Original subtitles

In the old days, when I was a child,

they used to hang our murderers at the Four Turnings Crossroads.

This is what one moment of passion can bring on a man, Philip.

For as long as I can remember,

old Tom was never anything but dull and honest.

But whatever the cause,

one day there came a moment of uncontrollable anger,

and when it was over,

this is what he had earned for himself.

For this is the price for murder.

That was 15 years ago.

I should have remembered his words.

Death is the price for murder.

My entire life has been spent on the Cornish coast ofEngland.

There, for more than a hundred years,

has stood the solid, comfortable home

in which I grew up from infancy in the care ofmy cousin Ambrose.

- What is it? - Open it.

Oh!

Happy birthday, dear boy.

Myparents died when I was but a few months old.

From then on, as long as he lived,

Ambrose was not only my kinsman and guardian

but father, brother, friend, everything in the world to me.

Andjust two years ago,

on the stormiest night that I can remember,

distant bells began to toll for him.

And now they tell me if I spend another winter in this blasted rain,

I'll end up a cripple in a Basque chair.

So I must go and search for the sun, I suppose.

- Where will you go? - Italy, perhaps.

Somewhere on the Mediterranean.

Well, uh, you'll want me to go with you, won't you?

I'd want you, of course,

but I don't think both of us should be away from here at the same time.

You don't think you'll need someone to help you in and out of carriages

- and all that sort of thing? - Good heavens, no.

I'm not exactly an invalid yet.

The only real trouble is I'm too much of a fool about my home.

I hate to leave it even for a week, and, well, this must be for months.

And so today, the Four Turnings Crossroads

is an even uglier place to me.

For it was there that I bade him farewell for the last time.

This is far enough. You don't want to be late getting back.

Good-bye, dear boy.

Good-bye, Ambrose.

- Good-bye, Louisia. - Good-bye.

You'd better keep an eye on this one, don't you think?

She's coming along pretty fast now.

Never mind about me.

What we want to know is who's going to keep an eye on you?

What did I tell you? Drive on.

Good-bye, children.

- I'll see you in the spring. - Good-bye, Ambrose.

Good-bye, Ambrose. God bless you.

But when winter had passed

and we were well into spring again,

and still there was no sign ofhis returning,

I came to be troubled by strange and formless fears,

wholly without reason but persistent and nagging,

and in some ways ominous.

Good morning.

Nick.

What news from our tourist now?

Still in Florence.

Can't seem to tear himself away from some people he's met there.

Oh? Who are they?

You ever heard of a family from these parts named Corin,

one of them once married to a member of our family?

Oh, yes, I remember the Corins. Why?

He writes that he's met one of them in Florence.

A Countess Sangaletti.

Half English, half Italian, a widow.

How old is she?

He doesn't say, but middle-aged, I suppose,

married and widowed and so on.

She's been showing him the gardens in Florence.

When's he coming home?

Didn't even mention it this time.

Is it really true, sir?

It is.

- What is it, dear? - Where's your father?

Here I am. What's the trouble?

Another letter. I want you to hear it yourself.

"My dearest boy, all is not well with me.

Better keep silent though she watches me all the time.

I have written to you several times, but there is no one here I trust,

and unless I can get out myself to post the letters,

they may not reach you.

Since my illness, this has been more difficult than ever.

As for the doctors, I have no belief in any of them.

They're all liars, and the new one recommended by her friend Rainaldi

I'm sure is a complete cutthroat,

but then he would be, coming from that quarter.

However, they have taken on a dangerous proposition in me,

and I will beat them yet. Ambrose."

Look at the writing.

I can't believe it.

Can't believe what?

It's not the letter of a man in his right senses.

That's not it.

There have been hints before in exactly the same tone.

There is nothing the matter with Ambrose's mind.

You may not know this,

but Ambrose's father died of a tumor on the brain.

It was never a matter much discussed in the family.

I have no idea whether these things are hereditary or not,

nor do the doctors seem to know.

