“'Instant action,” returned the count. “Action without one hour's unnecessary delay.”
“Tell me,” she said, “exactly what it means.”
“We have called a meeting for to-night,” said the count, “and until that is held I can tell you nothing final. But you have a right to know my own design. We can really do nothing practical until we are armed. But I shall propose to quit England to-morrow. I shall leave Captain Fyffe to the negotiations with Quorn, and shall arrange for communications across the frontier, which will enable me to judge of the best place and the wisest hour for an attack. I shall go alone, because I wish to excite as little notice as possible.”
“You must not go alone,” she said, and made a movement towards him with her hands half extended. It was just such a movement as you will see a mother make towards a child that has not quite learned to walk and is in danger of falling. I could see the maternal instinct beaming in her face. The beautiful girl beside this grizzled and prematurely aged man was motherly all over, and it was a lovely and a touching thing to see. The count saw her meaning in a second, and drew back from her with a melancholy and affectionate smile, holding out both hands against her.
“I must go alone,” he said.
“No, no!” cried Violet, taking both his outstretched hands in hers, and bending over him with a look of infinite protection. “My poor dear, have you not suffered enough, and run dangers enough already? I could not bear to be away from you.” He was about to speak, but she closed his lips gently with the palm of her hand. “I have not been your daughter long,” she said, with a little catch in her voice which took me at the throat and made my heart ache with tenderness and pity for her. “I can give you up, dear, when the time comes, but not an hour before.”
“Should I not be happy, Fyffe?” asked the count, turning to me with tears in his eyes. “No, no, dearest, you will wait in England. I shall leave you in safety, for I will take nothing with me—no, not a thought, if I can help it, which would make me a coward for Italy.”
“I can give you up when the time comes,” she repeated, simply, “but not now. I will not ask you to take me into any danger. I don't think,” she went on, striving to make something of a jest of it, and to hide the deeper feeling which controlled her so strongly—“I don't think that I am fond of danger or that I should like it at all; but there is no real reason why I should not be with you just at first.”
“Aye, yes,” cried the count, “there is every reason. I do not know where I may have to go. I do not know how I am to live—to travel—with what associates I must combine. My dear child, you must know the truth; my love must venture to speak it. You would be a drag upon every step, and with you I should not dare to face a single peril. I must go alone; I know the hardship, but that is the task of women. They wait at home and suffer, while the man goes out to enjoy adventure and excitement. It was your mother's fortune, my child, and you inherit it. She was all English, and yet she endured it for my sake. You are at least half of Italy, and Italy has need of both of us. If Italy needs my life, she is welcome to it. If she had need of yours, I would say not a word to hold you back. But your place is at home. Is it not so, Fyffe?”
I was a selfish advocate enough, but he had reason on his side, and I should have been blind indeed not to have seen it.