A REVELATION.
Harry found himself thus brought up, and forced to give, to himself, an
account of himself, such as he had never in his consciousness been
compelled to make before. He was in an altogether new position, and it
was indispensable that he should know where it was leading to, and what
was meant by it. There had been no occasion to inquire into this before.
He had plenty to do learning Italian, learning about the shipping,
getting into the duties of his new life. The Consul’s house and the
Consul’s daughter had been his little bit of happiness, his reward after
his work, his diversion from those dismal sensations of utter solitude
which had almost overwhelmed him at first; and he had not thought of
any complication of interests or feelings. Nothing need have awakened
him from this comfortable state if it had not been that unlucky
conversation about going to England. Why should he have talked about
going to England? He never meant to go back, or, if ever, not at least
until he had grown rich and altogether independent of _them_ and their
kindness. But in the meantime there did not seem any immediate
likelihood of growing rich, and why he should have stepped outside all
the boundaries of his life and suggested the sudden possibility of going
home and taking Miss Bonamy with him, baffled Harry’s comprehension.
Sometimes we say and even do things which on looking back upon them we
feel were not our doing at all, but that of some one else, rather our
enemy than otherwise, some one making a distinct effort to get us into
trouble. This was Harry’s sensation now; he was half angry and half
frightened. It was some malign, mischievous traitor wanting to betray
him, not himself, who had said that. He went home breathless, and when
he had climbed all those dark stairs to his rooms, and lighted his lamp,
he sat down, and, as it were, called a council of himself, to inquire
who had done it. But it is a great deal easier to feel that some one
has betrayed us in this way than it is to determine who has done it; for
those internal traitors have no names, and cannot be brought to the bar.
His investigation so far was fruitless; but it was fertile enough in
other ways, in ways in which he did not feel any anxiety to investigate.
Harry had never been brought into familiar intercourse with any girl
before. He had seen them at a distance, in circumstances which made no
approach possible, even if he had desired it; and he did not know that
he had ever desired it. Once or twice he had been struck by a pretty
face, and had felt a passing wish, mingled with reluctance, to make
further acquaintance with it; that is he would have wished it if he had
been able to get over his shyness, and the difficulty of knowing what to
say, and the trouble of overcoming all the preliminary obstacles. But
here none of these difficulties had existed; he had come quite naturally
into Rita’s acquaintance at once, as if she had been a comrade of his
own. There had been no shyness, no hesitation, but the easy talk of a
table at which strangers were constantly appearing and disappearing, and
a house in which this young creature, though so young, was the mistress,
and used to all the exertions necessary to set people at their ease. He
had admired her he said to himself, from the first--who could help
admiring her? but it had been so clearly her part to entertain and amuse
the people about her, and she had been so pleasantly indifferent, so
innocently at her ease, so oblivious of his presence often, so kind when
her attention was called to him, that all those little bulwarks of
freedom, which boys and girls when they are made conscious of each
other, set up instinctively, had been useless in this case. She was
neither afraid of him nor solicitous about him. Sometimes she took no
more notice than if he had been a cabbage, and at other times was as
seriously confidential as if he had been eighty. Harry had liked all the
ways of it. He had been piqued a little sometimes, but afterwards had
found it quite natural, and liked her friendliness and indifference, and
the occasional moment of household intimacy, when she would look at him
to indicate some little service she wanted, as she might have looked at
her brother, without words, taking his interest and compliance for
granted. And gradually, without any thought, this had come to be the
pleasure and support of Harry’s life. When he did not see her, when he
was not at the house for a whole day, it was a dull day indeed; but
still faintly illuminated by to-morrow, when he was sure to see her.
When she went away upon a visit, which happened once, the Consul’s
despondency kept him in countenance. Mr. Bonamy adopted Harry in her
place. “Come in and help me to eat something,” he said, “I can’t bear
her empty seat. When my Rita is away I feel inclined to hang myself.”
Harry had almost betrayed himself (to himself) by the warmth of the
sympathy which he bestowed upon the disconsolate father; but as Mr.
Bonamy ended by a doleful laugh at himself as an old fool, Harry laughed
too, and the catastrophe was averted, and so things had gone on for a
whole long year.
