The walk with Constance, though he had set out upon it reluctantly, had
done Waring great good. He was comparatively rehabilitated in his own
eyes. Between her and him there was no embarrassment, no uneasy
consciousness. She had paid him the highest compliment by taking refuge
with him, flying to his protection from the tyranny of her mother, and
giving him thus a victory as sweet as unexpected over that nearest yet
furthest of all connections, that inalienable antagonist in life. He had
been painfully put out of _son assiette_, as the French say. Instead of
the easy superiority which he had held not only in his own house, but in
the limited society about, he had been made to stand at the bar, first
by his own child, afterwards by the old clergyman, for whom he
entertained a kindly contempt. Both of these simple wits had called upon
him to account for his conduct. It was the most extraordinary turning of
the tables that ever had occurred to a man like himself. And though he
had spoken the truth when in that moment of melting he had taken his
little girl into his arms and bidden her stay with him, he was yet glad
now to get away from Frances, to feel himself occupying his proper place
with her sister, and to return thus to a more natural state of affairs.
The intercourse between him and his child-companion had been closer than
ever could, he believed, exist between him and any other human being
whatsoever; but it had been rent in twain by all the concealments which
he was conscious of, by all the discoveries which circumstances had
forced upon her. He could no longer be at his ease with her, or she
regard him as of old. The attachment was too deep, the interruption too
hard, to be reconcilable with that calm which is necessary to ordinary
existence. Constance had restored him to herself by her pleasant
indifference, her easy talk, her unconsciousness of everything that was
not usual and natural. He began to think that if Frances were but
away--since she wished to go--a new life might begin--a life in which
there would be nothing below the surface, no mystery, which is a mistake
in ordinary life. It would be difficult, no doubt, for a brilliant
creature like Constance to content herself with the humdrum life which
suited Frances; and whether she would condescend to look after his
comforts, he did not know. But so long as Mariuccia was there, he could
not suffer much materially; and she was a very amusing companion, far
more so than her sister. As he came back to the Palazzo, he was
reconciled to himself.
This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. Frances met
them at the door with her face full of excitement. “Did you meet him?”
she said. “You must have met him. He has not been gone ten minutes.”
“Meet whom? We met no one but the General.”
“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting him every
day--Markham.”
“He says he has come to fetch me, papa.”
“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a moment. It is not
easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished it for a dozen years;
and after a very bad moment, he thought he was about to shuffle it off
again; but it was evident that in this he was premature. “I will not
allow you to go with Markham,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Your
mother ought to have known better. He is not an escort I choose for my
daughter.”
“Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, in her
easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never mind till after
dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are ready, Fan? Oh, then I
must fly. We have had a delightful walk. I never knew anything about
fathers before; they are the most charming companions,” she said,
kissing her hand to him as she went away. But this did not mollify the
angry man. There rose up before him the recollection of a hundred
contests in which Markham’s voice had come in to make everything worse,
or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause.
“I will not see him,” he said; “I will not sanction his presence here.
You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out of the
way.”
“I think, papa, you must see him.”
“Must--there is no _must_. I have not been in the habit of acknowledging
compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. You seem to
expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole life!”
“I suppose,” said Frances, “my affairs are small; but then they are my
life too.”
She ought to have been subdued into silence by his first objection; but,
on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look which was
deprecating, but not abject, holding her little own. It was a long time
since Waring had encountered anything which he could not subdue and put
aside out of his path. But, he said to himself--all that long restrained
and silent temper which had once reigned and raged within him, springing
up again unsubdued--he might have known! The moment long deferred, yet
inevitable, which brought him in contact once more with his wife, could
bring nothing with it but pain. Strife breathed from her wherever she
appeared. He had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his
best; and now that he had forgotten the ways of battle--now that his
strength was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his
hand--she had a pull over him now which she had not possessed before. He
could have done without both the children a dozen years ago. He was
conscious that it was more from self-assertion than from love that he
had carried off the little one, who was rather an embarrassment than a
pleasure in those days--because he would not let her have everything her
own way. But now, Frances was no longer a creature without identity, not
a thing to be handed from one to another. He could not free himself of
interest in her, of responsibility for her, of feeling his honour and
credit implicated in all that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She
had a hold upon him that she never had before; and the first use she
made of it was to insult him--to send her son, whom he hated, for his
daughter, to force him into unwilling intercourse with her family once
more.
Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father gloomily
pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tranquillity which
nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there was some new thing
that stirred up once more the original pain. There was no end to it. The
mother’s letters at one moment, the brother’s arrival at another, and no
more quiet whatever could be done, no more peace.
Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory decorum which surrounds that
great daily event, had its usual tranquillising effect. Waring could not
shut out from his mind the consciousness that to refuse to see his
wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was against all the
decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not acknowledge
social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out that
determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had begun to
perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, in the
conversation, lightly maintained, by Constance, about her brother, made
short replies even when he was directly addressed, and kept up more or
less the lowering aspect with which he had meant to crush Frances. But
Frances was not crushed, and Constance was excited and gay. “Let us send
for him after dinner,” she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing
Markham does not know. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt
a hundred things have happened. Do send for Markham, Frances. Oh, you
must not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. Dear! if you
think one can be fond of everybody one meets--especially one’s
connections. Everybody knows that you hate half of them. That makes it
piquant. There is nobody you can say such spiteful things to as people
whom you belong to, whom you call by their Christian names.”
“That is a charming Christian sentiment--entirely suited to the
surroundings you have been used to, Con; but not to your sister’s.”
“Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of that good
little Tasie, who is her chief friend. Frances would not say them
herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings are not so ignorant.
You are not called upon to assume so much virtue, papa.”
“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said Waring,
with quick anger.
“Papa!” cried Constance, with an astonished look, “I think it is you who
forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed to remember that. I
hope you have not forgotten too, or I shall be sorry I came here.”
He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That temper
which had fallen into disuse was no more overcome than when all this
trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force upon himself,
though he could not quite conceal the struggle. At last he burst into an
angry laugh: “You will train me, perhaps, in time to the subjection
which is required from the nineteenth-century parent,” he said.
“You are charming,” said his daughter, with a bow and smile across the
table. “There is only this lingering trace of medievalism in respect to
Markham. But you know, papa, really a feud can’t exist in these days.
Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would subject us all to ridicule. My
experience is that people as a rule are _not_ fond of each other; but to
show it is quite a different thing. Oh no, papa; no one can do that.”
She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation of her
dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. And when
Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico should not be sent to the
hotel to call Markham, he avoided the inquiring look which Frances cast
at him. “If papa has no objection,” she said with hesitation and alarm.
“Oh, papa can have no objection,” Constance cried; and the message was
sent; and Markham came. Frances, frightened, made many attempts to
excuse herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts
she made. He retired to the bookroom, while the girls entertained their
visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. Waring
heard the voices mingled with laughter, as we all hear the happier
intercourse of others when we are ourselves in gloomy opposition,
nursing our wrath. He thought they were all the more lively, all the
more gay, because he was displeased. Even Frances. He forgot that he had
made up his mind that Frances had better go (as she wished to go), and
felt that she was a little monster to take so cordially to the stranger
whom she knew he disliked and disapproved. Nevertheless, in spite of
this irritation and misery, the little lecture of Constance on what was
conventionally necessary had so much effect upon him, that he appeared
on the loggia before Markham went away, and conquered himself
sufficiently to receive, if not to make much response to the salutations
which his wife’s son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the
greatest cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft
darkness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all
these years. I hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me
before--at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their
seniors, as the sage says.”
“What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second-hand.”
“Not like yours, sir,” said Markham. And then there was a slight pause,
and Constance struck in.
“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the ‘Morning
Post.’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, when one is not
on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of things happen. In town
one gets used to having one’s gossip hot and hot every day.”
