Mr. Bonamy laughed a little, faintly. “Are you coming to see that?” he said.
“I don’t know if I am coming to see it, papa. I think I always saw it. One does not think much whether the people one cares for are clever or not.” Then perceiving the inference which might be drawn from her words, Rita blushed wildly, and turned suddenly upon her father defiant eyes. But he did not make any remark, half because he was weak, half because of a mingled pang of satisfaction and pain to think that “the people she cared for” now included other relations than those of the earliest stage in life. A father, perhaps, feels it more than a mother when his daughter’s heart goes away from him to another man: there is a keener jealousy in it, a sharper sense of contrast. He had concentrated all his happiness in his child; and, lo! in a moment there appeared a stranger in her life who would be more to her than he was. The first shock of this discovery is always painful; and as he lay there bearing this and thinking over all that was before him, an infinite sadness came into the Vice-Consul’s smile. It was not only natural that this blossom of his life should detach itself from him, but it was well. To preside at and assist in the replacement of one’s self by another, preparing as it were the preliminary ceremonials of one’s own funeral, is a curious experience; but Mr. Bonamy felt, with a little melancholy that this was the thing which it now remained for him to do. He could not help making comparisons between himself and Harry. Harry was not clever; he was a good fellow who sat and gaped when the conversation took anything beyond a practical turn. Yes: he was a very good fellow; he had been a saviour in trouble; but yet—Mr. Bonamy smiled sadly at the idea of stepping down from his throne, and bidding Harry mount in his place; he could not promote him to his vice-consulship, but he could promote him to the throne of Rita, which was more. And it would be well—the best thing that could happen. Having once had an “attack,” which was how he put it euphemistically—a man was sure to have more; and the third kills. Therefore, how needful it was, how essential to have some one to care for Rita, somebody in whose hands he could leave her—when he died! “When I die”—these are words which it is hard to say without some faint shiver. When one is far off from all appearance of that conclusion, they may be easy; but when the preliminaries of the end have already taken place, and the clouds are gathering towards the great final tableau and termination, then the very cadence of them has something in it that gives a tingle to all the nerves. “When I die.” Mr. Bonamy was not much over fifty; he had not thought of anything of the kind. But here it was looking him in the face whether he would or not.
Harry came at the summons without a moment’s delay. He brought a full report of all the business to lay before his chief. The Vice-Consul, notwithstanding his dreary thoughts, was making unmistakable progress. He was better every day. He was able to take an interest in all that his deputy had to tell him, and to feel the gratification which all the office had shared in baffling the man from Florence, and showing him a state of affairs with which no fault could be found.
“I told him, Sir, that your business was always in too perfect order to break down with such a little trial. I showed him how we had only to follow your rule, and all was clear.” Mr. Bonamy laid his thin hand upon the young fellow’s shoulder, and patted it softly.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you would say as much for me if I had no daughter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, with the utmost energy; “don’t think, Sir, that I had any interested motive.” This pleased the Vice-Consul; and it pleased him too that Harry resented with scorn, and almost indignation, the idea that he might not return to his work, or that this illness of his was a break up, as in his heart Mr. Bonamy believed it to be. Harry knew nothing whatever about medicine, but his light-hearted certainty that his patron would be in the office again in October as well as ever, gave a cheer to the sick man’s failing heart, as shouts of encouragement from the shore, and the sight of all the eager assistants ready to help and watching every struggle, cheer a vessel which is trying to reach a dangerous harbour. There began to steal into his heart a feeling that, perhaps—after all. Notwithstanding he held by his first resolution. He had a long conversation with Harry, which had nothing to do with business. The young man never forgot that half hour’s talk, with the sea air blowing softly over all the sweetness of the garden, the cicala in the trees, the sound of the Mediterranean beyond. Harry thought that once or twice he saw in the dim room beyond a little white figure appear in the distance, opening a door, looking wistfully to see if the conference was nearly at an end, then disappearing again. And though the Vice-Consul was opening the gates of heaven to him, at that moment even Mr. Bonamy seemed tedious. The last time the apparition showed the Vice-Consul had gripped Harry’s hand with those long worn fingers, which he called claws, not without a certain justice. “And you must give me your word never to take her to England,” he was saying, in a low and earnest voice. But before Harry could reply, Rita, impatient, had come across the dim room indoors, and was standing in the window with a pucker in her forehead, and a tone of querulous impatience.
“You ought to have had your beef-tea, and your champagne, and your tonic, and all your nourishments,” said Rita. “I have looked in a dozen times, but you were always so busy! What can you have to say to Mr. Oliver all this time? He ought not to keep you so long—when you know an invalid wants feeding constantly,” she said, turning with petulance to Harry. “How could you be so thoughtless, Mr. Oliver? that was not kind at all.”
Harry did not reply anything to this tirade. He looked at her as if the mere sight of her was enough for him; as if nothing that could be said made any difference. As for Rita, she was not tranquil, but excited, and half angry. It was impossible to suppose that they had not been talking about her, and like many other people she objected mightily to being talked over. She came out and in with a nervous, irritable haste, bringing trays with food and medicine which she would permit no one to touch. Harry, when he offered his help, was driven from her with contumely, and even Benedetta, making her appearance behind, had the cup of jelly she carried snatched from her hands and was sent summarily away.
“I will have no one serve papa but myself,” Rita said. Perhaps there was a little compunction in it. When the heat of devotion has cooled do not we sometimes add all manner of observances to make up outside for what is wanting within? She was nervously conscious of Harry’s presence, and aware of the approaching moment when he would insist upon speaking for himself. And now compunction had seized her capricious soul. She was angry with her lover because he had stolen her heart from its first owner. And she would fain have persuaded that first owner even in the act of betraying him that she was his entirely, and that everything which withdrew her from him was a pain and irritation to her. Harry, being simple, was deceived and greatly discouraged; but the Consul, having more insight, was never deceived.
And in the evening the inevitable explanation came. It could not be delayed any longer. The Curiosa Impertinente reaped the consequences of all her tricks, and all the trials to which she had subjected Harry. She fell into the pit which she had herself digged. She might even have been said to be at his mercy, but for his simple devotion, which thought of no vengeance, and her own spirit and pride, which would have carried her through any reprisals, and still might have turned the tables upon him: but in the evening, when the Consul had gone to bed, they wandered about the terrace under the soft Italian stars, and understood each other.