What a year that had been!--far the most wonderful of Harry’s life. So
many new things had happened to him; he had been torn out of all his old
habits, and made into another man with a new set of habits--as new as
the light-coloured clothes in which alone it was possible to live on
those southern coasts. And he had become so much the more of a man that
he was now, so to speak, two men, one developed out of the other. He
looked back upon the Henry Joscelyn of Liverpool with a mixture of
amusement and pity. He had been a poor sort of limited creature, not
knowing much; going half asleep between his office and his lodgings, now
and then going to a poor theatre, walking about with small clerks in
other offices, who knew nothing more than their own little gossip and
the town news, and the fluctuations of trade. Perhaps it was a sign that
Harry himself had not yet reached any great elevation, that he thought
his present life so greatly superior. The reader knows he had not
thought so always. He had compared his big, bare room, with its four
white walls, most unfavourably with the carpeted and curtained parlour
of his Liverpool experiences. But since that time his mind had undergone
many transformations. His appartamento had become to him what Paolo’s
was, a decent and tranquil shelter for the night. He had no longer
thought of the respectabilities, of sitting there for a whole evening,
of drinking tea, and having his friends to see him there. These were old
customs at which he smiled. He had acquired a great many others which
were now to him not only a second nature, but far more enjoyable, more
lifelike, he thought, than the old. At all events, they were the habits
of the present, not of the past. And amidst these changes, the advance
in which might be questionable, were various other changes in Harry’s
life of which the advantage was unquestionable. To live half his time in
the Consul’s house, between a man of culture and education, and a young,
fresh, intelligent girl, who had grown up knowing a world of things
until then sealed books to Harry; and to have to do, not with mere
bookkeeping, and sales, and goods of various descriptions, but with men,
in a hundred little perplexities, out of which his skill, his patience,
his superior knowledge, had to deliver them--were educating influences
of the most active kind. He was a different man, and he felt himself to
be so. How much he was the same man of course it was more difficult for
Harry to see.
And here, in his new life, he had come to the first great difficulty;
things had gone on smoothly, not a hitch anywhere. He had discharged all
his duties to the satisfaction of his chief. He had acquired the very
phraseology of a much higher class than that which he naturally belonged
to, and talked of his chief as if he had been a fine gentleman in a
public office. Many people, indeed, believed that Harry had been sent
out by the “F.O.” with special instructions to keep Mr. Bonamy in order;
and many more that he had come to Mr. Bonamy with the strongest
recommendations from that dignified and mysterious power. Nobody guessed
that he had been picked up off the streets, so to speak, by the mere
generous caprice and mistaken romantic fancy of the rich official, who
might, for all he knew, have been jeopardising the credit of the office
by admitting a young adventurer to its sacred shelter. Mr. Bonamy had
long ago forgotten that Harry had come to his present promotion in any
illegitimate or irregular way, or that the appointment had occurred
otherwise than in the ordinary course; and Oliver was his right hand,
his constant refuge, his aide-de-camp in all things. He had even
forgotten that he did not know all about the origin of the stranger who
was now so freely admitted to his house. He was rash in that as in other
matters, and though he would have given his life for his daughter it
never occurred to him to take those precautions about her which the most
selfish parent usually thinks it necessary to take. Everything had gone
smoothly for Harry. At the Consul’s house he had met “the best people”
that were to be found in Leghorn, the rich English merchants, and also
many Italians, old traditionary friends of Rita’s mother, who was of
Italian blood. By this time Harry had got a footing among them, and was
asked to other houses, and known everywhere. Everything was going
smoothly. He had no reason to be discontented or anxious about his
future life. Everybody knew him, and nobody knew other than good of him.
Whatever happened he would never again be the desolate stranger, with a
new name, and no reputation, who had landed friendless on these shores.
And yet, with all these advantages, and this progress, suddenly, in a
moment, he was brought to a standstill by this discovery. What wonder if
Harry was provoked beyond bearing with himself and that traitor in him,
who would not be brought to book? There was something almost ludicrous
in his dismay. Why couldn’t you hold your tongue? he said, indignantly,
to that something within him. Who wanted to know what you were thinking?
What is the good of it now you have let it out? It was a ridiculous
discussion, there being no one to reply, but yet it gave expression to
the self-provoked and impatient character of Harry’s dilemma. For how
was he to banish it back again and go on as if that idiotic suggestion
had never been made?