The only other possibility I can think of,

and one which I would infinitely prefer,

is that Ambrose was drunk when he wrote this letter.

I've never seen Ambrose drunk in my life.

Nor I. I was merely trying to choose the better of two evils.

Well, whatever the truth, we'll know it soon.

I'm leaving for Florence first thing tomorrow morning.

Pull up a minute, please.

Whoa.

- Isn't that the post bag? - Yes, sir.

- Let me see the letters, please. - Yes, sir.

- Thank you. - Thank you, sir.

Drive on.

Villa Sangaletti?

Si.

Signor Ashley. Is he here?

No, no, signore.

Then, uh, Signora Ashley.

Excuse me.

Un momento, signore.

- Do you understand English? - Yes, signore.

Will you be good enough to announce me to Mr. Ambrose Ashley?

Excuse me, signore, but you are Mr. Ashley's son?

No. His cousin.

Is he here or not?

I am very sorry, signore, but he's not.

He's dead.

Since three weeks now.

Would you care for a glass of wine, signore?

No.

Thank you.

How did he die?

From the fever, signore.

I mean, was it quick or— or slow?

The illness was long and slow,

but the end was quick.

He fell asleep, truly.

You saw him?

Yes, signore.

It was very early in the morning,

and Signore Rainaldi send me for the doctor,

but it was too late.

I myself helped the contessa to light the candles.

And when the nuns had gone,

I went back to look at him again.

The violence had all gone now,

and on his face there was a look of peace.

What do you mean by violence?

During the fever, signore,

there were many times I had to hold him down in bed

when the attacks came on.

And when the pain went, he would be dazed

and heavy, his mind wandering.

That was the way it was the whole winter.

A strong man as helpless at last as a child.

And, uh, Mrs. Ashley...

she's still here?

No, signore.

She moved out the day after the funeral.

Signore Rainaldi thought it best.

Mr. Ashley's things?

- She packed them all up and— - What about this?

She must have overlooked it, signore.

I see.

And if there's no objection, I'll take it along for myself.

Of course, signore.

And this Signor Rainaldi.

You say he was of great help and comfort to Mrs. Ashley during her...

ordeal.

He never left the villa during that entire week.

He was their true friend as well as lawyer.

Where can I find him now?

In the rear verona, signore.

It's the first house on the left after the fountain.

Thank you.

Is this Signor Rainaldi's?

No, thank you.

A vanti.

Mr. Ashley?

Yes.

Philip Ashley.

Kinsman of Ambrose.

I can see the resemblance. Will you have a chair, sir?

I've just come from the Villa Sangaletti, Mr. Rainaldi.

I know. You have Ambrose's stick.

You have no objection, I trust.

How could I? It would have been sent to you anyway.

It was in that empty house, and from the lips of a servant

that I first learned of the death of my cousin.

I regret the circumstances, I assure you.

Why was I not informed at least of his illness?

Your cousin's death was quite sudden, Mr. Ashley.

Not so sudden, apparently,

that he hadn't time to write me these letters.

Yes, she was afraid he might have written something like this.

The doctors warned her he might.

Why did they warn her?

Because of his behavior,

which became quite strange and secretive during those last few weeks.

But without reason, of course.

On the contrary. For a very good reason.

The tumor, they said, was beginning to press on his brain.

They said he had a tumor?

That was the cause of his death.

May I ask what proof there is of that?

Certainly.

This is a copy of the certificate of death,

signed by both doctors.

A second copy was posted to you at the time,

and a third to the trustee of your cousin's will,

Mr. Nicholas Kendall in Cornwall.

How did you know that Mr. Kendall was the trustee of his will?

I read it in the will.

- You read my cousin's will? - Certainly. He showed it to me.

May I ask how he disposed of the estate?

In effect, to you.

All of it?

In trust, I believe, until your 25th birthday.

What about her?

There was no mention of Mrs. Ashley in the will filed for probate.

She'll take action, of course, to break it.

On the contrary.

