Part 17 (1/2)

”My dear, trust your mother. You have changed once; you may change again.”

”Not about this, mamma. Will you please write this very hour, and make an end of it?”

”You are hard, Eva. You do not think of poor Pierre at all.”

”No, I do not think of Pierre.”

”And is there any one else you think of? I must ask you that once more,”

said f.a.n.n.y, drawing her daughter down beside her caressingly. Her thoughts could not help turning again towards Gino, and in her supreme love for her child she now accomplished the mental somerset of believing that on the whole she preferred the young Italian to all the liberty, all the personal consideration for herself, which had been embodied in the name of Verneuil.

”Yes, there is some one else I think of,” Eva replied, in a low voice.

”In Rome?” said f.a.n.n.y.

Eva made a gesture of denial that was fairly contemptuous.

f.a.n.n.y's mind flew wildly from Bartholomew to Dallas, from Ferguson to Gordon-Gray: Eva had no acquaintances save those which were her mother's also.

”It is David Rod,” Eva went on, in the same low tone. Then, with sudden exaltation, her eyes gleaming, ”I have never seen any one like him.”

It was a shock so unexpected that Mrs. Churchill drew her breath under it audibly, as one does under an actual blow. But instantly she rallied.

She said to herself that she had got a romantic idealist for a daughter--that was all. She had not suspected it; she had thought of Eva as a lovely child who would develop into what she herself had been.

f.a.n.n.y, though far-seeing and intelligent, had not been endowed with imagination. But now that she did realize it, she should know how to deal with it. A disposition like that, full of visionary fancies, was not so uncommon as some people supposed. Horace Bartholomew should take the Floridian away out of Eva's sight forever, and the girl would soon forget him; in the meanwhile not one word that was harsh should be spoken on the subject, for that would be the worst policy of all.

This train of thought had pa.s.sed through her mind like a flash. ”My dear,” she began, as soon as she had got her breath back, ”you are right to be so honest with me. Mr. Rod has not--has not said anything to you on the subject, has he?”

”No. Didn't I tell you that he cares nothing for me? I think he despises me--I am so useless!” And then suddenly the girl began to sob; a pa.s.sion of tears.

f.a.n.n.y was at her wits' end; Eva had not wept since the day of her baby ills, for life had been happy to her, loved, caressed, and protected as she had been always, like a hot-house flower.

”My darling,” said the mother, taking her in her arms.

But Eva wept on and on, as if her heart would break. It ended in f.a.n.n.y's crying too.

V

Early the next morning her letter to Bartholomew was sent. Bartholomew had gone to Munich for a week. The letter begged, commanded, that he should make some pretext that would call David Rod from Sorrento at the earliest possible moment. She counted upon her fingers; four days for the letter to go and the answer to return. Those four days she would spend at Capri.

Eva went with her quietly. There had been no more conversation between mother and daughter about Rod; f.a.n.n.y thought that this was best.

On the fourth day there came a letter from Bartholomew. f.a.n.n.y returned to Sorrento almost gayly: the man would be gone.

But he was not gone. Tranquillized, glad to be at home again, Mrs.

Churchill was enjoying her terrace and her view, when Angelo appeared at the window: ”Signor Ra.”

Angelo's mistress made him a peremptory sign. ”Ask the gentleman to wait in the drawing-room,” she said. Then crossing to Eva, who had risen, ”Go round by the other door to our own room, Eva,” she whispered.

The girl did not move; her face had an excited look. ”But why--”

”Go, child; go.”