we two-第86章
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ur trouble his and defeat my whole object。 Oh； Brian； forgive me； and just leave me。 I can have given you nothing but pain all these years。 Don't let me spoil your whole life！〃
His face caught something of the noble purpose which made hers shine in spite of the sadness。
〃Darling；〃 he said quickly； 〃I can thank God for you though you are never to be mine。 God bless you； Erica。〃
There was a moment's pause； he still kept her hands in his。
〃Tell your father I've gone for a walk over to those hills that I shall not be home till evening。〃 He felt her hands tremble； and knew that he only tortured her by staying。 〃Will you kiss me once； Erica？〃 he said。
She lifted a pale steadfast face and quivering lips to his； and after that one long embrace they parted。 When he turned away Erica stood quite still for a minute in the arena listening to his retreating footsteps。 Her heart； which had throbbed painfully； seemed now only to echo his steps； to beat more faintly as they grew less audible。 At last came silence； and then she crept up to the place where she had left her sketch book and paint box。
The whole world seemed sliding away aching desolation overwhelmed her。 Brian's face with its passion and pain rose before her dry； burning eyes。 Then darkness came； blotting out the sunshine； the little stream trickling into its stony basin seemed to grow into a roaring cataract； the waters to rush into her ears with a horrid gurgling； while the stones of the amphitheatre seemed to change into blocks of ice and to freeze her as she lay。
A few minutes later she gasped her way painfully back to life。 All was very peaceful now； the water fell with its soft tinkling sound； there was a low hum of insects； beside her stony pillow grew some stars of Bethlehem； and in between their delicate white and green she could see the arena and the tiers of seats opposite； and out beyond the green encircling hills。 Golden sunshine lighted up the dark pines and spirelike cypresses； in the distance there was an olive garden； its soft； gray…green foliage touched into silvery brightness。
The beauty of the scene； which in her struggle had seemed to weaken and unnerve her； stole now into her heart and comforted her； and all the time there rang in her ears the message that the bells had brought her 〃Who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross。〃
〃Taking a siesta？〃 said a voice above her。 She looked up and saw her father。
〃I've rather a headache；〃 she replied。
〃Enough to give you one； my child； to lie there in the sun without an umbrella；〃 he said； putting up his own to shelter her。 〃Such a May noonday in Italy might give you a sunstroke。 What was your doctor thinking of to allow it？〃
〃Brian？ Oh； he has gone over to those hills； we are not to wait for him； he wanted a walk。〃
〃Quite right；〃 said Raeburn。 〃I don't think he ought to waste his holiday in Italian cities； he wants fresh air and exercise after his London life。 Where's your handkerchief？〃
He took it to the little stream； put aside the overhanging bushes； dipped it in the water； and bringing it back laid it on her burning forehead。
〃How you spoil me； PADRE MIO；〃 she said with a little laugh that was sadder than tears； and as she spoke she slipped down to a lower step and rested her head on his knee； drawing down one of his strong hands to shade her eyes。 He talked of his sketch； of his word…skirmish with the basket women； of the view from the amphitheatre； but she did not much hear what he said； she was looking at the hand that shaded her eyes。 That strong hand which had toiled for her when she was a helpless baby； the hand to which she had clung when every out her support had been wrenched away by death； the hand which she had held in hers when she thought he was dying； and the children had sung of 〃Life's long day and death's dark night。〃
All at once she drew it down and pressed it to her lips with a child's loving reverence。 Then she sat up with a sudden return of energy。
〃There； now； let us go home；〃 she exclaimed。 〃My head aches a little still； but we won't let it spoil our last day but one in Florence。 Didn't we talk of San Miniato for this afternoon？〃
It was something of a relief to find； on returning； an invitation to dinner for that evening which Raeburn could not well refuse。 Erica kept up bravely through the afternoon； but when she was once more alone her physical powers gave way。 She was lying on her bed sick and faint and weary； and with the peculiarly desolate feeling which comes to most people when they are ill in a hotel with all the unheeding bustle going on around them。 Then came a knock at her door。
〃Entrate；〃 she said quickly； welcoming any fresh voice which would divert her mind from the weary longing for her mother。 A sort of wild hope sprung up within her that some woman friend would be sent to her； that Gladys Farrant； or old Mrs。 Osmond； or her secularist friend Mrs。 MacNaughton； whom she loved best of all； would suddenly find themselves in Florence and come to her in her need。
There entered a tall； overworked waiter。 He looked first at her； then at the note in his hand； spelling out the direction with a puzzled face。
〃Mess Rabi Rabi Rabi Rabi an？〃 he asked hesitatingly。
〃Grazie；〃 she replied； almost snatching it from him。 The color rushed to her cheeks as she saw the writing was Brian's； and the instant the waiter had closed the door she tore open the envelope with trembling hands。
It was a last appeal； written after he had returned from wandering among the Apennines； worn out in body and shaken from the noble fortitude of the morning。 The strong passionate words woke an answering thrill in Erica's heart。 He asked her to think it all over once more； he had gone away too hastily。 If she could change her mind； could see any possible hope for the future； would she write to him？ If he heard nothing from her； he would understand what the silence meant。 This was in brief the substance of the letter； but the words had a passionate； unrestrained intensity which showed they had been written by a man of strong nature overwrought by suffering and excitement。
He was here； in the very hotel。 Might she not write to him？ Might she not send him some sort of message write just a word of indefinite hope which would comfort and relieve herself as well as him？ 〃If I do not hear from you； I shall understand what your silence means。〃 Ah！ But would he understand？ What had she said this morning to him？ Scarcely anything the merest broken bits of sentences； the poorest； coldest confession of love。
Her writing case lay open on the table beside the bed with an unfinished letter to Aunt Jean； begun before they had started for Fiesole。 She snatched up paper and pen； and trembling so much that she could scarcely support herself she wrote two brief lines。
〃Darling； I love you； and always must love you； first and best。〃
Then she lay back again exhausted； looking at the poor little weak words which would not contain a thousandth part of the love in heart。 Yet； though the words were true； would they perhaps convey a wrong meaning to him？ Ought she to send them？ On the other hand would he indeed understand the silence the silence which seemed now intolerable to her？ She folded the note and directed it； the tumult in her heart growing wilder as she did so。 Once more there raged the battle which she had fought in the amphitheatre that morning； and she was not so strong now； she was weakened by physical pain； and to endure was far harder。 It seemed to her that her whole life would be unbearable if she did not send him that message。 And to send it was so fatally easy； she had merely to ring； and then in a few minutes the note would be in his hands。
It was a little narrow slip of a room； all her life long she could vividly recall it。 The single bed pushed close to the wall； the writing table with its gay…patterned cloth； the hanging wardrobe with glass doors； the walls trellised with roses； and on the ceiling a painting of some white swans eternally swimming in an ultra…marine lake。 The window； unshuttered； but veiled by muslin curtains； looked out upon the Arno； from her bed she could see the
