It was natural that this occurrence should take a great hold of the
girl’s mind. It was not the first time that she had speculated
concerning their life. A life which one has always lived, indeed, the
conditions of which have been familiar and inevitable since childhood,
is not a matter which awakens questions in the mind. However
extraordinary its conditions may be, they are natural--they are life to
the young soul which has had no choice in the matter. Still there are
curiosities which will arise. General Gaunt foamed at the mouth when he
talked of the way in which he had been treated by the people “at home”;
but still he went “home” in the summer as a matter of course. And as for
the Durants, it was a subject of the fondest consideration with them
when they could afford themselves that greatest of delights. They all
talked about the cold, the fogs, the pleasure of getting back to the
sunshine when they returned; but this made no difference in the fact
that to go home was their thought all the year, and the most salient
point in their lives. “Why do we never go home?” Frances had often asked
herself. And both these families, and all the people to whom she had
ever talked, the strangers who went and came, and those whom they met in
the rambles which the Warings, too, were forced to take in the hot
weather, when the mistral was blowing--talked continually of their
county, of their parish, of their village, of where they lived, and
where they had been born. But on these points Mr Waring never said a
word. And whereas Mrs Gaunt could talk of nothing but her family, who
were scattered all over the world, and the Durants met people they knew
at every turn, the Warings knew nobody, had no relations, no house at
home, and apparently had been born nowhere in particular, as Frances
sometimes said to herself with more annoyance than humour. Sometimes
she wondered whether she had ever had a mother.
These thoughts, indeed, occurred but fitfully now and then, when some
incident brought more forcibly than usual under her notice the
difference between herself and others. She did not brood over them, her
life being quite pleasant and comfortable to herself, and no necessity
laid upon her to elucidate its dimnesses. But yet they came across her
mind from time to time. She had not been brought face to face with any
old friend of her father’s, that she could remember, until now. She had
never heard any question raised about his past life. And yet no doubt he
had a past life, like every other man, and there was something in
it--something, she could not guess what, which had made him unlike other
men.
Frances had a great deal of self-command. She did not betray her
agitation to her father; she did not ask him any questions; she told him
about the greengrocer and the fisherman, these two important agents in
the life of the Riviera, and of what she had seen in the Marina, even
the Savona pots; but she did not disturb his meal and his digestion by
any reference to the English strangers. She postponed until she had time
to think of it, all reference to this second meeting. She had by
instinct made no reply to the question about where she lived; but she
knew that there would be no difficulty in discovering that, and that her
father might be subject at any moment to invasion by this old
acquaintance, whom he had evidently no desire to see. What should she
do? The whole matter wanted thought. Whether she should ask him what to
do; whether she should take it upon herself; whether she should disclose
to him her newborn curiosity and anxiety, or conceal them in her own
bosom; whether she should tell him frankly what she felt--that she was
worthy to be trusted, and that it was the right of his only child to be
prepared for all emergencies, and to be acquainted with her family and
her antecedents, if not with his,--all these were things to be thought
over. Surely she had a right, if any one had a right. But she would not
stand upon that.
She sat by herself all day and thought, putting forward all the
arguments on either side. If there was, as there might be, something
wrong in that past--something guilty, which might make her look on her
father with different eyes, he had a right to be silent, and she no
right, none whatever, to insist upon such a revelation. And what end
would it serve? If she had relations or a family from whom she had been
separated, would not the revelation fill her with eager desire to know
them, and open a fountain of dissatisfaction and discontent in her life
if she were not permitted to do so? Would she not chafe at the
banishment if she found out that somewhere there was a home, that she
had “belongings” like all the rest of the world? These were little
feeble barriers which she set up against the strong tide of
consciousness in her that she was to be trusted, that she ought to know.
Whatever it was, and however she might bear it, was it not true that she
ought to know? She was not a fool or a child. Frances knew that her
eighteen years had brought more experience, more sense to her, than
Tasie’s forty; that she was capable of understanding, capable of
keeping a secret--and was it not her own secret, the explanation of the
enigma of her life as well as of his?
