This attitude mystified the young man; he caught on the words “at present.”
“Oh, take your own time, Adela. Satisfy your own prejudices. But don’t let this opportunity escape,—of squaring yourself with the world.”
He sat back in his chair, satisfied that he had put his case well and had the logic of events on his side. He would teach this irrepressible sister that he knew what he was about, after all. Mrs. Wilbur opened her lips to retort; then lay back in her chair. At last she turned towards him as if her mind had come back to an errand-boy who was waiting for his message.
“Walter, you are young enough to learn a lesson and profit by it, if you care to. Don’t meddle. Especially in what are courteously called affairs of the heart. Good people think they are courageous when they say unpleasant things, and try to run the universe their way. It is a blunder, and mere vanity on their part. You have bustled about over me ever since I came from America, and you haven’t the excuse for your impertinence of any great affection. You are a vain young man, and you are weak. You are pretty to look at, and you have good manners—when you are properly subdued. No! listen, for this is the last time you are likely to hear what is good for you. I am willing to believe that you are clever, though a list of brilliant acquaintances and a post in London journalism are really not great heights to reach. You are a little man, Walter, an amiable little man, and that is why the big world tolerates you. But you mustn’t become didactic! Now run in and ask Pina to bring tea out on the terrace and to call Miss Parker and Mr. Jennings, if they’re at home.”
A good deal of the romance of his mission was reft from Walter Anthon by this incisive lecture. So far his diplomacy and tact had ended in his being corrected like a small boy, and sent into the house to order tea. He went, however, without further words, resolving to bring up his plan at another time, when his beautiful sister was more amenable to reason.
The sight of Miss Parker comforted him. She was so séduisante, he confided to her, in a summer dress, pouring tea under the lemon blossoms, while she inquired tenderly after all his little interests. She had the feminine art his grand sister so brutally lacked, of keeping in mind all your personal affairs. It was adroitly flattering to mention his article in the April Book-Grower, and to discuss the éclatant cynicism with which he had flourished into his peroration. Finally, perceiving that Mrs. Wilbur was preoccupied, she had suggested taking him for a walk in the cool of the evening. There was a view behind the hill into a side valley that was especially fine in this light. Then she had some errands for the household; he could exercise his Italian. It was all so daintily, so coquettishly managed, Anthon thought with complacency. No London girl could rub you just the right way like that. It was delicious to feel yourself falling into such toils. But she would have to make them strong! If folly were to be his lot, it must be a long-drawn-out, sweet folly.
After they had left, Mrs. Wilbur lay quite still in her large wicker chair, watching the pale silver plain at her feet shimmer in the blinding flood of light from the western hills. The sea of heat seething in myriad lanes above the trees hypnotized her flickering will. Why had she rejected her brother’s plan for her salvation?
CHAPTER VIII
She lay there motionless on the terrace into the still twilight. The little mountain villages across the heated valley robed themselves in blue mist. Beneath the wall the road up the hill from the Porta Fredano cut the olive trees with its snaky coils. The silence was like the emptiness of worlds.
Suddenly she rose, impulsively striking out for an escape. Erard would come in a few days, hours, minutes. He might be in Florence now. She must do something before she met him, find some resolution. Unconsciously she began to follow the road, hastening along its curves in an impetuous desire to flee. Gradually she became conscious that she was seeking for Jennings. She might find him below in the city, and he must save her,—he would know how. So she ran on feverishly, dragging her weak limbs over the great paving-stones, which were heated like an oven. Some instinct led her to the Ponte Vecchio, where she happened on Jennings, sauntering idly with the throng that had come out to breathe in the evening air. Then she had nothing to say, but stood panting, her white face flushing to the dark hair.