When Ibbetson had left her, Bice hastened to that part of the wall where
was the niche to which she was carrying the flowers. A little terrace
ran along by means of which she could reach and open the grating, and
take out the vase with its withered blossoms. She carried it to a small
fountain close by, filled it with clear water, and put in her flaming
lilies. Then she took it back to the niche, closed the grating, came
down from the terrace, and after a moment's consideration walked slowly
towards the place where she had heard the voices.
Kitty and Mr Trent were standing under a large acacia tree, and turned
quickly round to greet her. Kitty poured out her questions--Where had
she been? what had she been doing? did she know they had been looking
for her?
"Mamma told me," said Bice carelessly; "surely you two might have amused
each other for an hour. And it would not have required any superhuman
sagacity, Kitty, to guess that I had gone for the flowers."
"If you are cross, I shall go to the terrace and leave Oliver to his
fate," said Kitty, laughing and escaping.
The two who were left looked at each other as she ran off--he with open
admiration, she with a tremulous quiver of her lips not lost upon him.
Oliver Trent was a man of about five and thirty, tall and thin, with
dead, dusty-coloured hair; his features were not ill-looking, but, as
Bice had remarked, hard in their lines, and he spoke with a slow
sweetness curiously out of keeping with his face. He now slowly
repeated--
"To my fate. I wonder if Kitty quite understood what happy
prognostications lay in her words? Yes, this is the fate I have been
looking forward to all these weary weeks; and I began to think, Bice,
that you delighted in cruelty, or else had learned the woman's art of
tantalising. Come and sit here in the shade."
She followed him more readily than he, perhaps, expected, for he
half-suspected that she was bent upon avoiding a _tete-a-tete_; but in
actual truth she had scarcely heard his words, or at any rate had not
taken in their meaning. Another thought possessed her. As they sat
down she turned and looked steadily into his face.
"What is Clive's exact position?" she said sharply.
He hesitated. She repeated the question.
"You had better not ask for particulars, for they can only give you
pain."
"I can bear pain."
"Yes," he said, glancing at her hand, "such pain as that; but there are
other and worse pangs, and from those, Bice, I shall always endeavour to
shield you. Clive has been doing his utmost to ruin himself and make
you all miserable; I am trying to save him. It is a hard task, and
unless you trust me and follow my directions, I tell you honestly that I
have no chance of success."
"You threaten us with shadows," said the girl moodily.
"Oh, Bice," he said--and his voice became yet softer and more slow--"you
are not yourself to-day. What has changed you? I have often found you
hasty, wilful, unreasonable, but never before ungenerous. Is it I that
threaten? Is it not rather I that at any cost am trying to keep the
danger a shadow? Once let me remove my hand, and it will be real and
tangible enough--"
She could not endure such a reproach; it seemed horrible to her, and
also true. She stretched out her hand to him with a quick gesture of
kindness.
"You have been our very good friend, I know, Oliver," she said, looking
at him gratefully, "and I ought to be content and not tease you. Only
tell me, is it absolutely necessary there should be this secrecy?"
"Absolutely. I am obliged to use the greatest caution."
"Out here, how would it be possible for us to interfere with any plans?"
He began to be vexed with her unusual importunity, but allowed no trace
of his vexation to appear in his face or voice. On the contrary, he
said with a smile, "Excuse me; if there were no other way, I should feel
by no means certain what you and Kitty might not write to Clive. No.
Complete ignorance is the safest state of things for you; for of one
thing I am sure, nature never intended either of you for a conspirator."
Bice turned and looked at him thoughtfully. He felt uneasy, for her
eyes seemed to be asking whether it was for that he was intended. He
said more abruptly than he had yet spoken--
"Do you not care any longer that Clive should be saved?"
"Do I not care!"
The sudden fire which leapt into her eyes answered him. He had at last
touched the right string.
"You have considered it thoroughly?" he said, speaking deliberately
again. "I particularly desire that you should do so. If this act of
Clive's is brought home to him, it means dishonour and disgrace; I
cannot hide it from you. Your mother is very fond of Clive, she will
never hold up her head again. As for Kitty, you know best whether she
will care or not. It may not be so bad for you, it is true, because you
bear another name."
Bice interrupted him in a low passionate voice. "You shall not say
that!"
"You refuse to separate yourself from them? Well, then, for you too the
shame and the disgrace. And poor Clive, so young, so foolish, not
wicked, but led away. He writes to you all, I know, as if nothing had
happened, but if you could see him as I do, you would long to save him!"
"You must save him."
The girl's voice was choked. Oliver leant forward and looked at her.
"At all costs?"
"At all costs."
"And by all means, whether right or wrong?"
"Whether right or wrong."
He leant forward still further and forced her to look at him.
"I will," he said slowly. "For you."
They were silent after that for a time. He felt that he had won a
victory, but her moods were so changeful that he was afraid of
endangering it by trying to push his advantage further. And yet he
wanted more. More than ever since this other man, of whom he felt
insanely jealous, had appeared on the scene. At this moment, when her
feelings were all stirred and thrilled, he knew that skilfully led she
would be capable of any self-sacrifice, that it would even have an
attraction for her. Once get her to make a definite promise, and he
felt certain the generosity of her nature would keep her to it. And
once his--he looked at her beautiful face, grew pale, and set his
teeth--he would make her love him: his work should not be left half
done.
Now, if ever, was his time.
He said presently, in a pained and gloomy tone--"I could almost envy
Clive."
"Why?" she said, looking round quickly.
"Clive, and Kitty, and your mother. Do you ever think of anyone else?
Would you care if I--we--the rest of the world were swept away in a
common deluge? Would it matter to you in the least, supposing you four
were safe?"
"You are very unjust, Oliver," she said in a low tone, and he saw tears
shining in her eyes.
"I think not," he said gently. "So long as I can save Clive you are
quite willing for me to run any risk--and the risk is great, remember.
I am a chancery barrister, working upwards with quite my share of
difficulties. Suppose my attempt fails--yes, it is always necessary to
look what one undertakes in the face."
"Clive would be ruined," she said as he paused. Then, as he did not
speak, she looked at him again and saw him smiling. "What do you mean?"
she said half angrily.
"What did I tell you?" he answered. "It was not of Clive that I was
speaking at that moment but of myself. I should be ruined as
effectually as Clive, but that, of course, is not worth mentioning."
She started from her seat as if she had been stung, but he laid his hand
on her arm and drew her down again beside him. "Wait a moment, Bice,"
he said in a changed voice, "wait and listen; I have a right at least to
ask so much from you. I am not saying this to you because I have any
dream of retracting my promise; it is given, and there is an end of
scruple. It is dangerous, perhaps wrong; I shall have to use means that
I detest, and mix myself up with scoundrels who will be on the look-out
to catch me tripping--never mind. I have promised. Only understand
what it is you ask me to do, and understand also that I do it for you--
solely and entirely for you. What is Clive to me? Nothing. Do you
suppose that one's cousins are so dear that one would risk reputation
and honour for them. But what are you to me? Everything. Everything
in the whole world, and you know it, you know it. Have you no word for
me? Am I to sacrifice everything and to have nothing in return? Bice,
Bice, can't you give anything for Clive?"
She was looking straight before her, the colour had faded out of her
face; his voice, dangerously low and sweet, sounded in her ears. All
her life long she never forgot that moment. Long afterwards, if she
shut her eyes, she could see the great leaves of the trees of Paradise
swaying backwards and forwards against the deep blue sky; a vine, golden
in the sunshine; a pumpkin with its odd parti-coloured gourds flinging
itself down a steep bank; a clump of lilac crocuses breaking through the
grass--her eyes wandered over them all while he waited for her answer.
She knew quite well what it must be; her poor little generous untaught
heart had felt all the time he was speaking that he had a right so to
speak, that it was not for her to hold back. Never before had it seemed
to her so terrible--Oliver would have been bitterly disappointed had he
known--but not for that could she hesitate. She hated herself because
the sacrifice seemed so unendurable. Why did she not speak? What years
were dragging slowly by while he waited, holding her hand in his--
waited, waited!
