Most people are acquainted with the sensation of being caught in a
sudden and unexpected manner in some little eddy of society or
circumstance, and how they are swept away before they know where they
are. But if it is odd and startling to ourselves, it is much more so to
those who are untouched by the currents; and when, at the appointed time
on the next day, Ibbetson went off to Villa Carlina, he left Miss
Cartwright a little perplexed at what he had told her, and at his
newly-awakened interest.
To himself the villa, when it came in sight, seemed full of pleasant and
friendly expectations. He heard sounds before he saw where they came
from; then Cartouche boldly plunged under the banksia arches, and there
was a little cry of dismay, laughter, children's voices. "This way,"
some one called out, and when he reached them he found a gay little
company sitting under the green shade, and was welcomed without
formality.
"Now we are all here, we will start directly," said Bice. "Come, little
children!"
But the children were in a state of ecstatic delight over Cartouche's
amazement at the hundreds of gold fish which came crowding to the edge
of the pond. He barked and snapped, snapped and barked in vain, and at
last, in a frantic attempt to reach them, tumbled headlong into the
pond, out of which he scrambled with his enthusiasm a little checked.
Mrs Masters was not going; the walk, she said, was quite beyond her
strength, and they left her strolling back to the house, where she gave
them the hope she might employ herself in writing some letters which had
long been waiting. The others set off merrily. There was Giovanni
Moroni, a youth of two or three-and-twenty, dark, bright-eyed, with
cropped hair, and a frank pleasant smile. It was to his _podere_, high
up the hill, that they were bound. There was also his sister, the
Contessa, and her husband, who was grey-headed and fierce. The children
were theirs; they came from Genoa, and were wild with delight at the
country life and their escape from a dark old palace. Kitty and
Cartouche speedily became their victims. Bice was kind, but, this
afternoon at least, a little graver than the others, for many thoughts
were rushing through her head as they went clambering and laughing up
the hill.
That little outline which old Andrea had given to Jack told as much of
her story as there was, to all appearance, to tell. But to her own
thinking a great deal remained unknown--problems, possibilities, were
sweeping through the air, and troubling her with a hundred perplexing
doubts and shadows, which it was left to her unaided to solve or to
disperse--to her, little more than a child, as she was! Everything was
simple and a little dull to Mrs Masters. She had gone through such
ill-usage and insult as would have seared most women's lives; and when
it was all over, feathered out again with no more result than a mild
assurance that from that time forward she had a right to whatever
comfortable compensation she could get out of existence. Bice's
passionate little soul reached the same conviction through quite another
road, through all sorts of fiery impulses, horror at her father's
cruelty, contempt, devotion, flinging of herself into the breach,
heedless of anything she might have to suffer for her championship. So
sad a warfare was it for a child to go through, that it was a wonder so
much that was good and noble had survived it. She had always
constituted herself her mother's protector, and now that her father was
dead she had a sort of odd notion that it was she who had to make up to
her for the sufferings she had gone through. She was ready to accept
Mr Masters, anything that could help them to forget the old life. She
was glad that her mother bore another name, and insisted upon sharing it
herself against all law and right, and the equally persistent obstinacy
of old Andrea. It was this which brought a sudden flame of anger into
her cheeks that very afternoon, as they climbed along a steep stony
track, on one side shaded by hawthorn bushes, on the other falling away
into fields, a valley, and a little stream.
"One might be in England," Ibbetson said, standing still to look round.
"Is it so like?" asked Bice eagerly. "Kitty never told me that it was.
I shall come here often."
"You have a great fancy for England, and yet you might be content with
your own country," said Jack smiling.
"England is my country," she said, and it was then the red began to
deepen in her cheeks.
"But you are a Capponi?"
She stopped and faced him, her eyes flashing, her whole figure
quivering.
"Who told you so?" she cried angrily. "It was that old Andrea, I am
certain. I will not have it. I am not Capponi any longer. I am
English, and English only."
She kept away from him for some time after this outburst, though he
tried more than once to make his peace. It was only after he had
pointedly called her by her mother's name that she relented and became
friendly again.
The _podere_ lay some way up the hill which they were climbing. At last
they reached it; a picturesque building well baked by the sun, with a
low tower, tiled, a round arch or two, and deep eaves. Outside stood
beautiful great oxen with wide-spreading horns, and two or three
children were watching and ran eagerly to fetch the contadino. When he
had come out and had spoken a few words to his padrone, young Moroni,
the latter led the way to a door in the wall, within which was a kind of
rough garden, full of fig-trees laden with fruit. One or two
brown-faced boys came running with tables and chairs.
