Chapter VI

OME is silent for one short half-hour each night during the tourist season — that and no more. Until three o'clock cabs still remain on the stand, their drivers talk and quarrel, and their horses stamp. At about the same time the last restaurant emits its last revellers, and the post-office officials go home, and all to the sound of singing. You hear an air of an opera begin out of the distance like a thread of sound. It waxes and it wanes; it grows suddenly louder; it peals out below your window, sung often so exceedingly well that you begin to wonder whether the man is a professional; then again it dies away by degrees, and is drowned at last in some new and nearer noise. There follows silence; the old city sighs once and falls asleep, to be awakened at half-past three o'clock by the country carts coming in from the Campagna, laden with the old necessaries of man — food and wine and oil — that Rome for twenty-three and a half hours more may cook and eat and drink. It seems as though the city which has lived so long and known so much, which is in her heart so contemplative and so quiet and so brooding, in that heart of hers that the tourist never sees, in her old, disused churches and her hidden courts, needs but little sleep, for she has much to ponder in her heart....

At half -past two Val sprang up again with a sudden movement from his bed; and barefooted, in his pyjamas began to walk up and down, up and down, as half a dozen times already he had walked this night. In the dim light that came from the shaded electric lamp which burnt by his bed he looked alert and even keen; his eyes were bright and wide; his lips were open as if he were running; again and again he murmured little soundless sentences. For perhaps ten minutes he so walked up and down; then he threw himself suddenly face downward on the bed, threw out his hands to clasp his pillow, and so remained, all a-sprawl across the bed.

It seemed now as if days had passed — or rather an eternity of consciousness, since dinner-time the night before. And yet the chime of one clock seemed scarcely silent before another sounded, so swiftly did the quarters of each hour flit by. It was in some remote period, such as that of childhood, that his health had been drunk in Chartreuse.

He had not been able to face the girls. Austin had told him not to; he said that Val's manner would tell them that something was wrong; and it was most important that they should suspect nothing. It was Austin himself who went and told them that Val was not well, and that he had gone straight to bed; he had also told them that the two Italians had come and talked a great deal and very fast, and that he thought there would be no more trouble. Then Austin had come to Val's room to see if he was comfortable and to talk over the situation.

They had been together till half-past eleven — Austin moody and doubtful; Val alternately violently talkative and silent. More than once Austin had been on the very point of. going down to the telephone, and it was not Val who had dissuaded him. Val had said that he would leave himself in Austin's hands.

Then they had fenced a little with walking-sticks; Austin had gone over a few strokes with him, and made him practise a certain feint in seconde that he seemed to think a good deal of. He said it was new... And it had been Val who had tossed his stick suddenly on the bed and said that it would be much better for him to have a bit of sleep. Austin agreed; and as he went to the door, promising to wake Val at four, the boy had called him back.

" One minute, Austin."

The other paused.

" You'll give all messages if... if it's necessary? "

" Nonsense.... You'll get him in the sword arm in three minutes," said Austin harshly.

Val jerked his head. Then he was motionless.

"Don't forget, old chap... if it's necessary. Mother and father and May, and — and Gertie. Tell her " He stopped.

" I'm very fond of Gertie," he said lamentably.

Austin nodded sharply. Sentiment was not very far under the surface; and he felt it had better stop there. Then he thought himself a shade untender.

"Don't bother your head, old boy. It'll be all perfectly right.... Good night."

" Good night.... I say, Austin."

"Well?"

" I've been a beast to you — always. I'm sorry. That's all. Good night."

" Good night."

Then Austin had softly closed the door and gone to his own room.

(n)

Indeed, Val seemed to him very admirable, as he too turned from side to side, and listened to the clocks and the stamp of horses and the unintelligible conversations beneath his window. He had behaved like a gentleman this afternoon, as of course a Medd always must. Nothing could have been more proper and respectable, even though a trifle hasty and indiscreet, than the slapping of the young man's face. Austin doubted whether he himself would have had the nerve to act so decisively and vigorously at a moment's notice; but Val always had had a nervous sort of courage. There was the affair of Gertie's horse, for instance. He, Austin,, would probably have fumbled, and wondered whether it was wise to gallop after a bolting horse; it might easily have done more harm than good. But Val had galloped; and had succeeded.

Then the affair of the Matterhorn slope recurred to his mind; and he acknowledged that this affair in Rome, first the slapping, and then the cool determination to fight, completely altered his former interpretation of the climbing incident. Poor old Val must have, as he had said, simply lost his physical head; it had been a task simply beyond him. For now that the boy was faced by a far greater peril, and one, too, that advanced steadily as each minute went by through hour after hour, he showed no sign of faltering at all. He had been unjust in dreaming even of real cowardice.

Austin went through, then, during the hours of that night, a very considerable fit of repentance.

He acknowledged to himself frankly that he had misjudged Val; he resolved if — (no, not if, but when... ) — when this affair was over he would be more cordial — more cordial and appreciative.

Until about one o'clock those thoughts came and went, interspersed, however, with others far more agonising that concerned his own part in the affair.

It must be remembered, in justice to Austin, that he was still quite young: he had not left Cambridge more than two or three years; and although he possessed to the full the Englishman's instinctive hatred and contempt of the duel, together with a very superior attitude towards foreign ways, yet it was a considerable bewilderment to him as to the course to be pursued, when he found himself faced by the brother of a Prince, a general and a lieutenant of the Italian army, all of whom blandly assumed that an English gentleman in Italy must behave like an Italian gentleman, or forfeit his own right to the name altogether. And he thought himself debarred by this very consideration from consulting anyone else. Probably, however, even then he would have done so in the long run, if Val had not interposed so sharply. But, at the very instant in which he was swaying this way and that, the boy had started up and said he would fight; and a feather, when the balance is delicate, will weigh down one side.

But all this did not save Austin from a very disagreeable hour and a half, until about one o'clock he fell asleep. He knew perfectly well that he would be held responsible at home; that he had been sent out because Val was not thought old enough or steady enough to take charge of the party; and he simply did not dare to contemplate what in the world would be said to him if... well, if Val did not come home again — and, in fact, anyhow. Well, that was not his affair now; the thing had been settled; the challenge had been accepted. It must be seen through.

He slept miserably. Once, about two, he got up, and stole out down the thick-carpeted passage to Val's door, but there was dead silence within. Through the passage window, at the end, he heard a sudden stamp of a horse, drawn up in his place on the cabstand outside. He must not disturb Val. He went back to bed, looking once more at his alarum-clock, set at ten minutes before four.

An hour later he woke again, and heard the three silver chimes from the tall clock downstairs, and then, in the breathless silence that had fallen, he heard even the solemn tick. He counted a dozen, and it seemed to him suddenly horrible. These seconds were, literally, ticking out Val's life, or, at least, its grave peril. He pulled the sheet over his ears, and presently fell asleep once more, to dream, as he had dreamt during the last two hours, of swords and Val's face, and moustached opponents larger than human, and a pleasant old garden, such as be had seen last week, backed by a crumbling palace....

He awoke suddenly, terrified, and shocked; for there was a bright light in his eyes, which for an instant he thought the light of broad day; and he sprang up to a sitting position, bewildered and confused. Then he saw Val's face close to his own; the boy was half sitting on the bed, and shaking him by the shoulder.

"Eh? What? Is it time?"...

Then he saw Val's face more plainly, and for an instant thought himself dreaming again. For it seemed, since he had left him three or four hours ago, as if that face had thinned down into the looks of an old man, or of one struck by mortal sickness. The hair was tumbled, the lips were pale and parted, and the eyes seemed drawn down as by strange lines that faded into dark patches above the cheek-bone.

"Good Lord!" he said. "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

He jumped out of bed and stood looking at him.

