Mrs Brodrick was sitting under an awning on the broad terrace when Mrs
Maxwell stepped out of the window. She was never very comfortable at
having Mary Maxwell alone. It seemed to her that her shrewd eyes saw
too many things. But she put down her book and welcomed her.
"They haven't bestowed much of a shade upon you," said Mrs Maxwell,
glancing up.
"I don't take much. Age shrinks." She moved her chair, smiling.
"Don't talk about age. It's an unpleasant subject," Mrs Maxwell
complained, dropping into a chair. "And as for you, you are younger
than any of us. It's only people of the same standing who would call
you old. Don't you know? Elderly people always talk about their
contemporaries as `old Mr Smith,' `old Mr Jones.' It's their way of
pretending to be still young."
"Well, I won't pretend," said Mrs Brodrick. "But I know the temptation
so well, that I very often go away and read my Rabbi Ben Ezra. I was
noticing to-day that my shadow looked old, and that's a great step."
"Oh, granny, nonsense!"
"And, after all, it is always interesting to reach new experiences. For
instance, I have just found out that one is less seldom disappointed,
but sooner discouraged."
She was keeping the talk upon herself only because she was afraid of its
drifting elsewhere; but Mrs Maxwell had a purpose.
"Where is Sylvia?" she asked suddenly.
"Isn't she picking irises in the garden behind me?"
"I see. Where's Teresa?"
"Sketching."
"And Mr Wilbraham?"
"Really, I don't know," said Mrs Brodrick, with a touch of displeasure.
"Probably with your husband."
"Oh, my husband! My husband is worshipping a silly forged Greek coin,"
said Mrs Maxwell irrepressibly.
"Each one seems to be having a solitary time of it."
"I wish you and Teresa were improving it by meditating on your
imprudences. No, really I must speak. I get frightened for poor
Sylvia. Don't you see? Those two _are_ so unsuited!"
"Really?" Mrs Brodrick drew herself up.
"Oh, you know it!" cried Mrs Maxwell, in a transport of self-sacrifice.
"I hate speaking so brutally, but one must do horrid things for those
one cares for; and I am sure, unless you interfere, there will be some
awful denouement. He isn't thinking about Sylvia."
"Mary!"
"He isn't. He is awaking to a much bigger emotion; and you know, as
well as I do, that Sylvia, with all her prettiness, isn't the girl to
inspire a great passion. If it's not Sylvia, who is it?"
Mrs Brodrick remained silent. Mary Maxwell came and knelt by her side,
laying her head on her lap.
"Granny, don't be angry! You know you're frightened, and you know I
care about you all. But you're dreadfully high-minded. Isn't there
anything you can do?"
Mrs Brodrick suddenly collapsed.
"Nothing," she said miserably. "How can any one move? It rests between
him and Sylvia, and Sylvia, poor child, is absolutely--piteously
content. She doesn't see."
"And never will!" thought Mrs Maxwell; "Heaven help us, for there must
be some way out of this tangle, if one could only find it!" She said
aloud, hesitatingly, "Could Teresa speak to her?"
"Could she?" Mrs Brodrick turned a pallid face, and Mrs Maxwell shook
her head.
"True--impossible. Teresa must be kept out of it. Is there _any_ hint
that Sylvia would accept? Granny, you might try."
"As if I hadn't tried--twenty times!"
"And she won't take it?"
"It isn't that she _won't_. She doesn't realise that there can be
anything I want to say."
Mary Maxwell already felt better for having extracted a confidence which
proved her to be in the right.
"It's awful," she said cheerfully. "All
[Two pages missing here: pp 240,241.]
purple and white irises, stopped lazily to watch the lizards darting in
and out of the sun-baked wall, and then gone in to write a letter. She
had few correspondents, but there was an old nurse who thought all the
world of her, and was made happy by a sheet of unformed, straggling
writing, and bare bones of fact, always supported by a dictionary, and
unimpeded by stops.
"It is very pleasant here," Sylvia wrote; "there are so many flowers.
We make expeditions"--_sh_ decided against by help of the
dictionary--"and the weather is beautiful Granny and Teresa are quite
well I am very happy--" She had reached so far when Wilbraham came in.
She flung down her pen and jumped up joyfully.
"Oh, Walter, where have you been? I was wondering so!"
"Down by the shore."
There was a set, hunted look on his face, as if he had not slept, which
was true. He had extracted the key of a side door from the chambermaid,
and had wandered for hours through the mystical southern night.
"Oh, you promised to take me to the shore when you went."
"Did I?"
"Never mind. I will go next time," said Sylvia happily. Whatever he
did or did not do contented her. "I have been very busy."
"Yes?"
"Yes; picking flowers. They are all ready now for Teresa to put in when
she comes. Have you seen her?"
"No."
"She does wander so far by herself; I wonder she isn't afraid. Shall we
go and look for her? I have nearly finished, Walter. I have written
all this to Dobbin. Look!" She held up the sprawly sheet for his
admiration. "Haven't I been good?"
"You are always good," he said remorsefully. And he glanced at her,
thinking for the hundredth time how pretty she was, and wondering why
everything she said should be so flatly ineffective. But he had
something to tell her, and he dashed at it hurriedly--
"I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid, that I shall have to go back to
England."
"To England!" She looked at him incredulously.
"Yes. I'm wanted there."
"But not yet. You've had no letters to-day."
He cursed his want of premeditation. He had forgotten that every now
and then Sylvia developed an odd practical shrewdness.
"Not to-day."
"Not to-day, and only two from your mother since we've been here."
"I must go all the same," he said, taking refuge in obstinacy. "I've
been pleasuring too long."
Evidently and unusually she was puzzled.