Love is not so simple a thing as people think, at least in these
artificial days. In the old simple story-books, and, indeed, often still
in life, when such a revelation as this comes to a man, he jumps at once
to the natural conclusion, throws himself at once into the situation,
wooes, proposes, and, if he is successful, ends by being at
least--engaged. Sometimes he does this with a noble indifference to
circumstances and possibilities, or, at least, an indifference which,
when he has spirit enough to take the consequences upon himself, and
boldly hew possibility out of impossibility, is noble. Sometimes he
leaps the intervening steps and thinks of nothing but of marrying as the
natural and inevitable conclusion. The woman invariably does this; love
to her means marriage, or it means nothing at all. It is an offence to
her delicacy to play with it, to keep any decision at arm’s length, as
men often think themselves justified in doing; so that it remains more
simple (unless she is a coquette) in her case than in his. But with a
man, now-a-days, at least, to enjoy all the gratifications and delicate
bloom of nascent love without coming to any crisis, which must make an
entire change of all these relations and modes of living necessary, is
often very desirable. But this reluctance to come to a decision, though
sometimes selfish, is not so always; and in Harry’s case it was not
selfish. He had not walked open-eyed into this snare which life is
continually setting for young feet; he had tumbled into it unawares; and
in his situation, being unlucky enough to have tumbled into it, his only
policy, his only honourable course, was either to get out of it with as
much expedition as possible, or to hold his tongue about it, and never
to betray his plight to the other person involved. But Harry had been
betrayed, to himself, at least, if not to _her_, and the question now
was, what was he to do? He sat and thought over this question, as on the
other side of it Rita was doing--though this he did not know, nor guess;
but he could not for his part make anything of it. He could not keep
away from the Consul’s house, or shut himself out from her society,
without further betrayal. His situation was such that if he remitted his
visits, if he failed to appear with all the ease and familiarity to
which he had been admitted, and which had been growing for a year past,
he could not fail to be questioned on the subject, and his secret drawn
from him. Even if he kept a little aloof from Rita, avoided her as much
as civility permitted, and avoided occasions of being with her, that
also would be remarked. What was he to do? For now that he had once
betrayed himself who could guarantee that, continuing to see her every
day, as he had been doing, he might, on some other occasion, betray
himself still more distinctly. His embarrassment and trouble grew the
more he thought of it. It could not be, surely, that he would be
compelled to go out upon the desert world again and begin anew? Surely,
surely, that would not be necessary! And yet, what was he to do? The
question on Rita’s side by no means interfered with her rest, save for
that hour or so when she chose to think of it, instead of brushing her
hair; but it took away Harry’s, upon whom all the responsibility rested.
Her feeling on the matter came only the length of a certain amused
interest and curiosity as to how he would conduct himself in the future,
and what he meant by these odd speeches; but his affected all his life.
Whether he should stay where he was, or go away; whether he should have
to throw aside again all his hopes of advancement, all his comfort and
renewed confidence in his fate, all hung in the balance. He turned
uneasily on his bed all the night through, dozing and dreaming of it,
and waking to ask the same question again. But the night brings counsel,
and when he woke somewhat late the next morning from the sleep which
overtook him at last in the midst of his deliberations, he woke with a
new idea in his mind, as we so often do, after a long consideration. The
first words he said to himself as he woke were, “I will ask Paolo.” For
a moment he could not tell what the momentous subject was that he was to
ask Paolo about.
Paolo had continued to be Harry’s faithful friend; but their intercourse
had been disturbed by the society at the Consulate, for, except on some
special occasion, he was not important enough to be introduced to all
the fine company that assembled there; only now and then when all the
_employés_ were asked, and a little semipublic fête for them banished
the fine people, did Paolo enter these enchanted walls, and talk with
the young mistress of the house. He had scarcely ever talked to Harry of
the Signorina, but when he did mention her there had been a slightly
cynical tone in his remarks. To tell the truth, Paolo had never got over
that first appearance of the Vice-Consul’s daughter in the street at
night. He had recognized her, clinging to her old attendant, hurrying
away, while Harry, all unconscious of what was to come of it, had
stopped the Italians who were pursuing her, and summarily knocked down
the Englishman. Paolo was not ill-natured, nor given to ill-thinking,
but he was an Italian, and he could not imagine any perfectly virtuous
motive which could have taken a young lady out of her house at that
hour. That love or intrigue had something to do with it he was
convinced, and all the proof in the world could not have persuaded him
otherwise. But he did not wish to throw any indiscreet light upon her
proceedings, or to betray her to the world. With some sense of this,
though without ever explaining to himself how it was that he had such a
feeling, Harry had refrained from telling him the climax of the story.
He had left the Consul’s sudden friendship unexplained, Paolo requiring
no explanation of it, and feeling it the most simple and natural thing
in the world. But during the whole interval there had been in Paolo’s
tone a note of unexpressed warning against the Vice-Consul’s daughter;
he had not said anything, but he had left something to be inferred. This
Harry had sometimes resented, sometimes laughed at, but he had never
taken the warning or been moved by the tone. He thought it was a
prejudice such as one person sometimes feels quite unaccountably against
another; or that perhaps it was some pique; perhaps that Paolo himself
had admired too much the young princess who was so entirely out of his
reach: but whatever was the cause, he was conscious enough that Paolo
was not favourable to the lady of his thoughts. And he resolved
accordingly to ask the advice of his friend on the grand question only.
