Oliver Trent had been too much enraged by Ibbetson's monopolisation of
Bice to be as prudent as was his wont; indeed, he began to feel as if he
had been over cautious already, and that it would have been wiser to
have checked matters more decidedly. She avoided him, but he was
determined to give his warning, and when Jack went to seek Phillis he
caught at the opportunity to say--
"New friends for old--is that your last motto, Bice?"
"What do you mean?" she said, faltering.
"I mean that I could envy you your powers of forgetfulness if I did not
unfortunately happen to be one of the sufferers. Clive and I--have we
really altogether dropped out of your mind?"
"You take care to prevent such a possibility, even for a moment," she
said angrily.
"Oh, I will not offend you again, if that is your feeling. I will leave
Florence to-morrow morning, and nothing shall remind you of my
existence. As for Clive, I am afraid I cannot make so large a promise."
She was so changed and shaken, that for the first time in her life he
frightened her. She felt as if she were powerless in a strong grasp.
Where could she turn?
"Why do you say this to me, Oliver?" she said slowly. "What have I
done? I have not forgotten your goodness about Clive, or--what you
said. Why should I? There is no one else to whom I can turn. But
you--you should not oblige me to speak of it here, with all these people
as our guests."
She said the words very softly and gently, but she did not look at him
as she spoke.
"When will you speak, then?" he said moodily. "To-night?"
"Not to-night, not to-night, please! To-morrow."
"I am tired of to-morrows. Why should it always be to-morrow? No.
This evening in the garden."
She did not contradict him any further. After all, it was hardly worth
while.
Ibbetson could not get any more conversation with Bice on their way back
to the villa, for Oliver quietly baffled his attempts, and Miss Preston
was pouring out to every one her own views as to possible improvements
in the vintage--the grapes should be trained differently, there should
be a revolving wheel in the tubs, someone should read to the
_contadine_.
"Still I own to one improvement, for I am pleased to have had ocular
demonstration that the barbarous fashion of treading out the grapes is
no longer in practice. It gives one a certain hope."
"But that is another stage," exclaimed Kitty innocently; "don't you
know? They put the grapes into huge shallow tubs and jump on them till
the juice is extracted. All the boys and girls help. After our share
has been weighed in the cellar we shall make it at home."
The little party were playing at cross-purposes all the way back.
Perhaps no one was content, not even Captain Leyton, who gazed moodily
at a blot of green, purple, and golden, which was all he had got out of
the vineyard. Bice looked pale and depressed, and said nothing to
Oliver, who marched by her side all down the hill. Mrs Leyton tried to
draw a little amusement out of the others by talking of them to Phillis,
but Phillis, too, was silent.
After luncheon they went different ways. Bice took Miss Preston, who
was anxious, as she said, to make the round of the premises; Captain
Leyton became supremely happy over a promising sketch; the others
strolled or sat about, eating figs and peaches, Mr Trent keeping near
Jack, though with little pretence at cordiality. Phillis, who wanted
time for herself, slipped away at last with Cartouche for a companion,
and wandered about in the quiet alleys, of which there were so many.
Suddenly she turned a corner and came upon Bice alone.
Something--stronger than circumstances--had all along attracted these
two to each other. They were different, but each had a certain nobility
of soul which may have had something to do with the attraction. Each
had grown up out of the world, and though Bice had had sharp experience
of evil, it was not the evil of petty spites and jealousies. Then for
Phillis beauty alone had that intense charm and interest which it often
has for those who themselves lack its power, and she felt a strong pity
for the girl who had looked sad all the day, and now had evidently been
crying; a pity no less real because she believed that she herself must
take up the burden of pain if she were to relieve it. She could not
pass by, or pretend not to see.
"I am afraid you are unhappy," she said gently. "Mr Ibbetson said that
you were very anxious about your brother, but he told us no particulars.
Is he ill, or is he in trouble? Can we help you in any way? I should
be very glad if you would try not to look upon me as a stranger,
although I know it is difficult."
Bice, whose heart was in a tumult, who did not know what to think, who
believed she hated Oliver, Jack, Phillis, and herself most of all, was
touched in a moment, not so much perhaps by the words, as by the kind,
steadfast eyes which interpreted them.
"I don't think it is difficult," she said, and with a sudden impulse she
caught Phillis's hand and kissed her. "Ever since I saw you I have felt
somehow as if you would do us good."
For the moment she had forgotten Jack. Phillis, who read more in the
words than the girl meant, felt her heart swell.
"Perhaps I can," she said steadily. "Things often come about in the
manner we least expect. Who knows whether you and I, if we put our
heads together, may not find a way out of some of your troubles? Can
you trust me with them?"
"Yes," said Bice after a moment's pause. "Oliver forbade me to speak,
but I don't see that he knows best. I don't know who to consult. I
asked Mr Ibbetson, and he seemed to think it all very bad indeed." She
went on hurriedly. "There were some things I could not tell him--but
you! Oh, I am very, very miserable. Do you think it will be very
ungrateful of me if Mr Trent saves Clive and yet I do not marry him?"
