Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to know that her brother had failed again, and with unwonted dignity she accepted the situation. She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brown paper cover for the new Baedeker. Philip, finding her so amenable, tried to discuss their future plans. But she only said that they would sleep in Florence, and told him to telegraph for rooms. They had supper alone. Miss Abbott did not come down. The landlady told them that Signor Carella 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 begun to rain. Harriet sighed, but indicated to her brother that he was not responsible.
The carriages came round at a quarter past eight. It was not raining much, but the night was extraordinarily dark, and one of the drivers wanted to go slowly to the station. Miss Abbott came down and said that she was ready, and would start at once.
"Yes, do," said Philip, who was standing in the hall. "Now that we have quarrelled we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down the hill. Well, good–bye; it’s all over at last; another scene in my pageant has shifted."
"Good–bye; it’s been a great pleasure to see you. I hope that won’t shift, at all events." She gripped his hand.
"You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don’t forget that you return victorious."
"I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into the carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it right. She might think it right to be silent, but then there was Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet’s tongue? Between the two of them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever.
"It’s hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good person. I must do for her anything I can." Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too hoped 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 a long time—if after all—he flushed like a boy as he looked after her carriage.
He went into the dining–room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not to be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her was the purple prayer–book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, and saw—"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket, and began to brood over more profitable themes.
Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, and still 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 and still there was no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully, even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, 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. Pick me 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 is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The poor 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 would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part 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 he can 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?"
