Cartouche. Frances Mary Peard
but all the time it was tending slowly in one direction, so that on the evening of the day when his uncle had made his announcement, a walk round the shrubberies and a couple of cigars brought him to the window where Phillis was sitting in her white dress, and when he had asked her to come out, it was not difficult, especially on that quiet tender evening, to ask her to marry him. It was not difficult, it was almost pleasant. There was a tremulous happiness in the girl’s answer, and yet all the time Jack was conscious, and hating the consciousness, of what he was saving her from. If it had not been for that, he thought—but there it was, and, after all, was it not one motive?
Before this happened it had been decided that Phillis should go abroad with some friends, and Peter Thornton would have no change. His wife wanted the wedding to have been from Hetherton, but he scouted the idea so fiercely that no one dared to repeat it. Phillis should go, and Jack could go too. As for the marriage, he did not care where it took place, so long as they did not lose any time about it, and then if they wanted to honeymoon it in Italy they would be on the spot. And having announced his wishes, he took refuge in such a violent fit of the gout, that contradiction became an actual impossibility, and the odd little party started. It seemed more unreal to Jack every day as they came flying on. He had been rather unkind about the journey. Mrs. Leyton felt attractions in Paris. Captain Leyton, who went about with a very elaborate sketching apparatus which provided against rain, sun, and all possible evils of flood or field, and contained a larger supply of paints than could be used in a lifetime, was desirous to turn aside into the country of the Italian lakes, but Jack was obstinately determined to go directly to Florence, and somehow carried his day so far as to get them all to Bologna. There he graciously permitted them to rest; and indeed Ward, the lady’s maid, was in a state of rebellion, while Mrs. Leyton, who was good-natured but sometimes plaintive, went about declaring that having come abroad as much for society as anything else, it was a little hard to be whirled through the country at a rate which prevented your seeing anyone but the horrid people to be met with in the trains.
As for Phillis—but Phillis must wait. Jack was very kind and polite to her, and sometimes amused by her inexperience. He would have been surprised beyond measure if any objection to his plans had come from her.
Chapter Three.
Cartouche Kills a Turkey.
Florence had gone back to summer the next day. The heat was intense, the streets were deserted, the very blue of the sky seemed to burn, all the poor green things to have the life drawn out of them by the scorching sun. There was a little loggia at Miss Cartwright’s Casa Giulia, where Jack and his aunt could have managed to keep themselves cool if Miss Preston would have permitted it, but she routed them out more than once. Heat or no heat she had no compassion for idleness, and she came tramping up the stairs with bundles of book labels for the Church library, with horrible knitted garments which she had dragged from wintry receptacles, with all kinds of out-of-season duties which were to rouse Miss Cartwright. She was one of those people whose presence is a perpetual rebuke; it is impossible to fulfil their requirements, you feel yourself making feeble excuses, and going down, down, down, lower and lower in your own opinion and in theirs.
“Why do you let her tyrannise over you?” said Jack indignantly. It is to be feared that he called her an old cat, but all the same he was himself conscious of this uncomfortable sinking in her presence.
“She does not always do things in the pleasantest manner,” said Miss Cartwright gently, “but she is so conscientious and so useful that it is impossible not to admire her. There is a great deal of misery in Florence, and I am sure I often feel how selfish and idle it must seem to her when I sit in this pretty loggia out of the reach of it all, while she is always toiling and planning. Indeed, Jack, if you only knew half she did, you would appreciate her better.”
“Heaven forbid!” said the young man fervently.
Even Cartouche, who had made his way up to the loggia, was too sleepy to do anything but snap at persevering flies; the others sat lazily pretending to read or work; every now and then Miss Cartwright asked questions about Phillis; it was all dreamy and quiet. From where they sat they could see other loggias—people at their windows, women coming out on flat shady roofs to water their plants, odd little nests of chimneys like honeycombs, pigeon-holes, mysterious gratings, a curious kind of roof-life of which they made part and which had its interests. In those sunny countries it takes little to make a picture; here the business is elaborate, but there sun and sky do so much that you want little more—a scarlet flower in a pot, a clambering vine, and the effect is given. Jack lay back idly wondering at the beauty of an old house wall opposite on which the sun poured in golden splendour, and the rich shadows of the eaves marked bold outlines against the sky, when Miss Preston’s voice behind made him start.
“If you are busy I am sorry to interrupt you, Mary,” she began, with a searching glance at Miss Cartwright, who was hastily settling her cap, and trying to look as if she had not been asleep, “but it is necessary that some one should take back the books to the library this afternoon.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Miss Cartwright nervously; “they may really wait until to-morrow, the heat is too intolerable for anything not absolutely necessary to be done.”
“I consider this necessary. The books were promised to Vieusseux for to-day.”
Miss Preston spoke in her uncompromising tone, the two culprits looked at each other and fidgeted. Some old nursery story began to run in Jack’s head of naughty children, severe fairies, impossible tasks, heaps of shining silks which had to be sorted. Miss Cartwright made another feeble effort.
“I could not ask Winter to go out until it is cooler, but then she might take them.”
“I shall take them myself,” said Miss Preston decidedly. “I have no desire to delegate duties. I have only come to know whether you wish to try the candles at Lanzi’s? In that case, I will call there.”
When she had gone, Jack jumped up in a fume.
“The woman is unendurable,” he said. “She will be up here again in a moment with some other horrible propositions. I can’t stand any more of them. Look here, Aunt Mary, I will take Cartouche back to the hotel, and in an hour or so it will have cooled down enough to give him a run. You need not think about dinner, I shall get it at Dony’s, or somewhere, and look in here again lateish in the evening. If she is human she will be asleep then, after all this hunting her fellow-creatures.”
Ibbetson could not stay long at the hotel, where the air was heavy with heat. He made his way through the shady alleys of the Cascine; the people were collecting, the carriages drawn up, gay ladies in all sorts of bright and delicate colours, gentlemen wearing oddly-shaped hats and conspicuous gloves; a gay brilliant scene enough, but not one which at that moment had any attractions for Jack. He had in his pocket a letter from Phillis—the first. It was written with some care and restraint, as he noticed with a sigh which yet he could not have explained. They would leave Bologna for Florence on Saturday—this was Thursday. The heat was terrific, the arcades were a great comfort, the hotel was excellent, the Etruscan remains were most interesting. The little letter told everything there was to say—mentioned Mrs. Leyton’s health, Captain Leyton’s sketches—yet Jack was dissatisfied with it, and vexed at his own dissatisfaction. The old vein of thought kept recurring; it was not Tuscany in which he was walking, Tuscany with its golden lights, its wealth of colour, its grapes clambering from tree to tree, but more prosaic Surrey where carts were drawing their heavy harvest loads along the roads, and Hetherton lay low amidst its masses of dark trees. The picture caused him a little thrill of revulsion, and then a sharper thrill of self-reproach.
Jack knew nothing of the road along which he was plodding; indeed, it was not always a road, he went here and there where it seemed shady and out of the dust, along the tall canes by the side of the Arno, sometimes through a vineyard, where the contadini were gathering the beautiful fruit with their sickles. At last he found himself