The next morning came Jill's reply. John tore it open, and read and re-read and re-read again.
"_Meet me on Friday morning on the Piazetta at 12 o'clock._"
CHAPTER XXXV
THE WONDER OF BELIEF
To believe, is the greater part of reality.
Despite all argument that flung itself at his credulity, John believed that Jill would be true to her word. Reasons in multitude there were, why it should be impossible for her to take such a journey and at such short notice. He admitted them all, as his mind presented them before him; yet still he believed. Though his faith trembled a thousand times in the balance; though common sense warned him insistently that hope was fruitless; nevertheless, he believed. Even when the little men on the Plaza began the striking of their twelve strokes on that Friday morning and, searching the gondolas as they rode in sight, searching them with eyes burning and pupils dilated in nervous expectancy, yet finding no sight of Jill, he still had faith that triumphed above all reason and overcame all doubt.
The vibrations of the last stroke from the great clock in the Square had died down to the faint trembling in his ear; the single bell in all the churches was tolling for the Angelus; hope was just beginning to flicker in John's heart as a candle trembles that feels its approaching end and then, round the corner of the _Rio San Luca_, shooting quickly into the Grand Canal, came the twentieth gondola John had espied, in which one solitary lady was seated. Something about the haste with which this gondolier plied his oar, something in the attitude of the lady as she half leant forward, half reclined upon the cushion at her back, something even in the crisp, swift hiss of the water as it shot away from the bows, brought him the conviction at last that it was Jill. When instinct is once awake, it finds a thousand little proofs to give it assurance.
As the gondola came nearer, the lady moved her position. She had observed John waiting. He strained his eyes to see through the glare of light that sparkled up from the dancing water. Then a little white handkerchief darted out, and fluttering, shook the beating of his heart with realisation. It was Jill.
In another moment, he was holding her hands and saying the most common-place words of greeting, but in a voice that held in it all the joy of his heart. The gondolier stood by smiling, waiting to be paid.
The signora had wanted to be taken quickly to the _Piazetta_, and he had travelled as fast as if they were going to a funeral. It was almost payment enough to see her meeting with the signor. Not quite enough, however, for when they walked away, forgetting, in the embarrassement of their happiness, what he was owed, he stepped forward and, very politely, touched John's arm.
"_Doue lire, signor,_" he said and showed some wonderful teeth in a brilliant smile. John thought of a London cabby under similar circumstances, giving him three and a smile as well.
Then he turned back to Jill.
"Well--are you going to explain it all?" he asked.
"There's nothing to explain," she said, half laughing. "I'm here--isn't that enough?"
"But your husband?"
"We're not married yet. I pleaded for a long engagement."
"Then your people?"
"Aren't you satisfied that I'm here?" she said gently. "Does it matter how I got here? You might just as well be curious to know whether I came by the St. Gothard or the Simplon. But you don't ask that. I'm here--you don't worry about that. Then why worry about the other?" and her eyes twinkled with mystery.
"Is it Mrs. Crossthwaite again?"
She nodded her head with a laugh.
"She's with you?"
"No--she's at her cottage in Devonshire."
"But you'll be found out."
"Not if I go back to-morrow."
"And you are going back?"
"Yes."
"And you came all this way----?"
"Yes--here I am--in the City of Beautiful Nonsense again."
"The little old white-haired lady was right then!" he exclaimed.
"How right?"
"She said that you would come anywhere, that you would do anything for me."
Jill tried to meet his eyes.
"When did she say that?" she asked.
"Last year--after you had gone."
He watched her as he waited for her to reply, but she kept silent. It was not a moment in which she dared to speak; moreover, other matters were waiting.
In St. Mark's, beneath the image of St. Anthony, where they had met the year before, they chose to go and make their arrangements. There is everything that is conservative about Romance. Places become dear for themselves, for the spirit of the Romance which, like a lingering perfume, still hangs about their corners. The times alter perhaps, sometimes even the woman herself is different; but the spirit, the Romance and with them often the place, remain the same.
"You understand all it means, your coming to see them?" he asked when they were seated. "You understood my letter? You realise what I've been saying?"
"Yes, every word."
"Then why did you come?"
"I couldn't bear to think of his dying without----" she hesitated, or did she hang upon the words--"without seeing your--your wife as he wanted to. Oh, John! Why did you say it? It wasn't right of you! You ought not to have done it!"
She was angry! His beautiful nonsense had offended her! Might he not have known that? What woman in the world was there who could have understood so well as to sympathise with the trick which he had played.
"If it has annoyed you," said he, "why did you come? Of course, I know it was unpardonable; but then, I thought you'd never know. I didn't understand how much a fabrication, an invention it was, until I heard that he was dying and wanted to see you before the end. It had been so easy to make up till then. I'd become infatuated with my own success.
Then, when I got the letter from the doctor, I realised that I was done.
I couldn't go to his death-bed, making up lies, giving him messages that had never passed your lips, never entered into your thoughts. I was done. And I hoped you'd understand. I hoped--like a fool, I suppose--that you wouldn't be offended."
"But I'm not offended."
He stared at her. Even St. Anthony stared, because St. Anthony does not know so much about women as you would expect. He knows full well their extraordinary valuation of trifles, but on serious matters such as these, he is as ignorant of them as the rest of us.
"You're not offended!" echoed John.
"No."
"Then why did you say I was wrong? Why did you say I ought not to have done it?"
"Because it was not fair to them. They might have found out. The little old white-haired lady may find out even now."