As Phillis passed out from the table-d'hote at the Alemagna that
evening, the porter put a note into her hand.
"Get me what information you can," it said, "_address, name of firm, and
anything you think useful. And, for pity's sake don't let my aunt and
Cartouche be completely flattened by that woman in my absence_."
The next morning a note went to the Via della Croce.
"_The information is simply wonderful. The firm is_ `Thornton and Hay.'
_I do think it is the oddest coincidence_!"
For "Thornton," the senior of the two great ironmasters, was Peter
Thornton of Hetherton Court, of whom mention has been made; and, under
the circumstances, Phillis's astonishment was not to be wondered at.
Quite a fire of notes passed between the two streets that morning. The
next was to this effect:
"_Very queer, indeed. If I were you I would say nothing of this to his
sister. Where are you going to-day_?"
An answer came back.
"_To the Vatican with the Peningtons. I send you an order in case you
like to bring the Masters_--"
Mr Penington was an excellent cicerone. His information was
trustworthy, and he had that pleasant way of imparting it which never
gives you the impression of mounting a pedestal and declaiming. Phillis
thought her afternoon delightful, and it seemed as if he thought the
same, for he claimed her interest eagerly. They were in the hall of the
Muses standing before the beautiful and stern Thalia, who sits with a
garland of ivy leaves on her head, looking out disdainfully at the
world's follies, when Mr Penington touched Phillis.
"The most lovely girl imaginable has just come in," he said; "you must
really get a good view of her."
It was Bice, of course. She was walking listlessly before her
companions, and scarcely troubling herself to glance at the statues; but
she brightened at seeing Phillis, and seemed relieved to join her.
Phillis would have liked to tell her what errand was taking Jack to
England, but she could not venture to do so, and indeed Mr Penington,
who had no intention of allowing his companion's interest to wander,
managed to claim her whole attention. No one noticed the indignant
glances which Jack threw at him. Phillis would have been the last to
conceive that he could be annoyed at another engrossing her, and perhaps
he himself would have scarcely allowed that Bice's beautiful face could
have less attraction for him than Phillis's brown eyes. As it was, he
was thoroughly angry at what he liked to think of as Phillis's
fickleness, and by way of retaliation devoted himself with all his might
to Bice. It seems sometimes as if the world was made up of
cross-purposes, when we see the mistakes, the unintentional wounds that
are inflicted. People observe things which never existed, and shut
their eyes to what lies plain before them, and long afterwards, perhaps,
look back with a sigh at their own work. What should we do, all of us,
if we were left with nothing better than to make the best we could of
our tangles!
Poor Bice! All sorts of fancies went rushing through her heart that
afternoon, as Jack strolled along by her side as he had done in the
first days of their acquaintance--passionate longings and regrets,
wonder and impatience. How had Phillis and he been separated, how had
Oliver and she come together? Why did Jack talk kindly, and ask
questions as if he cared? For the girl was not deceived, only troubled,
and there was a bitter revolt in her heart against her fate, sometimes a
yearning for Jack's sympathy, sometimes a fierce suspicion that all this
time he might have read her secret and despised her. She was not in a
mood to look at the white statues, it made her shiver to see them by her
side, cold and changeless, and she would not pretend an interest she did
not feel. When they came to a great brazier, full of grey or glowing
embers, she stretched out her little hands to the warmth, while Ibbetson
glanced at her with unmistakable admiration in his eyes.
"When first I knew you, I could not picture you in anything but a white
dress," he said in a leisurely tone.
"Don't talk of it," and she shuddered. "If ever one wants warmth and
colour it is in a sculpture gallery. I wouldn't come here in white on
the hottest day of the year." She was looking before her as she spoke
with that fixed mechanical gaze with which people look at something they
do not really see. Suddenly she started and caught Jack's arm. "Oh,
look, look!" she cried in a terrified undertone.
He could feel her fingers trembling on his arm, and instinctively laid
his own hand upon them with a strong firm clasp. The touch brought her
to herself, for she withdrew her hand instantly, colouring crimson as
she did so, but not removing her eyes from the object which had alarmed
her. Ibbetson turned hastily to look where they were fixed.
"What was it? What frightened you?" he asked gently, looking at her
again, for nothing that he could see accounted for her evident terror.
She drew a deep breath.
"Who is that man standing with his back towards us on the right?" she
said in a quick low voice. "There, do you see?"
"I see, but it's no one I know. Whom do you take him for?"
"Are you sure you don't know him? I begin to think now that I was
mistaken," she said with such evident relief that Ibbetson smiled.
"I hope you are not generally so shocked at seeing an acquaintance
unexpectedly? Would you like to come a little closer and make sure of
the matter?"
"Yes--I think so," she said with some hesitation. "But not too near."
"Oh, we'll beware of the ghost," said Jack confidently and kindly. He
was still feeling the clinging touch of those little fingers on his arm,
and there was a warm impulse of kindness towards her stirring in his
heart, as well as a little curiosity as to what likeness had so moved
her. She stood still before they had gone many yards.
"No, no, it is not," she said hurriedly, "I see quite well now. It was
very foolish of me."
"Better look in his face and get the idea quite out of your head,"
persisted Ibbetson. "Otherwise those sorts of notions are apt to prove
uncomfortable."
She did not resist. They passed the gentleman and saw his full face,
but beyond saying that she did not know how she could have been so
mistaken, she did not attempt to explain her terror, and no resemblance
to Mr Trent struck Jack so as to give him the clue.
Still, real or fancied, the alarm had evidently shaken the girl. She
said she would go back to Mrs Masters, who had placed her camp-stool
near a brazier, and remained calmly indifferent to the art treasures
about her, so long as she could keep warm and avoid fatigue.
"Don't let me detain you from the others," Bice said, when they had
reached her mother.
"The others don't want me," answered Jack in a voice which had some
irritation in it. "That fellow Penington is at it, speechifying away
like mad."
"Oh, do you mean he isn't nice?" asked Bice so innocently that the young
man laughed in spite of himself.
"I don't know that there's much harm in him," he allowed, "but I dislike
to have guide-book information crammed down my throat second-hand.
Never mind them. Do you know that I am going away?"
"No."
Though she hated herself, she felt the colour leaving her face. And she
could not ask when or where.
"But I am. I am off to London."
"Do you come back here?"
"Well, I hope so, certainly. The only thing likely to stand in the way
is a lawsuit in which they sought my services, and I don't mind
confiding to you that the odds are rather against that supposition."
More than one person had certain fancies of theirs confirmed that
afternoon. One went and came like the dull tick of a great clock in
Phillis Grey's brain as she sat in her bedroom late at night. "He--
loves--her,--he--loves--her," was what it said with persistent effort.
She had sent him away, and though no one suspected it of her, her heart
was sometimes nearly breaking.