CHAPTER XXXIII
When Halcyone left the Fortezza she was conscious of no feeling of depression or grief. Rather a gladness and security filled her heart. She had seen him with her mortal eyes—her dear lover—and he was in truth greatly in need of all her care and tender thoughts. Her beliefs were so intense in those forces of protection with which that God Whom she worshiped so truly surrounded her, that she never for a moment doubted but these invisible currents would be directed to the disentangling of destiny's threads.
She made no speculations as to how this would be—God would find the way. Her attitude was never one of pious resignation to a divine chastisement. She did not believe God ever meant to chastise anyone. For good or ill each circumstance was brought about by the individual's own action in setting the sequence of events in motion, as the planting of seed in the early spring produced fair flowers in the summer—or the bruising of a limb produced pain. And the motion must go on until the price had been paid or the pleasure obtained. And, when long ago she had heard Cheiron and John Derringham having abstruse arguments upon Chance, she used silently to wonder how they could be so dull as not to understand there was no such thing really as Chance—if people were only enabled to see clearly enough. If they could only trace events in their lives to their sources, they would find that they themselves had long ago—even perhaps in some former existence—put in motion the currents to draw the events to themselves. What could be called "chance" in the matter was only another name for ignorance.
And, if people knew about these wonderful forces of nature, they could connect themselves with only the good ones, and protect themselves from the bad. Misfortune came through—figuratively—not knowing just where to put the feet, and through not looking ahead to see what would be the result of actions.
Only, above and beyond all these forces of nature and these currents of cause and effect, there was still the great, eternal Source of all things, who was able to dispel ignorance and to endow one individual with the power to help another by his prayers and thoughts. This God could hasten and bring Happiness, if only He were believed in with absolute faith. But that He would ever stoop to punish was an unheard-of blasphemy. He was only and entirely concerned with good. Punishments came as the results of actions. It followed then that John Derringham, having paid the price of much sorrow for all his mistakes, would now come into peace—and her prayers, and exceptional advantages in having been allowed for years to learn the forces of nature, would be permitted to help him. That he would be obliged to marry Mrs. Cricklander would seem to be an overexaction, and not just. But they were not the judges, and must in all cases fulfill their part of honesty and truth, no matter what might betide.
These were her convictions, and so they caused her to feel only a God-like calm—as she went away into the purple shadows of the old streets.
Cheiron and she had been at San Gimignano for half a week, and almost every child in the place knew and loved her. She had always a gracious word or a merry smile when they clustered round her, as is their friendly way with all travelers, when she came from the Cathedral or the strange old solitary chapel of St. Jacopo.
The Professor was waiting for her on the hotel steps, and he saw by some extra radiance in her face that something unusual had happened.
"What is it, my child?" he asked, as they went in and up to their dinner in the big salle à manger upon the first floor, which was then nearly always empty of guests.
"John Derringham is here, Master," she said—"and we have talked, and now all shadows are gone—and we must only wait."
"I am glad to hear it," replied Cheiron, and bristled his brows.
This is all that was said between them on the subject, and, immediately the meal was over, they retired to their rooms. But when alone in hers, Halcyone took from the silken wrappings the Goddess Aphrodite, and in the divine eyes read a glad blessing, and, as soon as her head touched her pillow, she fell into a soft sweet sleep, while the warm night winds flew in at the wide-opened windows and caressed her hair.
And John Derringham, when the dark had fallen, came down from his high watch tower, and walked slowly back to the hotel, leaning upon his stick. He was still filled with the hush of his loved one's serene calm. Surely, after all, there must be some truth in her beliefs, and he would trust to them, too, and wait and hope—and above all keep his word, as she had said, with that honor which is entailed upon a gentleman.
He ordered his motor for dawn the next morning, so as to be away before the chance of disturbing the two should occur.
The rare and wonderful sight of a motor in those days caused a crowd to collect whenever one should arrive or depart. It was an unheard-of thing that two should visit the city at the same time—there had only been three in the whole year—so Halcyone, when she heard the whizz next morning, bounded from her bed and rushed to peep between the green shutters. Some instinct told her that the noise indicated it was he—her dear lover—about to start, and she had the happiness of gazing down upon his upturned face unperceived, as his eyes searched the windows, perhaps in some vague hope of being able to discern which was hers.