This course of reflection went on in her mind until the evening, and it
was somewhat quickened by a little conversation which she had in the
afternoon with the servants. Domenico was going out. It was early in the
afternoon, the moment of leisure, when one meal with all its
responsibilities was over, and the second great event of the day, the
dinner, not yet imminent. It was the hour when Mariuccia sat in the
ante-room and did her sewing, her mending, her knitting--whatever was
wanted. This was a large and lofty room--not very light, with a great
window looking out only into the court of the Palazzo--in which stood a
long table and a few tall chairs. The smaller ante-room, from which the
long suite of rooms opened on either side, communicated with this, as
did also the corridor, which ran all the length of the house, and the
kitchen and its appendages on the other side. There is always abundance
of space of this kind in every old Italian house. Here Mariuccia
established herself whenever she was free to leave her cooking and her
kitchen-work. She was a comely middle-aged woman, with a dark gown, a
white apron, a little shawl on her shoulders, large earrings, and a gold
cross at her neck, which was a little more visible than is common with
Englishwomen of her class. Her hair was crisp and curly, and never had
been covered with anything, save, when she went to church, a shawl or
veil; and Mariuccia’s olive complexion and ruddy tint feared no
encounter of the sun. Domenico was tall, and spare, and brown, a grave
man with little jest in him; but his wife was always ready to laugh. He
came out hat in hand while Frances stood by the table inspecting
Mariuccia’s work. “I am going out,” he said; “and this is the hour when
the English gentlefolks pay visits. See that thou remember what the
padrone said.”
“What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her ears.
“Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico.
“That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa expecting a
visit? What did he say?”
“The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, “all that
is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, some for the
family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.”
“You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife, calmly. “Why shouldn’t the
dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, my soul--only that
the padrone does not receive, and again that he does not receive, and
that he never receives. I must repeat this till the Ave Maria, if
necessary, till the strangers accept it and go away.”
“Are these special orders?” said Frances, “or has it always been so? I
don’t think that it has always been so.”
Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a
half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not
involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken upon
her.
“_Carina_, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the
spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself
Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to
disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It appears,
however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the
padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no
secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is
not very wise. _Che!_ you know that as well as I.”
“And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention--if
he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means
when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone
out; he is not at home.”
“_Che! che! che!_” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be
a lie.”
Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said, with a troubled
look; “but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come in all the
same.”
“He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a cheerful
laugh, standing square and solid against the door.
This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not go on
with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil in her hand, and
the colour growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. It was very
certain, then, that her father would not expose himself to another
meeting with the strangers who called themselves his friends--innocent
people who would not harm any one, Frances was sure. They were
tourists--that was evident; and they might be vulgar--that was possible.
But she was sure that there was no harm in them. It could only be that
her father was resolute to shut out his past, and let no one know what
had been. This gave her an additional impulse, instead of
discouragement. If it was so serious, and he so determined, then surely
there must be something that she, his only child, ought to know. She
waited till the evening with a gradually growing excitement; but not
until after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so
slowly and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the
day was over. It could not put him out, or spoil his appetite, or risk
his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but after
consideration, Frances did not think that a very serious matter,
probably because she had never known what it was to pass a wakeful
night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and care.
“Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something Tasie was
saying.”
“Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.”
“Not serious, perhaps; but---- she wants to teach me to play.”
“To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always heard she was
excellent at both.”
“These are games, papa,” said Frances, with a touch of severity. “She
means the piano, which is very different.”
“Ah!” said Mr Waring, taking the cigarette from his lips and sending a
larger puff of smoke into the dim air; “very different indeed, Frances.
It is anything but a game to hear Miss Tasie play.”
“She says,” continued Frances, with a certain constriction in her
throat, “that every lady is expected to play--to play a little at least,
even if she has not much taste for it. She thinks when we go home--that
all our relations will be so surprised----”
She stopped, having no breath to go further, and watched as well as she
could, through the dimness and through the mist of agitation in her own
eyes, her father’s face. He made no sign; he did not disturb even the
easy balance of his foot, stretched out along the pavement. After
another pause, he said in the same indifferent tone, “As we are not
going home, and as you have no relations in particular, I don’t think
your friend’s argument is very strong. Do you?”
“O papa, I don’t want indeed to be inquisitive or trouble you, but I
should like to know!”
“What?” he said, with the same composure. “If I think that a lady,
whether she has any musical taste or not, ought to play? Well, that is a
very simple question. I don’t, whatever Miss Tasie may say.”
“It is not that,” Frances said, regaining a little control of herself.
“I said I did not know of any relations we had. But Tasie said there
must be cousins; we must have cousins--everybody has cousins. That is
true, is it not?”
“In most cases, certainly,” Mr Waring said; “and a great nuisance too.”
“I don’t think it would be a nuisance to have people about one’s own
age, belonging to one--not strangers--people who were interested in you,
to whom you could say anything. Brothers and sisters, that would be the
best; but cousins--I think, papa, cousins would be very nice.”
“I will tell you, if you like, of one cousin you have,” her father said.
The heart of Frances swelled as if it would leap out of her breast. She
put her hands together, turning full round upon him in an attitude of
supplication and delight. “O papa!” she cried with enthusiasm,
breathless for his next word.
“Certainly, if you wish it, Frances. He is in reality your first-cousin.
He is fifty. He is a great sufferer from gout. He has lived so well in
the early part of his life, that he is condemned to slops now, and
spends most of his time in an easy-chair. He has the temper of a demon,
and swears at everybody that comes near him. He is very red in the
face, very bleared about the eyes, very----”
“O papa!” she cried, in a very different tone. She was so much
disappointed, that the sudden downfall had almost a physical effect upon
her, as if she had fallen from a height. Her father laughed softly while
she gathered all her strength together to regain command of herself, and
the laugh had a jarring effect upon her nerves, of which she had never
been conscious till now.
“I don’t suppose that he would care much whether you played the piano or
not; or that you would care much, my dear, what he thought.”
“For all that, papa,” said Frances, recovering herself, “it is a little
interesting to know there is somebody, even if he is not at all what one
thought. Where does he live, and what is his name? That will give me one
little landmark in England, where there is none now.”
“Not a very reasonable satisfaction,” said her father lazily, but
without any other reply. “In my life, I have always found relations a
nuisance. Happy are they who have none; and next best is to cast them
off and do without them. As a matter of fact, it is every one for
himself in this world.”
Frances was silenced, though not convinced. She looked with some anxiety
at the outline of her father’s spare and lengthy figure laid out in the
basket-chair, one foot moving slightly, which was a habit he had, the
whole extended in perfect rest and calm. He was not angry, he was not
disturbed. The questions which she had put with so much mental
perturbation had not affected him at all. She felt that she might dare
further without fear.
“When I was out to-day,” she said, faltering a little, “I met--that
gentleman again.”
“Ah!” said Mr Waring--no more; but he ceased to shake his foot, and
turned towards her the merest hair’s-breadth, so little that it was
impossible to say he had moved, and yet there was a change.
“And the lady,” said Frances, breathless. “I am sure they wanted to be
kind. They asked me a great many questions.”
He gave a faint laugh, but it was not without a little quiver in it.
“What a good thing that you could not answer them!” he said.
“Do you think so, papa? I was rather unhappy. It looked as if you could
not trust me. I should have been ashamed to say I did not know; which is
the truth--for I know nothing, not so much as where I was born!” cried
the girl. “It is very humiliating, when you are asked about your own
father, to say you don’t know. So I said it was time for breakfast, and
you would be waiting; and ran away.”
