Where Angels Fear to Tread

by E. M. Forster

  Chapter 8

  "Mad!" screamed Harriet,--"absolutely stark, staring, raving mad!"

  Philip judged it better not to contradict her.

  "What's she here for? Answer me that. What's she doing in Monteriano inAugust? Why isn't she in Normandy? Answer that. She won't. I can: she'scome to thwart us; she's betrayed us--got hold of mother's plans. Oh,goodness, my head!"

  He was unwise enough to reply, "You mustn't accuse her of that. Thoughshe is exasperating, she hasn't come here to betray us."

  "Then why has she come here? Answer me that."

  He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too much agitatedto wait for one. "Bursting in on me--crying and looking a disgustingsight--and says she has been to see the Italian. Couldn't even talkproperly; pretended she had changed her opinions. What are her opinionsto us? I was very calm. I said: 'Miss Abbott, I think there is alittle misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton--' Oh,goodness, my head! Of course you've failed--don't trouble to answer--Iknow you've failed. Where's the baby, pray? Of course you haven't gotit. Dear sweet Caroline won't let you. Oh, yes, and we're to go away atonce and trouble the father no more. Those are her commands. Commands!COMMANDS!" And Harriet also burst into tears.

  Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying, but quitereasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved evenworse than she supposed.

  "I've not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven'texactly failed. I and Signor Carella are to have another interviewthis afternoon, at the Caffe Garibaldi. He is perfectly reasonable andpleasant. Should you be disposed to come with me, you would find himquite willing to discuss things. He is desperately in want of money, andhas no prospect of getting any. I discovered that. At the same time, hehas a certain affection for the child." For Philip's insight, or perhapshis opportunities, had not been equal to Miss Abbott's.

  Harriet would only sob, and accuse her brother of insulting her; howcould a lady speak to such a horrible man? That, and nothing else, wasenough to stamp Caroline. Oh, poor Lilia!

  Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no escape from thedeadlock. For though he spoke cheerfully about his second interview withGino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino wastoo courteous: he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; heloved this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling hisopponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind beingfooled.

  "Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily," he said at last; "but at thesame time--"

  His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, theinterference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline.

  "Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I havesomething quite important to say."

  "I shall not stop crying," said she. But in time, finding that he wouldnot speak to her, she did stop.

  "Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to himabout the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gatheredthat."

  "Well, she isn't."

  "Yes; but if you're careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus:She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In thenote she left me she says so, and I don't believe she'd lie."

  "I do."

  "When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between himand the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism.Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be areaction. She'll be swept back."

  "I don't understand your long words. Say plainly--"

  "When she's swept back, she'll be invaluable. For she has made quite animpression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, shewashed it for him."

  "Disgusting!"

  Harriet's ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. ButPhilip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had cometo him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was moreanxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world.

  "If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott.For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can."

  "There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily.

  "Did you--"

  "Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finishedspeaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."

  "Into Santa Deodata's?"

  "Yes; I'm sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--"

  In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a littlecalmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had comeover Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere.That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train toCharing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the secondtime, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her,for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He wasonly extremely interested.

  It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intenseheat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. ThePiazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, theCollegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, andthe body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood inits centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful itmust feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, asan emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after asigh, he entered Santa Deodata's to continue his mission.

  There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt ofincense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping thenave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great cloudsof dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristanhimself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fillsone of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth ofscarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for thechurch can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan's littledaughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. Thecrown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big:it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything soabsurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began,and had given it to the sacristan's daughter.

  "Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?"

  The man's mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towardsa kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott waspraying.

  He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to beexpected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind,he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand thecourse that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprisehim, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sourself-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. Thiswas indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata's, where a prayer to God isthought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word toa neighbour. "I am sure that I need it," said she; and he, who hadexpected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply.

  "I've nothing to tell you," she continued. "I have simply changedstraight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not havetreated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that Ihave been crying."

  "And please believe that I have not come to scold you," said Philip. "Iknow what has happened."

  "What?" asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famouschapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli haspainted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out ofthe dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised tobe important.

  "What might have happened to me--he had made you believe that he lovedthe child."

  "Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up."

  "At present it is still unsettled."

  "It will never be settled."

>   "Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am nothere to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for thepresent. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizesthat you have done us no harm, and will do none."

  "I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I have changedsides."

