Baring-Gould Sabine
The Pennycomequicks (Volume 3 of 3)
'Salome!' exclaimed Janet, 'how can you be so ridiculous? This must be some other child; who could have brought yours here?'
Then Philip appeared in the doorway – but Salome's eyes were blind with tears of joy, and she did not see him; she could see nothing but her child. He spoke – she did not hear him; she could hear nothing but the cooing of her babe.
Philip stood beside her and touched her on the shoulder.
'Do you not know me?' he asked. 'Are you not glad to see me?'
Salome stood still and released her child. She was confused; she hardly knew whether she were awake or in the most beautiful, blissful of dreams.
'Well – this is hardly the – the – Salome. Do you not know me?'
'Oh, Philip!' she gasped, 'is it really you? And you have brought me my baby! Oh! how good, how kind!' and she fell to kissing and hugging her baby again.
Then Philip, finding himself put completely in the background, condemned to a subsidiary part to that played by Philip the Little, was offended, and said with a slight tone of acerbity: 'My dear Salome, be decorous. Give up Phil now to the nurse, a Swiss young person, and come, take my arm.'
'Philip,' said Salome, 'Oh, Philip, how good! how very dear of you!'
He felt her heart beating wildly against his arm, as she clung to him, at his side. Then she began to sob. 'It is too great happiness. My darling! My darling pet! and looking so well too.'
'You mean the baby?'
'Yes, of course, Philip.'
She put her hand in her pocket, drew out her 'kerchief and wiped her eyes.
'By the way,' said Philip, 'how many had I?'
'How many what, Philip? Only this one, darling,'
'I mean pocket-handkerchiefs. All, all have disappeared, and I have been condemned to one. I have come here to Andermatt expressly to know what my stock consisted of. Conceive, only one pocket-handkerchief left!'
CHAPTER XLII.
THE GAUNTLET DANGLED
Philip had to shake hands with Janet, with his aunt, with the three Labartes, to whom he was introduced, and with a little heartiness to clasp the hand of the captain. He was introduced, moreover, to the American lady, and was thus given the well-considered opportunity of saluting her with calculated indifference. He somewhat exaggerated the cordiality of his greeting of the Labarte girls so as to emphasize the chilliness of his behaviour towards the young lady from Chicago.
When the first excitement of meeting was past, Philip was overwhelmed with questions. 'How was dear Uncle Jeremiah? – was he much altered?' 'What was going to be done about the mill?' and 'What a puzzle it would be about the administration?' 'Could he re-establish himself legally as alive after he had been decreed dead?' 'What had happened at Mergatroyd besides the return of Uncle Jeremiah?' 'How had the people received him?' 'Had they erected a triumphal arch?' 'Did he write beforehand to say he was coming?' 'What sort of weather had they had in England?' 'What kind of crossing had Philip?' 'Had baby suffered at all from the sea?' 'What did he think of the railway?'
There was no end to the questions asked, which Philip answered as well as he could. And as he received and replied to the questions he kept his eye on the strange lady, and considered how she must feel – shut out from all the interests which engrossed those connected with him; and how much in the way she ought to regard herself.
This she did observe, and drew aside, out of hearing, and as Beaple Yeo came forward, fell into conversation with him. His presence had an immediate numbing effect on Philip and Salome and Janet. They withdrew to another end of the salon.
Philip had used his opportunity to observe the strange lady, and he admitted to himself that she was good-looking.
Of course there are differences in types of beauty, and she was not of the type that commended itself to Philip – so he thought. She had dark hair and a transparent olive complexion. Possibly a touch of dark blood in her, mused Philip, and he said to himself:
'I will take the first opportunity to look at her nails.'
Her features were finely modelled, with a firmness of cutting that showed she was no longer in her teens, undeveloped. The flexible transparent nostrils, the slightly-curled curves of the lips, the wavy hair over the brow – whether natural, the result of a trace of black blood, or artificially produced – the splendid dark eyes that looked at Philip, looked down into him and flashed through his whole being like a lamp shining into a cellar – the delicate ears, the beautiful neck, not too long, set on well-formed shoulders – all were observed by Philip.
'Yes,' said Philip, 'she is handsome, but she belongs to that period of life which may be twenty-four or thirty-four. She has got out of thirteenhood, that is clear.'
