“Yes, I hope you will come and see me often. Oh yes, I shall miss my
sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa. Good night. Good
night, Captain Gaunt. No; I don’t sketch; that was Frances. I don’t know
the country either. It was my sister who knew it. I am quite ignorant
and useless. Good night.”
Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of his only
remaining companion. He heard her come in afterwards with a step more
distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried farther. He said to
himself that everything was more distinct about this girl, and he was
glad that she was coming, glad of some relief from the depression which
overcame him against his will. She came across one room after another,
and out upon the loggia, throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped
chair. It did not occur to him that she was unaware of his presence, and
he was surprised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, there
could be no doubt why it was that Constance did not speak. There was no
loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, which it was
impossible to mistake. She said, after a moment, to herself, “What a
fool I am!” But even this reflection did not stem the tide. A sensation
of utter solitude had seized upon her. She was abandoned, among
strangers; and though she had so much experience of the world, it was
not of this world that Constance had any knowledge. Had she been left
alone among a new tribe of people unknown to her, she would not have
been afraid! Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the
solitude, broken only by the occasional appearance of these rustic
companions; the simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart
upon her, an entirely undesired gift; the anxious mother, who was about
to mount guard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in the
background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had altogether
receded from Constance, and left her with such companions alone? She was
not thinking of her father, neither of himself nor of his possible
presence, which was of little importance to her. After a while she sat
upright and passed her handkerchief quickly over her face. “It is my own
fault,” she said, still to herself; “I might have known.”
“You don’t see, Constance, that I am here.”
She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. “Oh, are you there,
papa? No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t think of any one being here. Well,
they are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, as you divined. She
bore up very well; but, of course, it was a little sad for her, leaving
everything she knows.”
“You were crying a minute ago, Constance.”
“Was I? Oh, well, that was nothing. Girls cry, and it doesn’t mean
much. You know women well enough to know that.”
“Yes, I know women--enough to say the ordinary things about them,” said
Waring; “but perhaps I don’t know you, which is of far more consequence
just now.”
“There is not much in me to know,” said the girl in a light voice. “I am
just like other girls. I am apt to cry when I see people crying. Frances
sobbed--like a little foolish thing; for why should she cry? She is
going to see the world. Did you ever feel, when you came here first, a
sort of horror seize upon you, as if--as if--as if you were lost in a
savage wilderness, and would never see a human face again?”
“No; I cannot say I ever felt that.”
“No, to be sure,” cried Constance. “What ridiculous nonsense I am
talking! A savage wilderness! with all these houses about, and the
hotels on the beach. I mean--didn’t you feel as if you would like to run
violently down a steep place into the sea?” Then she stopped, and
laughed. “It was the swine that did that.”
“It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling matters; and
yet I understand you,” he said gravely. “You have made a mistake. You
thought you were philosopher enough to give up the world; and it turns
out that you are not. But you need not cry, for it is not too late. You
can change your mind.”
“I--change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I would give
them the triumph of supposing that I could not do without them, that I
was obliged to go back? Not for the world.”
“I understand the sentiment,” he said. “Still, between these two
conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I do not
see any middle course.”
“Oh yes, there is a middle course. I can make myself very comfortable
here; and that is what I mean to do. Papa, if you had not found it out,
I should not have told you. I hope you are not offended?”
“Oh no, I am not offended,” he said, with a short laugh. “It is perhaps
a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for what gives you
so little satisfaction. That is the worst of it; these mistakes affect
so many others besides one’s self.”
Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this reproof;
but she made no immediate reply. After a while: “Frances will be a
little strange at first; but she will like it by-and-by; and it is only
right she should have her share,” she said softly. “I have been
wondering,” she went on, with a laugh that was somewhat forced, “whether
mamma will respect her individuality at all; or if she will put her
altogether into my place? I wonder if--that man I told you of, papa----”
“Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply.
“I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll.
Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it;
and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so
docile--and so obedient----”
“You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or
anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as that.”
“I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her
feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose
to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.”
Waring’s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “I hope,” he said, “that I
am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a
lady.”
“You mean me!” she cried, breathless. “Oh, I can----” But here she
stopped. “Papa,” she resumed, “what good will it do us to quarrel? I
don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I
am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love---- Oh, I think you might be
good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know
what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.”
She went to him quickly, and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried.
Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but
after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm
round her, and said a few soothing words. “You may be good for a great
deal, if you choose,” he said; “and if you will believe me, my dear, you
will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities
than Frances; you are much better educated than she is--at least I
suppose so, for she was not educated at all.”
“How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t expect to be
amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous tone.
He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether
he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. “You
are not complimentary,” he said. “What I mean is, that if you sit still
and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable;
whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the
situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of
it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.”
“Ah,” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and
went back to her chair. “I thought, perhaps, you meant something more
positive. There are perhaps possibilities: Frances would have thought it
wrong to look out for amusement--that must have been because you trained
her so.”
“Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do.
It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more
delight than others.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “that is like me. Some people are more alive than
others; that is what you mean, papa.”
“I am not sure that it is what I mean; but if you like to take it so, I
have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to live, Constance.
You will find it a great deal more amusing than to mope; and it will be
much pleasanter to me.”
“Yes,” she said, “I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the
same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances’ way; but still I
will take your advice, papa. I am sure you are right in what you say.”
“I am glad you think so, my dear. If you cannot have everything you
want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy.”
“Then I will be a true philosopher,” she said, with a laugh. The laugh
was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a
little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. “But I must
not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you
like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her
_menu_, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I
knew all about it. By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should
like to have a piano, if I might.”
“That will not be very difficult,” he said. “Can you play?”
At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored.
“You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, papa; you have quite
restored me to myself. I can’t knit you socks, like Frances; and I am
not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether
devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other. Good
night.”
“This is sudden,” he said. “Good night, if you think it is time for that
ceremony.”
“It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations
to make in my room, now that--now that--at present when I am quite
settled and see my way.”
He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of
very little consequence. Indeed it was perhaps well that she should go
and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the
day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there
was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had
ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which
Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost
grateful to Constance for taking herself away. He thought a little of
Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had
ever taken--and such a journey, away from everything and everybody she
knew. Poor little Fan! he thought a little about her; but he thought a
great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that
peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear capable of
disturbance? The circumstances were all very different now. Frances, who
would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her
mother’s companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to
escape from the companionship of which he had given up the world and
(almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be
his companion, would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and
everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life,
would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that
dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which
makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was
impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant
witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner,
the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this
thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn
Frances that her father was not to be discussed with my lady. But what
was the use of saying anything, when letters would come and go
continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled
to put up with it, though nothing could be more unpleasant. If these
girls had been boys, this would not have happened. It was perhaps the
first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys
were far more objectionable to his fine taste than girls, gave more
trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present
circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less
embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that unprofitable
exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all
cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him
perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would
think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would
require that he should reply. But this, except once or twice, perhaps,
to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him
to do.
Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She
had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being high-bred and
courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she
had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have
touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an
irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with
that intention of self-martyrdom with which so many good people
exasperate their neighbours. She would have been quite as comfortable in
the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was
safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had
set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no
longer the impress of Frances’ mind, but of her own. She took down a
number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly
pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have
supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The
depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was
over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any
longer possible, did not return at first. Her father’s words, which she
understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of
amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the
fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them
to him to justify herself. “Frances does not require so much amusement
as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight
than another.” She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much
glee, laughing to herself under her breath: “If you cannot get what you
want, you must take what you can get.” How astounded he would be if it
should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas--which were
so true! Her father’s arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did
not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind
when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this
desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw
that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word,
that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one
would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way
for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a
strong unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham’s face
disappear, and realised that he was gone, actually gone, and had left
her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her
young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest.
After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her
father, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated
herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole
matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten
o’clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a
succession of entertainments under her mother’s wing; but she had
nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old
chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to
bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still
audible without--people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone
benches on the Punto, just those same delights of society which happy
people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But
Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were
foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise
under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to
go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky
spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances
rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her,
hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that
little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance
regretting her village. Oh, if they could but have changed places! To
think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night air blowing in
her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the
morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep
along, then Paris, London, at last! She shut the _persiani_ almost
violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls
which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She felt
like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts
and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prison,
and never more to go free.
But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable
sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang
up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her
father had said: “If you cannot get what you want, you must take what
you can get.” There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this
arid place. She had her father’s sanction for making use of her
opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a
necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as
she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her
sister’s bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken
her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the
corners of her mouth; although, after all, the thought of the travellers
came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying
herself to sleep.