“Don’t be afraid, I am not going to be—worse,” he said feebly. “I may be bad enough, but not worse. When did the man from Florence come? Tell me everything now.”
Then Rita, hesitating and faltering, told him the story of his illness, and all the long history burst confusedly upon his brain. He had thought he had been a few days, perhaps a week ill, and he had been six weeks. He had been preparing himself for a great deal to do when he should get well, and he found himself replaced, put aside. There were points in the story which consoled him. It was no man from Florence who had been doing his work—that was a wonderful comfort—but his own friend, the young fellow whom he had taken up and been kind to, who was the creature of his bounty. The Consul-General had not found a word to say; he had approved, and sanctioned, and authorised everything, and the character of Mr. Bonamy’s work had been kept up. He lay still and kept himself quiet, and listened to every word. Benedetta, who did not understand the English, stood by with all her appliances, her cold compresses, her bandages, the soft white folds of linen in which his hot forehead was to be bound. But the patient eluded her. He kept himself quiet in spite of all temptations.
“You can send her away, Rita,” he said. “What are you frightened for? I must have known sooner or later. It is far better that I should know. I have been surrounded by friends, everybody has been good to me; and if you have no objection, my darling, I should like to see Oliver here.”
“I don’t know,” said Rita, “why you should think I could have any objection to—anything you wished, papa.”
There was almost a glow of amusement in the Consul’s eyes. “My dear, you are very dutiful,” he said. And then the time came when he had to be carried back again in his couch indoors before the hour of sunset, which is feared throughout Italy, and to have his invalid meal brought to him. The evening was marked by a great event, for that night the Vice-Consul walked to bed, which was a thing which never had happened before. And from this time Mr. Bonamy began to accustom himself to all that had happened, and when the doctor came he extracted from him the full history of his illness, which interested him very greatly, and gave him something to think about. It was not unnatural that he should be startled. “It is a thing that is sure to recur again?” he asked.
“Well, we do not say that anything is sure to recur again. We say that, given the same disposition, the same symptoms might reappear.”
“And the third time kills?” the Vice-Consul said.
“My dear Bonamy, that again is not a thing we say. Every repetition of course weakens the patient,” said the judicious doctor.
The sick man laughed, but when he was alone his countenance was very grave. He lay and reflected upon everything, and thought how lonely his child would be when he was taken from her. She had some relations, but his anxiety to keep her from going to England had made him negligent of his own family at home; and he had something to leave her; he had not left his child altogether without provision. But what a change it would be to Rita, from the house where she was queen, where everybody worshipped and served her, where everything she said was reckoned wiser, and everything she did more wonderful, than any other sayings or doings, to be a semi-dependant in the house of her Aunt Ersilia, or some other of the Italian kindred, with their different ways! This thought filled Mr. Bonamy’s mind as he lay in the long unoccupied hours of his convalescence with his face turned to the blue Italian sea. Two days after he made a request to his child. “Will you write a note to Oliver,” he said, “and ask him to come and see me? But not if you have any objection.” He watched her intently, and he saw a quick, faint colour flash over her face.
“Why should I have any objection? I told you I had not any, papa; and if I had what would it matter?” she said.