Many women are shepherded through all life's journeyings by their
men--fathers, brothers, husbands--who look out their trains for them,
put them in the care of guards, and shield them from all contact with
sulky porters and extortionate cabmen. Olive, who had always to take
her own ticket and fight her own and her mother's battles, now tasted
the joys of irresponsibility with Avenel. He compounded with Customs
officials, who bowed low before him, he took part in the midnight
scramble for pillows at Modane, emerging from the crowd in triumph
with no less than three of the coveted aids to repose under his arm,
and he saw Olive comfortably settled in another compartment with two
motherly German women, and there left her.
At Turin he secured places in the _diretto_ to Florence, and sent his
man to the buffet for coffee and rolls, and the two broke their fast
together.
"Italy and the joy of life," Olive said lightly, as she lifted her
cup, and he looked at her with melancholy brown eyes that yet held the
ghost of a smile.
"The passing hour," he answered; adding prosaically, "This is good
coffee."
Referring to the grey silvery trees whose name she bore he assured
her that he did not think she resembled them. "They are old and you
seem eternally young. You should have been called Primavera."
She laughed. "Ah, if you had been my godfather--"
"I should not have cared to have held you in my arms when you were a
bald-headed baby," he answered with perfect gravity.
Apparently he always said what he thought, but his frankness was
disconcerting, and Olive changed the subject.
"Is Siena beautiful?"
"It is a gem of the Renaissance, and you will love it as I do, I know,
but I wish you could have seen Florence first. My brother has a villa
at Settignano and I am going there now. The fruit trees in the orchard
will be all white with blossom. You remember Romeo's April oath: 'By
yonder moon that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--'"
They lunched in the station restaurant at Genoa, and there he bought
the girl a basket of fruit. "A poor substitute for the tea you will be
wanting presently," he explained. "You have no tea-basket with you?
You will want one if you are going to live with Italians."
"I never thought of it."
"May I send you one?" he asked eagerly. "Do let me."
Olive flushed with pleasure. No one had been so kind to her since her
mother died. Evidently he liked her--oh! he liked her very much. She
suddenly realised how much she would miss him when they parted at
Florence and she had to go on alone. It had been so good to be with
someone stronger than herself who would take care of her. He had
seemed happy too, and she thought he looked younger now than he did
when she first saw him standing by the bookstall at Victoria station.
"It is very good of you," she said. "I should like it. Thank you. I--I
shall be sorry to say good-bye."
He met her wistful eyes gravely. "I should like you to know that I
shall never forget this day," he said. "I shall never cease to be
grateful to you for being so--for being what you are. My wife is
different."
"Your wife--"
"I don't live with her."
He took a card from his case presently and scribbled an address on it.
"I dare not hope that I shall ever hear from you again, but that is my
name, and letters will always be forwarded to me from my brother's
place. If ever I could do anything--"
She faltered some word of thanks in an uncertain voice. She felt as if
something had come upon her for which she was unprepared, some shadow
of the world's pain, some flame of its fires that flickered at her
heart for a moment and was gone. She was suddenly afraid, not of the
brown eyes that were fixed so hungrily upon her face, but of herself.
She could hear the beating of her own heart. The pity of it--the pity
of it! He was so nice. Why could not they be friends--
The night had fallen long since and they were nearing Florence.
"Don't forget to change at Empoli," he said. "I will send my man on as
far as that to look after you. Will you let me kiss you?"
"Yes."
He came over and sat on the seat by her side. "Don't be afraid. I
won't hurt you," he said gently, and then, seeing her pale, he drew
back. "No, I won't. It would not be fair. Oh, I beg your pardon! It
will be enough for me to remember how good you were."
The train passed into the lighted station, and he stood up and took
his hat and coat from the rack before he turned to her once more.
"Good-bye."