Before this was done there were two weddings in Rome. Bice and young Count Moroni were married first, and two or three days after, Phillis Grey and John Ibbetson. It was one of those bright Easter days when Rome breaks into delicious harmonies of spring; when the banksia roses fling themselves over the walls like foam, and delicate plants spring out of the mighty brickwork, and the sky is one unbroken depth of blue, and the sun shines on the fountain of Trevi, on the falling waters which came rushing out, on the pigeons which fly backwards and forwards, and perch themselves on Neptune’s head. The wedding was very quiet. Scarcely half a dozen people were in the Church, and in an hour or two Jack and Phillis were to start for Florence on their way to Venice. But before this Phillis had a wish which naturally was to be gratified. They must drive to the Ponte Molle and see the spot where Cartouche had died for his master.
On their way Jack put into her hands a letter from his uncle, written with some triumph, but little cordiality.
“Oliver Trent!” repeated Phillis, as she came to a sentence with his name.
“Oliver Thornton, perhaps, one of these days,” said Jack, folding the letter and putting it back in his pocket. “Who knows? I’m sure I don’t. But if so, I hope Hetherton will disagree with him.”
Phillis, who rather disliked the name of Hetherton, said quickly:—
“We will not begrudge it to him.”
“Yes, I shall,” persisted Jack, “because I object to successful villainy, and to being disappointed of my moral.” But seeing that Phillis looked at him wistfully, he drew her closer to him. “My darling, do you suppose Hetherton seems anything to me now?”
They had not much time to spare, and walked quickly from the bridge along the river side. So changed was it from that other day, that it might, so Phillis thought, have been another stream. Instead of wild anger there was only a stately sweep in the slowly moving water, and though some marks of past turbulence might be here and there visible on the banks, they were not many, and under the warm sun all the green bordering was springing into glad life once more.
But, though where it had been was now dry land, the little bank was gone. Phillis grew pale and clung to Jack when she saw this, she could not speak except by that mute gesture, and he answered it mutely, too. For there where Cartouche had died and he had been given back to life and her, he kissed his wife, and held her in his arms.
Do people forget as quickly as we commonly believe? Outward marks and signs of remembrance die away, it is true, others fill the vacant places, and we look into smiling faces and say “he or she is forgotten—it is the way of the world.” But, after all, what do we know? Do not our own memories often startle us? At all sorts of strange times, with a silent foot-fall inaudible to any but ourselves, they come warm, and strong, and living. We do not forget so easily, nor perhaps shall we be forgotten so soon as we all think. God gave good gifts to this husband and wife, and the crown of happy love, but both of them remembered and kept their memories sacred in their hearts. And a peasant woman in a southern country has taught her children to love animals and be good to them, for one of them, she says, was once saved by a dog. The children listen, thrilled by the familiar story. “Eccolo!” cries a girl, pointing, and they all turn and look up where, over the door, is the carved figure of a dog, with a date.