“The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite for
your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother gave me many
messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not object to trust little
Frances to my care.”
“I object--to trust my child to any one’s care,” said Waring, quickly.
“I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to England
yourself,” the stranger said.
It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the girls
looking on saw a momentary swaying of the tall figure towards the
smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances had nearly
sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand and restrained
her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in Waring’s mind. He could,
had inclination prevailed, have seized the little man by the coat, and
pitched him out into the road below. But bonds were upon him more potent
than if they had been made of iron.
“I have no such intention,” he said. “I should not have sent her at all.
But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere with her
arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.”
“As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham, cheerfully. “A few days more
out of the east wind will be delightful to me.”
And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the loggia with
his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to provide a new chair as
easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, and had not yet
settled into a new place; and when he joined them in the evening, he
walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of lounging in indolent
comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this evening he stood at the
corner, looking down upon the lights of the Marina in the distance, and
the grey twinkle of the olives in the clear air of the night. The poor
neighbours of the little town were still on the Punto, enjoying the
coolness of the evening hours; and the murmur of their talk rose on one
side, a little softened by distance; while the group on the loggia
renewed its conversation close at hand. Waring stood and listened with a
contempt which he partially knew to be unjust. But he was sore and
bitter, and the ease and gaiety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of
many insults which he was of opinion he had received from his wife’s
son. “Confounded little fool,” he said to himself.
But Constance was right in her worldly wisdom. It would make them all
ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he showed openly his
distaste to him. The world was but a small world at Bordighera; but yet
it was not without its power. The interrupted conversation went on with
great vigour. He remarked with a certain satisfaction that Frances
talked very little; but Constance and her brother--as he called himself,
the puppy!--never paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst
of ordinary conversation. Waring stood looking out blankly upon the
bewildering lines of the hills towards the west, with the fresh breeze
in his face, and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff now
and then, listening to the lively chatter. How vacant it was--about this
one and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities; about things not even
made clear, which each understood at half a word, which made them laugh.
Good heavens! at what? Not at the wit of it, for there was no wit--at
some ludicrous image involved, which to the listener was dull, dull as
the village chatter on the other side; but more dull, more vapid in its
artificial ring. How they echoed each other, chiming in; how they
remembered anecdotes to the discredit of their friends; how they ran on
in the same circle endlessly, with jests that were without point even to
Frances, who sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could
not keep up to the height of the talk, which was all about people she
did not know--and still more without point to Waring, who had known, but
knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified and bitter, feeling his
supremacy taken from him in his own house, and all his habits shattered:
yet knew very well that he could not resist, that to show his dislike
would only make him ridiculous; that he was once more subject to
Society, and dare not show his contempt for its bonds.
After a while, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, and
stalked away, with a brief, “Excuse me, but I must say good-night.”
Markham sprang up from his chair; but his step-father only waved his
hand to the little party sitting in the evening darkness, and went away,
his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor through the _salone_ and
the ante-room, closing the doors behind him. There was a little silence
as he disappeared.
“Well,” said Markham, with a long-drawn breath, “that’s over, Con; and
better than might have been expected.”
“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad as could
be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?”
“My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “I remember times
when I stood up to him, as you say, with that idiotcy of youth in which
you are so strong, Con; but I think I generally came off second-best.
Our respected papa has a great gift of language when he likes.”
“He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of
thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious fathers.”
“If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the gloom, with
a little quiver in it, “I wish you would not speak about papa so, before
me. It is perhaps quite right of you, who have no feeling for him, or
don’t know him very well; but with me it is quite different. Whether you
are right or wrong, I cannot have it, please.”
“The little thing is quite right, Con,” said Markham. “I beg your
pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he has none
for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much more estimable
member of society. He is not old enough--that is the worst of it--for
you and me.”
“I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense,” said Constance, “as
if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if they were not just
human beings like ourselves. But apart from that, as I have told
Frances, I think very well of papa.”