I have already written Mr. Kendall her entire approval of its terms.

I wish I could say that your... explanation of his illness satisfied me.

But it doesn't.

Regardless of those doctors, regardless of that paper,

those are not the letters of a man simply sick.

They are the letters of a man in danger, surrounded by enemies.

Sick not only in body but in mind, too, remember.

He was failing fast.

What of this?

"She has done for me at last, Rachel, my torment."

What explanation do you have for that?

Are you any sort of student of medical history, Mr. Ashley?

Of course not.

There is a particular affliction of the brain

in the case of a tumor of similar growth,

which results in the sufferers becoming troubled with delusions.

"He fancies, for instance, that he's being watched,

that the person nearest to him, such as his wife,

has either turned against him or is unfaithful,

or seeks to take his money.

No amount of love or persuasion

can relieve him of this suspicion once it takes hold."

If you don't believe me or this book, which you may take with you,

ask an English doctor.

Your own, perhaps.

Why didn't she send for me?

If Ambrose had lost faith in her,

why not send for the one closest to him?

- You're very young, aren't you— - My age is not the question here!

Why was I not sent for at once?

I wished only to make the point that I am older than you

and have probably had more experience with women.

The contessa is a woman of very strong feelings,

and such women do not acknowledge defeat easily.

They cling to the things they want.

They never surrender, actually.

Where is she now?

I have no idea.

She left Florence yesterday

without telling me where she was bound.

When she wishes me to know where she is, she will write to me.

Is there anything more I may do for you while you are here?

No, thank you.

If you wish to see the grave before you leave,

it's in the Protestant cemetery.

The stone ordered by Mrs. Ashley is already in place, I believe.

When she returns, tell her I was here.

Tell her for me I went to the villa and heard how Ambrose died.

And tell her also about the letters he wrote to me.

I will, if she returns.

But Mrs. Ashley is also a woman of impulse,

and there's no assurance that she will ever come back to Florence again.

Good day, sir.

And there, beside his grave, I made a vow.

I swore that whatever it had cost Ambrose in pain and suffering,

I would return it in full measure,

because I did not believe Rainaldi's story.

I believed in the truth of those two letters that I held in my right hand.

Someday, somehow,

I would repay my cousin Rachel.

I must say, you're a great deal prompter

than I've been accustomed to with you.

We raced.

It's the only way to get him anywhere on time.

- Will you be long? - I don't think so.

Then if you'll excuse me, I'll change and we'll have some tea.

- Such mystery. - Don't look at me.

I don't know what it is.

Well?

Philip, I've odd news for you.

Yes?

Mrs. Ashley is here.

- In this house? - In Plymouth.

She arrived by ship two days ago.

She writes to tell me of Ambrose's death.

Apparently, she knows nothing of your visit to Florence.

I think you should read it. I think it will impress you.

What's she after?

- A settlement? - No. She only wants to return

the remainder of Ambrose's possessions:

his books, his papers, old clothes.

She wants to bring them here herself, I suppose.

To judge from this letter and the one from Rainaldi last week,

she wants nothing more of us, not one shilling.

Although I believe that as the widow,

she might quite properly make some kind of claim on the estate.

Claim? After driving him to his death?

That's a very foolish thing to say, Philip,

and I wouldn't repeat it if I were you.

If ever she heard such a charge,

she would be well within her rights

to bring a case against you for slander.

Well within her rights.

If Ambrose had thought she deserved it,

he'd have left his wife something...

the whole estate, in fact, and you know it.

Unless he was too ill to recognize his obligations.

Surely you don't believe that story of the tumor.

I do now, yes.

Here is her account. Here is Rainaldi's.

Here is the death certificate.

In addition to which, I remember Ambrose's father's death.

The symptoms were quite similar.

Well, you may, but I don't, not for a minute.

You mean you won't.

She doesn't even ask to see the house...

the house that would have been her home had Ambrose lived.

Instead of which, a lonely hostelry in Plymouth.

You touch me, Nick.

I'm sorry, Phillip,

but as Ambrose's friend, I can't sit here and do nothing

when his widow arrives alone and friendless in this country.

I shall invite her to come here and stay with us

until her plans are formed.

I know you won't want to see her, so if she accepts my invitation,

I won't ask you over while she's here.

On the contrary. I'd like very much to see her.

Perhaps you'll write that to her.

Tell her that Philip Ashley is rather a plain man

living in rather a plain fashion with no fine manners whatsoever.

But if she wishes to see him and her late husband's home,

the house will be completely at her disposal

whenever she cares to visit.

Do you think for one moment she'd accept an invitation like that?

Send it along.

We'll see whether she will or not.

Welcome, Mrs. Ashley.

Thank you, Seecombe.

She's come, sir.

She was due here at 5, and it's now nearly 7.

I should hope she had.

Did you explain that I was too busy to be here to greet her?

She said she understood, sir.

Where is she now?

In her room, sir.

Am I to understand that she's already dined without waiting for me?

Oh, no, sir. She had a tray in her room.

She was very tired after the journey

and asked that you excuse her this evening.

She told me to tell you, sir,

that if you wish to see her after dinner, she'd be pleased to receive you.

- In her room? - Yes, sir.

Thank you.

Come in.

Good evening.

Oh, I'm...

How are you, Philip?

I, uh, hope you feel better now.

Very much, thank you.

Will you sit with me for a few minutes?

I owe you an apology for not coming down to dinner

after you'd gone to so much trouble

to make the house bright and beautiful for me,

but I was very tired and dull.

It's quite all right. I understand.

I do hope you didn't hurry home before you should have.

No, the, uh, work was all quite done.

You mustn't, believe me,

make any kind of alteration in your days because of me.

I just wanted to say one thing, which is,

thank you, Philip, for letting me come.

It can't have been easy for you.

You're quite welcome, I'm sure.

You have no idea what a strange feeling it was

driving through the park and up to the house

with Seecombe standing by the door to greet me.

Everything was just as I'd imagined it...

the hall, the pictures,

even the clock striking 4 as I came in the door.

Was Don really 14 on his last birthday?

Yes. His birthday is a few weeks before my own.

I know.

You found him in a pie with your breakfast.

Ambrose watched you open it

from behind a screen in the dining room.

He said he'd never forget the look of amazement on your face

when you lifted the crust and a puppy struggled out.

What an amazing thing for you to know.

I probably know a good many more things about you

than you'd ever imagine.

Yes?

Thank you, Seecombe.

Shall I take the dog out now, ma'am?

I suppose so.

Come on, Don.

What about breakfast, ma'am?

Mr. Philip has his in the dining room at 8:00.

Would it be too much trouble for me to have mine in my room?

Not at all, ma'am.

I'll ring when I'm awake.

Very good, ma'am. Will there be anything else?

No, thank you. Good night.

Good night, ma'am. Good night, sir.

Ambrose used to say no woman was fit to look at before 11.

Would you like a cup?

I can hardly believe it.

- Believe what? - My eyes.

I've never seen Seecombe serve tea before in my life.

He did it very well, don't you think?

I'll tell you something else. I've never seen this tray before.

Nor the teapot nor the kettle.

I didn't think you had.

I saw that look on your face when he entered.

And I'll tell you something else too.

- What? - I don't think

he'd ever seen them before either.

That butter's melting. You'd better lick your fingers.

Oh. Oh, thank you.

Would you like to smoke now?

In here?

If you'd like to.

Well, I, uh, I would indeed, but when Mrs. Pascoe comes,

we don't even smoke in the drawing room.

But this is not a drawing room.

It's a boudoir, and I'm not Mrs. Pascoe.

Oh... I thought women minded about such things.

Oh, they do when they've nothing better to worry about.

This was Aunt Phoebe's room, wasn't it?

Was it?

Before you were born.

It may have been.

All I remember of Aunt Phoebe is simply her name.

Ambrose never told you of her great romance?

Why, no.

Aunt Phoebe fell lovesick of the curate

and went away to Tunbridge to mend her broken heart.

But the heart proved stubborn,

and Aunt Phoebe took a chill that lasted 20 years.

Are you sure you haven't heard of this?

Never. What happened then?

The chill left her after 20 years after the sight of another curate,

but by then she was 5 and 40, and her heart was not so brittle,

so she married the second curate.

And, uh, was the marriage a success?

No. As a matter of fact, she died on her wedding night.

But I think I'd better not tell you the circumstances

until we've known each other a little longer.

I can't tell. She's got a veil on.

Thunderation.

I'm afraid the service won't go on until you lift your veil.

Oh, I'm sorry.

The hour cometh,

and now is when the true worshippers

shall worship the Father in spirit...

By George, that's a good-looking woman.

And quite young too, I'm afraid.

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart

be always acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, my strength...

I remember, too, another custom he was fond of:

Sunday luncheon with the Kendalls and the Pascoes,

and I wonder, with Philip's permission,

if we mightn't enjoy it together today.

Will you join us?

Oh, we shall be delighted.

And if Louise would be willing to drive back with Philip,

perhaps Ambrose's oldest friend

would invite me to ride with him in his carriage.

Nothing would give me greater happiness, Mrs. Ashley.

Thank you, Mr. Kendall. We'll see you soon then.

- Will you? - Oh, dear me, indeed.

Well, what did she say?

About what?

Didn't you charge her?

Not yet.

Haven't you said anything at all to her about the way he died?

No, I haven't had the right opportunity.

But I thought that's why you invited her here.

It is, and I intend to at the right moment.

She's not at all the sort of person I thought she'd be.

You can see that for yourself.

She's very beautiful.

Do you really think so?

But middle-aged, of course.

Quite 35, I should say. Wouldn't you?

I have no idea and care less.

She could be 99 for all I know.

Ninety-nine women don't have eyes like that,

or that complexion.

Nor do they dress like that, or look so well in mourning.

I love the stillness of a room after a party, don't you?

You weren't bored?

They couldn't have been pleasanter.

And your Louise is charming.

She'll make you an excellent wife.

Louise is a dear, but she's not mine.

She's still only a child, you know.

At your age, I suppose you'd think that.

- Are you teasing me? - Not in the least.

It's just that I'm very happy. It's been a wonderful visit, Philip.

- It's not over, is it? - But of course.

I came only for the weekend.

You forget I have a new life to make for myself.

Why did he never make another will?

Do you know?

What does that matter now?

The fact remains that I can't afford to be idle.

I must look for work of some kind.

In London, I suppose.

But you'll invite me down again, won't you?

I don't know.

You don't know?

I mean I don't know

whether you'll want to come again or not.

I'm afraid I haven't been altogether honest with you.

How do you mean?

I should have told you, I suppose,

that Ambrose wrote to me during his illness.

Did you know that?

No.

He wanted me— He begged me

to come to Florence to help him.

But I arrived there too late.

You've been to Florence?

Yes.

When? How long ago?

I spent one night there.

The night of August the 15th.

The night after I left.

So Rainaldi told me.

Why didn't you tell me?

Why have you let me stay here two days

without mentioning such a thing?

I thought at first you knew.

And...

What did he tell you?

I think you should read them yourself.

The long one came first, then the short one.

- Only these two? - That's all.

How you must have hated me.

Yes.

Why did you ask me here?

To accuse you.

Of what?

I'm not sure.

Perhaps of breaking his heart,

which would be murder, wouldn't it?

And then?

I hadn't planned beyond that.

I knew only that I wanted to make you suffer

and to watch you while you suffered.

Then I suppose to— to let you go.

That was merciful of you.

More merciful than I should deserve.

If that was what you wanted, watch me.

Watch me now.

Watch me as much as you wish.

Please stop.

Please!

That's no use, either,

when we both remember what he wrote.

