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Page 34
"Did she ask no questions--as to the nature of Lilia's
death, I mean?"
"She did. But she has a mind of extraordinary
delicacy. She saw that I was reticent, and she did not
press me. You see, Philip, I can say to you what I could
not say before Harriet. Her ideas are so crude. Really we
do not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All
peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring
after it."
His mother knew how to manage him. He agreed
enthusiastically. And a few days later, when he chanced to
travel up to London with Miss Abbott, he had all the time
the pleasant thrill of one who is better informed. Their
last journey together had been from Monteriano back across
Europe. It had been a ghastly journey, and Philip, from the
force of association, rather expected something ghastly now.
He was surprised. Miss Abbott, between Sawston and
Charing Cross, revealed qualities which he had never guessed
her to possess. Without being exactly original, she did
show a commendable intelligence, and though at times she was
gauche and even uncourtly, he felt that here was a person
whom it might be well to cultivate.
At first she annoyed him. They were talking, of course,
about Lilia, when she broke the thread of vague
commiseration and said abruptly, "It is all so strange as
well as so tragic. And what I did was as strange as anything."
It was the first reference she had ever made to her
contemptible behaviour. "Never mind," he said. "It's all
over now. Let the dead bury their dead. It's fallen out of
our lives."
"But that's why I can talk about it and tell you
everything I have always wanted to. You thought me stupid
and sentimental and wicked and mad, but you never really
knew how much I was to blame."
"Indeed I never think about it now," said Philip
gently. He knew that her nature was in the main generous
and upright: it was unnecessary for her to reveal her thoughts.
"The first evening we got to Monteriano," she persisted,
"Lilia went out for a walk alone, saw that Italian in a
picturesque position on a wall, and fell in love. He was
shabbily dressed, and she did not even know he was the son
of a dentist. I must tell you I was used to this sort of
thing. Once or twice before I had had to send people about
their business."
"Yes; we counted on you," said Philip, with sudden
sharpness. After all, if she would reveal her thoughts, she
must take the consequences.
"I know you did," she retorted with equal sharpness.
"Lilia saw him several times again, and I knew I ought to
interfere. I called her to my bedroom one night. She was
very frightened, for she knew what it was about and how
severe I could be. 'Do you love this man?' I asked. 'Yes
or no?' She said 'Yes.' And I said, 'Why don't you marry him
if you think you'll be happy?' "
"Really--really," exploded Philip, as exasperated as if
the thing had happened yesterday. "You knew Lilia all your
life. Apart from everything else--as if she could choose
what could make her happy!"
"Had you ever let her choose?" she flashed out. "I'm
afraid that's rude," she added, trying to calm herself.
"Let us rather say unhappily expressed," said Philip,
who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled.
"I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella
and said the same to him. He--well, he was willing. That's all."
"And the telegram?" He looked scornfully out of the window.
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