"I don't think it can be so soon as you fancy."
"But why?" Miss Cartwright persisted. "On my account? Come, my dear,
tell me exactly whether that has not been on your mind and Jack's."
"He has not spoken about it," said the girl with an effort. "Indeed,
dear Miss Cartwright--"
"Call me Aunt Mary, my dear."
"It can't be yet."
Miss Cartwright said no more, she was hardly equal to any sustained
conversation, but she took an opportunity later in the day to tell Jack
that Phillis should go out for a walk. "Take her to the Uffizi," she
said; "and, Jack--"
"Yes."
"Don't give me the sorrow of feeling that I am a hindrance. Let me hear
that your marriage day is fixed."
As she spoke he noticed with a pang how much she was altered, and with a
sudden movement stooped down and kissed her.
"I would do anything in the world that could please you," he said.
She held him fast with her feeble hands.
"My dear, she is worth much more than _that_," she said eagerly. "But I
don't think you yet know how much, and I am sometimes afraid she will
never let you know."
"What do you mean?" he said, startled. But he could not get her to
explain.
She had put into words what he had avoided forming into a definite idea.
In his heart he knew that he ought to have spoken to Phillis about
their wedding day, but it was so much more to his inclination that
matters should go on as they had been going, that he had refused to
think about the future. He had been out once or twice to the villa, and
though Oliver was on guard, and though Bice showed the same reserve, it
interested him to break through it, as he had once or twice succeeded in
doing, and he was beginning to take a dangerous pleasure in thwarting
Oliver. However, he had spoken quite truly when he told his aunt that
he would do anything in the world to give her pleasure, and he had no
intention of avoiding the conversation with Phillis, only looking
forward to it somewhat ruefully, as leading matters to a point which he
would have preferred to regard for some while yet in the distance.
She was quite ready to go to the Uffizi when he suggested it, but asked
to go round by the Duomo and Giotto's tower. The day was not very
bright, but there was a still grave beauty about it. They went under
the frowning walls of the Strozzi into the old market with its narrow,
dirty, picturesque, unchanged alleys. Even when great bundles of yellow
and scarlet tulips, fresh from the fields, and splendid in the glory of
their colours, lie tossed upon the ground, or when myriads of lilies of
the valley are gathered into fragrant sheaves, this old market of
Florence is not a place in which you can linger without some offence to
eye or ear. And yet joy, too, were it only for these things, or for the
sweet Madonna with her lilies which Luca della Robbia set up with
faithful reverence for the buyers and sellers below. But in autumn days
flowers do not deck Florence with the bounty of spring or summer.
Vegetables there are in plenty--cucumbers, and scarlet tomatoes, and
crisp white lettuces; and as for the fruits, they are heaped in great
piles; melons--striped, smooth, small, large--lie under cool green
leaves; rosy peaches, figs, purple and green, wild strawberries, grapes
of every shade of delicious colour, brighten the old stones; but a
certain grace has fled with the flowers, and Florence is not quite
herself.
And yet on that day it was difficult to think that anything was wanting,
so tender were the lights, so soft the shadows, into and out of which--
with here and there a rosy or a golden glow as a stronger gleam struck
the marbles--rose the Duomo and the Shepherd's bell-tower. Phillis
lingered there a little, lingered looking at the gates of the
Baptistery, at Giotto's sculptures, at the little oratory of the Bigallo
on the other side.
"There is so much, and it is all so close together!" she said, drawing a
deep breath.
But, indeed, the wonder of Florence lies in her perpetual youth. She is
old, and yet no touch of age seems to have passed over her. All around
are the memories of past ages, but they are alive and present, and time
scarcely seems to separate you from them. It would not surprise you to
see Giotto standing under his tower, to meet Dante turning towards his
house, Savonarola passing to the preaching, Romola--as real as any--
hurrying back to old Bardi. Our past grows mouldy, whereas here it
keeps life, and colour, and reality. Is it that we are always trying to
escape from it?
