Jack kept his intention, and went up to London the next day. He had
made up his mind absolutely that he would not go back to Rome, having a
new sort of feeling born within him, that after all that had happened he
had no right to haunt Phillis with the persistency he had shown of late.
It no longer seemed to him fair. He thought that the most manly course
would be to leave her alone at any rate until this winter were past.
Then, if she were still unwon, he might be able to speak to her of a
love which she might at last recognise as steadfast. How could she be
expected as yet to trust him? But he got into a habit about this time
of brooding on the picture he had seen as he rode through Whitcote with
his father--the pretty homely Vicarage, the creepers growing up to the
chimneys, the green turf, the rooks' nests in the old trees. And
always--that was the worst--there stood a woman's figure at the door, a
woman whose eyes were fastened on the gate, as if she were waiting
happily for some one.
Still, a good deal of credit was due to him for the way in which he
fought against these not very cheerful thoughts, so as to escape from
the morbid dejection which might have made his life, and that of others,
miserable. Work is an excellent refuge, as everybody says: probably
because it is an axiom which is seldom taken on trust, and therefore
comes freshly to each person in the form of an individual discovery.
Jack worked hard, and liked it. Clive was another refuge; he needed a
great deal of cheering and keeping up, his own struggle not having had
the effect of putting life into him. He was shy and sensitive, and many
people would have thought uninteresting, but Ibbetson wanted a personal
interest about him just at this time, and had a feeling as if here were
a slender link with Phillis. He sometimes laughed at his own efforts to
prop up Clive, and yet he did it vigorously. The props were of many
kinds--getting him to take school work in an East-end district on
Sundays, he began to think would turn out one of the most effectual.
A disappointment which Jack felt very keenly at this time, was the
receiving no answer to his letter to Phillis. He had made sure she
would write, and, though he even told himself that he was prepared for
what she might tell him, there was a horrible blank in the silence,
which seemed almost worse. He invented reasons for her silence with
really remarkable ingenuity, but the one which seemed most probable was,
that she did not wish to enter on the subject of her own prospects with
him. When Clive came to see him or he went to see Clive, the
conversation revolved curiously round one or two centres.
"Well, how are you getting on?" Jack would ask with great cheerfulness.
"Oh, I don't know." This with much depression. "Nonsense. What are
you out of heart about? Davis sticks by you, I'm sure."
"Yes, he's a very good old chap. But what's a fellow to do when the
heads are against him?"
"Why do you think they are?"
"Well, Thornton was up yesterday, and I could see by the way he looked
at me."
"What rubbish, Clive! You go steadily on, and never mind looks."
"Don't you think it matters?" more hopefully.
"Not a brass farthing. Have you heard from your people at Rome?"
"Yes, I got a letter from Kitty last night."
"Well?"
"Oh, nothing particular. Oliver's there. I say, there _must_ be
something he could explain if one saw him. He couldn't have the brass!"
"Does Miss Masters mention anyone else?"
"No, I don't think she does."
"Not--the Leytons?"
"Didn't notice it. Are you going down to Worthing again?"
"Yes, I am. To-morrow perhaps," said with gloom on Ibbetson's part.
The visit to Worthing, when it did take place, had one or two results.
For Jack found Smith so unmistakably worse that he went to the point of
getting him to sign a declaration in the presence of one or two
witnesses, as to that matter of the fifty pounds. And this being done,
he had a conversation with the man Elias Brooks, also in the presence of
a witness, so that he felt himself in a better position to meet Oliver
Trent should it ever be necessary. But as yet he had made no sign.
One day Ibbetson had another visitor in his chambers, Mrs Thornton.
How she had got there was the first wonder in his mind; for she was a
very helpless person, seldom going to the point of originating even an
idea.
"My dear, and your chimney been smoking! How can you live here!" was
her greeting.
"It's not a bad chimney when the wind isn't from the north," said Jack,
wheeling forward a chair, and flinging the end of his cigar into the
fire. "But you ought to have told me you were coming. It's _very_ good
of you, Aunt Harriet."
"I told no one," said Mrs Thornton, with a placid air of triumph at her
own achievements, "not even your uncle Peter. But, my dear Jack, I am
quite miserable about you."
"How can I help it?" Jack replied gravely. He knew what she meant, and
would not pretend not to understand her.
"Oh, I do so wish you would go straight out and marry Phillis, before
this dreadful man gets hold of her! Really, it is too provoking."
There was a pause.
"What have you heard? Has Phillis written?" asked Jack in his quietest
tone.
"Not Phillis. And that is vexing your uncle, too. He says everything
is concealed from him. Mr Trent wrote and told him."
Jack muttered something not complimentary to Mr Trent. Then he said
aloud:
"You need not believe everything _he_ says. However, I can't say, I
know nothing. Phillis will not conceal anything from you, you may be
sure."
"But why don't you do something quickly? I really can't tell you all my
fears. Your uncle seems so put out and so dissatisfied, I really doubt
whether it would not be too late if you two were to marry even now. He
doesn't seem to know his own mind. Perhaps he might come round if you
went and did it," she added, as if it were a matter to be settled easily
by some such proceeding as walking across the street.
"You forget--there's the other man," said Jack, finding it impossible
not to smile. "Listen, Aunt Harriet, if it's any consolation to you,
I'm quite aware I've been a fool. But I give you my word that Hetherton
is a very secondary consideration."
"Well, I shall tell your uncle," she said, looking doubtfully at him.
"That I have been a fool? But then you must go on about Hetherton."
"Oh, I couldn't."
"Then leave it alone; it's the safest way, take my word for it. I know
it's all your kindness for me, but there are so many old proverbs
haunting me about making one's bed, and sowing and reaping, that I feel
sure they amount to a general verdict that I must be left to my fate.
Thank you all the same for trying to ward it off."
Each of these rumours which reached Jack--although he sometimes told
himself that they were too indefinite to be heeded--did actually give
him a sharp pang, and seemed to leave his heart heavier than before. He
refused invitations, and did his best to absorb himself in his
profession, setting to work with a dogged determination to push on,
rather than any exhilaration of hope. Still there was a certain
satisfaction in his labour, and at least a more manly purpose in his
life. And so January dragged its short days out of the darkness,
sometimes barely succeeding in the effort, and February followed, and to
Ibbetson every day was long in its monotony, and yet, looking back, they
might all have passed like lightning.
At least that was what it seemed to him one gloomy afternoon when he
stood with a telegram in his hand which had just been given to him, and
which he had opened carelessly, without any foreboding of the thrill of
pain in store. It was from Rome. Miss Cartwright was very ill--would
he come at once. The words startled him the more that he felt with keen
self-reproach how other interests had pushed her out of his thoughts.
There are tender and strong affections so close and so unfailing that
they are like the air we breathe, and become almost as much a matter of
course. And now Jack remembered with a pang that of late he had written
but briefly to his aunt, and that except from a general longing to hear
news from Rome he had not noticed that her own letters had become few
and short. He pulled out her last from his pocket; the feeble writing
smote him to the heart, and he impatiently gave his orders, sent off a
hurried note to Clive, and found himself at the station at least twenty
minutes before the time for starting.
He travelled as fast as he could, and happily there were no unusual or
vexatious delays. But at its best the journey is one which, when a
pressing anxiety goads on the traveller, seems as if it would never end.
It drags you along past Chambery, and pretty Aix lying under its hills,
lingers hopelessly at Modane, and then goes clambering slowly up to the
land of snows, before it will take you into the land of sunshine.
Afterwards you sweep down to Turin and the vast Lombardy plains, and
going towards Florence, creep again into a belt of mountains
honey-combed with tunnels, where the gorges in February are just awaking
to the first promises of spring, and by-and-by see the twinkling lights
of cheery Pistoija, and then the brighter ones of Florence. Jack,
leaning out, thought of other evenings, when those lights had shone in
the beautiful Val d'Arno. He stopped there now for a few hours' rest,
and the place seemed laden with memories which yet were younger than it
was easy to believe. It was a warm night; even already the air was
touched with sweet flowery scents, and all the carnival people were
flashing about, making the place merry with their laughter.
His journey began again early the next morning, and in the afternoon he
reached Rome. Who does not know that approach? As the train passed
through the golden brown campagna the sun was setting; no words can
describe the rich glow which tinged the mountains: too rich for lilac,
too delicate and warm for purple, it seemed the very embodiment of
colour, and where on the highest points the snow of winter yet rested,
it was on fire with rosy lights; while Tiber, rolling sluggishly through
the Sabine meadows, gave back the soft reflections as faithfully and
placidly as though he were only a quiet country stream, untouched by
history, and untainted by blood.
Ibbetson was not long in driving from the station to the house in the
Via della Croce. At the station he caught sight of a familiar face,
though he had a little difficulty in recalling that it belonged to young
Giovanni Moroni. He would not linger to speak to him, though he had
always liked the young fellow, for the nearer he drew to the end of his
journey the more acute became his anxieties, and the more annoying every
small delay. He rattled quickly down the hill by the Costanzi, and
along the streets which lead to the Spanish Place, and then into his own
particular street. Nothing was to be gained by looking at the outside
of the house, and some hidden fear kept him from questioning the old
porter, who lived in a little glass room and mended shoes. Miss
Cartwright's rooms were high; a dark dirty staircase went up, up. He
lingered for a moment at the window half way, which looked upon
picturesque and irregular backs of houses; women were peeping out,
creepers hanging, there were the usual converging lines of a network of
wires, up and down which swing the brass pitchers, that fill themselves
where the fresh water pours out from the lion's head below; at one small
square window a little owl was sitting, blinking solemnly at the world.
It all seemed just as he had left it, and gave him a momentary
unreasonable relief. But at the top of the stairs stood some one
watching and waiting. It was Phillis, and she put out her hands with a
cry of thankfulness.
"You are come!" she said. "We heard wheels, but scarcely thought it
possible you could be here so soon."
"How is she? Not worse?"
"She is very ill--very. I am afraid it would be false comfort if I told
you there was any improvement, but the pain has gone off, and her one
wish was to see you again. This waiting has been terrible. It was
pleurisy. We wrote to tell you, but she grew suddenly worse."
"And you have been with her?"
"How could I leave her?"
Her lips quivered. She was shaken and upset with the nursing, perhaps,
too, with the feeling that he was coming, and with other things which
had risen up. They stood face to face with each other, these two, for a
minute, utterly silent, before Phillis said hurriedly--
"I must tell her that you are here. Will you come into the little
anteroom and wait until she is ready?"
In the anteroom were two or three doors; one led into the salon, another
into Miss Cartwright's bedroom. At this second a black object was
crouched, which at sound of Jack's voice reared itself up, and came
eagerly towards him.
"Yes," said Phillis, answering the young man's look with a sad little
smile, "Cartouche is the most faithful of watchers, poor fellow! At
first he lay under her bed, but that worried her, and she asked that he
might be sent out. And since then, strange as it seems, he has never
attempted to go into the room, but has taken up his position here."
She signed to Jack to stay where he was, and passed through the
curtained door. He stood with his eyes fixed upon it, feeling that
pause of solemn expectation with which we wait when we know that we are
to enter on an awful Presence, awful both for its strangeness and its
nearness. All sounds intensify themselves in such a waiting: it seemed
to him that a hundred things were going on; he heard the distant cry of
the water-sellers, the roll of wheels, the laughter of the crowd, a fly
buzzing at the window. Cartouche gave a low whine, and went back to his
station, sitting against the door with bent attentive head. No one
came. At last a woman bustled into the room, and lit a small brass lamp
with four wicks branching out on different sides and slender chains
hanging. Then she, too, paused and listened.
"The poor Signora!" she said to Jack, clasping her hands. "It is near
the end. And we all loved her. Eh, and look at the dog! It is
strange."
Just at that moment Phillis opened the door and signed to Jack.
"Her weakness is so great," she said in a whisper, "that the very joy of
your coming is almost more than she can bear. But she will not wait."
No. He understood why she would put nothing off when he saw the white
changed face, lit up as it was with happiness as he knelt down and
kissed her. "My boy!" was all she said at first, but lay holding his
hand and smiling now and then. Miss Preston, who had been standing at
the window, went softly out, crying. Phillis only paused to tell Jack
that one of them would be in the anteroom, before she followed her.
Those two were left behind--two, and the shadowy Presence.
"You're not in pain, Aunt Mary?" said Jack brokenly. "Not now. It has
quite gone now. God has been so good all through, and He has brought
you back."
"I came at once, but I wish I could have heard before."
"Yes, my dear, I know, I know. I hope it was not selfish to want you,
but you always were my boy. And, Jack--"
"Yes, Aunt Mary?"
Speech was very difficult, but she struggled with it, and he put his ear
down near her face--
"--You have never known her--Phillis. And I was foolish and urged it.
Now I see that I was wrong--we can't tell what is best, can we?--only I
think--I pray you two may have whatever is best for you both. I think
you will. God knows--and I have prayed--"
The words died away, but she made a sign to him not to call anyone, and
lay in peaceful waiting, every now and then touching his face or hair
with a feeble yet caressing hand. In that waiting the room darkened,
the little lamp glimmered in the shadows, a strange hush seemed to have
fallen. Presently Winter came in, looked at her, went out and brought
the others. She smiled at them, and whispered something which they made
out with difficulty. It was "Cartouche." Phillis brought him, a little
anxious lest he might show any wild demonstrations of delight. She need
not have feared. He came eagerly in, put his paws upon the bed, and
licked his mistress's hand. Then he dropped down, looked wistfully at
the faces round, as if he wanted reassurance from them, and finding
none, he turned quickly, ran to the door, pushed it open, and settled
himself in his old position of intent watchfulness.
Afterwards they none of them knew how these long hours had passed, but
at the time there was the usual mixture of the awful and the
commonplace. Our thoughts cannot remain long on heights; they wander
down, concerning themselves with the oddest things, and causing us sharp
pangs of self-reproach, for what, after all, is no more than a law of
our being. Once there came a ring of the bell, and Winter went out and
brought in a little note for Phillis. When she had read it, standing at
the table by the lamp, she laid it down and came back to the bedside.
Jack had to go to the table presently to get something that was wanted,
and his eye was caught by the clear bold signature--"Arthur Penington."
He hated himself for having seen it, but there it was.
The doctor came and went, Cartouche walking growling behind him to the
top of the stains. The streets grew more silent; the occasional cry of
the masquers, the carnival laughter, died away; and still they all
watched, and still the feeble breathing was audible in the quiet of the
room, with now and then a word. It was not until a pale gleam of light
had grown into the sky above the hills of Tivoli, touching the broad
flank of Soracte, and showing Michael the Archangel guarding the great
city from his castle, that the last word faltered on her lips, and the
hand which had moved feebly towards Jack lay still and cold in his warm
clasp.