And she showered upon him blessings of love and tenderness, and called all the currents of good from the sky and the air, to comfort and protect him and give him strength to go back and keep his word. And, just as he was starting, a white pigeon flew down and circled round John Derringham's head—and he was conscious that at the same moment the sun must have risen above the horizon, for it suddenly gilded the highest towers. And he passed out of the dark gate into its glory, and took the Siena road, a mighty purpose of strength in his heart.
After a few days of wandering, during which he strove not to let grief or depression master him again, he sent a telegram to Venice to Cecilia Cricklander. And on that Saturday evening, he walked into her sitting-room with a pale and composed face.
She was seated upon the sofa and arranged with every care, and was looking triumphantly beautiful as she smoked a cigarette. Her fine eyes had in them all the mocking of the fiend as she greeted him lazily.
"How are you, John?" she said casually—and puffed rings of smoke, curling up her red lips to do so in a manner that, John Derringham was unpleasantly aware, he would once have found attractive, but that now only filled him with disgust.
"I am well," he said, "thank you,—better for the change and the sight of some most interesting things."
"And I, also," she responded with provoking glances from under her lids, "am better—for the change! I have seen—a man, since which I seem to be able the better to value your love!"
And she leaned back and laughed with rasping mockery, which galled his ears—although for some strange reason she could no longer gall his soul. He felt calm and blandly indifferent to her, like someone acting in a dream.
"I am glad you were, and are, amused," he said. He had not made the slightest attempt to kiss her in greeting—and she had not even held out her hand.
"You are quite rich now, John, aren't you?" after a short silence she presently asked nonchalantly—"that is, as you English count riches—ten or twelve thousand a year. I suppose it will keep you in comfort."
He leaned back and smiled one of his old cynical smiles.
"Yes," he said, "it is extremely rich for me; my personal wants are not great."
"That is splendid, then," she went on, "because I shall not feel I am really depriving you of anything by doing what I intend to do in throwing you over—otherwise I should have been glad to settle something upon you for life!"
As he listened, John Derringham's eyes flashed forth steel, but the pith of her speech had in it such divine portent, as it fell upon his ears, that the insult of its wording left him less roused than she hoped he would have been.
She saw that it was joy, not rage, which lay deep in his eyes, and the fury of her whole nature blazed up, so that she forgot the years of polish that she had acquired—forgot her elaborately prepared plan that for an hour she would torture and play with him, as a cat plays with a mouse, and, crimsoning with wrath, she hurled forth her displeasure, cutting things short.
"You are only a paltry fortune-hunter, John Derringham, for all your fine talk," she said loudly, raising her voice, and allowing it to regain its original broad accent, "and I have kept you on just to punish you. But, if you thought I was ever going to marry you now that you are no better than a cripple, and don't amount to thirty cents in the opinion of the world—you or your Government either!—you made a great mistake. I have something much more delightful on hand—so you can take back your ring and your freedom—and go and find some meeker woman who will put up with your airs."
And she picked up from a table beside her his diamond gage, which she had taken from her hand before his entrance, and threw it over to him—and then leaned back as if exhausted with anger among the cushions.
John Derringham had grown very pale as the insulting words fell from her lips—and now he rose to his feet, and standing there looked at her with pitying contempt.
"Then I will say good-by, Cecilia," he said. "The manner of your release of me cancels the pain it might otherwise have caused me. I can only wish you all success with any new venture you may make—and assure you always of my deep respect."
And, calmly putting the ring in his pocket, he turned round and slowly left the room—when, meeting Arabella upon the stairs, she was startled to see him shaking with sardonic laughter.
"Good-night, and good-by, dear Miss Clinker," he said; "I am glad to have had this opportunity of thanking you again and again for your sweet goodness to me when I was ill; it was something which I shall never forget."
"Oh, Mr. Derringham!" said Arabella, "you haven't parted from Mrs. Cricklander, have you?" But she saw from his laughing eyes that he had, and, before she was aware of it, good, honest soul, she had blurted out: "Oh, I'm so glad!"
