Chapter Two.

An Agreement.

Jack’s slumbers were far too sacred in the eyes of his aunt for her to think of disturbing them; she was preparing to retreat carefully, when he looked up and began to laugh.

“I was not asleep, I give you my word.”

“Oh, well, my dear,” she said, happy again now that the shade on his face was gone, “I am sure it would not have been wonderful if you had dozed off after your journey, though I really don’t know where you have dropped from; and I shall be quite glad to sit down and have a long talk, for you know there is a great deal to be told.”

“Well, yes, I suppose there is.”

But he did not seem inclined to begin, though Miss Cartwright looked wistfully at him. She said presently, with rather a quavering voice, “There is no bad news?”

Just enough of a pause followed her question to make her heart sink, then he said quickly—

“Certainly not. What has come to you, Aunt Mary? You never used to indulge in these sort of fancies. If Cartouche makes you nervous I shall take him away. But I know what it is, Miss Preston has been scolding you for all the wickedness of the world. Even in Florence that woman is as bad as three fogs and an east wind.”

And he rattled on with more nonsense of the sort, but it was so evident that he was making talk to avoid some subject closer to each of them, that Miss Cartwright almost grew vexed.

“My dear,” she said, “do leave poor Miss Preston alone.”

“She won’t leave you alone, that is what I complain of. Come now, hasn’t she got some unhappy clergyman of whom she falls foul?”

“Well, she did say she thought the new chaplain had too much self-possession for so young a man, and I said I did not think he was so very self-possessed, because when he makes a mistake he always coughs, which obliges one to notice it the more.”

“Worse and worse,” said Jack gravely; “she’s making you as severe as she is herself.”

“My dear, you don’t really think I was unkind? I am sure I only thought what I could say for the poor young man, she seemed so annoyed about it. You don’t really mean it, you are only laughing, and after all there is so much to say.”

He jumped up suddenly, and walked a few steps away from his chair. The pretty quiet little garden was full of light and colour and keenly-edged shade; the beautiful glossy leaves stood up against the blue sky. Over the wall they could see other houses and other trees, and catch here and there a little glimpse of the opposite hill with its occasional cypresses. The great bell of the Duomo was clanging, all the glory of the day changing softly into another glory, deeper and more mysterious. Was it of all this of which Jack was thinking? Miss Cartwright followed him and laid her hand gently on his arm.

“My dear boy!” she said imploringly.

He looked round at once and laughed at her pleading face.

“Well, it’s all—right, if that’s what you want to know.”

“You—”

“I’m engaged, yes, hard and fast. Why,” he said, with a quick anxiety in his voice, “what’s the matter? Sit down, sit down,” he went on, dragging over a chair, and putting her into it very tenderly, for the delicate colour had quite faded out of her face. But she smiled at him the next moment.

“It is very silly of me, but I have been thinking so much about it; and somehow I fancied from your manner that things were not going straight, and I was foolishly anxious.”

“You shouldn’t care so much about me,” said the young man with real remorse; “nobody else in the world would trouble themselves as you do. I should have told you directly, if it had entered my head that you were taking it to heart like this. Let me go and get you a glass of water or sal-volatile or something, you are as shaky as possible.”

But Miss Cartwright sat up cheerfully.

“It is nothing at all, Jack; I am quite well again, and your news is the best thing for me, if I really wanted anything. Is it all settled?”

“Yes,” he said with a little restraint again, and pulling a magnolia leaf as he spoke. “Phillis is at Bologna with the Leytons, we all came out together. Yes, it is true; I expected it to astonish you.”

“Don’t tell me anything more for a minute or two,” said his aunt gently, putting up her hands; “it is one thing on another. Phillis at Bologna? I don’t quite understand.”

“But you like the news, don’t you?” said Jack, turning suddenly on her.

“Like it! how could I fail? Such a good girl, and all that money, and your uncle wishing it so much. Nothing could be so desirable, only, my dear boy—”

“What?” sharply.

“Sometimes you get odd touches of perversity, and the very fact of a thing being quite unexceptional sets you against it. I remember it so well when you were a boy. It would have been a sad misfortune in this case, though, of course, it is too momentous a matter for me to have said much about it beforehand. I suppose that is the reason you did not know how anxious I felt, but I assure you I have scarcely thought of anything else. And Phillis is at Bologna! When do they come on?”

“To-morrow—Saturday. I don’t exactly remember. I suppose you know the terms of the agreement?” said Jack, looking at her.

“My dear!”

“Well, it is an agreement,” he said perversely; “what else would you call it? I, Peter Thornton, of Hetherton Grange, in the county of Surrey, Esquire, do hereby declare you, John Francis Ibbetson, barrister—how shall I put the London lodgings, second floor, to best advantage?—to be the heir of all my estates and properties—excluding, let us hope, his gout and his temper—on condition that you take as your wife my step-niece, Mary Phillis Grey, to have and to hold with the timber, freeholds, messuages, and other etceteras of the said estate. If that is not an agreement, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Miss Cartwright, leaning