"Ah! but this is truly idyllic, my Giovanni," said the young countess,
sinking into a chair. "If I must confess the truth, I could not have
walked another ten steps."
She was not exactly pretty, but slender and fragile-looking, and she
generally contrived to do as much as she liked and no more. Her fierce
husband adored and petted her, and she was very fond of him and of the
children, whom she expected him to keep in order or amuse as the case
might be. Wherever she was she liked to form the centre, and now she
managed to draw them all round her, except Bice. Bice strolled away
alone towards the other end of the garden, here and there picking a
rose, or one of the half-wild flowers which grew without care just as
they had been stuck in. The girl was in a strange and dissatisfied mood
that day; it seemed as if different strings were vibrating together,
making odd discords and harmonies. Some had been set in motion by
things which Ibbetson had said the day before, others had been touched
and jarred, she scarcely knew how or why: questions and perplexities
seemed to have awakened just at the moment when she had intended them to
be silent. From that father from whose memory she shrank she had
inherited many characteristics: among them a strong will, and a desire
to thrust whatever was painful to her out of sight. "Why should I be
obliged to remember now?" her heart cried out angrily, as she turned and
looked at the gay little group, already beckoning to her to return to
them. "Give is Kitty's own brother, and she is not thinking about him,
and Oliver has not come yet, and things are not worse than they were
yesterday, when I was not half so unhappy. And to-day I meant to enjoy
myself and to forget it all. Why does it come back now?"
She was impatient at her own weakness and yet could not master it; tears
rushed into her eyes, she turned hastily away, and laid her arms upon a
low wall, heedless, for the moment, of anything but her own unhappiness.
"You must not desert us in this way," said some one behind. "We are
waiting for you before we begin the great business of the day, which is
much more formidable than I thought." And then his voice changed, and,
became very kind and grave. "Is anything the matter? Has anyone vexed
you, that you go away and leave us?"
For she had turned and looked him full in the face, careless that the
tears were running down her cheeks. A desperate longing seized her to
tell him her troubles and to ask his help. The poor child had so few
from whom she could seek it, that it seemed to her as if this kind voice
might give her aid in the labyrinth where she was losing herself. The
longing was of course utterly foolish and unreasonable. Jack was an
utter stranger, and the next moment her face burnt at the thought of
what her impulse had been. He for his part could not understand the
piteous appeal in her eyes, or the change in which it died out. She
said quickly--
"Vexed? Oh, no! I was unhappy because I was thinking of my brother
Clive."
"Is he ill?"
"No, not ill. He is in some trouble in England. I don't quite know
what it is myself," she went on, looking frankly at him, "and I dare say
that makes it worse. But it is nothing new, and I cannot think why it
should come to me so strongly just now. Do you ever feel as if things
seized you with a rush and without any reason?"
Jack thought of his walk by the Arno the night before. This girl with
her changing moods, her frank appeals, interested him. He felt a strong
desire to help her--a desire which was perhaps made more vigorous by the
consciousness of her wonderful beauty. He answered the first part of
her speech.
"You must have so many friends that it seems ridiculous to suppose that
I can do anything about your brother. But can I?"
A sudden gladness lit her eyes.
"Could you?" she said, eagerly answering his question by another. "I
daresay you could. You are very much mistaken if you suppose we have
many friends; I don't know that we have any at all."
It was said slowly and as if she were considering, and for that very
reason it almost startled Jack. The words were strange, coming from
such lips.
"That is impossible," he said decidedly. "But about your brother?"
"It is a long story, you see. I couldn't tell you now."
"No, I understand, of course you couldn't. Come back to the other's,"
he went on kindly. "You can talk the matter over with your mother and
your sister,"--Bice shook her head with an amused smile--"and tell me
when you like. Then we will see what can be done."
The swift changes in her face and manner were certainly interesting.
The cloud had passed; she was smiling, radiant, flashing out with odd
unexpected speeches, playing with Cartouche, helping Giovanni to pick up
the figs, helping everybody. Two or three boys ran up the tree like
squirrels, and in a few minutes had brought great baskets full. All the
Moroni party ate them Italian fashion, as a sandwich between raw ham and
bread; the contessa teased Bice.
"She knows there is nothing more delicious; it is only the Anglo-mania
which prevents her doing as we do. I can forgive Kitty--but you, Bice!"