  "If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudiceour cause by speaking to Signor Carella?"

  "Oh, certainly. I don't want to speak to him again; I shan't ever seehim again."

  "Quite nice, wasn't he?"

  "Quite."

  "Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'll go and tell Harriet of yourpromise, and I think things'll quiet down now."

  But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to benear her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less ofpsychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which hadcarried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content toobserve her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom thatdwelt within her.

  "Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked, after a pause.

  "Because I understand you--all sides, I think,--Harriet, Signor Carella,even my mother."

  "You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has ageneral view of the muddle."

  He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praisedhim. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in fullsanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealingjust such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowedmother's dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saintlooked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed motherstill less. For lo! she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St.Augustine were sliding like some miraculous enamel along the rough-castwall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to seeher die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplishmuch.

  "So what are you going to do?" said Miss Abbott.

  Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in thevoice. "Do?" he echoed, rather dismayed. "This afternoon I have anotherinterview."

  "It will come to nothing. Well?"

  "Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I daresay we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably."

  She had often been decided. But now behind her decision there was a noteof passion. She struck him not as different, but as more important, andhe minded it very much when she said--

  "That's not doing anything! You would be doing something if youkidnapped the baby, or if you went straight away. But that! To failhonourably! To come out of the thing as well as you can! Is that all youare after?"

  "Why, yes," he stammered. "Since we talk openly, that is all I am afterjust now. What else is there? If I can persuade Signor Carella to givein, so much the better. If he won't, I must report the failure to mymother and then go home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can't expect me to followyou through all these turns--"

  "I don't! But I do expect you to settle what is right and to followthat. Do you want the child to stop with his father, who loves him andwill bring him up badly, or do you want him to come to Sawston, whereno one loves him, but where he will be brought up well? There is thequestion put dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settlewhich side you'll fight on. But don't go talking about an 'honourablefailure,' which means simply not thinking and not acting at all."

  "Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and of you, it's noreason that--"

  "None at all. Fight as if you think us wrong. Oh, what's the use of yourfair-mindedness if you never decide for yourself? Any one gets hold ofyou and makes you do what they want. And you see through them and laughat them--and do it. It's not enough to see clearly; I'm muddle-headedand stupid, and not worth a quarter of you, but I have tried to dowhat seemed right at the time. And you--your brain and your insight aresplendid. But when you see what's right you're too idle to do it. Youtold me once that we shall be judged by our intentions, not by ouraccomplishments. I thought it a grand remark. But we must intend toaccomplish--not sit intending on a chair."

  "You are wonderful!" he said gravely.

  "Oh, you appreciate me!" she burst out again. "I wish you didn't. Youappreciate us all--see good in all of us. And all the time you aredead--dead--dead. Look, why aren't you angry?" She came up to him, andthen her mood suddenly changed, and she took hold of both his hands."You are so splendid, Mr. Herriton, that I can't bear to see you wasted.I can't bear--she has not been good to you--your mother."

  "Miss Abbott, don't worry over me. Some people are born not to dothings. I'm one of them; I never did anything at school or at the Bar.I came out to stop Lilia's marriage, and it was too late. I came outintending to get the baby, and I shall return an 'honourable failure.' Inever expect anything to happen now, and so I am never disappointed.You would be surprised to know what my great events are. Going to thetheatre yesterday, talking to you now--I don't suppose I shall evermeet anything greater. I seem fated to pass through the world withoutcolliding with it or moving it--and I'm sure I can't tell you whetherthe fate's good or evil. I don't die--I don't fall in love. And if otherpeople die or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.You are quite right; life to me is just a spectacle, which--thank God,and thank Italy, and thank you--is now more beautiful and hearteningthan it has ever been before."

  She said solemnly, "I wish something would happen to you, my dearfriend; I wish something would happen to you."

  "But why?" he asked, smiling. "Prove to me why I don't do as I am."

  She also smiled, very gravely. She could not prove it. No argumentexisted. Their discourse, splendid as it had been, resulted in nothing,and their respective opinions and policies were exactly the same whenthey left the church as when they had entered it.

  Harriet was rude at lunch. She called Miss Abbott a turncoat and acoward to her face. Miss Abbott resented neither epithet, feeling thatone was justified and the other not unreasonable. She tried to avoideven the suspicion of satire in her replies. But Harriet was surethat she was satirical because she was so calm. She got more and moreviolent, and Philip at one time feared that she would come to blows.

