“Granny, I shall be really relieved when this affair is finished, I don’t quite like you over it,” she sighed. “Do you dream of anything dark in the background? Or if I dislike it ever so much, do you suppose it could be stopped now?”
“No,” admitted her grandmother. She added whimsically: “But isn’t that rather like starting a rock down hill, and asking whether you can be expected to stop it?”
“Perhaps,” Teresa said. “I don’t think your simile pretty, all the same,” she went on. “Nobody is going to be crushed; and I believe you’ll see that this being loved is just what Sylvia wanted to give her confidence. She’ll develop.”
Mrs Brodrick wanted to ask what would develop, and didn’t dare. She thought of Sylvia as a pretty face and a sweet nature masking an absolutely empty mind, and doubted. The young marchesa could not be always at hand to turn a stupid remark into something which did not seem so stupid after all, and she did not believe that Sylvia could stand on her own feet. She had done her best to stop what was happening and had failed. Age is tolerant, and there was nothing for it now save to accept failure.
“You and I,” said Teresa, with a caressing hand, “will always live together.”
“Always,” said Mrs Brodrick bravely, a smile covering the pain in her heart.
And she turned to go down.
When they reached the piazza the sky had changed. All the gold had gone. In its stead a long red line stretched across the mountainous horizon; above it, light deepened into blue, masses of clouds had suddenly trooped up from the south. Sylvia and Wilbraham came out quite unexpectedly from the shadow of the great church. Sylvia flew to her sister and caught her hand.
“Teresa, Teresa!” she cried under her breath.