He looked at Salome. If Salome was his ideal, nothing could be more different than her type from the type of Miss Durham. There was a childlike simplicity in Salome, an ignorance of the world which would make of her a child to gray hairs; and this strange lady had clearly none of this simplicity and ignorance; she knew a great deal about the ways and varieties of life. One like Miss Durham would never go into gushing ecstasy over a baby, and forget that the first homage was due to her husband.
It afforded emphatic pleasure to Philip to be able to demonstrate before this single lady, with such a circle of relatives about him – six ladies and one gentleman – we are eight and you are one. It was Joseph's sheaf with all the sheaves bowing down before it; it was like a man with a pedigree describing the family tree to a self-made man. It was like a hen with a brood of chickens clucking and strutting before a fowl that has never reared a solitary chick, hardly laid an egg; it was like a millionaire showing his pictures, his plate, his equipages, his yacht, to an acquaintance who had two hundred a year.
It has just been stated that the American girl's eyes had flashed down into Philip's, and irradiated his interior as a lantern does a cellar – a wine-cellar, of course – and the light revealed magnificent cobwebs, thick dust, and some spiders. There was, unquestionably, in Philip much rare good wine, excellent qualities of heart and soul, but they were none of them on tap, all were bottled, and all overlaid with whitewash, and dust, and matted with the fibres and folds of prejudice. These masses of cobweb, these layers of dust, these fat spiders were objects of pride to Philip. Every year the cobwebs gathered density, and the dust accumulated, and the spiders became more gross, hideous, and venomous; the wine remained corked, it was merely an excuse for the cultivation of cobwebs and spiders. We are all eager to show our friends through these rich wine-vaults of our hearts. We light candles and conduct them down with infinite pride, and what we expose is only our curtains of prejudice of ancient standing and long formation, our meannesses, and our spites. If we offer them to taste of our best wine, it is but through straws.
On the other hand, there was Colonel Yeo, a walking Bodega of generous sentiment, with every rich passion and ripe opinion always on tap – ask what you would, and you had a tumblerful. But we libel Bodega, the gush with which he regaled his acquaintance was not true vintage; it was squeezed raisins and logwood, gooseberry and elder – no cobwebs of prejudice there, not a trace even of a scruple, not a token of maturity.
Supper was hurried on, because Philip was hungry, half an hour before the usual time at which the little party sat down to their special table in the alcove.
'Oh!' said Salome, 'there is a cover short. Waiter, we shall be nine to-night and in future, not eight. My husband is here.'
'Pardon,' answered the waiter, 'monsieur expressly said eight.'
'Oh, he forgot. He did not understand. We are now nine.'
Then Philip interfered.
'I said eight, but if you particularly desire Miss Durham's society, I can sit at the long table with the common guests.'
'Oh, Philip! surely, surely not!' exclaimed Salome. 'It will hurt her feelings.'
'She will understand that we are a family party, and that from such a party strangers are best excluded.'
Salome heaved a sigh. She could not endure the thought of giving pain to anyone.
'Who is she?' asked Philip.
'She is a lady, and very agreeable. Indeed, a most superior person. You will be certain to like her, when you come to know her. Oh, Philip! she knows a thousand things about which I am ignorant.'
'I have no doubt about that,' answered Philip ironically; 'and things I would be sorry you should know about. I make no question she has seen the shady side of life.'
'But she is tremendously rich.'
'Who says so?'
'The waiter – of course, he knows. And Colonel Yeo pays her great attention accordingly. Oh, Philip! I wish so much you would extend your protection to her against him. He may draw her into one of his schemes for the advancement of missionaries or the propagation of dogs – and get a lot of money out of her. Do – do, Philip, protect her against him. I – I – I don't like to speak about him. You can understand that, Philip.'
'Very well,' said he; 'I will do what I can.' He was flattered at the idea of acting as protector to this young American lady. 'But I put down my foot and say she is not to sit at our table.'
The party gathered in the alcove, and fortunately Miss Durham was the last to arrive, so there was no difficulty about requesting her to take a place elsewhere. When she entered the salle-à-manger at the usual hour, every seat was occupied at the table to which for some little while she had been admitted. She saw at a glance that her place was taken, and she went without demur, or a look of disappointment, to the long table. She had sufficient tact to perceive that Philip disliked her, and she had no intention of pressing her society on those who did not desire it. So far from seeming vexed, a slight contemptuous smile, like the flicker of summer lightning, played about her lips. She caught Salome's eye, full of appeal and apology, and returned it with a good-natured nod. 'A trifle such as this,' said the nod, 'will not give me offence.'
Mrs. Sidebottom sat beside Philip, and plied him with questions relative to the intentions of Uncle Jeremiah – questions which he was unable to answer; but she attributed his evasive replies to unwillingness to speak, and pressed him the more urgently. The captain was attentive to Janet, who had recovered her spirits, laughed and twinkled, and without intentionally coquetting, did coquet with him. Janet became dull in female society, but that of men acted as a tonic upon her; it was like Parrish's Chemical Food to a bloodless girl; it brisked her up, gave colour to her cheek, and set her tongue wagging. The captain was good-natured, and he threw a word or two to the Labarte girls, but devoted his chief attention to Janet.
Salome was left to herself, Mrs. Sidebottom engrossed her nephew, whether he would or not, and when he said something to Salome, he was interrupted by Mrs. Sidebottom, who exclaimed:
'Now, fiddle-de-dee, you will have plenty of time to talk in private to your wife, whereas I shall see you only occasionally, and I am particularly interested in all you can tell me of Jeremiah. Give me your candid opinion; what will he do? Is he angry with me?'
'I can give no opinion without grounds on which to base it, and Uncle Jeremiah has not taken me into his confidence.'
'I see you have the reserve of a lawyer. I had enough of that when Sidebottom was alive. I hate reserve. Give me frankness. Now – if you will not tell me what you know of my brother's intentions – '
'I know nothing, and can therefore divulge nothing.'
'You won't tell, that is the truth. Don't tell me you have been a fortnight and more under the same roof with him and have not found out his intentions! Well – to change the subject – what do you think of the scheme for buying up the hospice on the St. Gothard and turning it into an establishment for Mount St. Bernard dogs?'
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE GAUNTLET CAST
When supper was ended, the whole party adjourned to the promenade outside the hotel, where a fountain plashed in a basin, and in an aviary on a perch stood a scowling, draggled eagle, and beside the aviary were cages with marmots, smelling abominably, and fettered on a patch of grass was a miserable chamois that seemed to have the mange.
It was delightful to walk in the crisp pure air of evening without cap or bonnet, and watch the evening glow on the snow-fields, and listen to the tinkle of the bells as the cows were driven home from the Alpine pastures and diverged to their several stables from the main street. Beaple Yeo came out after the party of Philip's table, not hatless, and his puggaree in the dusk fluttered like a gigantic white moth. The chaplain for the summer from England was also walking in the grounds with his newly-married wife: a feeble youth with a high-pitched voice and a cackling laugh, who had cultivated a military moustache, to point out his imbecility, as the ass in the fable assumed a lion's skin, but was revealed as an ass on opening his mouth. A party of Germans was feeding and talking vociferously. A couple of Alpine Clubmen in knickerbockers, carrying their alpenstocks proudly, trudged in with a guide, the latter laden with their knapsacks.
Salome had been walking, nestled against Philip's side, not saying much, but feeling happy, when her attention was attracted by the wailing of a babe from one of the hotel windows.
'Philip, dear!' she said, 'there is my pet, my darling crying. I must tear myself away from you and go to him. I know he wants me. He is so clever. He is quite aware that I am here, and resents being rocked to sleep by the Swiss nurse; he is protesting that nothing will make him close his peepers but mamma's voice, and a kiss. And – oh, dear, dear Philip! I don't like to think it possible you can be unkind to anyone – there is Miss Durham behind us, all by herself; do – do say a word to her and be civil. It was rather – well, not quite rude, but strange of us paying no attention to her at supper, and turning her out of her place. Philip, I could not eat my supper, I was so uncomfortable. I would not hurt anyone's feelings willingly, and I am sure Miss Durham has not been treated with consideration; would you – because I ask you – for my sake, speak to her when I am gone to baby?'
She looked up entreatingly in his eyes, loosed her hand from his arm, and was gone.
Philip slackened his pace, then halted, to allow the American lady to catch him up. He would speak to her, and give her to understand, of course politely, that intimacy with his wife must cease. When she came level with him he raised his hat, and said, 'A beautiful evening; a charming evening.'
'So I have already perceived, Mr. Pennycomequick.'
'What a surprise this green basin of valley is to one emerging from the ravine of the Reuss!' said Philip.
'Yes,' with indifference; then, with animation, 'By the way, you were in the carriage with Colonel Yeo.'
'I beg pardon, he was in the carriage with me.'
'I suppose you are old friends?' said the lady.
Philip stiffened his back. 'Miss Durham, we belong to distinct classes of society. With his I have nothing in common.'
'But you knew each other?'
'I knew of him. I cannot say I knew him.'
'Have you no ambition to rise to his social grade?'
'To – rise – to – his – social grade!' It took Philip some time to digest this question. He replied ironically, 'None in the least, I do assure you. I am thankful to say I belong to that middle class which works for its living honourably, diligently, and finds its pleasure and its pride in industry.'
'And Colonel Yeo?'
'Oh! I assure you he does not soil his fingers with honest trade or business.'
'You do not want to know him?'
'I have not the smallest ambition.'
After a pause, during which neither spoke, Philip resumed. 'There are subjects that are distasteful to me; this is one.'
'I see,' said Miss Durham, 'you are a Radical.'
'We will let the subject drop,' said Philip. 'This air is delightful to me after the smoke of a Yorkshire manufacturing district.'
'It is really surprising how fresh, notwithstanding, your wife is,' answered the Chicago lady.
Philip turned sharply round and looked at her. 'Fresh!' he repeated. He did not understand what her meaning was – fresh in complexion, or that her character was green and raw.
'Her freshness is quite delightful,' added the lady.
Then Philip's anger broke loose. He was offended at any remark being made on Salome by a person of whom he knew nothing.
'Indeed – perhaps so. And it is precisely this freshness, this generosity of mind, this ignorance of the world, which leads her to extend the hand of fellowship to – to anyone – to those who may not be as fresh as herself – who may be quite the reverse.'
Miss Durham stood still, her face gleamed with anger.
'I know, sir, very well what you mean. You know that I am alone, without a man – a father, brother or husband by to protect me from insult, and you take this advantage to address me thus.'
She revolved on her heel and walked hastily back to the hotel. Philip stood rooted to the spot.
What had he done? What shadow of a right had he to address an inoffensive girl with such impertinence? A girl who had done him no harm, and of whom he knew nothing, and who, for aught he knew to the contrary, might be as respectable, high-minded, and well-connected as the best lady in America. She had been alone in this foreign corner, shut out from social intercourse with her fellow-countrymen, and she had formed an acquaintance with his wife, his wife's sister, and the Labarte girls. What right had he to step in and thrust her out of association with them?
He had done what he determined, but done it in so clumsy a manner as to put himself in the wrong, make himself who stood on punctilio appear an unlicked bear. He had behaved to an unprotected, young, and beautiful girl in a manner that would have disgraced the rudest artisan, in a manner that he knew not one of his honest Yorkshire workmen in his factory would have dared to behave.
CHAPTER XLIV.
AND PICKED UP
Matters that look serious at night shrink to trifling significance in the morning. Philip rose refreshed by sleep, with a buoyancy of heart he had not experienced for many months, and a resolution to enjoy his holiday now that he was taking one. How often had he longed for the chance of making an excursion on the Continent, of seeing the snowy ranges of the Alps and studying fresh aspects of human life! Now the opportunity had come, and he must make the most of it. His prospects at home were not such as to discourage him; he was no longer the ruling manager of the Pennycomequick firm, but he was not going to be kicked out of the concern as he had at first feared. Uncle Jeremiah purposed to take him into partnership, make him working partner, and in all probability he would be better off than with Mrs. Sidebottom, consuming more than half the profits and contributing nothing.
He had been tired with his journey yesterday, irritated at finding Beaple Yeo in his proximity, and he had given way to his irritation and spoken uncourteously to an American lady. What of that? Who was she to take offence at what he said? If she were angered she must swallow her wrath. She had vexed him by pushing herself into the acquaintance of his wife. If people will climb over hedges they must expect scratches. If requisite he could apologize, and the thing was over. Miss Durham had made a remark which he considered a slight passed on his wife, and he was right to resent it. If she had made a thrust with an unguarded foil, it was not likely that he would retaliate with the end of his, blunted by a button.