  "Look here!" he cried, with something of the old manner, "it's toohot for this. We've been talking and interviewing each other all themorning, and I have another interview this afternoon. I do stipulate forsilence. Let each lady retire to her bedroom with a book."

  "I retire to pack," said Harriet. "Please remind Signor Carella, Philip,that the baby is to be here by half-past eight this evening."

  "Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of reminding him."

  "And order a carriage to take us to the evening train."

  "And please," said Miss Abbott, "would you order a carriage for me too?"

  "You going?" he exclaimed.

  "Of course," she replied, suddenly flushing. "Why not?"

  "Why, of course you would be going. Two carriages, then. Two carriagesfor the evening train." He looked at his sister hopelessly. "Harriet,whatever are you up to? We shall never be ready."

  "Order my carriage for the evening train," said Harriet, and departed.

  "Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my interview with SignorCarella."

  Miss Abbott gave a little sigh.

  "But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall have the slightestinfluence over him?"

  "No. But--I can't repeat all that I said in the church. You ought neverto see him again. You ought to bundle Harriet into a carriage, not thisevening, but now, and drive her straight away."

  "Perhaps I ought. But it isn't a very big 'ought.' Whatever Harriet andI do the issue is the same. Why, I can see the splendour of it--even thehumour. Gino sitting up here on the mountain-top with his cub. We comeand ask for it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equallypleasant. I'm agreeable to spend the whole week bargaining with him. ButI know that at the
end of it I shall descend empty-handed to theplains. It might be finer of me to make up my mind. But I'm not a finecharacter. And nothing hangs on it."

  "Perhaps I am extreme," she said humbly. "I've been trying to run you,just like your mother. I feel you ought to fight it out with Harriet.Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably importanttoday, and when you say of a thing that 'nothing hangs on it,' it soundslike blasphemy. There's never any knowing--(how am I to put it?)--whichof our actions, which of our idlenesses won't have things hanging on itfor ever."

  He assented, but her remark had only an aesthetic value. He was notprepared to take it to his heart. All the afternoon he rested--worried,but not exactly despondent. The thing would jog out somehow. ProbablyMiss Abbott was right. The baby had better stop where it was loved. Andthat, probably, was what the fates had decreed. He felt little interestin the matter, and he was sure that he had no influence.

  It was not surprising, therefore, that the interview at the CaffeGaribaldi came to nothing. Neither of them took it very seriously. Andbefore long Gino had discovered how things lay, and was ragging hiscompanion hopelessly. Philip tried to look offended, but in the endhe had to laugh. "Well, you are right," he said. "This affair is beingmanaged by the ladies."

  "Ah, the ladies--the ladies!" cried the other, and then he roared likea millionaire for two cups of black coffee, and insisted on treating hisfriend, as a sign that their strife was over.

  "Well, I have done my best," said Philip, dipping a long slice of sugarinto his cup, and watching the brown liquid ascend into it. "I shallface my mother with a good conscience. Will you bear me witness thatI've done my best?"

  "My poor fellow, I will!" He laid a sympathetic hand on Philip's knee.

  "And that I have--" The sugar was now impregnated with coffee, and hebent forward to swallow it. As he did so his eyes swept the opposite ofthe Piazza, and he saw there, watching them, Harriet. "Mia sorella!" heexclaimed. Gino, much amused, laid his hand upon the little table, andbeat the marble humorously with his fists. Harriet turned away and begangloomily to inspect the Palazzo Pubblico.

  "Poor Harriet!" said Philip, swallowing the sugar. "One more wrench andit will all be over for her; we are leaving this evening."

  Gino was sorry for this. "Then you will not be here this evening as youpromised us. All three leaving?"

  "All three," said Philip, who had not revealed the secession of MissAbbott; "by the night train; at least, that is my sister's plan. So I'mafraid I shan't be here."

  They watched the departing figure of Harriet, and then entered upon thefinal civilities. They shook each other warmly by both hands. Philipwas to come again next year, and to write beforehand. He was to beintroduced to Gino's wife, for he was told of the marriage now. He wasto be godfather to his next baby. As for Gino, he would remember sometime that Philip liked vermouth. He begged him to give his love to Irma.Mrs. Herriton--should he send her his sympathetic regards? No; perhapsthat would hardly do.