There was a rush, a swoop. A great black dog came tearing through the
bushes, springing upon Bice. Old Andrea followed, breathless and
panting.
"He is a demon, that dog of the English signore," he cried, "and he has
lost his master. Signorina, for pity's sake take him where he is, or he
will knock the house down. He has been in my kitchen and gobbled up a
heap of _amoretti_, and broken half the eggs, and upset the milk, and
before that he had frightened the padrona out of her senses. _Che, che,
che_, we cannot have such doings! Signorina, where is his master?"
"He is gone," said Bice, jumping up; "he has been gone a long time.
What shall we do, Andrea? Can one of the men take him into Florence?"
"Would he go?--the signorina should rather ask that question. Otherwise
the cart from the _podere_ is here, going in with a couple of pigs that
have been sold. But the creature would not follow."
"Then we must tie him to the back."
"Gia, _gia_, that is it, the signorina has always got her ideas." Old
Andrea, who had recovered his good humour, stood shaking his broad
shoulders and pointing at Cartouche, who kept close to Beatrice. "And
he really is clever, too, he knows he has found a friend. Come along,
come along, signorina mia."
"You will not go?" said Oliver, holding her back. He was furious with
the dog, with the old cook, and with the knowledge that Ibbetson had
already been there that morning. One other moment and the girl would
have been his, he had known it, and now--
It seemed to Bice as if a weight had fallen from her, she caught her
hand from his and stood breathing quickly.
"Yes, I must go," she said, almost angrily. "Don't you see they cannot
manage him by themselves. Come, Cartouche; come, Andrea."
She ran towards the house, the dog followed her, leaping and barking.
Oliver turned sharply away and went to the Virgin's niche. He wanted to
see if she had really taken fresh flowers there. Had Ibbetson helped
her; was she playing a double game? He stood for some time thinking,
his head bent and a frown on his face; and while he was there, a cart
came jolting down the white and stony road. Behind it, and dragged
unwillingly along, was poor Cartouche on his way to his home. Bice was
walking by his side to console him for a little part of the road by
encouraging words. She did not see Oliver Trent, nor hear his
exclamation of rage, but she looked like a creature who had escaped to
freedom, and had thrown off a burden. He was half disposed to follow
her, but something seemed to warn him that the spell was broken, and
must be re-woven before he could succeed.
Perhaps people do not very often--except, indeed, in books--lay those
elaborate schemes, those widely-spread toils of villainy, which are
supposed to belong to a bad man's career. It is probable that they open
out to them almost as unexpectedly as to us, time and opportunity
seeming to throw themselves on their side. Certainly Trent, who was
growing more involved week by week, had laid no such plans when he took
his first step; nay, more, he was made very uneasy by a clear perception
of the dangers to which he was exposing himself as he went on. He would
gladly have pulled himself up before, and looked forward almost
feverishly to laying down the net which he told himself he was forced to
weave, with the full intention of never again engaging in such rash
work. He had no dislike of Clive to make it easier to do him a
mischief, though he salved his conscience in the curious short-sighted
way in which that work is often done, telling himself that the means he
was obliged to use would not really injure the young man, although they
might seem to cloud his prospects for a time:--nay, he sometimes almost
succeeded in assuring himself that they were likely to work for Clive's
advantage, giving him just the lesson he needed, and putting him through
a wholesome time of trial. But as this view of himself as a kind of
abstract justice was one which no effort could keep always in the
position where he would have liked to find it, he was subject to fits of
impatience, wishing very heartily that he could reach his end and wash
his hands of all this miserable business, which both irritated and
annoyed him. When he had reached the villa he had confidently looked
forward to being free in a week. And already he was feeling as if his
acts were turning into scourges. Yet he had no thought of giving up
Bice; the more he saw her, the more determined he grew to make her his
wife, and when he was in her company all compunctions for Clive and
fears for himself vanished in reckless resolution.