"I"m nervous too. I wish he"d scream. It"s too uncanny. Poor Gino! I"m terribly sorry for Gino."
"Are you?"
"Because he"s weak--like most of us. He doesn"t know what he wants. He doesn"t grip on to life. But I like that man, and I"m sorry for him."
Naturally enough she made no answer.
"You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you do us no good by it. We fools want some one to set us on our feet. Suppose a really decent woman had set up Gino--I believe Caroline Abbott might have done it--mightn"t he have been another man?"
"Philip," she interrupted, with an attempt at nonchalance, "do you happen to have those matches handy? We might as well look at the baby again if you have."
The first match blew out immediately. So did the second. He suggested that they should stop the carriage and borrow the lamp from the driver.
"Oh, I don"t want all that bother. Try again."
They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the third match.
At last it caught. Harriet poised the umbrella rightly, and for a full quarter minute they contemplated the face that trembled in the light of the trembling flame. Then there was a shout and a crash. They were lying in the mud in darkness. The carriage had overturned.
Philip was a good deal hurt. He sat up and rocked himself to and fro, holding his arm. He could just make out the outline of the carriage above him, and the outlines of the carriage cushions and of their luggage upon the grey road. The accident had taken place in the wood, where it was even darker than in the open.
"Are you all right?" he managed to say. Harriet was screaming, the horse was kicking, the driver was cursing some other man.
Harriet"s screams became coherent. "The baby--the baby--it slipped--it"s gone from my arms--I stole it!"
"G.o.d help me!" said Philip. A cold circle came round his mouth, and, he fainted.
When he recovered it was still the same confusion. The horse was kicking, the baby had not been found, and Harriet still screamed like a maniac, "I stole it! I stole it! I stole it! It slipped out of my arms!"
"Keep still!" he commanded the driver. "Let no one move. We may tread on it. Keep still."
For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl through the mud, touching first this, then that, grasping the cushions by mistake, listening for the faintest whisper that might guide him. He tried to light a match, holding the box in his teeth and striking at it with the uninjured hand. At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the bundle which he was seeking.
It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way, and had fallen across a great rut. So tiny it was that had it fallen lengthways it would have disappeared, and he might never have found it.
"I stole it! I and the idiot--no one was there." She burst out laughing.
He sat down and laid it on his knee. Then he tried to cleanse the face from the mud and the rain and the tears. His arm, he supposed, was broken, but he could still move it a little, and for the moment he forgot all pain. He was listening--not for a cry, but for the tick of a heart or the slightest tremor of breath.
"Where are you?" called a voice. It was Miss Abbott, against whose carriage they had collided. She had relit one of the lamps, and was picking her way towards him.
"Silence!" he called again, and again they obeyed. He shook the bundle; he breathed into it; he opened his coat and pressed it against him. Then he listened, and heard nothing but the rain and the panting horses, and Harriet, who was somewhere chuckling to herself in the dark.
Miss Abbott approached, and took it gently from him. The face was already chilly, but thanks to Philip it was no longer wet. Nor would it again be wetted by any tear.
Chapter 9
The details of Harriet"s crime were never known. In her illness she spoke more of the inlaid box that she lent to Lilia--lent, not given--than of recent troubles. It was clear that she had gone prepared for an interview with Gino, and finding him out, she had yielded to a grotesque temptation. But how far this was the result of ill-temper, to what extent she had been fortified by her religion, when and how she had met the poor idiot--these questions were never answered, nor did they interest Philip greatly. Detection was certain: they would have been arrested by the police of Florence or Milan, or at the frontier. As it was, they had been stopped in a simpler manner a few miles out of the town.
As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the Italian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep pa.s.sions and high hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one save himself had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained this vast apparatus of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemed to take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. The pa.s.sion they have aroused lives after them, easy to trans.m.u.te or to transfer, but well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that he was still voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous sea, with the sun or the clouds above him, and the tides below.
The course of the moment--that, at all events, was certain. He and no one else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet"s crime--easy also to blame the negligent Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton at home. Every one had contributed--even Miss Abbott and Irma. If one chose, one might consider the catastrophe composite or the work of fate.
But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledged weakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must take the news of it to Gino.
Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and people had sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards some cottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and order the driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours"
absence. Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully.
Pain, physical and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time before he realized that she had never missed the child.
Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just as she had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on one of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest a little lamp.
"I will be as quick as I can," she told him. "But there are many streets in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him this morning."
"Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi," said Philip, remembering that this was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.
He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking--there was nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts--but in trying to make a sling for his broken arm. The trouble was in the elbow-joint, and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual. But inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony. The sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying--
"So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting--"
Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told what had happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end.
In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby"s evening milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lamp without a word, and they went into the other room.
"My sister is ill," said Philip, "and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should be glad if you did not have to trouble them."
Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his son had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.
"It is through me," he continued. "It happened because I was cowardly and idle. I have come to know what you will do."
Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if he was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to intervene.
"Gently, man, gently; he is not here."
He went up and touched him on the shoulder.
He twitched away, and began to pa.s.s his hands over things more rapidly--over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high as he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now the tension was too great--he tried.
"Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for a little; you must break down."
There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.
"It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister.
You will go--"
The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost his old reason for life and seeks a new one.
"Gino!"
He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground.