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 9 C Formatted Input/Output

All the news that’s fit to print.

—Adolph S. Ochs

What mad pursuit? What

struggle to escape?
—John Keats

Objectives
In this chapter, you’ll:
■ Use input and output
streams.
■ Use all print formatting
capabilities.
■ Use all input formatting
capabilities.
■ Print with field widths and
precisions.
■ Use formatting flags in the
printf format control
string.
■ Output literals and escape
sequences.
■ Format input using scanf.
 Self-Review Exercises 565

Self-Review Exercises
9.1 Fill in the blanks in each of the following:
a) All input and output is dealt with in the form of .
ANS: streams.
b) The stream is normally connected to the keyboard.
ANS: standard input.
c) The stream is normally connected to the computer screen.
ANS: standard output.
d) Precise output formatting is accomplished with the function.
ANS: printf.
e) The format control string may contain , , ,
and .
ANS: Conversion specifiers, flags, field widths, precisions, literal characters.
f) The conversion specifier or may be used to output a signed
decimal integer.
ANS: d, i.
g) The conversion specifiers , and are used to dis-
play unsigned integers in octal, decimal and hexadecimal form, respectively.
ANS: o, u, x (or X).
h) The modifiers and are placed before the integer conversion
specifiers to indicate that short or long integer values are to be displayed.
ANS: h, l.
i) The conversion specifier is used to display a floating-point value in expo-
nential notation.
ANS: e (or E).
j) The modifier is placed before any floating-point conversion specifier to in-
dicate that a long double value is to be displayed.
ANS: L.
k) The conversion specifiers e, E and f are displayed with digits of precision
to the right of the decimal point if no precision is specified.
ANS: 6.
l) The conversion specifiers and are used to print strings and
characters, respectively.
ANS: s, c.
m) All strings end in the character.
ANS: NULL ('\0').
n) The field width and precision in a printf conversion specifier can be controlled with
integer expressions by substituting a(n) for the field width or for the pre-
cision and placing an integer expression in the corresponding argument of the argument
list.
ANS: asterisk (*).
o) The flag causes output to be left justified in a field.
ANS: - (minus).
p) The flag causes values to be displayed with either a plus sign or a minus
sign.
ANS: p) + (plus).
q) Precise input formatting is accomplished with the function.
ANS: scanf.
566 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output

r) A(n) is used to scan a string for specific characters and store the characters
in an array.
ANS: scan set.
s) The conversion specifier can be used to input optionally signed octal, dec-
imal and hexadecimal integers.
ANS: i.
t) The conversion specifiers can be used to input a double value.
ANS: le, lE, lf, lg or lG.
u) The is used to read data from the input stream and discard it without as-
signing it to a variable.
ANS: assignment suppression character (*).
v) A(n) can be used in a scanf conversion specifier to indicate that a specific
number of characters or digits should be read from the input stream.
ANS: field width.
9.2 Find the error in each of the following and explain how the error can be corrected.
a) The following statement should print the character 'c'.
printf( "%s\n", 'c' );
ANS: Error: Conversion specifier s expects an argument of type pointer to char.
Correction: To print the character 'c', use the conversion specifier %c or change 'c'
to "c".
b) The following statement should print 9.375%.
printf( "%.3f%", 9.375 );
ANS: Error: Trying to print the literal character % without using the conversion specifier %%.
Correction: Use %% to print a literal % character.
c) The following statement should print the first character of the string "Monday".
printf( "%c\n", "Monday" );
ANS: Error: Conversion specifier c expects an argument of type char.
Correction: To print the first character of "Monday" use the conversion specifier %1s.
d) printf( ""A string in quotes"" );
ANS: Error: Trying to print the literal character " without using the \" escape sequence.
Correction: Replace each quote in the inner set of quotes with \".
e) printf( %d%d, 12, 20 );
ANS: Error: The format control string is not enclosed in double quotes.
Correction: Enclose %d%d in double quotes.
f) printf( "%c", "x" );
ANS: Error: The character x is enclosed in double quotes.
Correction: Character constants to be printed with %c must be enclosed in single
quotes.
g) printf( "%s\n", 'Richard' );
ANS: Error: The string to be printed is enclosed in single quotes.
Correction: Use double quotes instead of single quotes to represent a string.
9.3 Write a statement for each of the following:
a) Print 1234 right justified in a 10-digit field.
ANS: printf( "%10d\n", 1234 );
b) Print 123.456789 in exponential notation with a sign (+ or -) and 3 digits of precision.
ANS: printf( "%+.3e\n", 123.456789 );
c) Read a double value into variable number.
ANS: scanf( "%lf", &number );
d) Print 100 in octal form preceded by 0.
ANS: printf( "%#o\n", 100 );
 Exercises 567

e) Read a string into character array string.

ANS: scanf( "%s", string );
f) Read characters into array n until a nondigit character is encountered.
ANS: scanf( "%[0123456789]", n );
g) Use integer variables x and y to specify the field width and precision used to display the
double value 87.4573.
ANS: printf( "%*.*f\n", x, y, 87.4573 );
h) Read a value of the form 3.5%. Store the percentage in float variable percent and elim-
inate the % from the input stream. Do not use the assignment suppression character.
ANS: scanf( "%f%%", &percent );
i) Print 3.333333 as a long double value with a sign (+ or -)in a field of 20 characters with
a precision of 3.
ANS: printf( "%+20.3Lf\n", 3.333333 );

Exercises
9.4 Write a printf or scanf statement for each of the following:
a) Print unsigned integer 40000 left justified in a 15-digit field with 8 digits.
ANS: printf( “%-15.8u”, ( unsigned int ) 40000 );
b) Read a hexadecimal value into variable hex.
ANS: scanf( “%x”, &hex );
c) Print 200 with and without a sign.
ANS: printf( “%+d %d\n”, 200, 200 );
d) Print 100 in hexadecimal form preceded by 0x.
ANS: printf( %#x\n”, 100 );
e) Read characters into array s until the letter p is encountered.
ANS: scanf( “%[^p]”, s );
f) Print 1.234 in a 9-digit field with preceding zeros.
ANS: printf( “%09.3f\n”, 1.234 );
g) Read a time of the form hh:mm:ss, storing the parts of the time in the integer variables
hour, minute and second. Skip the colons (:) in the input stream. Use the assignment
suppression character.
ANS: scanf( “%d%*c%d%*c%d”, &hour, &minute, &second );
h) Read a string of the form "characters" from the standard input. Store the string in
character array s. Eliminate the quotation marks from the input stream.
ANS: scanf( “\”%[^\”]”, s );
i) Read a time of the form hh:mm:ss, storing the parts of the time in the integer variables
hour, minute and second. Skip the colons (:) in the input stream. Do not use the as-
signment-suppression character.
ANS: scanf( “%d:%d:%d:”, &hour, &minute, &second );
9.5 Show what is printed by each of the following statements. If a statement is incorrect, indi-
cate why.
a) printf( "%-10d\n", 10000 );
ANS: 10000
b) printf( "%c\n", "This is a string" );
ANS: A string cannot be printed with the %c specifier.
c) printf( "%*.*lf\n", 8, 3, 1024.987654 );
ANS: 1024.988
d) printf( "%#o\n%#X\n%#e\n", 17, 17, 1008.83689 );
ANS:
021
0X11
1.008837e+03
568 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output

e) printf( "% ld\n%+ld\n", 1000000L, 1000000L );

ANS:
1000000
+1000000
f) printf( "%10.2E\n", 444.93738 );
ANS: 4.45E+02 preceded by one space
g) printf( "%10.2g\n", 444.93738 );
ANS: 4.4e+02 preceded by two spaces
h) printf( "%d\n", 10.987 );
ANS: A floating point value cannot be printed with the %d conversion specifier.
9.6 Find the error(s) in each of the following program segments. Explain how each error can be
corrected.
a) printf( "%s\n", 'Happy Birthday' );
ANS: printf( “%s\n”, “Happy Birthday” );
b) printf( "%c\n", 'Hello' );
ANS: printf( “%s\n”, “Hello” );
c) printf( "%c\n", "This is a string" );
ANS: printf( “%s\n”, “This is a string” );
d) The following statement should print "Bon Voyage":
printf( ""%s"", "Bon Voyage" );
ANS: printf( “\“%s\””, “Bon Voyage” );
e) char day[] = "Sunday";
printf( "%s\n", day[ 3 ] );
ANS: printf( “%s\n”, day ); // to print the entire string
or
printf( “%scc\n”, day[3] ); // to print day[3]
f) printf( 'Enter your name: ' );
ANS: printf( “%s", "Enter your name: “ );
g) printf( %f, 123.456 );
ANS: printf( “%f”, 123.456 );
h) The following statement should print the characters 'O' and 'K':
printf( "%s%s\n", 'O', 'K' );
ANS: printf( “%c%c\n”, ‘O’, ‘K’ );
i) char s[ 10 ];
scanf( "%c", s[ 7 ] );
ANS: scanf( “%c”, &s[ 7 ] );
9.7 (Differences Between %d and %i) Write a program to test the difference between the %d and
%i conversion specifiers when used in scanf statements. Ask the user to enter two integers separated
by a space. Use the statements
scanf( "%i%d", &x, &y );
printf( "%d %d\n", x, y );

to input and print the values. Test the program with the following sets of input data:
10 10
-10 -10
010 010
0x10 0x10

ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.7 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 int i; // loop counter
 Exercises 569

7 int x; // first integer from user

8 int y; // second integer from user
9
10 // loop four times
11 for ( i = 1; i <= 4; ++i ) {
12 printf( "%s", "\nEnter two integers: " );
13 scanf( "%i%d", &x, &y );
14 printf( "%d %d\n", x, y );
15 } // end for
16 } // end main

Enter two integers: 10 10

10 10

Enter two integers: -10 -10

-10 -10

Enter two integers: 010 010

8 10

Enter two integers: 0x10 0x10

16 0

9.8 (Printing Numbers in Various Field Widths) Write a program to test the results of printing
the integer value 12345 and the floating-point value 1.2345 in various size fields. What happens
when the values are printed in fields containing fewer digits than the values?
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.8 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6
7 // print the integer 12345
8 printf( "%10d\n", 12345 );
9 printf( "%5d\n", 12345 );
10 printf( "%2d\n\n", 12345 );
11
12 // print the floating-point value 1.2345
13 printf( "%10f\n", 1.2345 );
14 printf( "%6f\n", 1.2345 );
15 printf( "%2f\n", 1.2345 );
16 } // end main

12345
12345
12345

1.234500
1.234500
1.234500
 570 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output

9.9 (Rounding Floating-Point Numbers) Write a program that prints the value 100.453627
rounded to the nearest digit, tenth, hundredth, thousandth and ten-thousandth.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.9 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 printf( "%.0f\n", 100.453627 );
7 printf( "%.1f\n", 100.453627 );
8 printf( "%.2f\n", 100.453627 );
9 printf( "%.3f\n", 100.453627 );
10 printf( "%.4f\n", 100.453627 );
11 } // end main

100
100.5
100.45
100.454
100.4536

9.10 (Temperature Conversions) Write a program that converts integer Fahrenheit temperatures
from 0 to 212 degrees to floating-point Celsius temperatures with 3 digits of precision. Perform the
calculation using the formula
celsius = 5.0 / 9.0 * ( fahrenheit - 32 );

to perform the calculation. The output should be printed in two right-justified columns of 10
characters each, and the Celsius temperatures should be preceded by a sign for both positive and
negative values.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.10 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 int fahrenheit; // holds fahrenheit temperature
7 double celsius; // holds celcius temperature
8
9 printf( "%10s%10s\n", "Fahrenheit", "Celsius" );
10
11 // convert fahrenheit to celsius and display temperatures
12 // showing the sign for celsius temperatures
13 for ( fahrenheit = 0; fahrenheit <= 212; ++fahrenheit ) {
14 celsius = 5.0 / 9.0 * ( fahrenheit - 32 );
15 printf( "%10d%+10.3f\n", fahrenheit, celsius );
16 } // end for
17 } // end main
 Exercises 571

Fahrenheit Celsius
0 -17.778
1 -17.222
2 -16.667
3 -16.111
4 -15.556
5 -15.000
6 -14.444
7 -13.889
.
.
.
204 +95.556
205 +96.111
206 +96.667
207 +97.222
208 +97.778
209 +98.333
210 +98.889
211 +99.444
212 +100.000

9.11 (Escape Sequences) Write a program to test the escape sequences \', \", \?, \\, \a, \b, \n,
\r and \t. For the escape sequences that move the cursor, print a character before and after printing
the escape sequence so it’s clear where the cursor has moved.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.11 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 // test all escape sequences
7 puts( "The single quote : \'" );
8 puts( "The double quote : \"" );
9 puts( "The question mark: \?" );
10 puts( "The backslash : \\" );
11 puts( "The bell. \a\n" );
12 puts( "Move cursor back one position on current line. *\b*" );
13 puts( "Move cursor to the beginning of next line. *\n*" );
14 puts( "Move cursor to the beginning of current line. *\r*" );
15 puts( "Move cursor to the next horizontal tab position. *\t*" );
16 } // end main
 572 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output

The single quote : '

The double quote : "
The question mark: ?
The backslash : \
The bell.

Move cursor back one position on current line. *

Move cursor to the beginning of next line. *
*
*ove cursor to the beginning of current line. *
Move cursor to the next horizontal tab position. * *

9.12 (Printing a Question Mark) Write a program that determines whether ? can be printed as
part of a printf format control string as a literal character rather than using the \? escape sequence.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.12 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 puts( "Did the \? print at the end of the sentence?" );
7 } // end main

Did the ? print at the end of the sentence?

9.13 (Reading an Integer with Each scanf Conversion Specifier) Write a program that inputs the
value 437 using each of the scanf integer conversion specifiers. Print each input value using all the
integer conversion specifiers.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.13 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 int array[ 5 ]; // holds the value 437 five times
7 size_t loop; // loop counter
8
9 // array of table headers
10 char *s[] = { "Read with %d:", "Read with %i:", "Read with %o:",
11 "Read with %u:", "Read with %x:"};
12
13 // prompt the user and read 5 values
14 printf( "%s", "Enter the value 437 five times: " );
15 scanf( "%d%i%o%u%x", &array[ 0 ], &array[ 1 ], &array[ 2 ],
16 &array[ 3 ], &array[ 4 ] );
17
18 // loop through all 5 values
19 for ( loop = 0; loop <= 4; ++loop ) {
 Exercises 573

20
21 // print each of the 5 values
22 printf( "%s\n%d %i %o %u %x\n\n", s[ loop ], array[ loop ],
23 array[ loop ], array[ loop ], array[ loop ], array[ loop ] );
24 } // end for
25 } // end main

Enter the value 437 five times: 437 437 437 437 437
Read with %d:
437 437 665 437 1b5

Read with %i:

437 437 665 437 1b5

Read with %o:

287 287 437 287 11f

Read with %u:

437 437 665 437 1b5

Read with %x:

1079 1079 2067 1079 437

9.14 (Outputting a Number with the Floating-Point Conversion Specifiers) Write a program
that uses each of the conversion specifiers e, f and g to input the value 1.2345. Print the values of
each variable to prove that each conversion specifier can be used to input this same value.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.14 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 float a[ 3 ]; // holds the value 1.2345 three times
7
8 // array of table headers
9 char *s[] = { "Read with %e: ", "Read with %f: ", "Read with %g: " };
10
11 // prompt the user and read 3 values
12 printf( "%s", "Enter the value 1.2345 three times: " );
13 scanf( "%e%f%g", &a[ 0 ], &a[ 1 ], &a[ 2 ] );
14
15 printf( "%s%e\n\n", s[ 0 ], a[ 0 ] );
16 printf( "%s%f\n\n", s[ 1 ], a[ 1 ] );
17 printf( "%s%g\n\n", s[ 2 ], a[ 2 ] );
18 } // end main
 574 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output

Enter the value 1.2345 three times: 1.2345 1.2345 1.2345

Read with %e: 1.234500e+000

Read with %f: 1.234500

Read with %g: 1.2345

9.15 (Reading Strings in Quotes) In some programming languages, strings are entered surround-
ed by either single or double quotation marks. Write a program that reads the three strings suzy,
"suzy" and 'suzy'. Are the single and double quotes ignored by C or read as part of the string?
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.15 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 char a[ 10 ]; // first string
7 char b[ 10 ]; // second string
8 char c[ 10 ]; // third string
9
10 // prompt user and read three strings
11 puts( "Enter the strings suzy, \"suzy\", and 'suzy':" );
12 scanf( "%s%s%s", a, b, c );
13
14 printf( "%s %s %s\n", a, b, c ); // display strings
15 } // end main

Enter the strings suzy, "suzy", and 'suzy':

suzy "suzy" 'suzy'
suzy "suzy" 'suzy'

9.16 (Printing a Question Mark as a Character Constant) Write a program that determines
whether ? can be printed as the character constant '?' rather than the character constant escape se-
quence '\?' using conversion specifier %c in the format control string of a printf statement.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.16 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 const char questionMark = '?'; // define '?' as a char constant
7
8 printf( "This %c can be printed without using the \\\?\n",
9 questionMark );
10 } // end main
 Exercises 575

This ? can be printed without using the \?

9.17 (Using %g with Various Precisions) Write a program that uses the conversion specifier g to
output the value 9876.12345. Print the value with precisions ranging from 1 to 9.
ANS:

1 // Exercise 9.17 Solution

2 #include <stdio.h>
3
4 int main( void )
5 {
6 int i;
7 for (i = 1; i<=9; i++)
8 printf( "Precision: %d, value = %.*g\n", i, i, 9876.12345 );
9 } // end main

Precision: 1, value = 1e+004

Precision: 2, value = 9.9e+003
Precision: 3, value = 9.88e+003
Precision: 4, value = 9876
Precision: 5, value = 9876.1
Precision: 6, value = 9876.12
Precision: 7, value = 9876.123
Precision: 8, value = 9876.1234
Precision: 9, value = 9876.12345
576 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output
Exercises 577
578 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output
Exercises 579
580 Chapter 9 C Formatted Input/Output
Other documents randomly have
different content
better—a boy, an uninstructed fool—than those who have watched over you
all your life.”
Even this made no impression upon the girl. “It is curious,” she said, still
to herself, “very curious—quite different from—the other way. I suppose
this is the English way? Benedetta always says the English are half mad. I
suppose instead of asking about the dot, and that kind of thing, you know,
papa—I suppose this is the English way?”
“It is the foolish way,” cried the father. “Come, it is nothing to you, Rita.
You don’t mean to say—no, no, my darling; I know better—you don’t mean
to make me believe that you, so clever as you are, and knowing so much,
could think twice about any notion that came into the noddle of such an
empty-headed young man.”
“Is he empty-headed?” said Rita, reflectively. “He does not know much,
that is quite true; he is not a bit clever; but I think it is a little unjust to call
him empty-headed. He was always just himself; he never pretended to
anything else. Sometimes he understood—very often he didn’t; but he never
pretended, papa. Don’t you think it is a little hard upon him?” she said,
turning round upon her father suddenly, and fixing him with her large,
serious, impartial eyes. “Don’t you think it is hard to take advantage of
what he has said himself, and turn him out like this?”
“I have not turned him out. Rita, this is mere folly. I will not have you
led away by your feelings. If any man were to kill me, I believe you would
say he didn’t mean it, poor fellow, it would be hard upon him to hang him.
Come, child, let us be done with this.”
“But, papa,” said Rita, “there is no evidence against him but his own
confession. I have often heard you say that one should not take advantage
of that. Kill you—who wants to kill you? There could not be a more
different question. I am not led away by my feelings. I have no feelings but
right and justice. I don’t think you ought to have taken that advantage of
him. It must be very hard upon him, papa, to shut him out. Think! he will
have nowhere else to go to. I dare say he spends his evenings in the cafés.
He can’t know what to do with himself at nights.”
“As if I had anything to do with his entertainment in the evening! I wish
to heaven he had never set foot within my house!”
“Ah! but that is past praying for. I don’t see why you should wish such a
thing; but still, if you do wish it, it is a pity, for it is too late. He has set foot
within your house, and we have a responsibility about him. We have a
responsibility,” said Rita, very gravely shaking her head. “He is young, and
he is very simple-minded, and he might, as you are always saying, take a
wrong turn; and then whose fault would it be?”
“Not mine,” cried the persecuted man, “certainly not mine—that I’ll
swear to. Am I the fellow’s keeper? Rita, for heaven’s sake be done with all
that nonsense. If you can talk of nothing more sensible, you had much
better go to bed.”
“Yes,” said Rita, calmly, going on with her argument, “you are his
guardian in a kind of way, papa. It was you that took him up first. You did it
of your own free will, nobody persuaded you. You settled him here, and you
opened your doors to him, and said, Come on Sunday, come as often as you
please. Do you think you are justified in casting him away now, as if it was
of no importance? never thinking where he will go instead, or if he has
anywhere else to go to? Do you think you are justified? for no other reason
than that you think he might perhaps do or say something you would not
like? I do not.”
“Then you think, I suppose, that I ought to have him back and beg his
pardon, and tell him he is quite free to make love to my daughter if he
likes? Bless my soul! why should I interfere with such a pretty amusement?
That’s what you think. Rita, don’t sit there, my dear, talking nonsense: say
no more about this young fool, but go to bed.”
“Papa, I am sorry to see you are so deaf to sound argument,” said Rita,
with judicial composure; “you always bring in the personal question, as if
that had anything to do with it. On the face of it, to deprive a stranger of the
benefits you have been heaping upon him, and leave him in a moment to his
own resources, all because you are afraid of a distant and unlikely thing he
thinks he wants to do, is dreadfully unjustifiable; my dear papa,” said Rita,
looking down from the heights of youthful superiority, “I never expected to
find you inaccessible to reason, especially on such an important point as
this.”
“Inaccessible to fiddlesticks,” the Vice-Consul said; but he was entirely
shaken in his conviction of having done what was right and kind, both to
one party and the other. He got up and walked about the room. He was a
man who wanted moral support; he wanted to be approved of, and to feel
that the opinion of those around him went with his. And especially he had
learned to prop himself up by Rita’s opinion. He was always uneasy when
she differed from him. Even in this matter, which concerned herself, and in
which her judgment might justly be doubted, he was not comfortable. He
was unfortunately too accessible to reason, so that nothing could be more
unjust than this reproach. “Go to bed, my love; go to bed,” he said, faintly.
“It is getting very late; another time we can talk of this.”
“Then do you think, papa,” said Rita, still magisterial, “that it is right to
postpone a matter which concerns other people’s comfort to another time?”
“Don’t worry me to death,” said Mr. Bonamy, stretching out his hands
with a half-despairing appeal. “I never thought I was going to be led into
such a discussion—don’t worry me to death!”
But she showed no signs of mercy, and there is no telling what might
have happened to Her Majesty’s humble representative had he not been
called away at this moment to receive a messenger with despatches from
the Consulate-General and important instructions. Mr. Bonamy hurried
away with a sigh of thankfulness; never was culprit suddenly delivered
from the bar more glad of his escape. He knew, indeed, that it was only for
a time: but yet even for a time it was well to get out of her hands. At least
he could collect materials for his defence.
Rita, for her part, after sitting for some time waiting for her father’s
return, and sharpening up various arguments for his complete discomfiture,
got tired, and made up her mind to take his advice and go to bed. But she
had a great deal too much to think about to have any desire to go to sleep.
When she had sent Benedetta away she sat by her window in her white
dressing-gown, with her hair about her shoulders, a romantic little figure,
and felt a little like Juliet. She had never felt like Juliet before. She had,
even with the flippancy of her age, been disposed to think of Juliet as of a
very forward and bold young woman. People who have been accustomed to
hear of marriage as a matter of convenience, so much dot, so many
advantages, and who have even been negotiated for in this way, are apt to
think but poorly of that ideal impersonation of youthful passion. But now
that Romeo had appeared on the scene, Rita, at the window, thought upon
Juliet with a little secret wonder, and awe, and pleasure. Romeo—well,
there is no evidence that Romeo was clever. He was only one of the gallants
of the period, one of the swash-bucklers who sometimes talk just as badly
as their kind, though often they forget themselves and talk Shakespeare.
There was nothing extraordinary about him till love and the poet got hold of
him, and put divine words into his mouth. Very likely that gay Mercutio
was the cleverest of the two. Sitting thus at her window, Rita all at once was
sensible of a figure on the pavement looking up at the house from the
opposite side of the street. There was nothing but a little night-light burning
on a table in the corner, nothing to betray her figure where she sat. And
nothing could be more common-place and absurd than that Harry should
come there and stare at the windows. He was not by any means in the habit
of doing so; but yet when he was out, taking his forlorn walk, he would
allow himself to take that turn through the street in which the Consulate
was, and fix a wistful eye upon it for a moment. When Rita saw him she
darted back with a movement of fright and wonder, and mirth and shyness,
all in one; and sat out of sight for a few moments, panting, blushing, with
the same overwhelming flush of sudden warmth which had come over her
for the first time when her father spoke to her. Then, in the dark and the
silence, she gave vent to a little low laugh, at which she was frightened
when she heard it, and became suddenly as solemn and serious as an old
picture. Then she returned shyly to the corner of the window, peeping,
though she ought to have known that it was impossible he could see her.
The figure opposite was in the act of passing on; it gave a long look back as
it went slowly away, lingering as if reluctant to be out of her
neighbourhood. Rita drew back this time with a kind of awe. She knew he
would have thought no more of climbing the garden wall, however high it
had been—if there had been a garden wall and a balcony, and she out upon
it discoursing to the moon—than Romeo did. “But there is the difference,”
Rita said to herself; “he may be in love with me, but I am not in love with
him. I would never stand out there and sigh Romeo, Romeo. No,” she went
on, with a little shriek of a laugh, “not Romeo. Oh, Isaac, Isaac, wherefore
art thou Isaac? That is too ridiculous; it is all too ridiculous. I don’t wonder
at what Benedetta says, that the English are half-mad.”
And then she sat a long time in the dark, and thought, and thought. It
was all very new and very strange. It roused her lively faculties with the
pleasure of a novel sensation. She had taken her proposals of marriage with
sedate contempt, and announced authoritatively to her father on each
occasion that she had no intention of ever marrying, and that she liked him
much better than any other man in the world, an assurance which the poor
Vice-Consul took great comfort in, though it was not possible that any man
in his senses could accept it as a matter of serious faith. But now Rita could
not deny to herself that this strange new bewildering sensation was a
pleasant one. Her former suitors would no doubt have gladly adopted it had
it been thought that such an easy mode of love-making would have been
permitted; but in their cases it would not have moved the foolish girl. To see
somebody standing silent on the other side of the street, doing nothing to
call her attention, not wishing to be noticed, doing it only for a little
comfort to himself, was entirely different. That was the English way, she
thought with awe. To be able to give love up for the sake of honour, and yet
to have it so much at heart as to be driven to come and look at the house in
which the beloved object lived, standing about alone in a cold night—Rita’s
whole heart was penetrated by the sincerity, the modesty, the self-restraint,
yet self-abandonment, which were English, only English, nothing else. It
was not in the least a cold night: Harry outside felt it to be warm and genial:
but there was a cool little night-breeze lifting the curtains, and she strove to
call it cold to heighten the effect. This was how the Vice-Consul had
mismanaged matters. He was not a happy man as he read his despatches;
but he had no idea of the mischief which was going on under cover of the
night.
 CHAPTER XIII.

A LOVER’S ORDEAL.

R ITA said nothing more to her father on this subject for a day or two, and
the poor man, deceived once more, began to believe that it had made
little impression upon her, and was to be allowed to pass as of no
particular importance. He had even begun to congratulate himself on the
beneficial effects of his system of training, and the knowledge of the world
which her early initiation into life had given her. “Had I brought Rita up as
most girls are brought up,” he said to himself; “had she been fresh from a
convent, for instance, like some of her friends, or shut up indoors as Italian
girls are, her head would have been turned by the first mention of a lover.
But she has seen a great deal, though she is so young. In our position she
could not help seeing a great deal. She knows how to discriminate, and can
judge what is what. What a good thing that I did not follow the advice of all
these ladies, but was bold enough to trust to my girl’s innocence and bring
her up my own way!” Thus artlessly did the Vice-Consul console himself.
And his mind was a great deal easier; for before he was always nervous lest
she should question him about Harry, and afraid of betraying himself, even
afraid of letting Rita perceive that there was something to betray. Now that
he had made a clean breast and got it over, his mind was relieved, and he
felt that he could carry his head as high as usual, and need not be afraid to
look any girl in the face. For the first day he rejoiced with trembling, but
after that had passed began to feel that he had really secured his footing,
and might take comfort that the danger was over. Poor Vice-Consul! He had
but just allowed this sensation of pleasure to enter his mind when Rita,
looking up at him suddenly from a book in which she had all the air of
being completely absorbed, addressed him suddenly as follows—
“Papa! I have been thinking over what you told me the other day—What
is the matter?” she added, interrupting herself.
“Nothing, nothing,” said poor Mr. Bonamy, faintly. He had been lying
back in a very comfortable chair, whiffing gently at intervals a mild
cigarette, and giving himself up to the comfort, the ease of being done with
a subject in which he had foreseen trouble. When his daughter began to
speak, a presentiment of danger awoke in him, and he started up in his chair
when she had said these words. “Nothing, nothing,” he repeated, letting
himself drop again, but alas, with what different feelings; with the languor
of a conflict foreseen, in which he knew he should be worsted. “What have
you been thinking about, Rita?”
“About what you told me the other day. Of course it was not just an
ordinary thing that one could think nothing more about. Poor Mr. Oliver! I
think he has been badly treated. I want you to tell him just to come as usual.
He must be on his guard, you know; but in any case he would be on his
guard after speaking to you. He must not suppose that I know anything
about it.”
“But, my dear,” said the Vice-Consul, with a troubled face, “I don’t think
that would do at all; he would think that he had my permission to—to pay
you his addresses, as people used to say?”
“What are addresses?” said Rita, with much appearance of innocence.
“You must tell him, of course, that there is to be nothing of that kind; but
only just that he is to come as before. I don’t see that it need do him any
harm—I mean any further harm,” said the girl, correcting herself. She
spoke with unusual airiness and carelessness, so lightly indeed that her
indifference had the aspect of being somewhat studied.
“Him—harm! that was not the question,” the perplexed father said.
“I hope you don’t mean to infer that it would do me any harm?” said
Rita, turning upon him with a smile of superb disdain. She even laughed a
little at the folly of the idea, opening and shutting a fan which she held in
her hand. “That would be too ridiculous—too ridiculous,” she said.
“But, my dear child, you are young and inexperienced, and—”
“Don’t insult me, please, papa,” she said, fanning herself. If she had
been fifty she could not have looked more superior to any such temptation.
“And, on the other hand,” she added, “I don’t see why poor Mr. Oliver
should be punished, positively punished for liking me. It is not a sin to like
me. Of course he must learn to keep it to himself; it will be a good lesson in
self-control—which everybody is the better for,” said this young oracle,
“and especially, as I have always heard, young men.”
This wisdom took away the Vice-Consul’s breath. “That is very true:” he
said “but I am not at all sure that this is a safe way of teaching it. I think, if
it is the same to you, Rita—”
“But it is not the same to me,” she cried, impatiently. “If you will not set
poor Mr. Oliver right and do him justice, I think I will go and pay that visit
my aunt Ersilia always wants me to make her. You said yourself I must go
one day or other. I will go now.”
Now if there was one thing more than another which Mr. Bonamy was
afraid of, it was this visit to her aunt Ersilia, her mother’s Italian sister, with
which she threatened him from time to time. He said hurriedly, “I don’t
think this is a good time for going further south, Rita. Of course, if you
wish it so much, I will gladly remove the embargo on poor Oliver, who is a
very good, honest sort of fellow; but I can’t have him tormented, poor boy
—and you must promise to be very distant with him, which is the kindest
thing you can do.”
“But not too distant, papa,” said Rita; “for I think it a great deal better
that he should suppose I do not know. Far better. I will behave to him just as
usual. I will withdraw gradually, bit by bit, that he may not feel too much
difference. Indeed, unless he is different to me, I don’t see why I should be
different to him. Of course he will be on his guard. You see he knows now.
Naturally he will be more careful. He will understand that if you let him
come back he is upon his honour. So, on the whole, I will make very little
difference. I think it is far better that everything should have the look of
being just the same as before.”
With this Mr. Bonamy was obliged to be satisfied. He had known very
well when the discussion began that Rita’s will, whatever it might be, was
the thing that would be done. He had in his own mind a great many troubled
reflections, considering how he was to do it, so as not to excite false hopes
or vain expectations in the young man’s mind; but it was, from the moment
when she declared her sovereign will, a foregone conclusion. He had not
resolved the question how it was to be done, up to the time he went into his
office in the morning, and then thought it best to leave it to chance and the
inspiration of the moment. When he sent for Harry to speak with him he
had still but a very faint idea what to say. The young man came in looking
somewhat dull and depressed, as he did always now, and no longer
expectant of anything better, as he had been at the first. It was a moment of
leisure, and the Vice-Consul had the air of a man with something
disagreeable rather than something pleasant to say. His look was artificial,
and the smile which adorned his face was forced and uncomfortable.
“Come in, Oliver, come in,” he said, with an air of affected geniality.
Harry thought he was going to receive his dismissal; he did not think that
anything less could give his kind and friendly patron an aspect so little
natural. “Sit down,” said the Vice-Consul, “I have something to say before
business begins this afternoon. Oliver, I have been going through quite a
passage of arms on your account.”
“On my account?” said Harry, feeling as if his heart stopped beating; he
thought within himself, that this passage of arms must have been with some
of the authorities of the F. O., who perhaps had been stirred up to ask what a
stranger, without recommendations, was doing there. It seemed to him that
the next thing which would be said must be, “I have no further occasion for
your services,” and braced himself for these words.
“Don’t be frightened; yes, you look frightened,” said Mr. Bonamy, still
with that false geniality, “but no harm has come of it. You met—my
daughter—the other day.”
“Yes.” Harry’s heart re-commenced beating, and went so fast that it
almost choked him. “It was an accident, Sir; I did not see Miss Bonamy till
I was close upon her, I could not escape.”
“Yes, she told me. And she asked what had become of you, and you
answered ‘Very well, thank you!’ You will allow that was strange. No doubt
she had been much puzzled by your disappearance before, and she assailed
me directly what was the meaning of it? I had to say all sorts of things, that
you were too busy to come, that you were otherwise engaged, and I don’t
know what; but the short and the long of it is, Oliver, that, if you want to
keep her from knowing all about it, you must begin to come back again.
Things cannot go on as they are now without arousing her suspicions. This
is her night, you know; you must look in for an hour. Of course I don’t want
to enter into explanations with her,” said the Vice-Consul, becoming more
at ease now he had made out his statement, and done it, he thought with
some complacence, very cleverly. “You must really, by way of supporting
what I have been obliged to say, look in to-night.”
Harry’s heart was making up tremendously now for its momentary
pause. He felt as if it must be audible all over the house. A flush of warmth
went over him. He spoke with little breaks in his voice, so much excited
and disturbed was he.
“If you—have no objections, Sir. It cannot be but—a favour to me.”
“That’s a good fellow,” cried the Vice-Consul relieved. “I was afraid you
would tell me it was too painful, and leave me in the lurch.”
“If I did that, Sir,” said Harry, “I should be a worthless creature indeed,
however much it might cost me; but this—this—— If you have no
objections, Sir—you can’t have any doubt that I——”
Here he stopped, not knowing what to say more.
“You must understand, Oliver,” said Mr. Bonamy, gravely, “that if I have
no objections it is because I don’t want to enter into explanations with Rita;
and then I have missed you, I would never deny that. But you must not
suppose, because of this, that I mean you, you know, to depart from our—
bargain, or to do anything to change the position. In short, I don’t intend,
Oliver, that you should take advantage of the change to—in short, to——”
This was not very explanatory, but Harry hastened to reply as if it had
been the clearest statement in the world.
“You may be sure I will take no advantage of the change,” he said.
“Well, that is just what I expected from you,” said the Vice-Consul,
falling into his natural tone; “but, my dear fellow,” he added, with a little
alarm, “I must be sure that you can depend upon yourself. You told me you
were afraid you would betray your feelings if you continued to come; you
told me even that you had done so, or almost done so——”
“Ah, Sir,” cried Harry, “that was when I found myself out! I know
exactly all about it now, and I am on my guard.”
“Bless me,” said the Vice-Consul, “that is exactly what——” here he
stopped short with the guiltiest look. He was just about to say—what Rita
said.
“You need not have any fear on my account,” said Harry: and then he
paused a little, and added with feeling, “and I am proud that you have
confidence in me. I will do nothing to shake it; you may be sure of that. I
should be a poor creature indeed if my heart did not respond to such trust.”
This was a very fine speech for Harry. He was carried altogether beyond
himself by the emergency. These last lonely evenings had been wonderful
teachers for him. He had learned to read, he had learned to understand. He
had even learned many things more than reading and understanding in these
days of solitude. The thought of going back to her, to that little world in
which she reigned, was delightful to him, but he wondered what change
there would be in it to balance the strange change in his own breast. It
seemed to him that he was a new man, with deeper feelings and an
expanded mind. And she? Would she just be the same, and all the things and
people round her? Harry did not want her to be the least different. He
thought she was perfect, the most wonderful of all beings; but he felt
himself so much altered that he was excited by the thought that she might
be changed too. He went away from his audience not knowing whether he
walked on solid earth or air. Certainly he would not take advantage;
unquestionably he would be upright and honest, and bind himself as with
ropes rather than betray his kind friend’s confidence; but with all this he
was very much excited, and a glow of warmth and hopefulness began to
circulate in his veins. The new concession meant no change in the
circumstances; this the Vice-Consul had been anxious to impress upon him;
and he was equally anxious to assent, to assure Rita’s father on the other
hand that he expected nothing, scarcely desired anything except this trust in
him. But, nevertheless, it would be impossible to deny that a something of
hope, a trembling yet happy expectation, had come into his heart.
How carefully he dressed himself that night! Never in all his life had he
made so careful a toilette before. And Paolo, having heard what had
happened (which Harry, reticent as he was, could not keep from him), was
excited too, and came and sat by him while he dressed, and wanted to help
him, as if they had been two girls. Paolo ran out and bought him a bouquet
for his button-hole. He brought in a fresh bottle of eau-de-Cologne. He was
very anxious to lend him something to wear—his studs, which were little
cameos set in gold, or a ring, with a doubtful gem in it, of which he was
very proud, thinking it a genuine antique. “It is not brilliant like a
diamond,” said Paolo, “but it is art, which is more precious, and pleases
much to the Signorina. Take it, amico mio, you have no ring, which is an
absence that is felt; and the studs, that will make your appearance so much
more perfect—what you call finished.” Harry rejected these aids to the
effectiveness of his dress, but he took great pains about his tie, and
rebrushed his coat himself, and gave particular attention to the arrangement
of his hair. He said to himself, as he walked along in the summer dusk, that
all this was very foolish, that he was not on his promotion, when it might
have been wise to make the best of all his advantages, that he was going
only because he was nobody, because the Vice-Consul was not afraid of
him, and thought it wiser to run the risk of him than to disturb Rita’s mind
about any such petty suitor. It was very much like giving him the crumbs
from the table, but he was willing to accept these, or anything. He went into
the lighted room with his heart beating. Several of the ladies who were
habituées exclaimed on his entrance, and made haste to tell him that they
had thought he was gone altogether, and to ask where he had been. Rita
took no part in these questions, but she gave him her left hand as a sign of
friendship, and smiled and nodded to him without stopping her conversation
with somebody else. Indeed, she treated him as if there had been no break
in their intercourse, as though they had met yesterday and were to meet
again to-morrow. This pleased Harry, and yet it wrung his heart. Was he of
so little importance to her that she had not even noticed his absence? But
that could not be. He began to wonder whether it was perhaps a good sign.
She had noticed his absence, speaking to her father about it. Was it perhaps
—? His heart began to beat again as at first. But Rita took very little notice
of him all the evening. She was perfectly sweet and smiling, and when she
did address him did it with all her old friendliness; but Harry could not
persuade himself that she had remarked him and his careful tie, and his
well-brushed curls at all.
After that there ensued a time of mingled torture and happiness, when
Rita played with the young man as a cat plays with a mouse. She was more
interested in him than she had ever been in any young man before. He was a
study to her of the most attractive kind. A young man who was in love—not
a young man who was wanting to marry, a species of which she had seen
several specimens—but one who was actually, really, warmly in love—and
with herself. She wanted to see how such a person behaved. It was as good
as a play to her. She would laugh to herself secretly, thinking of it, so much
amused was she; and it seemed to her almost a duty to try him in every way,
to see how far this love would carry him, and how long he would manage to
keep it under. It did not occur to Rita that this was a somewhat cruel
process, or that Harry was pledged in honour to her father not to betray
himself. The cat most likely has no idea of cruelty in her play with the
mouse. Sometimes Rita would take no notice of him at all, neglecting all
the wistful attention which poor Harry felt it was within his bond to bestow
so long as he looked for nothing in return. For a whole evening she would
not so much as look at him; then would suddenly turn with her most cordial
smile, with a few words more sweet than he thought she had ever bestowed
upon him before. Sometimes she would call him to her side, and ply him
with seductions which poor Harry did not know how to resist; sometimes
she would devote all her efforts to the task of making him betray himself,
tempting him with all sorts of opportunities. But Harry stood fast. He had
given his promise, and nothing would make him break it. He wavered like a
tree in the wind, but he never yielded. Sometimes she made him think that
she was ready to listen to anything he might say, and another time would
take the first opportunity of showing him that he was nothing to her. It was
hard upon the mouse; yet we doubt whether he would have exchanged this
agitated existence for the most happy calm. He went to the Consulate with a
continued expectation, with his heart always beating loudly, not knowing
what he was to look for; but a more calm level of kindness would not have
given him those variations of feeling, that dramatic interest in his life; so
that, perhaps, there was not much harm done, the tortured liking the play as
much as the torturer. As for Rita she was very much interested too; the
pursuit amused her—it was a new sensation. She wanted above all things to
overcome his resolution, and make him betray himself. But here her efforts
were vain against the rock of Harry’s invincibility. He would not, whatever
she might do, break his promise. He kept a watch upon himself which was
not to be overcome.
The Vice-Consul did not know what to make of the business altogether.
It gave him a great deal of thought. He watched the young man with a
jealous eye: but Harry met every scrutiny with an unflinching front. And
Mr. Bonamy did what he could to watch his daughter, but that was not so
easy. She was amusing herself, but whether she was going too far in her
trial of Harry’s constancy he could not tell. She bewildered her father,
which was not difficult; but what was more wonderful, after a while, this
venturous person began to bewilder herself. She thought she was tired of
Harry, who could not be got to swerve out of the right way. She began to
think that it was all a fiction, or that this love after the English fashion was
far too self-commanded and restrained for a half Italian girl. She had
thought at first that it would be quite easy and extremely amusing to make
him betray himself. And she had resolved in such a case that his downfall
should do him no harm; she would not betray him; she would keep his
secret. But she had not supposed that he would stand out, that he would be
able to resist her: and at length she got confused about her own notions, and
about his conduct and everything around her, and knew no longer what to
think.
 CHAPTER XIV.

A CRISIS.

I T was like a play the intercourse which went on between these two; the
perpetual aggressions of the girl and defences of the young man, the
troubled spectatorship of the father, who saw that slave of his word
resisting, fighting always, more or less feebly, but yet resisting all the
agaceries, all the temptations, which a spirit of mischief could throw in his
way. Sometimes the sight was laughable, sometimes it was almost tragic, to
the looker on; and he was much disturbed at the same time on his own
account, not knowing what Rita meant by it all. “Take care what you are
doing,” he would say to her, with mingled pity and alarm—pity for the
young man, alarm for himself and her. “What am I doing, papa?” Rita
would ask, with the greatest innocence. “That is exactly what I can’t tell,”
poor Mr. Bonamy said. But his warnings never came to more than this. And
nothing in all her life had so amused Rita as her torture of this unfortunate
young man. One day they happened to be alone for a little while, Mr.
Bonamy having been called away. It was on a Sunday evening, after dinner,
a day when the Bonamys, following the old-fashioned English rule, were
always alone. Harry had avoided opportunities of being alone with Rita as
much as lovers generally scheme for that privilege, but to-day there was no
help for it. She was seated at the open window in her usual dress of vapoury
white; the summer was advancing, and it would soon be time for the
removal of the household to the country, where they went every year. Mr.
Bonamy had been called away, quite unexpectedly, to his own dreadful
vexation and the terror of Harry, but to Rita’s secret delight. The night-air
puffed the white curtains over her head and about her white, half-visible
figure. The window looked out upon the garden, and there was a little
moisture of the sea in the air. Harry was standing at the other side of the
window, half concealed by the floating veil of the curtain. Rita was half
buried in a great chair. A shaded lamp stood on a table in the other part of
the room, but that was all, not light enough to see each other by. There had
been a somewhat long silence, and Harry was trying hard to break loose
from this enchantment and go away. But his heart was faint with the
sweetness of it, poor fellow! and he could not get free, especially now that
they were alone. If it could have been helped, he would not have stayed; but
he had not been able to help it, and it was sweet. He was snatching a fearful
joy, not saying anything, scarcely daring to breathe. Then into the soft
silence came her voice.
“Mr. Oliver, they tell me summer nights in England are so much sweeter
than here. What are those long twilights? I have read about them, but I don’t
understand it. Tell me.” He could make out that she leaned forward in her
chair, putting her hands together, which was a way she had.
“I don’t think,” said Harry, catching his breath, “that anything can be
sweeter than the evenings here.”
“Ah, but there is a difference; tell me. You know that I am never to go to
England,” said Rita, plaintively; “though I remember you said you would
not be afraid to take me. What made you say that, Mr. Oliver? perhaps you
forget that you ever did.”
“Oh, no; I don’t forget.”
“You never would enter into any particulars; but I am glad at least that
you don’t forget. Now papa is away, we may talk of it. It always hurts papa
when I speak of England. So tell me—tell me quick—how was it that you
thought you could make it safe? Ah, how I wish you could!” she said,
clasping her hands.
Harry said never a word. His heart was thumping so against his breast
that he thought every moment it would burst forth from that uneasy house.
Now it got into his throat, and seemed to choke him; he could not speak.
“You don’t say anything,” said Rita, with again a little tone of complaint.
“Do you think that is kind, or fair? You rouse my expectations, and then you
never say another word. I have thought of it all this time, and always
wondered if you would ever tell me. How could Mr. Oliver manage to take
me to England without danger? that is what I have always been saying to
myself. What, Mr. Oliver! won’t you say a word?”
Here there burst a cry from Harry’s breast. “Don’t torture me,” he said;
then collecting all his strength, “It was my presumption. I thought only that
to take—the most precious care of you——”
His voice shook, and at last his little torturer felt that she had got almost
to the end of his powers.
 “That is a very pretty way of saying it, Mr. Oliver; precious care; it is not
slang, is it? I am sure you would be kind—very, very kind.”
“Oh, kind!” cried poor Harry, grasping unconsciously the white curtains
that kept blowing between him and her, in his strong, hot hands.
“Don’t you like the word? I think it is such a nice word. There is nothing
like it in Italian, and you can apply it so widely. You can be kind to a horse
or a dog; and then to children, and sick people and poor people; and then—
to everybody—me. You have always been, ever since I knew you, very kind
to me.”
“Don’t say so—don’t say so—not that word,” Harry cried.
“But there is no other word half so good. Other words express other
feelings; kind means, just kind. There is nothing else expresses it. English is
a wonderfully fine language. It is so strong and so trustworthy. You feel as
if you could believe it, every word. Mr. Oliver,” said Rita, in her little, soft,
insinuating voice, “did you really, really believe that—that I might go to
England, if—someone were to take care of me, such care as you call
precious; but, then, who would do that? not papa, for he is so frightened. No
one I know.”
“Miss Bonamy, I must say good night,” said Harry, very shortly, taking
himself out of the floating curtain, almost tearing it down in his agitation.
“Good night! before papa comes back? Oh, but that would be unkind.
Don’t. Why should you run off in such a hurry in the very middle of our
talk?”
“Because,” he said, with the crushed curtain like a wisp in his hands, “I
can’t stay—I mustn’t stay. Forgive me, and, if you will, excuse me: and—
good night!”
He was rushing away, when she put out her hand. He saw that, though
there was so little light. He could not refuse to shake hands with her; and
instead of leaving the pressure to him, she took hold of his hand for a
second, lightly but firmly detaining him. “Mr. Oliver,” she said, with that
little plaintive tone, “you should not run away.”
Harry was hoarse with agitation and distress. That soft, light touch of
detention made him wild. “I must fly,” he said, “fly! Do you think I want to
go? I must fly, and come no more.”
 And he turned and disappeared like an arrow, as swift, but not so
noiselessly, stumbling through the dark room. She lay back in her chair and
listened to him all the way rushing down the stairs, shutting the great door
with a clang. Then his steps were audible along the street hurrying away.
The very foot, Rita thought, spoke English among the other footsteps. She
seemed to hear them ever so far off, hurrying, flying. She was a spoiled
child. She had not succeeded in her wicked attempt, and some other feeling
mingled with the childish disappointment which provoked and mortified
her. When the Vice-Consul came back, not without a great deal of anxiety in
his mind, he found her still sitting there, crying as if her perverse heart
would break. It gave him a mingled sense of fright and relief to see that
there was no one else in the room; but when he found that Rita was crying,
his foolish, fatherly heart was melted altogether. He hurried across the half-
lighted room. “What is the matter, my darling, what is the matter? Where is
Oliver? Is it his fault?” he said.
“Papa,” cried Rita, with sobs, “do not speak to me of Mr. Oliver; he is a
clod, he is a stone. It is not a bit true what you told me of him. He must
have been laughing at you—or perhaps at me. It is not a bit true.”
“What is it that is not true? My pet, this young fellow has been saying
something to vex you? Bless my heart! he shall go to-morrow if he has
broken his word and said anything to annoy you.”
And the Vice-Consul, very wroth, drew a chair to the side of Rita’s, and
put his arm round her, soothing her with soft words and caresses, and
launching thunderbolts of anger at the supposed culprit. Rita cried softly for
some time on her father’s shoulder. Then she interrupted him, putting her
hand upon his mouth.
“Papa, don’t; you don’t know. What provokes me is different. It is not
because he said anything. Listen,” said Rita, putting her lips to his ear; “I
know it is not true what he said to you. It can’t be true, because I have tried
him and tried him, and he won’t say anything. He has no feeling at all in
him, and it cannot be true.”
“Rita! Rita! what are you saying?” Mr. Bonamy cried.
The horror in his voice brought her to herself. She sat up suddenly,
drying her eyes. “Well, papa, it is your fault. You gave me a puzzle to make
out. I thought it would be fun; but it is not fun. As for Mr. Oliver, he is just
an excellent, trustworthy Englishman. You need not fear that he will ever be
carried away. As for feeling, I don’t think he knows what it is. He is English
—English all over.” She clapped her hands together to give emphasis to her
sentence, like a true Italian, which by turns she was.
“Yes, he is English—very English. I thought you liked everything that
was English,” the surprised father said.
“And so I do; but what does it matter if you will never, never let me go
to England? Take me to England, papa!”
“My darling! when you know what my feeling is on that subject—
anything but that, Rita; ask me anything but that.”
“Well,” she replied, “Mr. Oliver said there would be no difficulty about
it; he said he would take the most precious care of me. Is that slang, papa?”
“Slang? bless my heart, it sounds like something quite different to me,”
cried the Vice-Consul, frowning. But Rita once more put her hand upon his
mouth.
“You know better than I do,” she said, demurely. “I could not be sure
which it was; but you may make yourself quite comfortable, papa, for Mr.
Oliver is very conscientious, and never said a word. I begin,” she said
pensively, “to understand English now.”
“Rita, I think you must be taking leave of your senses. You begin to
understand English! your own language!”
She nodded her head a great many times in reply.
“Yes, I begin to understand it,” she said. And this was all he could get
out of her. She began presently to talk upon other subjects, and kept him
amused all the rest of the evening, and Harry was not mentioned again
between them.
But Harry himself, poor fellow, went home like the wind, or rather like a
straw blown before the wind; hastening, without any apparent movement of
his own, to the bare rooms which were his only refuge. He arrived there
panting like a man pursued, and shut his door as if it were a fence between
him and his pursuers. He could not have explained to himself why he did
this, for Rita, though she had certainly assailed him, had not come after him
through the streets, as by his appearance one might have thought she had
done, forcing him to his best speed. But when he sat down and thought it all
over, though Harry was excited to the highest degree, it could scarcely be
said of him that he was unhappy. He was breathless with the excitement of
his escape. He said to himself that he must not go again; that he would not
run such risks again, that another time he must betray himself; but all the
time, underneath everything, he had the consciousness that his very flight
had told his story as effectually as words could have done it, and that she
could not now be at any loss to know what was the moving spring of all his
recent life. He felt that she had suspected him all these days. He knew that
she had meant to surprise his secret somehow, whether in simple love of
mischief and curiosity, or whether with some other motive, who could tell?
but certainly this was what she had been doing: and there dawned upon him
a light of something which was not exactly hope, but which yet warmed and
brightened his horizon, and made the whole world somehow a better, a less
heavy and tedious place. He did not say even to himself that anything
definite was in his hope; what he said was that he could not go back, that he
would run no more risks, that, whatever might be said to him on the subject,
his policy was to keep away. But this had no such tragic meaning to him as
it had on the previous occasion, when his life had been cut off in half, and
his heart, he thought, rent in twain. If he was ever made to go back again—
a thought which made Harry’s heart jump, but which he did not feel, as
before, was impossible—then it would not be to hold his tongue. And
whatever happened there was one thing which he could not be doubtful
about. He had saved his honour, hard as had been the trial, and yet she
knew. She could not, he was sure, either mistake him or ignore him any
longer. Reject him, yes; allow him to languish far from her, which would be
the kindest thing, unless—— but certainly now she knew.
And then a week or more elapsed. After the first twenty-four hours Harry
began to have heats and chills, wondering if he would be forbidden to go
again. He did not intend to go, but yet to be sent away is different; and he
awaited a summons to the Vice-Consul with feelings of alarm. But though
he was constantly summoned to the Vice-Consul’s presence, he heard
nothing upon this all-interesting subject. Mr. Bonamy looked coldly upon
him for the first day, but said nothing save about business. And afterwards
Harry went on just as before. Rita’s “night” came round, but Harry did not
go. He dressed himself as if he were going, and got rid of Paolo, who had
been greatly disappointed by the total absence of confidence in him which
his friend showed. Naturally, after his exertions on Harry’s behalf, the offer
of the ring and the studs, the purchase of the flower and the eau-de-cologne,
Paolo had felt that he had a right to hear all that had taken place, and how
the lady had been won, which he did not think would be a difficult matter.
The idea that his friend could be called back without the lady being won,
did not occur to his swift Italian mind. And after that critical moment when
he linked his arm in Harry’s, and led him eagerly off to the quietest
promenade he could think of, to hear all about it, Paolo had treated Harry’s
indignant denial that there was anything to tell with the contempt it
deserved. “Nothing?” he had said, with an astonishment almost beyond
speech. “Nothing? But that means that you do not wish to tell me—that you
will not give your confidence to me.” When Harry disclaimed this, Paolo
had only shook his head. “I see that you have not trust in me,” he said, and
he had retired in his turn for a few days from his friend’s society, and a little
coolness and momentary estrangement had ensued.
But some time had elapsed since then, and one of those reconciliations
of which Harry was afraid had followed, and Paolo’s interest was warmer
than ever. He watched his friend’s looks and noted every visit he paid, so
that it required nothing less than the effort of dressing and setting out for the
Vice-Consul’s to shake himself free from Paolo’s society and remarks.
Harry went to the very street, to the opposite side, to watch the windows,
and to get a glimpse if he could of the little white figure, which was the
central point in the world to him. But long before the usual hour the party
broke up, and Harry was surprised by a sudden outpouring of groups of
people in evening dresses—ladies with scarfs thrown over their heads, and
satin slippers, not adapted for the rough pavement. Some of these groups,
departing guests, perceived him, before he was aware. “Oh! are you going
to the Bonamys?” said a lady; “don’t go; the Vice-Consul has been taken ill;
he has had a fit or something. You may see how early we are coming away.”
The whole street was soon full of a babble of voices, all talking of this. The
Vice-Consul had been suddenly taken ill; he had fainted in the midst of the
assembly, and the doctor had been sent for in haste. When Harry looked up
at the windows they were all deserted—the lights still burning, the white
curtains faintly swaying about, but the rooms entirely empty. In a moment
all had become miserable and neglected. Life had ebbed out of the room,
and left everything cold and silent. He felt with a chill at his heart as if
death had come in instead to fill up the vacant place; he went to the door to
inquire about his kind patron, his trustful master, his fatherly friend, with a
heart out of which all the previous thoughts had departed for the moment.
He thought of Rita, indeed, with instant anxiety; but yet her father was
foremost in his mind. “Very bad, sir,” the servant said, who was an
Englishman, “very bad,” holding the door wide open as he said so; and
Harry went in in his evening clothes, looking as if he had meant to go to the
party. He was a little scared afterwards to think that Rita never could know
that he did not mean to come to the party. He went upstairs into the empty
drawing-room; there were a few signs of hasty disturbance about it,
evidences of the sudden interruption; a card-table set out with all the cards
as they had been dealt round it; groups of chairs standing together, and a
tray of ices on a side-table. Such a forsaken room always raises an infinite
crowd of suggestions. It is such a lesson upon the dangers and changes of
life as no sermon can read. Harry stood in the midst of it, feeling as if he
had seen the writing on the wall which startled the ancient king in the midst
of his revel. It had been an innocent revel—nothing in it to offend earth or
heaven; but the touch of a sudden calamity makes even the most innocent
pleasure-making seem vain. He stood there feeling as if on the edge of a
tomb, hearing in the distance muffled yet hasty steps running to and fro, and
all the excitement of a sudden illness. And he had plenty of time to indulge
these thoughts, for nobody came near the room for, he thought, hours;
though, of course, this was a mistaken estimate of the time that really
passed. At last Harry heard measured steps and voices coming downstairs,
and hurrying to the door found the English doctor in company with one of
the ladies of the English community who had known Rita all her life. They
told him that the Vice-Consul’s attack was a very serious one, that he was
still unconscious, and that no one as yet could say how it would turn. “I
have told him for some time he ought to go away. He was struggling
foolishly, when he ought to have given in as so many people do.” “And
poor little Rita, what is to become of her?” the lady said.
Harry stood with his heart in his mouth, ready for any service. Alas!
what can a young man do in such a case? An old woman is of more use. He
was sent off, however, to fetch a nurse, and to get various articles that were
necessary, and this gave him occupation. He was about the house all the
night, hearing with faint pleasure that Rita would not leave her father’s
bedside, and glad to share her vigil. He would have liked to be there too to
help, not caring what he did. The Vice-Consul was very ill for many days,
during which time Harry threw himself into the business of the office, and
worked like a slave. He thought neither of reward nor of the manner in
which his behaviour was being contemplated by the little community
around, all as much interested as the population of a village, though they
formed an important part of a large and busy town. He thought nothing of
all this; his new life absorbed him so that he had no faculty or thought that
was free for anything else. He did not seem to require either rest or regular
meals, but took up Mr. Bonamy’s work during the day, and ran about on any
errand of the sick-room all the night.
And at last the patient began to get better. The seizure had been a very
bad one, but he mended, and was at last able to be removed. He was too
confused even then to know what was being done for him, or to realise the
state into which his work must have got but for the strenuous and anxious
deputyship of his clerk. He was taken away even without knowing, without
being able to say a word to Harry. But Rita, who had so tortured him, who
even in the midst of her watch had heard without knowing it how Harry had
taken her father’s place, and how he had made himself the servant of the
house, did not leave him without a token of her gratitude. One day, while he
was sitting absorbed in business, but not able to keep himself from thinking
now and then wistfully whether he should see either of them before they
went away, there came a soft little knock at the door of communication by
which the Vice-Consul had introduced him first into his house. Harry was at
Mr. Bonamy’s own table, taking his place, and feeling himself already so
much at home in the work that the appeals which he had dreaded at first no
longer affected him. But when he heard this knock his whole frame
quivered. He did not know what to expect. He got up trembling from his
chair, and opened the door. In the passage stood Rita, very worn and pale,
with dark lines round the eyes that seemed to fill up all her face. She had
scarcely left her father’s bedside, he had heard, watching over him night
and day. Her slight little figure, always so slim and girlish, seemed to have
shrunk to nothing. There was not a trace of colour in her face. “Miss
Bonamy!” he said, with a sharp tone of surprise, though he was not
surprised; the moment he had heard the knock he had been aware that Rita,
and no other, must have made that appeal. The touch on the door had
conveyed a plaintive sound to him like her voice. She smiled, but did not
say anything. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and the soft lines of her
mouth quivered. She came into the office, where he stood gazing at her, and
held out to him both her hands, smiling up in his face like a child. “I have
come to thank you,” she said, at last, the two big tears dropping like drops
of rain in a thunder shower, “for all your—kindness.” She paused a little
before that last word, and through the tears, through the angelical, pathetic
smile, which wrung poor Harry’s heart, there came something that was like
a ghost of mischief. She remembered their last conversation, though so
much had happened since, and could not refrain, though her heart was
moved to its depths, from throwing this ghost of a malicious shaft at him.
Somehow the effect upon Harry was of a different kind from before.
Perhaps he felt that he had now a standing-ground which no one could
undervalue or take from him. At all events he kept her hands in his, and
looked at her with a gaze under which her eyes swerved. “It was not
kindness,” he said.
Rita drew back a step, though her hands were held fast. Her eyes
drooped, she could not meet his, though Harry’s eyes were insignificant
English eyes in comparison with those great dreamy lights that shone out of
her little pale face. Then she gave one sudden glance at him, wavering and
trembling. “I know it was not,” said Rita, with a great effort to steady her
voice.
 CHAPTER XV.

THE VICE-CONSUL’S RESOLUTION.

T HE Bonamys had a little country-house near the sea, one of those grey
houses, with its vineyard and its fields, which are so common in Italy,
so homely, having so little of the picturesque grace which is suggested
by everything Italian to our minds. The rooms were large and sparely
furnished, one of them, the only pleasant one, opening upon a terrace which
overlooked the sea. Here the Vice-Consul was brought, and laid upon a
couch in the long warm days, after the sun had gone off the house, to
breathe in the pleasant saltness, and refresh himself with that profound
Mediterranean blue which is like nothing else. At first he was able for no
mental, and not much physical, effort, but by degrees life came back to him;
and with the earliest gleams of revival came the recollection of all that had
dropped out of his hands, his work, the office, all that had depended upon
him. When this first crisis came, which had been much dreaded by the
doctors, Rita had to meet it alone. It came in a moment, after a day of
listless enjoyment. There had been some cool breezes, and a little breath of
more vigorous life had got into his relaxed and feeble frame. He had fallen
asleep in the afternoon, his daughter sitting by him. All was tranquil round
about, as became the surroundings of a convalescent, the air breathing
softly, the violent sun, which is in Italy an enemy of the feeble, happily
gone out of sight, the sea sounding softly upon the rocks, the cicala shrill in
the trees. It was the only sharp note in all that quiet, but Rita, for one, no
more knew of the existence of a country landscape without the shrill tones
of the cicala, than an English girl could realise one without the birds. There
were no great trees about, nothing but those which were useful according to
the frugal custom of wealthy Tuscany, where everything is expected to bear
fruit. The lattice-work overhead was partly covered with a vine, which
made a green roof over one part of it; but the sick man wanted all the air he
could get, so he was not below the pergola, but in the open part, the soft
breeze blowing freely about him. He lay with his fine head turned towards
the sea, a beard, the growth of his illness, softening the gauntness of the
lower part of his face, sleeping with that utter abandon of weakness which
seems to restore something of the charm of childhood to the sick. Rita sat
by, with a book in her hands which she was not reading. It would be hard to
tell what she was doing; not thinking either;—scenes in the past, scenes in
the future, were gliding through her dreamy mind. Which was most real she
could not tell. She was standing on the edge of fate, not knowing what a day
or a moment might bring forth. All the world had paused with her in that
suspense which was sweet. She did not want to be done with it or to shorten
it, or to make anything advance a step faster; indeed she did not know what
it was that was going to come. But it would not end there, she said
sometimes to herself; it was impossible that it could end there; one thing or
another must come of it. But what it was she wanted to come of it, Rita,
even to herself, would not venture to say.
When all at once, everything being so quiet, the Vice-Consul suddenly
woke up. He opened his eyes with more energy than usual, and made a little
movement to rise, with an impulse of active life, such as he had not shown
before.
“Ah, you are there, my pet,” he said. “I was dreaming that we were at
home; that there had been despatches. I fear I have been sadly idle. How
long have I been ill? It is too early for us to be here.”
“No, papa,” said Rita, alarmed. “Oh, not at all too early—at this time we
are always here.”
He raised himself on his arm, and a startled look came upon his face.
“How long have I been ill?” he said.
“Never mind, papa—a—good while. You are not to think of that; but to
get better, and not to trouble yourself.”
“That is nonsense, my dear; there is the office that must be thought of; if
you knew the arrears that accumulate even in a few days. I seem to have
lost count of time; oddly enough. I can’t remember anything. How many—
days is it?”
His eyes opened wide, his under lip quivered a little, and a flush of
weakness and excitement came upon his cheek. Rita threw down her book
and came hastily to his side, kneeling down by the sofa.
“Papa! you must not be anxious; you must not ask any questions yet.
This I can tell you, there are no arrears. Mr. Oliver has got the charge of
everything, and he is doing it all so well, so well, Mr. Henderson told me.
He said, ‘If it was not so heart-breaking to miss his dear face,’ and here Rita
gave her father a sudden kiss to conceal, and at the same time to express,
her own agitation, ‘one could scarcely see the difference. Mr. Oliver has
behaved like—nobody ever behaved so well.’ ”
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Bonamy, putting up his hand to stroke his
daughter’s face, “here is enthusiasm! I did not know you thought so much
of Oliver.” Then it suddenly occurred to him to look at that hand. He held it
up and contemplated it, at first with amusement, afterwards with a little
alarm. “Here is a poor old claw,” he said, “that looks like—— why, Rita, it
looks like a very bad bout; it looks like a—long illness. Good heavens! am I
deceiving myself. How long have I been ill?” this he said in a very
peremptory tone.
“Papa,” Rita said, putting her arms around him, “Mr. Oliver has
managed everything, there is nothing to trouble yourself about. Mr.
Henderson said so, and so did the man from Florence—that man, I forget
his name.”
A look of anguish came upon Mr. Bonamy’s face. To come under the
reproof, or subject himself to the interference of the Consul-General at
Florence, had always been the terror of his official life. He had kept the
danger at bay hitherto, acting with great independence, and being permitted
to do so in an astonishing way; but he had known, or thought he knew, that
they were ready to pounce upon him at the first opportunity. The idea of a
man from Florence was bitter to him beyond conception. A dark colour
came over his face, a sort of purple hue, which made Rita wild with terror.
“What—what—what?” he cried, stammering. Rita thought he was going
to have another fit; she called out for Benedetta, Benedetta! and with
anxious hands, caressing, yet half forcing him back upon his pillows, began
to fan him with a great fan which lay on his sofa. He allowed her to lay him
down, and perhaps the sight of her anxiety moved him to exert all his
powers of self-control. He subdued the rising confusion of passionate
mortification within him; in which effort he was helped by his weakness,
which made any great convulsion of feeling impossible. By-and-bye he
looked up at her with a half-smile. Benedetta had come at her call, and was
bringing water and vinegar, and bandages of linen to put on his head. He
waved all these appliances away with his hand.
 “Don’t be afraid, I am not going to be—worse,” he said feebly. “I may
be bad enough, but not worse. When did the man from Florence come? Tell
me everything now.”
Then Rita, hesitating and faltering, told him the story of his illness, and
all the long history burst confusedly upon his brain. He had thought he had
been a few days, perhaps a week ill, and he had been six weeks. He had
been preparing himself for a great deal to do when he should get well, and
he found himself replaced, put aside. There were points in the story which
consoled him. It was no man from Florence who had been doing his work—
that was a wonderful comfort—but his own friend, the young fellow whom
he had taken up and been kind to, who was the creature of his bounty. The
Consul-General had not found a word to say; he had approved, and
sanctioned, and authorised everything, and the character of Mr. Bonamy’s
work had been kept up. He lay still and kept himself quiet, and listened to
every word. Benedetta, who did not understand the English, stood by with
all her appliances, her cold compresses, her bandages, the soft white folds
of linen in which his hot forehead was to be bound. But the patient eluded
her. He kept himself quiet in spite of all temptations.
“You can send her away, Rita,” he said. “What are you frightened for? I
must have known sooner or later. It is far better that I should know. I have
been surrounded by friends, everybody has been good to me; and if you
have no objection, my darling, I should like to see Oliver here.”
“I don’t know,” said Rita, “why you should think I could have any
objection to—anything you wished, papa.”
There was almost a glow of amusement in the Consul’s eyes. “My dear,
you are very dutiful,” he said. And then the time came when he had to be
carried back again in his couch indoors before the hour of sunset, which is
feared throughout Italy, and to have his invalid meal brought to him. The
evening was marked by a great event, for that night the Vice-Consul walked
to bed, which was a thing which never had happened before. And from this
time Mr. Bonamy began to accustom himself to all that had happened, and
when the doctor came he extracted from him the full history of his illness,
which interested him very greatly, and gave him something to think about.
It was not unnatural that he should be startled. “It is a thing that is sure to
recur again?” he asked.
 “Well, we do not say that anything is sure to recur again. We say that,
given the same disposition, the same symptoms might reappear.”
“And the third time kills?” the Vice-Consul said.
“My dear Bonamy, that again is not a thing we say. Every repetition of
course weakens the patient,” said the judicious doctor.
The sick man laughed, but when he was alone his countenance was very
grave. He lay and reflected upon everything, and thought how lonely his
child would be when he was taken from her. She had some relations, but his
anxiety to keep her from going to England had made him negligent of his
own family at home; and he had something to leave her; he had not left his
child altogether without provision. But what a change it would be to Rita,
from the house where she was queen, where everybody worshipped and
served her, where everything she said was reckoned wiser, and everything
she did more wonderful, than any other sayings or doings, to be a semi-
dependant in the house of her Aunt Ersilia, or some other of the Italian
kindred, with their different ways! This thought filled Mr. Bonamy’s mind
as he lay in the long unoccupied hours of his convalescence with his face
turned to the blue Italian sea. Two days after he made a request to his child.
“Will you write a note to Oliver,” he said, “and ask him to come and see
me? But not if you have any objection.” He watched her intently, and he
saw a quick, faint colour flash over her face.
“Why should I have any objection? I told you I had not any, papa; and if
I had what would it matter?” she said.
“It would matter a great deal to me. But you do not dislike poor Oliver,
Rita?”
“Dislike him! Do you think I am made of stone? He has done
everything, everything, while you have been ill. I should be a demon if I did
not—if I disliked him as you say.”
“But there is a great difference,” said the Vice-Consul, “between dislike
and—I don’t know, my pet, what word to use.”
“Yes, there is a great difference,” she said, demurely; and having her
paper neatly arranged before her, she proceeded to write the note which
follows:—
 “Dear Mr. Oliver,
“Papa is a great deal better. He thinks he would like to see you on
Sunday if you would be so good as to come out here. He has been very
much touched to hear of all you have been doing for him. And so am I. He
wants to know all about it, and to thank you. But do not think you will be
troubled with any thanks from me, for I know that you do not mean to be
kind to us, though on the outside it looks like it.
“Truly yours,
“Margherita Bonamy.”
Here was once more her malice, which she could not put out of the
question between them. She was glad that her father did not ask to see her
note, and she put it up and sent it away with a little quickening of all her
pulses. Sunday was the next day, but she felt sure enough that Harry would
let no engagement prevent him accepting this invitation. They sat in silence
for some time after that letter was despatched. Rita felt her whole life
quickened, her horizon wider, the day of more importance, the passing
moments more weighty. She sat quite silent, her mind being full of so many
thoughts. At last the Vice-Consul spoke, as if no pause had occurred.
“Notwithstanding,” he said, “you know Oliver is not clever, Rita; that must
be taken into account.”
On this Rita, not perceiving that she betrayed the strain of her own
thoughts by receiving the remark without surprise, answered, with a little
sigh of regret, “No, he is not clever; but perhaps there are some things that
are better than being clever,” she added, in a doubtful tone.
Mr. Bonamy laughed a little, faintly. “Are you coming to see that?” he
said.
“I don’t know if I am coming to see it, papa. I think I always saw it. One
does not think much whether the people one cares for are clever or not.”
Then perceiving the inference which might be drawn from her words, Rita
blushed wildly, and turned suddenly upon her father defiant eyes. But he
did not make any remark, half because he was weak, half because of a
mingled pang of satisfaction and pain to think that “the people she cared
for” now included other relations than those of the earliest stage in life. A
father, perhaps, feels it more than a mother when his daughter’s heart goes
away from him to another man: there is a keener jealousy in it, a sharper