—Judith,orDeborah,orJael.HehadlastseenthebabysprawlingonthekneesofMissAbbott,shiningandnaked,withtwentymilesofviewbehindhim,andhisfatherkneelingbyhisfeet.Andthatremembrance,togetherwithHarriet,andthedarkness,andthepooridiot,andthesilentrain,filledhimwithsorrowandwiththeexpectationofsorrowtocome.
Monterianohadlongdisappeared,andhecouldseenothingbuttheoccasionalwetstemofanolive,whichtheirlampilluminedastheypassedit.Theytravelledquickly,forthisdriverdidnotcarehowfasthewenttothestation,andwoulddashdowneachinclineandscuttleperilouslyroundthecurves.
“Lookhere,Harriet,”hesaidatlast,“IfeelbadIwanttoseethebaby.”
“Hush!”
“Idon’tmindifIdowakehimup.Iwanttoseehim.I’veasmuchrightinhimasyou.”
Harrietgavein.Butitwastoodarkforhimtoseethechild’sface.“Waitaminute,”hewhispered,andbeforeshecouldstophimhehadlitamatchundertheshelterofherumbrella.“Buthe’sawake!”heexclaimed.Thematchwentout.
“Goodicklequietboysey,then.”
Philipwinced.“Hisface,doyouknow,struckmeasallwrong.”
“Allwrong?”
“Allpuckeredqueerly.”
“Ofcourse—withtheshadows—youcouldn’tseehim.”
“Well,holdhimupagain.”Shedidso.Helitanothermatch.Itwentoutquickly,butnotbeforehehadseenthatthebabywascrying.
“Nonsense,”saidHarrietsharply.“Weshouldhearhimifhecried.”
“No,he’scryinghardIthoughtsobefore,andI’mcertainnow.”
Harriettouchedthechild’sface.Itwasbathedintears.“Oh,thenightair,Isuppose,”shesaid,“orperhapsthewetoftherain.”
“Isay,youhaven’thurtit,orhelditthewrongway,oranythingitistoouncanny—cryingandnonoise.Whydidn’tyougetPerfettatocarryittothehotelinsteadofmuddlingwiththemessenger?It’samarvelheunderstoodaboutthenote.”
“Oh,heunderstands.”Andhecouldfeelhershudder.“Hetriedtocarrythebaby—”
“ButwhynotGinoorPerfetta?”
“Philip,don’ttalk.MustIsayitagain?Don’ttalk.Thebabywantstosleep.”Shecroonedharshlyastheydescended,andnowandthenshewipedupthetearswhichwelledinexhaustiblyfromthelittleeyes.Philiplookedaway,winkingattimeshimself.Itwasasiftheyweretravellingwiththewholeworld’ssorrow,asifallthemystery,allthepersistencyofwoeweregatheredtoasinglefount.Theroadswerenowcoatedwithmud,andthecarriagewentmorequietlybutnotlessswiftly,slidingbylongzigzagsintothenight.Heknewthelandmarksprettywell:herewasthecrossroadtoPoggibonsiandthelastviewofMonteriano,iftheyhadlight,wouldbefromhere.Soontheyoughttocometothatlittlewoodwherevioletsweresoplentifulinspring.Hewishedtheweatherhadnotchangeditwasnotcold,buttheairwasextraordinarilydamp.Itcouldnotbegoodforthechild.
“Isupposehebreathes,andallthatsortofthing?”hesaid.
“Ofcourse,”saidHarriet,inanangrywhisper.“You’vestartedhimagain.I’mcertainhewasasleep.Idowishyouwouldn’ttalkitmakesmesonervous.”
“I’mnervoustoo.Iwishhe’dscream.It’stoouncanny.PoorGino!I’mterriblysorryforGino.”
“Areyou?”
“Becausehe’sweak—likemostofus.Hedoesn’tknowwhathewants.Hedoesn’tgripontolife.ButIlikethatman,andI’msorryforhim.”
Naturallyenoughshem