The Uffizi was rather empty. There were plenty of copyists, most of
all, as usual, round the great Fra Angelico, with its praising angels,
in the passage, but otherwise strangers were few. Jack, who had a craze
for Botticelli, would not let Phillis rest until he had taken her to the
Judith in the room next the Tribune. She comes towards you more lightly
than Judith would have done after the deed, but the strong purpose, the
self-forgetfulness of the face, are wonderful; and as the yellow morning
light catches the grey blue of her dress, she looks far beyond you, and
beyond what you are ever likely to see. Presently from her lips will
come the cry of deliverance, "Open, open now the gates!" and all
Bethulia will press round to see and hear. Jack, who had learnt
Botticelli from Ruskin, was full of enthusiasm, and dragged Phillis off
to the Calumny, the Fortitude. He made her sit down in a corner where
she could see the last-named well, and then a thought struck him.
"Your face isn't unlike Sandro's favourite type, Phillis," he said,
looking at her critically.
She coloured slightly as she smiled.
"Except for the far-away look, this Fortitude hardly seems to me to be
one of that type."
"You have that far-away look occasionally: you sometimes meet me with
it. What are you thinking about?--our future?"
"Of the future, perhaps."
"Ours, then."
Phillis was silent. The Fortitude seemed to gaze at her with
sympathetic eyes. Jack went on gravely and a little awkwardly.
"It is time we settled something, don't you think so?"
"Yes," she said in a very low voice.
"My aunt is exceedingly anxious that we should not delay on account of
her illness, and I don't see that we need. We are both resolved that
our wedding shall be as quiet and simple as possible, and really it will
be a relief to her mind rather than an anxiety. Therefore, dear, only
one thing remains--to fix the day."
He did not look at Phillis as he spoke, and two people who glanced into
the room thought the pair were a brother and sister bent on enjoying
pictures which nobody in his senses could admire. Phillis said after a
momentary pause--
"I am afraid that is not all."
"Trousseau, and that sort of thing? But surely it can wait for
England?"
"Something of more consequence," and he noticed a tremor in her voice.
"Jack," she went on, "you and I have always been good friends. I hope
that will go on; I don't think I could bear to believe that anything
could come between us in that. But for the other matter, dear, it has
been a mistake, and I thank God that there is yet time to set it right.
We are good friends always, remember, but we can be nothing more. I was
wrong to consent, and my uncle was wrong to press it, as I think now he
did; but he did it for the best, and, as I said, it can be set right."
"Phillis!"
She put up her hand.
"Hush! Spare me any reproaches or entreaties, Jack. If I have done
wrong, I will take all the blame, and do my best to set matters right I
hesitated for a time because I thought of Hetherton, but I feel almost
sure that if I write to my aunt and explain how this is entirely my own
doing, Mr Thornton's sense of justice will prevail, and that you will
not suffer. But even should it be otherwise, we dare not make that the
first consideration, dare we? I am certain that would be your
decision."
"About Hetherton, yes," said Ibbetson, rising and standing by her chair
with much agitation. "But I don't understand you, Phillis! Have you
changed or I? What have I done to bring you to such a conclusion? You
can't be thinking of all that your words imply. Are you offended with
me?"
Her eyes, clear and steadfast, answered him, though her voice was
shaken.
"Not offended. Offence could hardly dome between us. But don't you
see, we should not be happy together, we could not marry."
"You could not be happy with me. That is what I must understand you to
mean," he said with some bitterness. "And I don't know what I have done
that you should change your opinion, if, indeed, you ever loved me."
If she ever loved him! What but love, tender and true, could have
nerved her to the anguish of this moment, of all the moments that were
coming! Not love him! She sighed, she had not thought her task would
be so hard.
"We all make mistakes at times," she said, without answering his
reproach, which, indeed, pricked his own conscience as he uttered it.
"Let us be thankful, Jack, that this isn't irreparable."
"But why--why will you have it to be a mistake?" he asked doggedly.
"I leave that to you to answer," she said gravely, and he suddenly felt
in her a womanly dignity of which he had not before been conscious. "I
don't myself think that any good is to be gained by entering into
explanations. You know in your heart that what I say is best for us
both."
"I know nothing of the sort," he exclaimed; and indeed at this moment he
would not acknowledge to himself that it was best. He had not wished to
hurry on their marriage, but that was a different matter from giving up
Phillis. And he could not help feeling that it was possible she might
carry out her determination. But yesterday he would have smiled at the
idea that he could not influence her in any direction he pleased. He
had never understood her, and shyness had seemed to him such a marked
feature in her character, that he had looked upon her as one who would
be always willing to follow where others led, without attempting to
exercise an independent judgment. In her words to-day, still more
perhaps in her manner, there was a quiet resolution which for ever upset
these preconceived ideas. This was no shy unformed girl, but a woman
strong in her self-respect and self-control. "Phillis," he said, and
there was greater warmth in his tone than he had ever shown her before,
"for pity's sake don't let a vague fancy separate us. If you say
nothing definite, how can I defend myself?"