  So the two young men parted with a good deal of genuine affection. Forthe barrier of language is sometimes a blessed barrier, which only letspass what is good. Or--to put the thing less cynically--we may be betterin new clean words, which have never been tainted by our pettiness orvice. Philip, at all events, lived more graciously in Italian, the veryphrases of which entice one to be happy and kind. It was horrible tothink of the English of Harriet, whose every word would be as hard, asdistinct, and as unfinished as a lump of coal.

  Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to know that herbrother had failed again, and with unwonted dignity she accepted thesituation. She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brownpaper cover for the new Baedeker. Philip, finding her so amenable, triedto discuss their future plans. But she only said that they would sleepin Florence, and told him to telegraph for rooms. They had supperalone. Miss Abbott did not come down. The landlady told them that SignorCarella had called on Miss Abbott to say good-bye, but she, though in,had not been able to see him. She also told them that it had begunto rain. Harriet sighed, but indicated to her brother that he was notresponsible.

  The carriages came round at a quarter past eight. It was not rainingmuch, but the night was extraordinarily dark, and one of the driverswanted to go slowly to the station. Miss Abbott came down and said thatshe was ready, and would start at once.

  "Yes, do," said Philip, who was standing in the hall. "Now that we havequarrelled we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down thehill. Well, good-bye; it's all over at last; another scene in my pageanthas shifted."

  "Good-bye; it's been a great pleasure to see you. I hope that won'tshift, at all events." She gripped his hand.

  "You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don't forget that you returnvictorious."

  "I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than ever, and got intothe carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception atSawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever wouldMrs. Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when shethought it right. She might think it right to be silent, but then therewas Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet's tongue? Between the two ofthem Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both forconsistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever.

  "It's hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good person. I must dofor her anything I can." Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he toohoped that it would not shift. He believed that he understood her,and that she, by now, had seen the worst of him. What if after along time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after hercarriage.

  He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not tobe found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her wasthe purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it upaimlessly, and saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands towar and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket, and beganto brood over more profitable themes.

  Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, andstill Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon it," said the landlady,"she has gone to Signor Carella's to say good-bye to her little nephew."Philip did not think it likely. They shouted all over the house andstill there was no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helplesswithout Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully,even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rainwas thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of thewineshops, and of the great tower opposite he could only see the base,fresh papered with the advertisements of quacks.

  A man came up the street with a note. Philip read, "Start at once. Pickme up outside the gate. Pay the bearer. H. H."

  "Did the lady give you this note?" he cried.

  The man was unintelligible.

  "Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?"

  Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man.

  "Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It isthe poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "Thepoor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all."

  Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald,with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he wouldhave been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, andpart of Nature's scheme.

  "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him;this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?"

  "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but hecan explain nothing."

  "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab.

  "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?"

  "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nastyevening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gonefor a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring tocome back another way, she has sent you this note by t
he poor idiot andis waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this."

  There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands withthe landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. Aftera dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running andwhimpering behind.

  "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty."

  A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of theidiot's malady only to receive what was just for his services. This wasthe change out of the nickel piece.

  "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He wasfrightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It wasa relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on theterrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to theDogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass.

  "What am I to do?" he cried; "it is not like the lady to be late. Weshall miss the train."

  "Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by nameas we go."

  So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet!Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the firstturn of the zigzag.

  "Harriet, why don't you answer?"

  "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did hesee that she carried a bundle.

  "What's that?"

  "Hush--"

  "Whatever is that?"

  "Hush--sleeping."

  Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It wasthe baby.

  She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and sheput up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He shouldhear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderfulinterview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It wasquite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intenseconviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was avillain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing."Poor Gino," he thought. "He's no greater than I am, after all."

  Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending thedarkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusationfailed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feelit again when she knew this day's sombre and unexpected close.

  "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now.What do we pay for him? All we've got?"

  "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like somebony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the babysprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twentymiles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. Andthat remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and thepoor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with theexpectation of sorrow to come.

  Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but theoccasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as theypassed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fasthe went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttleperilously round the curves.

  "Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I want to see thebaby."

  "Hush!"

  "I don't mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I've as much rightin him as you."

  Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child's face."Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she could stop him he hadlit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. "But he's awake!" heexclaimed. The match went out.

  "Good ickle quiet boysey, then."

  Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong."

  "All wrong?"

  "All puckered queerly."

  "Of course--with the shadows--you couldn't see him."