He would not give him any special information, or even indicate, however
vaguely, who the lady was. That he should speak to Paolo at all on the
subject showed that a change had come over Harry’s thoughts. It would be
too much to say that he did not entertain still a somewhat contemptuous
estimate of the little “foreigner” who had sworn eternal friendship at
first sight, and had wept, and even kissed his friend, in his rapture at
his good fortune. When Harry recalled that embrace he grew red still,
with the undying indignation which moves a man when he has been made
ridiculous. And he still treated Paolo _de haut en bas_, with a careless
superiority. But by this time he had learned to know that Paolo was on
some things a much better authority than himself, and that, though he
might be trivial and absurd on questions which Englishmen consider
themselves judges of, yet there were other matters, chiefly touching his
own countrymen, which he knew better than any Englishman. To have
attained to this conviction was in a way a moral advance for Harry, who
formerly had looked down upon “foreigners,” not thinking them worth the
trouble of studying, or esteeming the knowledge which was only concerned
with them and their ways. He had no opportunity of speaking to Paolo
till dinner. They were both of them faithful, more or less, to the
_table-d’hôte_ at the Leone, where they had first become friends: but
Harry’s attendance there now was irregular, and when he entered the
dining-room Paolo’s face became radiant with pleasure. He seized his
friend’s arm and gave it a squeeze of satisfaction.
“But without doubt you go somewhere in the evening?” he said, with a
mixture of wistfulness and triumphant pride. He was proud of Harry’s
succès in society; but yet to have so little of him pained the faithful
soul. He had bettered his English, but perhaps he had not much improved
his happiness by his devotion to this stranger, to whom he had been so
useful. Harry gave him very little of his company, and no demonstration
of affection in return for his love.
“No; I want you to come to my rooms, Paolo. I want to consult you about
something--we’ll have some coffee brought up there, and we’ll have a
talk.”
“Benissimo!” said Paolo, glowing with pleasure. “However,” he added with
simplicity, “there is little that I can instruct you in now. You know
all--you are better as me. But if there is any case that is hard to
understand----”
“You make me ashamed of myself,” said Harry; “do you really think I
never want to see you but when I have something to ask? I don’t think I
am quite so bad as that. Of course I have picked your brains constantly;
but still I am not so bad as that.”
At this Paolo was up in arms, as if some terrible accusation had been
brought against him.
“Pardon, pardon, Amico,” he said. “Do you think I am finding fault? do
you think I make myself a censure over you (he meant censor, but this
was unimportant)? It is all otherwise. To see you go into society makes
me pleasure--the grandest pleasure. If not me, it is my friend--it is as
good--better, as to go myself. You pick my brains--_bene_! my brains is
glad to be pick.”
“I think you are the best fellow in the world,” Harry said, “and I am a
beast always to take advantage of you--to come to you whenever I want
you.”
“What then is a friend?” said Paolo, with that glistening of the eyes
which Harry was always afraid of. And then the excellent fellow
suppressed himself, knowing Harry’s objections to a scene. “I am a
duffare,” he said, with a laugh, “if there is something I can do that
makes me glad.”
“I want your advice, Paolo,” said Harry; “it is nothing about business;
it is not information I want from you. I am in a difficulty--I am in
trouble--and I want your advice.”
“In troouble!” Paolo’s face grew long, long as his arm; his lively
imagination harped at various cases of “troouble” he had known:
defalcations at the office, difficulties about money, fallings into
temptation. His countenance clouded with anxiety and alarm. “Amico,” he
said, “I am all at your disposition--all at your disposition! Troouble!
let us not lose the time. That turns me the stomach, as you say.
Thanks, thanks, Antonio; but take it away--I cannot more eat.”
“That’s nonsense, old fellow,” said Harry, plying his own knife and fork
vigorously, “you see it don’t take away my appetite. Come, eat your
dinner. I’ve not been going to the bad, if that’s what you think, you
goose.”
“Go-ose? I am willing to be goose,” said Paolo, “if it’s all right; not
anything in the bureau? not with accounts, or money, or nothing of the
sort? Benissimo?--then I will have some of that dish, Antonio, and it is
all right.”
“I wonder what you take me for,” said Harry, offended. “Money! do you
think I am that sort? No, no, Paolo. When you’ve finished your
dinner--you have eaten nothing but that maccaroni--we’ll go to my rooms
and talk it over. It is something about myself.”
It was all Harry could do after this to persuade his friend not to
gobble up everything that was offered to him in his anxiety to get his
meal over. Paolo could not contain his curiosity and eager interest. He
almost dragged his friend along the street when dinner was concluded,
and clambered the long staircase like a cat, in his eagerness to know
what Harry’s difficulty was, and to proceed immediately to smooth it
over and ravel it out.