"But," she said slowly, at last, "but--I don't understand. You can't go
all in a minute. We have to see Syracuse and Palermo, and--a great many
things. Indeed, Walter, you can't! It wouldn't be right. Why should
you? I remember you told me you would not go home until you took me."
"Things change."
"What has changed?"
He looked at her, and thought bitterly how little she knew that she was
pleading against herself--against his better self. The other half of
him wanted to stay, swore it was folly to give up an hour of the only
happiness which life still held, and all for a scruple. He was going to
stick to Sylvia. That much stood firm amid the general earthquake.
"I'd better go," he said doggedly.
"Oh, no," returned Sylvia decidedly; "you mustn't." After a momentary
pause she added, "It would be so odd!"
"Would it?" He flung hasty thought at what the others would say on the
matter, and his leaving immediately looked so suspicious in his own
eyes, that he felt as if it must proclaim his secret to the world. He
forced a laugh, however.
"What's odd in having business to see after?"
"Oh, but they all know you haven't."
Silence.
"I wish I knew what makes you want to go home," said Sylvia wonderingly.
"I can't think! Won't you tell me?"
Wilbraham moved uneasily. He could not lie to her, and the truth was
impossible. He chose a middle course.
"If you really dislike it so much, I'll stay. It shall make no
difference," he promised his conscience.
"I was sure you would not go," was all she said, and he was vaguely
surprised, expecting delight and surprise in a gush, but thankful they
were not lavished upon him.
Through that day and the next, and the next, he kept iron hands on
himself, close to Sylvia's side. Teresa was too well pleased to see him
there so much as to wonder why once or twice he avoided her--almost
rudely. She went on her way light-heartedly, and began to sing when she
was alone. She painted here, there, everywhere, the women carrying
their empty pitchers to the fountain lengthways on their heads, or
coming back upright, supple, with the heavy weight poised securely; the
old people hurrying with their chairs to a little homely church, sunk in
a narrow street; the Catania Gate, with its long flight of outer steps,
and its odd crooked arches; walls blistered by sun, and overhung by
grey-green prickly pear and red shoots of pomegranate; Gothic arches,
rose windows; sunrise and sunset; glory of noonday; flash of falling
rain, and sullen overshadowing of thunder-cloud. The little city,
hanging on its hillside, had for her a charm which never wearied.
The only one who seemed restless and dissatisfied was Nina. Teresa
began to be sorry that she had brought her, though she had imagined it
would make travelling easier for her grandmother. But the little
Viterbo woman frankly hated the place, and Italians of her class are too
much like children to attempt to disguise their feelings. Then she had
spilt oil on the day of their departure, and only the Madonna knew what
disasters that might not bring! There was a bottle of wine close by,
and why should not that have been knocked over instead, when such an
upset would have ensured good luck? For want of other listeners, she
talked of this to Peppina, and watched the girl's face as she spoke.
Peppina shrugged her shoulders.
"Eh, who knows?" she answered carelessly. "For that you have to take
your chance with the rest."
Peppina had learnt from Cesare to mock at omens which came to others,
but she could not help being still terrified when she encountered them
herself.
"That is news!" retorted Nina scornfully. "If it was not for the chance
it would be easy."
"You or another. There are enough of you! One, two, three, four,
five," the girl counted on her fingers. "Five chances. Try the cards
if you want to know which."
"Who it comes from, rather," said the other with significance.
Peppina darted a look from under her long eyelashes, and her voice
slightly shook.
"Will they tell you that? I do not believe it."
"Will they? _Altro_! One as much as the other," said Nina, enjoying
her uneasiness. "And I say an apoplexy upon whoever it is! An
apoplexy!"
"Be quiet!" cried Peppina angrily, a spasm crossing her face, and her
hand almost unconsciously signing against the evil eye; "be quiet with
your jay's voice, when my signora is trying to sleep above. Who talks
of apoplexies?"
Nina was too well pleased with the effect she had produced to be
affronted.
"Is she ill then?"
"Her head aches. It wants to be amused."
Peppina was uncomfortably aware that she had said too much once more.
She yawned intentionally, flinging her arms over her head. "Diamine, I
could sleep myself," she added drowsily, but looking at Nina through
half-closed lids.
"Well, sleep--sleep if you will. There is nothing to be done--not so
much as a ricotta making in this nest of owls," said Nina, waving
Taormina away from her with disdain. "You will wake in time to see
Cesare."
"Cesare!" Peppina started up as if struck with a whip. "What do you
say?"
"Did you not know he was here? Then I am wiser than you, for once. He
should have been to see you before--a pretty girl like you! But there--
those men!" Nina shook her head sympathetically. "There is the
Cianchetti, of course."
"Hold your tongue! If he is here, he will come, beyond a doubt!" cried
the girl, eyeing her furiously, and panting to acknowledge that she had
passed an hour with her lover the evening before. "The Cianchetti! A
creature like that!"
"A creature, as you say, but then she is pretty. And that he should be
here and not tell you!"
Nina held up her hands, perfectly aware of what was struggling in
Peppina's breast, and amused at her easy victory.
"I tell you he will come!" exclaimed the girl breathlessly.
"We shall see."
Nina nodded many times, and there was a short pause, in which Peppina's
fear grew stronger than her vanity.
"How do you know he is here?"
"Eh-h-h-h-h! One has eyes," answered Nina carelessly. "Why does he
come?"
"Who knows?" said the girl, wary again.
"What it is to have money for travelling!" exclaimed Nina, who was sure
that Peppina had somehow got the money from Mrs Maxwell. "It is wine
he must have upset, not oil like me."
"Do you still think of it?" said Peppina, anxious to turn the
conversation.
"I shall sort the cards to-night, and try to find out who the ill-luck
comes from. Whoever it is, an apoplexy on him!" cried Nina vengefully.