The white face nodded at him.

" Yes," said the white lips, " I'm ill... I'm ill... I can't go."

" Can't go!... My dear chap, you simply must Good God! Whatever would?"

The eyes looking into his own wavered.

" I can't go," repeated the pale mouth. " I can't go. I'm ill."

"But "

Then the boy gave way. He cast himself down across the bed, and that miserable quavering cry which once before Austin had heard, as the two faced together a visible peril, rose lamentably up, half stifled by the bedclothes on which his face lay.

" I can't... I can't... I simply can't.... I'm not fit. I... I can't fence. You know it. You're ever so much better.... Oh! I can't... I can't."

"Sit up, Val.... Look here -

Then the alarum clock burst into clamour, strident and metallic. It seemed that it must wake the house and the city to this appalling shame. Austin seized it, wrenched at the handles, desperate and furious, yet it clattered on. He turned hopelessly, still holding it. Then he dashed it into the seat of the deep chair that stood by his bed- foot, and it was silent — silent even to its tick. A splinter of glass tinkled down on to the polished floor.

Austin turned again, and there was a new ring of severity in his voice.

''' Val... tell me. You mean to say you're not going? — that you're afraid? "

There was silence. The writhed figure on the bed lay still.

Austin came a step nearer and tapped the extended bare foot sharply, twice.

" Come," he said. " Tell me at once. Don't tell me you're a cur after all."

(For 'here swelled up in the elder boy at this instant all the old bitterness and contempt, multiplied a thousand-fold.

He saw here before him one of his blood that was a craven and a weakling; one who disgraced the name that he himself bore.)

The face on the pillow turned a little.

" I can't "... moaned the broken voice.

Austin did not speak. For one tense instant he stood motionless. Then his fingers went to his throat and ripped down the buttons of the pyjama jacket, then he slipped it off, and tossed it on to the bed, careless whether it fell on his brother or not; pulled at the tassel of his trousers so that they fell to the ground, stepped free; and then a slim, boyish figure went across to where his clothes lay folded for the morning. He first poured out cold water and submerged his head; then he splashed water up his arms to the elbows, ran a rough towel over himself, and shook the drops from his hair. Then he took up his clothes and began to dress.

As he sat at last on his chair, lacing his shoes, he spoke, without looking up.

" You'll be good enough to explain matters to May, if it is necessary. I don't care what lies you tell. But you're responsible."

There was no answer. He glanced up, and saw that Val was sitting upright again, looking at him. He turned away his own eyes.

" You're responsible," he said again.

He had to pass to the further side of the bed to get his watch, and to lift down his light covert-coat that hung on the pegs beyond. When he turned again Val was standing by the door, as if to bar the way. He had not heard the sound of the bare feet on the thick carpet. The first country cart was rattling past outside.

" Wrhat are you going to do? " asked a voice that was all but soundless.

Austin paid no attention. He slipped on his coat and turned up the collar, as the morning seemed chilly. Then he put on his hat and took his stick. (It was one Val had given him the week before — a dome-palm. But he did not remember this just then.) Then he came towards the door.

" What are you going to do? " asked the boy again.

" Get out of my way," snarled the elder brother so suddenly and fiercely that Val recoiled. Austin pushed by him and went out, leaving the door open.

As he reached the hall he glanced back, scarcely knowing why, at a little gallery that hung out from the passage where the four had their rooms. There was a figure standing there, in pyjamas, relieved against the glimmer of light that came from the open door beyond; and this figure seemed to be looking at him.

Then he went on.

The night-porter in his little glazed shelter woke from his doze with a start. A young man in a covert-coat and a bowler hat was standing over him. This young man jerked his head toward the great entrance without speaking. When the door was unlocked the young man went out, still in silence. The porter looked after him, at the pale, empty square, colourless as a dead man's face. Overhead the sky was streaked with rose. Then the porter went back to doze again.