When they first came into the room, Phillis sat down close to the door, and Ibbetson only nodded to her, and went on talking to Bice. Kitty was nearest to her, and the two began to talk, shyly, and with many pauses. Cartouche rushed up to Phillis and lay down at her feet. Miss Preston looked first at her, then at Bice, and shook her head. Certainly the contrast was great. Bice’s beautiful face was sparkling, her eyes were bright and soft, her colour came and went; it was like watching the changing lights of a spring day, there was so much youth and sweet freshness in the face. Phillis looked still and grave by comparison. No one could have called her beautiful, many the reverse. She was pale, and her features were irregular, her mouth large, though her teeth were charming, and her eyes clear brown, such as one sees sometimes in a dog—as honest and as faithful. Bice, looking at her once when she was smiling at Kitty, was struck by the feeling of restfulness which her face suggested; it smote her own poor little storm-tossed heart with a sharp pang of envy.
“Who is that lady? Is she one of your party?” she said quickly to Jack.
“Miss Grey? Yes. You will see her in Rome also,” he said, rather oddly, Bice thought.
“I am glad of that,” said the girl with a sigh; “she looks as if she could help one.”
It was proposed presently that some of them should go to the American Church, on the other side of the Arno, for the afternoon service. Mrs Masters was afraid of the walk, and would stay with Miss Cartwright, the others set out. The day was cooler, and the Lung’ Arno was crowded with gay people strolling down to the Cascine. It was like plunging from the present into the past, to cross the river and reach the dark dirty little streets which lead to the Carmine Church. Captain Leyton dragged a well-worn Baedeker out of his pocket and turned in there, where Masaccio’s frescoes glow in soft sad colours in his chapel, and the old beggars keep guard over the doors; the rest of the party were faithful to their aim, and went on to the little whitewashed building close by.
He rejoined them when they came out, and they wound through more dark crooked historic streets—streets where, as you pass, memories jostle you, and the famous dead come to life again, streets which are gloomy and yet brightened by flashes of gay colour; until they came to the Pitti, and so on to the Old Bridge. There, on either side, are the goldsmiths’ shops, which long years have kept unchanged, where, in little dens scarcely big enough to hold their master, twisted coils of yellow-looking pearls hang in long loops, and diamonds flash, and forget-me-nots of blue turquoises are heaped up; while behind, the quaint buildings bulge out in all sorts of strange shapes, with red roofs stuck on, and rooms hanging over those great stone arches under which Arno comes swooping down in all his winter strength and fulness. And there, in the centre, is the opening through which Tito leapt to his death, hounded on by the people behind him, the opening through which you may see the sunset lights softly touching the Carrara mountains, and turning the muddy river into a tawny sheet of gold.
To Bice it was full of strange new beauty; it seemed to her as if she had never known before what it was like. Ibbetson had been separated from her when they came out from the church, and had walked for a little while with Phillis, but he had come back to her again, and talked quietly and kindly. Phillis and Beatrice were not very much thrown together, but the girl often looked at the other, whose face attracted her powerfully. She noticed, too, that when information was wanted, if Phillis were asked she invariably had it to give, and she said something of the sort to Jack.
“Is it so?” he said, with a little surprise in the question. “I had no notion Miss Grey had had time to read up much about the place.”
Mr Trent kept out of Bice’s way, it seemed as if nothing were to interfere with her happiness, or as if, by sheer force of will, she were able to ward off whatever threatened. They were to drive back in the cool evening, and when they reached Casa Giulia, there was tea, and more sitting about in the pleasant drawing-room or under the glossy magnolias. Somehow or other, Ibbetson was generally near Bice. He had no intention of neglecting Phillis, but the last few days had thrown him into another circle of interests from which she was shut out, and the strong pity he felt for Bice demanded a good deal of attention for her—or so he thought. He was pretty sure, too, that Phillis would have shrunk from any open appearance of claiming her on his part, she was too shy to stand it. “And, after all, she has got what she wants,” he said in his heart with a bitterness which was not like himself, but which showed itself when he thought of Hetherton.
It was settled that they should all drive out to the villa on Tuesday and see something of the vintage, which would be at its height in the vineyards. Then the carriage came round and the little party separated. Florence was no longer white but golden, and there was a sort of golden mist before Bice’s eyes as they drove away into the Cascine woods. Was it over? Had it been no more than a dream, and was she going back to a reality which grew darker and darker every hour? Her heart cried out in passionate denial. Clive should be saved by other means—for she was in one of those moods when anything seems possible—and she would act in defiance of Oliver. She looked at him as she made the resolution, and it is possible that he read the defiance in her eyes. But for the moment he did nothing more than address a few languid remarks to Mrs Masters, who was getting drowsy. They went climbing slowly up the stony roads, through the vineyards. The glow faded away, a fragrant stillness seemed to rest; here and there an olive tree stretched out its grey and solemn boughs. Only once they passed a peasant; he had his dog with him, and a gun, and was perhaps going home from watching the vines. No one had spoken for at least ten minutes, when Oliver Trent touched Kitty.