‘Because, if I could, I would fetch him back at all risks. I would tell the whole truth—show my accounts, get you as a witness as to my motives, and take my chance of a prosecution. I have Phil’s I O U for a larger sum than I have yet expended; and although I have forged his signature, and passed myself off under a false name, I think I might, by counsel’s aid, get off pretty easily. But I don’t choose to risk it, with Phil out of reach on the high seas. Things would be more complicated, and disagreeable insinuations might be cast at me. I wish he had never gone; but as he has, I must try to hold out these few months longer, and then, when he is once back, whether ill or well, he shall come to Ladywell, and I will abdicate in his favour. I think I shall have pretty well broken Belassis’ power by that time, and opened the eyes of the executors. He will never regain the ascendency he once had here.’
‘Oh yes, you must certainly hold out. I will help you. I am sure I can hold the Belassis faction at bay, if I can do no more. You are certain that Philip Debenham has sailed?’
‘Quite certain. I have received, through Dr. Schneeberger, a letter from his medical friend under whose care Phil travels. It was written on board the vessel, and said that the journey had been safely accomplished, that Phil had borne it well, though without any sign of returning powers, and that they were to sail before midnight. He will be far enough away by now.’
‘Safely out of Mrs. Belassis’ or the Italian’s reach, anyway,’ said Miss Marjory. ‘I wonder who this Italian can be? A spy of hers?’
‘Not possible, I think. He came as a guest to a Mr. Meredith, a sculptor here, with an introduction from a relative of theirs in Florence who has known him for several years. I made, for my own satisfaction, as many close inquiries as I could without attracting attention. He says he knew Philip well, and me slightly; that he met us in Rome and Naples. I dare say it is all true enough—indeed it must be, for he recalls incidents that I remember quite well, only I don’t remember him.’
‘This is interesting and romantic,’ said Miss Marjory, fanning herself gently. ‘I will tackle this fascinating Italian, and see if I cannot pluck out the heart of his mystery.’
‘I wish you could,’ said Tor.
‘Does he speak English?’
‘No; only Italian and French, so far as I know.’
‘Well, well, I am old-fashioned enough to speak Italian. When I was young, it was the fashion to learn only a few things, and those well. Girls were not encouraged then to dabble in science and metaphysics, and play at atheism and agnosticism when they should be practising their scales and learning their catechism. We were not at all learned young ladies in my day. We didn’t look down on our parents, sneer at the clergy, or aspire to the “higher culture” and “higher morality,” or whatever their new-fangled jargon may be; but we were taught how to behave ourselves in the company of our elders, we did not lounge or yawn when obliged to listen to conversation rather above our heads, nor did we interrupt our betters or interfere whenever we happened to disagree. We did not talk big about universal equality or socialistic philanthropy, but I flatter myself we understood our duty to our neighbour better than this generation understands it. And I venture to say I can talk Italian against any modern young lady extant, however learned she may be.’