Then they shook hands heartily, to hide her dreadful confusion, and John Derringham went on to his rooms at the Britannia, where he was staying, with nothing but a mad, wild joy in his heart.
What did Cecilia Cricklander's insults matter? What did anything on earth matter? He was free to go and seek his beloved one—and have every sorrow healed as he held her to his heart. The only necessary thing now was to find her immediately, which would require some thinking out. It was too late to get an answer to any telegrams to England—he must wait until the morning. Mrs. Porrit would know where Cheiron's next address would be. Yes, he could hope to come up with the wanderers perhaps not later than the day after tomorrow.
But when Arabella entered her employer's sitting-room after wishing him good-by, she found Mrs. Cricklander in violent hysterics, and she had to have the doctor and a sleeping draught before she could be calmed.
The hatefulness, the impossible arrogance and insolence of the man, she had thought! and the humiliation to herself of knowing full well that, instead of making this dismissal a scene of subtle superlative cleverness, so that through all his torture he would be obliged to admire and respect her skill—she had let her temper get the better of her, and had shown him a side of herself that, she was well aware, was most unrefined, so that he had been able to leave her, not as a humbled, beaten cur, as she had intended, but feeling what she knew to be unfeigned contempt.
No wonder she had hysterics! It was galling beyond compare, and not all Mr. Hanbury-Green's devotion or flattery next day could heal the bitter hurt.
"Oh, how I will help you, Percy!" she said, "to pull them all down from their pedestals, and drag them to the guillotine!"
And Mr. Hanbury-Green had laughed, and said it gratified him greatly to feel her sympathy and coöperation would be with him, but he feared they would never have the humorous pleasure of getting as far as that!
And, it being a Sunday, Arabella Clinker wrote to her mother to apprise her of these events.
The engagement is over [Mrs. Clinker was told]—the advent of Mr. Hanbury-Green (a very unpleasant personality, afraid of being polite to me in case I should fancy myself his equal) seemed to clinch matters in M. E.'s mind. I suppose he was able to give her some definite assurance of the future of the Government. In any case, I could see, when they returned from their excursion in the gondola yesterday, that things were upon a very familiar footing between them. Mr. H.G. has none of Mr. Derringham's restraint or refinement, and, after M. E. had seen Mr. Derringham and, I presume, returned him his freedom, she had a terrible fit of hysterics, only calmed when Mr. Hanbury-Green entered the room and suggested emptying the water jug over her. It appears he has a sister who is subject to these attacks, and this is the only method which has any effect upon her. I suppose in his circle they would have a number of crude remedies which we are unaccustomed to, but it seemed to be the right one for M. E., who pulled herself together at once.
They told me privately that they are engaged, but do not intend to announce it yet, and I believe they are really suited to each other. I had thought at one time that Mr. Derringham might be equally a mate for her, because of his selfishness, but, after I grew to know him when he was ill, I saw that he was infinitely above her, and not really more selfish than other men—and, as you know, I have extended to him my pity and commiseration ever since. Your liking of him confirmed my good opinion. I am to stay on with M. E. as long as I will, because Mr. Hanbury-Green, she says, is not cultivated either, and I may be of use to them both, she thinks, in the future, although she has not imparted this to him. I do not believe I shall like having to render his speeches erudite, because my political convictions are all upon the other side. But something else may turn up, and it is a comfort to know things are settled for the present. Mr. Derringham looked so joyous as he came from her sitting-room, after his dismissal, that I am sure he will go off at once to that person I have often given you a hint about,—and his restoration to health may consequently be looked upon as a certainty. I fear the influences we shall have to live under now will not encourage that high tone which endeavoring to keep up with Mr. Derringham and his party entailed, and it may grow more than I can bear. The inference to be drawn from M. E.'s defection to the other side is not felicitous, and gives me cause for the most gloomy foreboding as to the future of the country, because she would never have done it if she had not received from Mr. Hanbury-Green absolute guarantees that with him she will occupy the highest position. Everything Conservative is vieux jeu now, she says, and she must go with the tide.
And from this the letter wandered on to personal matters.
Meanwhile John Derringham had received Mrs. Porrit's answer and had ascertained the Professor's probable address, and was joyously speeding his way on to Rome.