He came downstairs, feeling cheerful and on the best of terms with the world. He would go for a walk that day with Salome – to the Ober-Alp, and pick gentians and Alpen-rose; and in preparation for the walk, he went to the collection of carved work, photographs, and Alpine paraphernalia exhibited in the salle-à-manger by the head waiter for sale, and bought himself a stout walking-stick with an artificial chamois-horn as handle. Then he strolled out into the village-street, and looked in at the shop-windows. There was only one shop that interested him; it contained crystals smoked and clear, and specimens of the rocks on the St. Gothard Pass, collections of dried flowers and photographs.
When he returned to the inn he found that his party was in the salle awaiting him. The usual massive white coffee-cups, heap of rolls, all crust outside and bubbles within, wafers of butter, and artificial honey were on table.
A German lady was prowling about the room with her head so tumbled that it was hard to believe she had dressed her hair since leaving her bed, and the curate was there also, ambling round his bride and squeaking forth entreaties that she would allow him to order her eggs for breakfast. Philip was heartily glad that he sat along with his party at one table, in the alcove. Miss Durham was not there.
On inquiry Salome learned that she had ordered breakfast to be taken to her room.
'So much the better,' said Philip.
'My dear, surely you made friends yesterday evening after I left you.'
'Come – to table,' said Philip; and then – 'on the contrary, I don't know quite how it came about, but something I said gave her umbrage, and she flew away in a rage. I suppose I offended her. It does not matter. Pass me the butter.'
'It does not matter! Oh, Philip!'
'Given Miss Durham offence!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom. 'But – she is worth thousands. How could you be so indiscreet?'
'She is so charming,' said Janet.
'So amiable,' murmured Claudine Labarte.
'Mais, quelle gaucherie!' whispered the penultimate Labarte to the youngest sister.
Then ensued a silence. Philip looked from one to another. Already a cloud had come into his clear sky.
Philip said sternly, 'Pass me the butter.'
Those who seemed least concerned were the captain and Janet, who sat together and were engrossed in little jokes that passed between them, and were not heard or regarded by the rest of the company.
'This is very unfortunate,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, 'for we had made a plan to go to the hospice together, and she would have paid her share of the carriage.'
Salome looked into her plate; her colour came and went. She slid her hand into that of her husband, and whispered, 'I did not mean to reproach you. I am sure you were right.'
'I was right,' answered Philip; 'something she said appeared to me a reflection on you and I fired up. I am your husband, and am bound to do so.'
'I am quite sure, then, you misunderstood her,' said Salome; 'dear Miss Durham could not – no, I do not mean that – would not say a word against me. Of course I know I have plenty of faults, and she cannot have failed to observe them; but she would not dream of alluding to them, least of all to you.'
'That is possible,' answered Philip. 'And I will say or do something to pass it off. But, I hope you see that I did the correct thing in taking your part, even if no slight was intended.'
'Of course, Philip.'
Then Salome stood up and said, 'I will go to her. I will tell her there was a misunderstanding. It will come best from me, as I was the occasion.'
Philip nodded. It was certainly best that Salome should do this, and save him the annoyance and – well, yes, the humiliation of an apology.
When Salome was gone, Philip spoke to the eldest Labarte girl, but found her uninteresting; and the younger sisters looked at him with ill-concealed dissatisfaction. He had come to Andermatt and spoiled their party. They had been cheerful and united before. Miss Durham had been infinitely amusing, and now Philip had introduced discord, was wooden and weariful. They wished he had remained at home in smoky, foggy England; if he came – he should have left the fog and chill behind him, instead of diffusing it over a contented and merry party. Mrs. Sidebottom had left the table to haggle with the head waiter over a paper-cutter with a chamois leg as handle, that she wanted to buy and send as a present to Jeremiah, but was indisposed to pay for it the price asked by the waiter.
'But, madam,' said the waiter, 'if you do not take him at de price, Mademoiselle Durham vill; she have admired and wanted to buy him, and she goes away to-day.'
'Miss Durham going!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom, and rushed back to the table to announce the news. 'Why – who will go halves with us in vehicles! This is your doing, Philip. You have offended her, and are driving her away.'
The announcement produced silence; and all eyes were turned on Philip, those of the Labarte girls with undisguised indignation. Even the captain and Janet ceased their conversation. An angel may have passed through the room, but he must have been a crippled one, so long did he take in traversing it; nor can he have been a good one, so little light and cheerfulness did he diffuse.
'Well!' said Philip, 'what if she be going? That is no concern of ours.'