"Is that what he wishes?"
"Yes. He says he risks everything--that it is only for me."
"And you don't love him?"
"Oh, no, no, no!"
The girl shivered as she spoke. There was a little pause, then Phillis
said--
"How long has he been asking you to do this?"
"I don't know," Bice said, letting her hands drop wearily. "Ever since
he brought us the bad news of Clive, I suppose. But it is in the last
few days that he has said the most, and every day it seems to grow worse
and worse. To-night I must tell him."
Phillis took her hands in hers and looked into her face.
"You must tell him you will not marry him," she said quietly.
The girl's face flushed with sudden joy, then the colour faded quite
away.
"Ah! you don't know," she said, shaking her head. "So much I do know.
Nothing that you can tell me can make wrong right. But perhaps you will
let me hear more."
"Wrong?" repeated Bice, looking at her. To her, poor child, it seemed
that she was only shrinking from a duty, from the stern call to
self-sacrifice. That there could be any higher principle, that no aim,
whether we call it self-sacrifice, or self-surrender, or anything else,
can sanctify one step taken out of the right road, she did not realise.
All her life she had been brought up to think of right and wrong as
having somewhat hazy outlines. As she told Clive's story over again,
perhaps she dwelt more on the fear of disgrace than on his sin. But she
could not help noticing the look of pain which gathered in Phillis's
brown eyes. She stopped and sighed.
"Now you are shocked," she said. "So was Mr Ibbetson. You think it is
hopeless."
"Wait a moment," said Phillis, "let me think."
They walked on silently beneath the trees; the grass near them was lilac
with autumnal crocuses, a great crimson rose swung itself down from a
pole.
"I wonder if I am right," Phillis said, hesitatingly. "It seems to me
there might be some mistake. Mr Trent may not know, and you have no
right to think hard things of your brother without proof. Surely you
will ask him, ask him directly."
"But Oliver said--"
"Oh, never mind," said Phillis, with a touch of impatience. "Tell him
that you can't follow his advice in that respect. Suppose it is not so
bad as he imagines, I don't see how you can expect Mr Masters to
forgive your want of confidence. No, be open and write. Perhaps he can
clear himself. At any rate do not marry without love. If Mr Trent is
an honourable man, he will not attempt to take advantage of your
anxiety."
Phillis had not meant to say so much, but feeling strongly as to Mr
Trent's conduct, she could not abstain. An instinctive aversion had
risen in her mind when she first saw him at Bologna, and this story of
Bice's awoke more doubts, not to use the harsher word suspicions, than
she liked to acknowledge even to herself. At the best his conduct was
both ungenerous and unmanly.
Bice caught at her advice, which seemed to lift off some of her
perplexities. She was very grave and quiet all the rest of the
afternoon, keeping away as much as she could from both Jack and Oliver,
and looking every now and then wistfully at Phillis. If she had known
what Phillis, too, was thinking, what other resolutions had been made on
that day, when doubts and fears seemed to be flying about in the air!
They dined at the marble table on the terrace, and the picture, with the
piled-up fruits, the dancing shadows, was as pretty as when Jack first
saw it, though he had a dissatisfied feeling of change. Cartouche sat
on a balustrade, and caught grapes when anyone threw them to him.
Captain Leyton was full of glee at having got one of the gardeners to
stand as a foreground for his sketch. Trent looked uneasily at Bice;
she was quieter, and did not shrink from his glance as she had done in
the morning, and he was not sure that it was a good sign.
She did not shrink either when they had watched the others drive away;
on the contrary, she told Kitty she had something to say to Oliver, and
herself led the way to a seat under the banksia trellis close to the
pond, where yellow and white water lilies were still flowering. He
watched her very closely. Her mood puzzled him, and he wanted her to be
the first to speak. She did speak at last, without looking at him.
"You had something to say?"
"No," he said quietly, "nothing. You mistook my meaning, Bice. I have
said my say, and that perhaps was more than was wise or prudent. But I
do not regret it. I said it, and already have taken steps to carry out
what I promised. I have nothing either to add or to retract. But
you!--have you not tried me enough? Do you ever think of the hours of
torture you are inflicting?--such hours as to-day for instance, when I
have been driven mad with doubts and fears? Is it not you who have
something to say?"
She was silent. A month ago it would have been impossible for her to
have listened unmoved to such an appeal, but a month ago she had never
loved, and love--unreturned--hardens the heart strangely against another
lover. His words seemed to her unreal and almost absurd. He put out
his hand and took hers, and she caught it away angrily.
"Let me go, Oliver!" she exclaimed.
"Why do you turn from me, why do you hesitate?" he went on, in a voice
which shook with his efforts at control. "You cannot doubt my love, for
I could hardly give you a greater proof than I am giving. Danger, risk
of ruin, all would seem to me as absolutely nothing compared with one
word from you; and though all I do I do for your sake, you will not
speak that word, Bice. Is this generous?"
"I don't wish you to run those risks."
"Do you forget what you said? `At all risks.' That was your request."
"Then I was wrong, and you were wrong," said the girl, more faintly.
"Perhaps. But the alternative?"
"I have an alternative. I shall write to Clive." Oliver grew pale.
"You have, then, no more wish to save him?"
"He may not have done it, he may be able to explain, and it is shameful
of us to condemn him unheard."
"I warn you, Bice, that you will put it out of my power to save him."
"We must run the risk," she answered, in a low, resolute voice.
Oliver could scarcely restrain his passion. He was certain that
Ibbetson was at the bottom of her determination, and it seemed as if all
his plots, his hopes, were to be baffled by this man. He longed to
charge her with it, to taunt her with Jack's engagement, but he did not
dare, for Bice's was not a nature which could be safely goaded into
resentment, and he feared the flash of her eyes and what it might tell
him. He controlled himself.
"Write, then," he said, "write at once. Clive will not acknowledge that
anything is wrong."
"We shall see."
"And am I still to be your shuttlecock?" he said hoarsely. "Have pity,
Bice, have pity! Such love as mine deserves some return--"
She interrupted him.
"It deserves to find love, I know, and that is what I have not got to
give. I am very sorry, Oliver, only I must be true with you, at all
costs."
"You are rather late in your resolves," he said, biting his lip until
the blood sprang.
"I have thought and hoped," she said, looking down, "that one day I
might feel differently, and be able to give you what you wanted, if only
out of gratitude to you for your kindness. I thought, perhaps, it was
that you had taken me by surprise, that I was ignorant and
inexperienced, and that my feelings would change."
"You were right!" he cried vehemently. "Think so still, Bice, my
darling, my own! You do not know, how should you? Marry me, and I will
teach you to love me. I have no fear, no doubt."
"But now I know," she said, going on as if he had not spoken, "and it is
all different. I can't marry you, even to save Clive. I could not even
if I had promised. Do not be sorry, Oliver, I am not worth it."
"It is easy to say `Do not.' Do you suppose our feelings are so under
control that we can master them at pleasure?" he retorted with
bitterness. "You let me hope, you hold the cup almost to my lips, and
then tell me not to be sorry when it is dashed away. Who has been
teaching you to play fast and loose, Bice? Who has shaken your faith in
your friends? When will one of them do what I have done, what I am
ready to do? Has your mother told you that she has borrowed money from
me to pay her debts, because she did not doubt--"
He stopped. Bice had sprung up, pale, with flashing eyes.
"That is not true!" she cried.
"Is it not? Ask her."
She looked at him as if she would pierce his soul. Alas, it is not
always the most innocent souls which bear such looks without faltering!
Her own eyes fell. "I will pay it," she said in a low voice.
"That is folly."
"I will pay it," she repeated, this time angrily.
"Do so," he said after a moment's pause. And then he added, "but
remember this. If your mother had had from me a hundred times as much
she would not have done me as much harm as you will do me if you throw
me over."
Was it true? Had she indeed worked all this evil? Would it not be
easier to yield as she had meant to do that morning? He was so
persistent, he would not give her up. She hesitated, and then, strong
and clear, Phillis's words came back--"Do not marry him if you do not
love him." She looked him full in the face. "Let me pass," she said,
"I can give you no other answer." He had read something of the
struggle, and was bitterly disappointed, though his determined will gave
up nothing of his intention.
"If you write to Clive, it had better be without delay," he said.
"I'll write to-morrow morning." And then she turned and put out her
hand. "Thank you for letting me write, Oliver."
"I dare not advise you to build upon it, but you can try," he said.
"Yes, by all means try."
The next morning, as Bice was passing through the hall, she met Trent.
"If you have any letters for the early post," he said, "I will take
them, I am going into Florence."
"Oh, thank you very much. I had meant to send little 'Tista."
"'Tista is wanted for the vintage, and is not an over-safe messenger.
Is this all?"
"All. Thank you again. That letter is a weight off my mind. I am sure
he will answer it."
"I fancy not, but, as I said, one can but try. Nothing more? Rest in
the garden, Bice, and do not go again to the vineyards. You look tired
and pale. Such walks as yesterday do you no good."
"Rest!" she repeated impatiently. "You talk as if one could turn all
the thoughts out of one's head whenever one liked. That might be rest."
"I wish you would let me do your thinking for you."
He spoke tenderly, and she turned suddenly and looked at him. He could
not understand her look, which was at once inquiring and reproachful,
and, indeed, at this time all her thoughts were in a tangle. Doubts,
suspicions, generous impulses, womanly pride, womanly fears, seemed to
shake her very soul, and drive it on one side and the other. Sometimes
she felt as if she had not a friend in the world, as if the only haven
open to her was one she loathed. Even with Phillis it was all a strange
inexplicable problem. Phillis had brought her sharpest pangs, yet
attracted her irresistibly. Phillis, too, was unhappy, of that she was
certain; yet something about her, something which Bice felt without
being able to explain, gave her a sense of rest and confidence. It was
as if she had an anchor which must keep her from the tossing of such
storms as were driving poor Bice here and there. Vague thoughts came
floating about her, half prayers, half resolutions, feeble and
fluttering, yet real and therefore not in vain.