He half expected her to answer that she did not accuse him; but she did
not, although she seemed to ponder over his words.
"It is not a vague fancy," she said presently, and she spoke very
quietly and sadly; "it is a conviction, which you will by-and-by
acknowledge yourself."
"But--it is impossible--you don't really mean that it is all over
between us? What reason can we give the Leytons--my uncle?"
"I will explain to both."
He walked away from her to the other side of the room, standing staring
at a picture of Signorelli's without seeing it. She sat where he had
left her, feeling as if she could not move, as if her own hands had
wrecked her peace, as if for the moment she would give all she had to
undo what she had done. And it was not over yet, though her strength
failed as he left her side. He came back quickly.
"Have you really considered the bearings of the case? Hetherton, for
instance?"
"I am very sorry for you," she said faintly. "How sorry I cannot say.
But there is no one nearer. I think Mr Thornton must retract his words
when he hears that this has been my doing."
"But what will be your own position?" Jack said with a certain effort.
She looked at him in bewilderment for a minute; then, as his meaning
flashed on her, started to her feet. The tears sprang into her eyes,
her voice trembled, but all her strength had come back.
"I have not deserved _that_," she said vehemently. No, indeed. In this
great crash of hope of happiness which she had brought about, Hetherton
might go without so much as a thought. It was a hundred times more to
Ibbetson, who salved the soreness of his independence with the idea that
he was indifferent, but who could scarcely enter into the trouble, his
words had caused her. Had he, then, thought so meanly of her as to
suppose that Hetherton had weighed? Oh, well that she had spoken, at
whatever cost of pain! She began to walk away quickly through the
rooms, and he, who had been startled out of another misconception,
followed, feeling himself awkwardly placed as he did so. He kept close
behind, but did not join her until they were near the bottom of the
great staircase, and then she had recovered her composure, and made some
indifferent remark about asking for letters at the post-office opposite.
If you wish to change a conversation in Florence, there are plenty of
sights and sounds which will effect your purpose. They chose a packet
of the little photographs which are spread out under the arcades, turned
as usual to look at the flower-like tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and
stared in at the windows of the mosaic workers. When they reached the
Old Bridge a soldier's funeral was crossing it, and the people crowding.
The regiment marched, the sun shone out for a moment on flashing steel
and on young grave faces; behind came a group of the black and hooded
Brothers of Mercy carrying lighted torches. They were all walking
quickly, and the Old Bridge formed a strange mediaeval framework to the
procession.
Ibbetson and Phillis dreaded silence too much not to make valiant
efforts to avoid it all the way home by the Lung' Arno. It seemed to
her that her forces were expended, and he was thinking uneasily of what
she had said. His good things had dropped so readily upon him all his
life long, that although she did not know it, nothing stimulated him
like difficulty, and she had already gained a new value in his eyes, and
moved him to a greater appreciation. But he was also annoyed and a
little ashamed. Did she really mean that she was rejecting him? When
they reached Casa Giulia he paused at the door.
"Phillis," he said in a low voice, "you said more than you meant just
now, didn't you?"
She might have answered that it had cost her too much to say what she
did to allow of her falling into such an error, and the pleading which
he put into his voice made this appeal a fresh anguish. But she
steadied herself to answer quietly--
"I mean it all. Indeed, it is best."
"If you will not consent to our marriage taking place as soon as was
intended, you don't at all events wish that everything should be at an
end between us?"
"Are things ever at an end in this world?" she said, with a sad little
smile. "But I do wish that all should be at an end so far that you--
that we should be absolutely free."
"Am I to go away?" he asked petulantly. It seemed as if in this
conversation their usual parts were reversed, and perhaps she read in it
a sign that her decision was right. But now she hesitated. For herself
she would rather he had gone, but there was Miss Cartwright, there was
Bice. She said--
"I don't see how you can. And as we are always to be friends, there is
no need."
He said no more. He opened the door for her to go in, betook himself to
the garden, and was as cross for the rest of the day as it was in his
nature to be.