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Page 71
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?"
"She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It
was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the
English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye
to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way,
she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is 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 with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel
piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage
stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind.
"Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty."
A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was
part of the idiot's malady only to receive what was just for
his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece.
"Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the
road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life
had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena
gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there
was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana
men. But they had seen no English lady pass.
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