There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken.He made her sit down.He brought her wine, which she refused.She had not one word to say to him.
"What is it?" he repeated."What has frightened you?"He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan.For it is a serious thing to have been watched.
We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.
"Business--" she said at last.
"Business with me?"
"Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair.
"Before business you must get well; this is the best wine."She refused it feebly.He poured out a glass.
She drank it.As she did so she became self-conscious.However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality.
"Perhaps you are engaged," she said."And as I am not very well--""You are not well enough to go back.And Iam not engaged."
She looked nervously at the other room.
"Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed."Now I see what frightened you.But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby.
She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects.But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself.The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her.It did not stand for a principle any longer.It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world.You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own.And this was the machine on which she and Mrs.Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals--had determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that.It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic--excellent things all.Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, she had a great disposition not to dictate one of them, and to exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers.
But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond.To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly.
"What a fine child, Signor Carella.And how nice of you to talk to it.Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months? No, eight; of course eight.
Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his age."Italian is a bad medium for condescension.
The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure.
"You must not stand.Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool.I am afraid the room is very untidy," he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet.Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair.He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view.His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills."Posing!"said Miss Abbott to herself."A born artist's model.""Mr.Herriton called yesterday," she began, "but you were out."He started an elaborate and graceful explanation.
He had gone for the day to Poggibonsi.Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important.
What did she suppose that it was?
Naturally she was not greatly interested.
She had not come from Sawston to guess why he had been to Poggibonsi.
She answered politely that she had no idea, and returned to her mission.
"But guess!" he persisted, clapping the balustrade between his hands.
She suggested, with gentle sarca**, that perhaps he had gone to Poggibonsi to find something to do.
He intimated that it was not as important as all that.Something to do--an almost hopeless quest! "E manca questo!"He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, to indicate that he had no money.Then he sighed, and blew another smoke-ring.Miss Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic.
"This house," she said, "is a large house.""Exactly," was his gloomy reply."And when my poor wife died--" He got up, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception-room door, which he closed reverently.Then he shut the door of the living-room with his foot, returned briskly to his seat, and continued his sentence."When my poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live here.My father wished to give up his practice at Empoli; my mother and sisters and two aunts were also willing.
But it was impossible.They have their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was content with them.But now I am a man.
I have my own ways.Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do," said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were beginning to get on her nerves.She remembered, though, that she was not here to sympathize with Gino--at all events, not to show that she sympathized.She also reminded herself that he was not worthy of sympathy."It is a large house," she repeated.
"Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when--Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi--why it was that I was out when he called.""I cannot guess, Signor Carella.I am here on business.""But try."
"I cannot; I hardly know you."