Then he stood up and left the room. He was in an unamiable mood. This party did not show him the consideration that was due to him; and found fault with him about trifles. He left the hotel, and wandered to the aviary, where he remained contemplating the scowling eagle. The bird perhaps recognised a similarity of mood in his visitor, for he turned his head, ruffled his feathers, and looked at Philip.
'Well,' said Philip, 'that is the king of the birds, is it? To my mind a bumptious, ill-conditioned, dissatisfied, and uninteresting fowl.'
Then he moved in front of the marmot cage. 'And these are marmots, that spend more than half their life in sleep. Very like Lambert Sidebottom or Pennycomequick, as he is pleased to call himself now.'
He looked at the eagle again. 'Pshaw! Pluck him of his self-consciousness as Aquila – and what is he? What is he?'
Then he wandered away among the flower-beds and bushes of syringa without a purpose, grumbling to himself at the manners of those Labartes, and the figures that Lambert and Janet made, laughing over inane jokes, and regretting that he had allowed Salome to go in search of the Chicago lady.
Salome in the meantime had hastened to her friend's room, the number of which she knew, and found her packing her portmanteau and dress-boxes. The room was strewn with dresses.
'But,' exclaimed Salome on entering, 'what is the meaning of this? Miss Durham! You are surely not going to leave?'
'Certainly I am,' answered the American lady. 'I have been insulted here, and shall leave the place for one where there are better manners.'
'Oh, don't go. My husband did not mean to offend you. I do not know what he said, but I am quite sure he would do nothing ungentlemanly, unkind. He has had a long journey, and this and other matters had just put him in a condition of nervous excitement. If you wish it he will explain, but surely you will take my word that no impertinence was intended.'
Miss Durham looked at Salome steadily.
'The word has been said.'
'But,' pleaded Salome, 'my husband will unsay it. I entreat you forget and forgive.'
'I cannot. It is not in my nature.'
'Not forgive? Oh, Miss Durham, half the sweetness and happiness of life is made up of forgiveness.'
'Tastes differ,' said the American, and stooped to her work again.
Salome went to her and arrested her hands. 'I will not, I cannot allow you to go. I should ever feel an ache in my heart to think that you had gone away without reconciliation.' Half laughing, half crying, she added: 'I thought that if it could possibly be that you and my husband should meet, you would become close friends – but I never supposed he would come out here to me – I mean I did not think he could leave his business. And now that he is here, instead of making friends with you, a quarrel is picked and you are almost enemies.'
'Quite,' said Miss Durham coolly.
'Not so with him. If he knew how to obtain your forgiveness he would do that thing. Is there no way in which you can be satisfied?'
'Oh yes, by obtaining satisfaction.'
Salome looked at her. The handsome face was much altered, there was a bitterness and scorn in it she had never seen before. The dark eyebrows were drawn together, forming a sombre, threatening bar across her face above her splendid eyes.
'When a man has offended another, he that is injured calls out the offender, and there is an exchange of pistol-shots. Had I here anyone who belonged to me, anyone to stand by me and defend my character, I would send him with a challenge to your husband, and they would fight the matter out on the green sward by the chapel, or better,' she laughed, 'on the Devil's Bridge. But as I have neither father, nor brother, nor husband, I must fight for my own honour, or – '
'Or what, Miss Durham?'
'Or run away.'
Both were silent; presently Salome laughed a little nervously, and said:
'But you never fight? no woman fights.'
'Does she not?'
'Not with pistols.
'Perhaps not.'
'Nor with swords.'
'Oh no.'
'Then – with what?'
'With her proper weapons.'
'You may be quite sure my husband would throw down his arms and yield at discretion.'
'I have little doubt.'
Salome closed the box on which Miss Durham had been engaged, and seated herself upon it. Then she looked up with childlike entreaty into her friend's face, and said:
'I will not allow you to go. We had schemed to have such pleasant excursions together. We have been so happy since we have known each other, and – I have not yet had the delight of showing you my baby – my best treasure.'
'You will not let me run away?'
'No, no! You will forget this little affair; it was nothing. Come and be with us again. My husband is a great reader, and knows a great deal about things of which I am ignorant, and you have travelled and seen so much that your society will interest him immensely. Oh, do stay, do not go away.'
The American girl went to the window, leaned both her arms folded on it, and looked out. She could see into the garden, and she observed Philip there, standing before the eagle's cage. He had a little twig in his hand, and he was thrusting it between the bars at the bird. She turned and said to Salome:
