!" said Miss Abbott. "As if I dare judge Harriet! Oranybody." And without replying to Philip's question she left him tovisit the other invalid.
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out ofthe window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over--theinquest, Harriet's short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He wasconvalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy.In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard,and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life wasgreater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seenthe need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what avery little way those things would go.
"Is Harriet going to be all right?" he asked. Miss Abbott had come backto him.
"She will soon be her old self," was the reply. For Harriet, after ashort paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to hernormal state. She had been "thoroughly upset" as she phrased it, butshe soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death ofa poor little child. Already she spoke of "this unlucky accident," and"the mysterious frustration of one's attempts to make things better."Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kindkiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, consideredthe affair as settled.
"I'm clear enough about Harriet's future, and about parts of my own. ButI ask again, What about yours?"
"Sawston and work," said Miss Abbott.
"No."
"Why not?" she asked, smiling.
"You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done more than I have."
"But it's so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forgetmy father; and even if he wasn't there, I've a hundred ties: mydistrict--I'm neglecting it shamefully--my evening classes, the St.James'--"
"Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thingout with her. "You're too good--about a thousand times better than I am.You can't live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope tounderstand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again andagain."
"Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it willmean often."
"It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way, each with adozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's not good enough."
"We can write at all events."
"You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopesseemed so solid.
"I will indeed."
"But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old life if youwanted to. Too much has happened."
"I know that," she said sadly.
"Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in thesunlight--do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even.And the next day--in the church; and our times with Gino."
"All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is just where itis."
"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful thingsmay be to come--"
"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and looked at him somournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling upthe last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of thetunnel.
"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their freeintercourse might soon be ended, "what is the matter with you? Ithought I understood you, and I don't. All those two great first days atMonteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why youhad come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderfulcourage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment, as you usedto be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much toyou--my life, and I don't know what besides. I won't stand it. You'vegone too far to turn mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don'tbe mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something else: 'I andmy life must be where I live.' You can't live at Sawston."
He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It istempting--" And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. Whatwas tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible?Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South hadbrought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, thosesilver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring,all had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness toothers.
"It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious. I've wanted oftento tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else,certainly no woman, and I think you're the one man who might understandand not be disgusted."
"Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?"
"Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved thatthough a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in hisarms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I wouldn't speak. I think you must knowalready." Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surgingthrough them both.
"Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could speak instead.But if you will say the word plainly you'll never be sorry; I will thankyou for it all my life."
She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body wasshaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried betweenthe sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino!
He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget howhe hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of themmust have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was alreadya little way apart.
"You've upset me." She stifled something that was perilously nearhysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You're taking it wrongly. I'min love with Gino--don't pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what Imean. So laugh at me."
"Laugh at love?" asked Philip.
"Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or worse--that he's a cad.Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That's the helpI want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you'rewithout passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it;you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me.Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but becamefrightened and had to stop. "He's not a gentleman, nor a Christian, norgood in any way. He's never flattered me nor honoured me. But becausehe's handsome, that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, witha pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm againstpassion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then, to his relief, shebegan to cry. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of it. I love him, andI'm going to Sawston, and if I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes,I shall die."
In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but ofher. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he sawthat she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked andneeded--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was theonly reply he could trust himself to make.
"Perhaps it is
what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"
She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as faras she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, oncearoused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might rememberwhat he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, sonothing can alter me now."
"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could saywhat he wanted.
"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"
"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"
"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as shehad hoped.
"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together.Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sentforth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and theworld could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got incommon?"
"Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face wascrimson. He turned his own face away.
"Which--which times?"
"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you toget the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it mayhave begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up withmusic and light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you openedthe door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church,I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be aswe were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out ofthe place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I couldhave pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreathof smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."
"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from thechild he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and sawhim and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than sheimagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to seeround it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be gladthat she had once held the beloved in her arms.
"Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, Ithink. Only don't be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get oversupposing I'm refined. That's what puzzles you. Get over that."
As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no partwith refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there wasrevealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who hadgiven it, could never take away.
"I say again, don't be charitable. If he had asked me, I might havegiven myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescueparty. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. Iwho was worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And thatsaved me."
Philip's eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw insteadthe fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. Forher no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. Thisepisode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him,remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, thatwithout regret he could now have told her that he was her worshippertoo. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful thingshad happened.
"Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you foreverything."
She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her lifeendurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. Theyhurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts shouldget into Harriet's eyes.
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