Ibbetson thought that young Moroni looked annoyed. "Why should the
signorina have Anglo-mania?" he said hotly. "At any rate the signore
has just said there are no such figs in England."
"Ah, why, why, why?" cried out the girl gaily. "Do not let us ask
questions or find fault. Do you know, Giovanni, that it is absolutely
delicious here in your old farm garden. I did not think it had been
half so pleasant."
"Yet you have been here before," said the young man, flushing with
delight.
"Was it it like this? Then I must have forgotten. There is nothing so
nice at our _podere_."
"Have you a farm?" Ibbetson asked Kitty.
"Yes," she said, with a little shy stiffness in her manner. "It is in
another direction."
"And who manages it?"
"Bice is really padrona. But the contadino, who is the tenant, manages
it; you know that is the custom here. He pays us half of everything,
the live stock and the crops."
So long a speech was almost too great an effort for Kitty, and she
jumped up and took refuge with the children, who were sitting in a heap
munching figs, and occasionally trying to thrust one down Cartouche's
throat. A boy in the tree over their heads tossed the cool green fruit
into their laps.
"Pippa has only eaten twelve," said little Gigi, planting his white
teeth in the rind. "Only twelve! That is because she is a girl, and so
little!"
Pippa plodded on sturdily, paying no attention to the insult. The broad
leaves cast broken masses of shade upon the long grass, the clear
whiteness of the western sky was changing to amber.
"How well you speak our language!" said the little contessa graciously
to Ibbetson. "Believe me, it is a compliment we all appreciate. Now
when Bice's other English friend is here, the Signore--Trent--how do you
call him? we are obliged to fall back upon French. Eh, Bice, it is so,
is it not?"
"Yes," said the girl shortly.
She was grave again, as Ibbetson remarked. The changes in her manner
and in her face were so rapid that he found himself watching and
wondering. He had never met with anyone who showed so openly whatever
passed across her mind.
"Is he coming again soon? He is your relative, is he not?" persisted
the contessa.
"He is Kitty's cousin."
It was the first time she had spoken as if Kitty and she were not
absolutely one in their possessions, and her tone had an unwilling ring
about it. Perhaps it piqued her friend's curiosity, for she threw back
her head, and said in a low amused voice--
"You are mysterious, _carina_. Is the subject too sacred to be
discussed?"
The girl's eyes flashed, she sprang up angry and impatient.
"Are we going to stay here all our lives?" she cried with a sharpness
which cut poor Giovanni to the heart. If he had heard what had just
passed he might have been better satisfied, but he had been looking
another way, choosing some of the best figs for the beautiful Eve who
had praised his little Paradise, and he heard nothing until there came
this sharp, scornful speech, which made a desert of it all. Yet how
lovely she looked standing there, her head thrown up, the exquisite
outline of her profile clear against the golden sky! And when she
turned, and saw the young fellow's frightened face, her own melted, and
a sudden smile dimpled her cheeks.
"Was I so rude, Giovanni?" she said gently, "I did not mean it, really.
It has all been charming, delightful, only now it is time to go. Nina
knows it, but she is lazy. I must be the one to tell you what is
prudent. Come, Kitty, come, children, the reign of figs is over, but we
will carry back a basket-full for mamma. She always says there are none
like those which grow up here on Giovanni's mountain."
All the way home she was softer and gentler than Ibbetson had yet seen
her. Pippa was tired, and nothing would please her but that Bice should
carry her. The little creature, with her curly black hair, fell asleep
in her arms, and the girl would not have her moved or awakened, walking
on firmly and strongly with her burden. She led them down by another
path, in spite of the contessa's complaints that it was both longer and
steeper.
"It will not harm you," Bice said quietly, "and you will see something
worth seeing."
But it was not until they had turned a shoulder of the hill where, on a
sort of stony terrace, a few old olives stood grey and shadowy in the
midst of a flood of colour, that Ibbetson knew what she had brought him
to see. For below, and stretched before him, spread that wonderful
plain of Valdamo which is beyond the power of pen or pencil; and now, as
it lay bathed in the radiance of the setting sun, he felt as if he had
never before known its beauty. A haze, not of mist, but of colour,
seemed to rest upon it, so delicate and so varied that its intensity was
scarcely felt, and the villas and farms with which the plain is thickly
studded gleamed like jewels in the midst of this wonderful setting. On
the opposite hill rose Bellosguardo with its cypresses, those trees
which throughout Italy give point and force to softer beauties; and
below, the domes and towers of Florence lay in the full glory of the
sunset lights.
Only one of the party did not look at its beauty; young Moroni was
looking at Bice instead. She still had the child in her arms, and he
came to her side and said wistfully--
"Let me take Pippa the rest of the way, she is too heavy for you;" and
quite unexpectedly Bice gave her to him with a smile. She would not,
however, walk by his side, as he had hoped; she would walk with nobody;
she lingered behind, gathering here and there a flower which had
survived the summer heats. The contessa claimed the other gentleman,
Kitty had the children in charge and Cartouche, who was a little
overwhelmed by an unusual sense of virtue, Bice straggled after them,
singing to herself. Ibbetson, who was listening for it, could now and
then hear a little break of song come flying down from behind in a
tantalising manner. He began to hate the little contessa, who was not
half so interesting as this girl with her contradictions, her odd moods.
He waited his opportunity, but not until the villa was in sight could
he make an excuse for pausing to join Bice. She was some distance in
the rear, and came towards him very slowly. Then he saw that something
was wrong.
"What is the matter?" he asked quickly.
"Nothing. Why did you wait?" she said with a touch of petulance of
which he took no notice. He was looking at her hand, round which she
had wrapt a handkerchief.
"What have you done to your hand?"
"I have told you it is nothing," she said in the same tone. "I have run
a thorn into it, that is all."
"A thorn would not give you so much pain."
"Well, it may be a little splinter; I think it is. Go on, please, and
don't say anything about it."
"Not to your sister?"
"Oh, dear me, of course not!" she said with vexation. "Anything of this
sort makes Kitty quite ill, don't you understand? Please go to the
villa, I shall be there presently."
"But I am not going to the villa," said Jack quietly; "I am going to
look at your hand."
"I can take it out myself."
"_If_ you please--"
Bice was evidently unaccustomed to have her own will set aside; she
stared at him in amazement, and a bright flush which looked like
resistance rose to her cheek. Perhaps, however, she thought resistance
undignified, or perhaps Jack's waiting attitude took too much for
granted; for after a momentary struggle she hastily unwrapped her hand
and silently stretched it out. He could hardly repress the exclamation
which rose to his lips. It was cruelly bruised and torn, and the
suffering must have been great.
"How could you have done it?" he said reproachfully.
"I was standing on a stone to gather a little flower which I saw in a
bush, and the stone slipped. I fell on my hand, and I think something
caught in it and ran in."
She held her hand steadily for his inspection, but she had grown pale,
and to tell the truth, the prospect of his amateur surgery made him very
uncomfortable. He turned in his mind the possibilities of finding a
doctor, but it was most improbable that one lived within a moderate
distance, and the splinter was momentarily increasing the irritation.
She would not hear of getting help from the house, and Jack hastily
determined to do the best he could for her, uttering a fervent mental
hope that she would not faint.
He need not have feared. After the first sharp pain had made her
shrink, she let her hand lie quite passive, and although persistently
keeping her face turned away, from first to last uttered no sound.
Perhaps this self-restraint made him nervous, perhaps he was
inexperienced in the work, for he knew through every nerve in his own
body that he was giving her sharp and even unnecessary pain. When the
splinter was drawn out, his own face was nearly as white as hers. The
girl noticed this as he straightened himself.
"I am afraid you disliked it as much as Kitty," she said remorsefully.
"It was clumsy work," said Jack; "I know that I hurt you horribly."
"Never mind," said Bice. "Chiara shall put some of her healing herbs,
and I think the pain is all over."
Was it so indeed? Did nothing whisper to her of another pain, a deeper
smart, which this very moment was bringing? What sweet and tremulous
pang seemed to smite her in the silence which fell for a moment? A
moment--no more--and yet there are moments which go on for years.
Bice drew back her hand without another word of thanks.
The others, too, had had a little misadventure to detain them--the
contessa had torn her dress, and it required consultations, laments, and
pinnings; so that when they were finished, Jack and Bice were not far
behind. They were all to dine at the villa, and went along straight
stiff walks bordered by cypresses towards the little flower-garden by
the breakfast-room. As they reached it, Cartouche growled angrily at a
gentleman who was coming quickly down the steps. Moroni, still carrying
the child, met him first, then came the contessa, who turned and
beckoned gaily to Bice. The girl, when she saw him, half stopped.
Ibbetson noticed that she became pale, and that her lips quivered.
"Who is it?" he asked curiously.
"It is Oliver Trent," she said in an odd, frightened undertone.