Chapter Twenty Four.
Which will Succeed?
Moroni did not call out Trent but took some other measures which were vigorous and a good deal more sensible. But it was a proof of curious and dogged perseverance in the man, that, although baffled, Trent did not give up all hope. He had played a desperate game, in which he told himself—and truly enough, as far as it went—that he had been led on from risk to risk, and so far as his wrong-doing had been a mistake, he bitterly regretted it. Bitterly, for his love for Bice was an absorbing passion, and he would not yet suffer himself to own that she was lost for ever.
His hope lay in Mrs Masters. First and last he had lent her a good deal of money, looking to it as another means of gaining a power over the girl. For he measured Bice’s strength and weakness accurately, knowing that she would resist obstinately and, after all, give way in a moment if she could spare a tear to those she loved. Impulse, as yet, was almost paramount with her; what Trent was ignorant of, or forgot to take into account, was the effect produced upon her by the steady influence of such a life as that of Phillis, in which a higher law ruled.
Trent lost no time. He knew that Mrs Masters had been teased by Kitty into taking her to the Capitol, and he at once followed them there. Everything looked grey and dreary, and unlike Rome; the pepper trees and mimosas by the Capitol steps hung dank, the poor wolf had slunk sullenly into his den, even the majestic and unmoved serenity of Marcus Aurelius, as the rain beat down upon him, dangerously approached the ridiculous. An old woman held out her hand, “Un soldo, per pietà, signore, un soldo.” Trent flung her a dozen soldi, having a feeling that he could not afford to lose the blessing of a beggar.
Mrs Masters and Kitty had gone to the side where the bronze wolf is preserved, and he was long in finding them. Mrs Masters—always provided with a camp-stool—was in her usual condition of repose, letting her daughter look about as she liked, so that nothing could have been more desirable for Trent. Any other woman might have noticed the unusual dull pallor of his face, as he leaned against a pedestal by her side, but observation was growing more and more an unknown exercise to her, and she made no more than her ordinary remarks about heat or cold and the like, when he joined her. He did not trouble himself to answer them, but said abruptly:—
“Have you any idea how much money I have let you have?”
“Not much,” she said placidly. It had seemed to her part of the arrangement to which belonged Bice’s engagement, and she expected Trent to look upon it in the same light.
“Well, you had better understand. It is over two hundred pounds.”
For a moment she was a little startled, “I don’t really think it can be so much,” she said. “But, to be sure, I have a very poor head for business.”
“And do you know,” he went on without regarding, “that Bice has been listening to that young—fool, Ibbetson, and has been talked into throwing me over?”
He spoke in a low savage voice, which had in it so much concentrated bitterness that it frightened her. She looked up at him with a vaguely terrified expression.
“What do you mean?” she said. “She is going to marry you, isn’t she?”
“No,” he said in the same tone. “Can’t you understand plain English? I tell you he has been getting hold of her with his cock-and-bull stories about Clive, and this is the end of it.”
He had no dislike to Mrs Masters, and yet at that moment it gave him a fierce satisfaction to see that she was trembling. It seemed like an assurance that Bice was still in his power. And, indeed, one time of her life had taught her so thoroughly the language of threats that she had no difficulty in realising that he meant something by asking her about the money. She said imploringly:—
“But it is not my fault, Oliver. You must know that I have always taken your part with Bice, and that I cannot help it if she has one of these headstrong fits upon her.”
“Perhaps not. But I don’t mean to put up with them quietly. Choose for yourself. Can you repay me the money?”
“Oh, of course I cannot, you know I cannot! And you promised me that when you were married you would not ask for repayment.”
“Well? And I abide by that promise. But do you think me fool enough to lose everything? Keep your side of the compact and I keep mine.”
She looked at him helplessly. Her mind was not quick at resources, and Trent’s will always seemed to oppose a blank high wall when she wished to escape. Kitty came up with some remark. When she had left them again, her mother said slowly:—
“I can’t force Bice.”
“You can work upon her. If you succeed, I give you my word, the money shall be absolutely yours.” He was leaning forward and speaking earnestly, and a dull hope came into her face.
“Perhaps I can. And you will be kind?”
“I will be very kind—to success.”
Then he walked away after Kitty, who was his warm admirer and supporter, and took pains to make himself more than usually pleasant to her, before he confided what had past. Painted in his own colours it looked very different from the actual fact, and Kitty, flattered and pleased, scarcely needed persuasion. When he went back to Mrs Masters, he felt convinced that he had a chance of at least getting himself heard by Bice, who was only to be reached by those she loved, and once heard, his indomitable perseverance assured him that he could explain everything.
Somebody else was plotting and planning that day. Moroni, all the chivalry of whose nature had risen up in answer to what Ibbetson had told him, though that was not much, was dashing about here and there, looking pale and determined, and unlike the days of the guitar. Jack was very good-natured, and sincerely anxious that he should succeed, his liking and esteem for the young fellow having grown rapidly that day. But even Jack grew a little weary of giving advice, when, for the third time, Moroni came rushing up his stairs.
“My dear friend,” cried the young fellow, wringing his hands, “what should I do without you? I ask you twenty thousand pardons, I am an impertinent, an intruder, but—will you only answer me one question, and I go?”
Ibbetson, who had had to answer some dozens already, nodded good-humouredly.
“Do you really think I should delay pressing my suit? If she were altogether Italian I should know what to do, but she is partly English; she loves England, it is not impossible that I might shock her. You, too, are English. Advise me.”
He was trembling with eagerness, and thrusting his hands into his hair. Ibbetson leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said:—
“I wouldn’t be too abrupt. She will want a little breathing time after this affair. See Mrs Masters if you like, and for the rest go quietly to work.”
Moroni listened as eagerly as if he had not already had the advice again and again, nodded once or twice and jumped up.
“Enough! I shall go at once and see if her mother is returned. Addio, best of friends.” But at the door he came back: “You would really wait?”
“My dear fellow, I’m no prophet. I only say what I should do if I were in your shoes.”
“I shall do it. Ah, a thought strikes me! That is your dog, is it not? And she likes him, I have heard her speak of him—will you lend him to me? It would be so good to give her pleasure.”
Jack gave a laughing leave, but Cartouche refused all enticements. When the eager young fellow, with his hope and enthusiasm, had at last rushed out, Cartouche walked across the room and rested his black head on his master’s knee; looking in his face with the odd questioning that touched them all. “You and I are left pretty much to each other, old fellow, eh?” said Jack, pulling the shaggy locks; “and we miss her, too, don’t we? Well, we’ll hold together, and stick to each other, and, perhaps, the sooner we get away from here the better it may be for us both.” Then he began to imagine that future which turned a dreary side towards him at that time; Phillis in the vicarage at Whitcote, himself obliged every now and then to be at Elmsleigh to meet her, to meet the man whose wife she was. More than once in their last interview Phillis had hurt him as she had never done before; her shrinking reluctance to grant him that one request of his, had given him his sharpest pang, and his thoughts had gone back to it again and again. He was impatient with himself for his own folly, and stood up and shook himself, as if by that means he could get rid of it. Miss Preston and Winter had both gone, the porter’s wife kept his rooms, and his food was sent from a trattoria. Hardly ever had he been oppressed with such a sense of loneliness in the world, and somehow he was sure that Cartouche shared the oppression. The sooner he could get back to London the better, and he made a rapid calculation, and decided that in five days he might leave Rome. If, before then, he came across Phillis, well and good; but he told himself dejectedly that he must not try to see her alone, where another repulse would only pain them both. Friends they might be in time, but it is not a relationship which succeeds very easily to that of lovers, in spite of the fine words talked about it, or even the finer thoughts thought.
Moroni, meanwhile, went like a whirlwind to the Palazzo Capponi, and stormed Mrs Masters in the very yellow room where he had already been that day. Other people might have found it difficult to introduce the subject, but his simplicity and his eagerness saw no difficulties. He kissed her hand, and held it in his own while he said:—
“Dear signora, I have the greatest favour to ask. By what I hope may be a fortunate incident, I was in this room to-day, and saw the signorina act like a heroine. The Signor Trent is of your family, I believe, so I say nothing, I abstain to speak of him, if I did however, I do not; as I say, I abstain. But I gathered that—he being of your family—you had done him the great honour to permit him to be your banker. I am right, am I not?”
Poor Mrs Masters, who was unaccustomed to have her monetary transactions looked upon in this light, stared helplessly at him. She was feeling the pressure of Trent’s heavy hand, and dreading her interview with Bice, which might, she knew, turn out a failure. And if so, where would she be? But Moroni was afraid he had offended her.
“You think I have no right,” he said, with a gesture of despair. “Ah, forgive me, but remember, are we not of your oldest friends? Who will you permit to be of some little use, when inconveniences occur, but us? If I cannot speak of that man, it is impossible for me to express myself as I would, but I entreat you to leave it in my hands, to let me settle everything with him. Oh, I will be patient because he is your countryman. And the money shall come from you, you may trust me.”
Was this the favour he was asking? She could scarcely believe that she heard rightly, and that her perplexities could meet with such a gentle end. No scruples were likely to weigh with her. She sank into an arm-chair with a sigh of relief.
“Would you really do me this kindness, Giovanni? Oliver Trent has behaved cruelly, for I did not know I had to repay the two hundred; but he is angry with Bice and vents it upon me. It is very hard on me. But have you the money?”
“Listen, dear signora. I came here hoping to gain your consent to address myself to the signorina Beatrice. My father loves me, he is rich, he consents. I find her tied to this man. Imagine, if you can, my despair. But now I shall hope again, with your permission, I shall have every hope.”
“Oh, you have my permission,” said Mrs Masters, slowly. “But if she will not—”
“Do you think she will not? Do not say so, I implore you!”
“She is incomprehensible,” said her mother, with a sigh. “And then, perhaps, I shall have all this scene with the money over again—”
Moroni stared at her, grew pale and drew himself up with a grand air they had never seen in him.
“Signora, I am one of the Moroni,” he said proudly, “and I have asked two favours at your hands.”
She looked at him in wonder. Was this Bice’s boy-admirer, at whom they had sometimes laughed? It touched and shamed her.
“You are very good, my Giovanni; very good,” she said. “I hope poor Bice will have the blessing of so good a husband, if she really has made up her mind not to marry Oliver. Poor Bice! Perhaps she has thought too much of me and of others—and as for this you wish to do, I cannot thank you enough—”
“Say no more,” said the young man, radiant, and seizing her hand again in his fervour. “You have granted me permission, now I shall go to work very carefully. But you will never let her know of the favour you have given me, she would think it too presumptuous. Within an hour the money shall be here. How kind you have been to me, dear signora!”
The secret was one which Mrs Masters determined to keep.
When she went into Bice’s room, she found her pacing up and down, flushed and feverish.
“So you have seen that man,” the girl began vehemently; “Mamma, for pity’s sake say nothing about him. Kitty has gone away crying because I will not listen. I shall go mad, I believe—I cannot even tell you what he has done. Ask Mr Ibbetson. Only I will not marry him, whatever you owe him; are human beings to be sold like that in these days? Let us go back, I will work, I will—”
“My dear, you are so impetuous! do not wish you to marry him.”
Bice paused in her rapid movements.
“And the money?” She asked the question breathlessly.
“The money will be paid to-day.”
The change in her face seemed to light the very room. She flung her arms round her mother’s neck, tears were running down her face. “It is for joy,” she sobbed. “Do you mean that we are free, that he can do nothing more?” But after this she made none of the inquiries which her mother dreaded; sitting quietly, and looking out of the window, and every now and then drawing a long breath, as if a burden were lifted from her.
That evening a great bouquet came for the Signorina Capponi.
The next morning, as Moroni was again going to choose the best flowers he could find for his lady, Trent passed by him on his way to the station. He looked like what he was; a man who had aimed for an object and had lost it. Of Moroni he took no notice; it was Ibbetson to whom he attributed his defeat. But Moroni in the joy of his heart, bought a magnificent peacock made entirely of flowers, at which the Roman world had been staring for an hour or two, and gave orders for its being sent to Palazzo Capponi. And Jack, when he was called upon for advice that day, thought Giovanni’s views as to proceeding slowly were a good deal modified. At any rate, he saw Bice.