“The best thing you could have done, my dear. Discretion in a woman, or
a girl, is always the better part of valour. I think you got out of it
very cleverly,” Mr Waring said.
And that was all. He did not seem to think another word was needed. He
did not even rise and go away, as Frances had known him to do when the
conversation was not to his mind. She could not see his face, but his
attitude was unchanged. He had recovered his calm, if there had ever
been any disturbance of it. But as for Frances, her heart was thumping
against her breast, her pulses beating in her ears, her lips parched and
dry. “I wish,” she cried, “oh, I wish you would tell me something, papa!
Do you think I would talk of things you don’t want talked about? I am
not a child any longer; and I am not silly, as perhaps you think.”
“On the contrary, my dear,” said Mr Waring, “I think you are often very
sensible.”
“Papa! oh, how can you say that, how can you say such things--and then
leave me as if I were a baby, knowing nothing!”
“My dear,” he said (with the sound of a smile in his voice, she thought
to herself), “you are very hard to please. Must not I say that you are
sensible? I think it is the highest compliment I can pay you.”
“O papa!” Disappointment, and mortification, and the keen sense of being
fooled, which is so miserable to the young, took her very breath away.
The exasperation with which we discover that not only is no explanation,
no confidence to be given us, but the very occasion for it ignored, and
our anxiety baffled by a smile--a mortification to which women are so
often subject--flooded her being. She had hard ado not to burst into
angry tears, not to betray the sense of cruelty and injustice which
overwhelmed her; but who could have seen any injustice or cruelty in
the gentleness of his tone, his soft reply? Frances subdued herself as
best she could in her dark corner of the loggia, glad at least that he
could not see the spasm that passed over her, the acute misery and
irritation of her spirit. It would be strange if he did not divine
something of what was going on within her: but he took no notice. He
began in the same tone, as if one theme was quite as important as the
other, to remark upon the unusual heaviness of the clouds which hid the
moon. “If we were in England, I should say there was a storm brewing,”
he said. “Even here, I think we shall have some rain. Don’t you feel
that little creep in the air, something sinister, as if there was a bad
angel about? And Domenico, I see, has brought the lamp. I vote we go
in.”
“Are there any bad angels?” she cried, to give her impatience vent.
He had risen up, and stood swaying indolently from one foot to the
other. “Bad angels? Oh yes,” he said; “abundance; very different from
devils, who are honest--like the fiends in the pictures, unmistakable.
The others, you know, deceive. Don’t you remember?--
‘How there looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And how he knew it was a fiend,
That miserable knight.’”
He turned and went into the _salone_, repeating these words in an
undertone to himself. But there was in his face none of the bitterness
or horror with which they must have been said by one who had ever in his
own person made that discovery. He was quite calm, meditative, marking
with a slight intonation and movement of his head the cadence of the
poetry.
Frances stayed behind in the darkness. She had not the practice which we
acquire in later life; she could not hide the excitement which was still
coursing through her veins. She went to the corner of the loggia which
was nearest the sea, and caught in her face the rush of the rising
breeze, which flung at her the first drops of the coming rain. A storm
on that soft coast is a welcome break in the monotony of the clear skies
and unchanging calm. After a while her father called to her that the
rain was coming in, that the windows must be shut; and she hurried in,
brushing by Domenico, who had come to close everything up, and who
looked at her reproachfully as she rushed past him. She came behind her
father’s chair and leaned over to kiss him. “I have got a little wet,
and I think I had better go to bed,” she said.
“Yes, surely, if you wish it, my dear,” said Mr Waring. Something moist
had touched his forehead, which was too warm to be rain. He waited
politely till she had gone before he wiped it off. It was the edge of a
tear, hot, miserable, full of anger as well as pain, which had made that
mark upon his high white forehead. It made him pause for a minute or two
in his reading. “Poor little girl!” he said, with a sigh. Perhaps he was
not so insensible as he seemed.