  "Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another match. It went outquickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying.

  "Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him if he cried."

  "No, he's crying hard; I thought so before, and I'm certain now."

  Harriet touched the child's face. It was bathed in tears. "Oh, the nightair, I suppose," she said, "or perhaps the wet of the rain."

  "I say, you haven't hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything;it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why didn't you get Perfetta tocarry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It's amarvel he understood about the note."

  "Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder. "He tried to carrythe baby--"

  "But why not Gino or Perfetta?"

  "Philip, don't talk. Must I say it again? Don't talk. The baby wantsto sleep." She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then shewiped up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes.Philip looked away, winking at times himself. It was as if they weretravelling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the mystery, all thepersistency of woe were gathered to a single fount. The roads werenow coated with mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not lessswiftly, sliding by long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarkspretty well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view ofMonteriano, if they had light, would be from here. Soon they ought tocome to that little wood where violets were so plentiful in spring. Hewished the weather had not changed; it was not cold, but the air wasextraordinarily damp. It could not be good for the child.

  "I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?" he said.

  "Of course," said Harriet, in an angry whisper. "You've started himagain. I'm certain he was asleep. I do wish you wouldn't talk; it makesme so nervous."

  "I'm nervous too. I wish he'd scream. It's too uncanny. Poor Gino! I'mterribly sorry for Gino."

  "Are you?"

  "Because he's weak--like most of us. He doesn't know what he wants. Hedoesn't grip on to life. But I like that man, and I'm sorry for him."

  Naturally enough she made no answer.

  "You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you do us no goodby it. We fools want some one to set us on our feet. Suppose a reallydecent woman had set up Gino--I believe Caroline Abbott might have doneit--mightn't he have been another man?"

  "Philip," she interrupted, with an attempt at nonchalance, "do youhappen to have those matches handy? We might as well look at the babyagain if you have."

  The first match blew out immediately. So did the second. He suggestedthat they should stop the carriage and borrow the lamp from the driver.

  "Oh, I don't want all that bother. Try again."

  They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the third match.At last it caught. Harriet poised the umbrella rightly, and for a fullquarter minute they contemplated the face that trembled in the light ofthe trembling flame. Then there was a shout and a crash. They were lyingin the mud in darkness. The carriage had overturned.

  Philip was a good deal hurt. He sat up and rocked himself to and fro,holding his arm. He could just make out the outline of the carriageabove him, and the outlines of the carriage cushions and of theirluggage upon the grey road. The accident had taken place in the wood,where it was even darker than in the open.

  "Are you all right?" he managed to say. Harriet was screaming, the horsewas kicking, the driver was cursing some other man.

  Harriet's screams became coherent. "The baby--the baby--it slipped--it'sgone from my arms--I stole it!"

  "God help me!" said Philip. A cold circle came round his mouth, and, hefainted.

  When he recovered it was still the same confusion. The horse waskicking, the baby had not been found, and Harriet still screamed like amaniac, "I stole it! I stole it! I stole it! It slipped out of my arms!"

  "Keep still!" he commanded the driver. "Let no one move. We may tread onit. Keep still."

  For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl through the mud,touching first this, then that, grasping the cushions by mistake,listening for the faintest whisper that might guide him. He tried tolight a match, holding the box in his teeth and striking
at it with theuninjured hand. At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the bundlewhich he was seeking.

  It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way, and had fallenacross a great rut. So tiny it was that had it fallen lengthways itwould have disappeared, and he might never have found it.

  "I stole it! I and the idiot--no one was there." She burst out laughing.

  He sat down and laid it on his knee. Then he tried to cleanse the facefrom the mud and the rain and the tears. His arm, he supposed, wasbroken, but he could still move it a little, and for the moment heforgot all pain. He was listening--not for a cry, but for the tick of aheart or the slightest tremor of breath.

  "Where are you?" called a voice. It was Miss Abbott, against whosecarriage they had collided. She had relit one of the lamps, and waspicking her way towards him.

  "Silence!" he called again, and again they obeyed. He shook the bundle;he breathed into it; he opened his coat and pressed it against him. Thenhe listened, and heard nothing but the rain and the panting horses, andHarriet, who was somewhere chuckling to herself in the dark.

  Miss Abbott approached, and took it gently from him. The face wasalready chilly, but thanks to Philip it was no longer wet. Nor would itagain be wetted by any tear.