I can forget, if you will.

But why should you?

How do you know different?

Because you are not that woman. You are not the woman I hated.

That was someone who existed only in his poor, sick mind.

That's very generous of you, Philip.

I was a fool.

No, not at all.

Someday when I'm not so tired, I'd like to tell you about it...

about Ambrose and myself and our marriage...

as much of it as I understand anyway.

I'd never even met a man like this...

strong, tender,

without conceit of any kind.

And for the first time in my life,

I knew what peace was.

And as for him,

he was like someone sleeping who'd wakened suddenly

and found the world

with all its beauty and sadness too.

Guido Rainaldi,

whom he detested as much as you probably do,

Guido told me once that Ambrose wakened to me

as some men waken to religion.

But a woman, unhappily, is not religion.

She's a human being with human thoughts,

and she shouldn't be judged by the same rules.

He expected too much of you?

A halo can be a lovely thing,

but you must be able to take it off now and again

and be human occasionally.

In any case, finding religion doesn't always improve a person.

And waking to the world didn't help Ambrose.

He changed.

His nature changed.

How?

That's a question I wish from the bottom of my heart I could answer.

The doctor said it was his illness,

that out of pain and fear

these deep hidden thoughts and suspicions

came at long last to the surface.

But how can I be sure

that it wasn't something in me that brought them out?

Will you get a candle and light me upstairs?

Of course.

Thank you.

You're quite sure you don't hate me now?

Why should I?

I'm very glad, Philip.

Good night.

She's penniless, I'm sure.

That Italian friend of hers was a little vague about it,

but Ambrose wrote, if you remember,

that everything she possessed, including the villa,

would have to be sold to pay off Sangaletti's debts.

She's certainly entitled to something.

How much would you suggest?

£5,000 a year.

5,000?

To be paid to her quarterly from the day of Ambrose's death.

You don't think that's a trifle over-generous?

How can one be over-generous

with property that might have been due her anyway?

Very well. If you insist.

I'll direct the bank to make the payments.

A sum like that...

It's almost better than being mentioned in the will.

To my distant, but very dear, cousin.

To mine, with a heart full of love and gratitude.

And now.

Before the others arrive.

Merry Christmas, dear Rachel.

Now?

If you will.

Philip, darling.

Put it on.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.

Thank you, darling.

Forgive me, Mrs. Ashley,

but I really must comment on it.

That's the most beautiful pearl necklace I've ever seen.

Thank you.

It's a very proud possession.

Perhaps we might attempt "Hark! The Herald Angels."

- Oh, I love it. - Oh, let's do.

Philip, I've had a communication from the bank

which I find decidedly disturbing.

Yes?

It seems that in less than three months,

your cousin Rachel has overdrawn her account more than double.

Well?

You don't regard that as an extraordinary situation?

Why should I?

What she does with her money is no affair of ours.

Well, I do.

And the only explanation I can find

is that she's sending the money out of the country.

Whatever she does with it, the only important point is that,

obviously, what we gave her was not enough.

- That's ridiculous. - We know she had debts.

We know she's a generous woman.

I want you to increase her allowance at once,

and in addition to issue a check to cover that overdraft.

Philip, you're being very wayward.

I've been constantly worried, in fact,

by the direction in which your emotions

have been carrying you recently.

The county, for one thing,

has not failed to note the length of your cousin's stay in this house.

I'm not interested in the gossip of old women, thank you.

For another, you had no right

to take that necklace from the family collection.

It was not yours and won't be for another three months yet.

What of it? It'll be mine then, won't it?

The entire estate will be yours then.

But until then, not one item of it.

Very well then, I've loaned it to her for three months.

- Is there any harm in that? - I don't know.

I'm not sure.

What are you suggesting, that she might take it and sell it?

Quite by chance recently,

I've come to learn a little more about your cousin Rachel.

Such as what?

It happened I came across some old friends

who'd been wintering in France and Italy over a period of years.

It seems they met your cousin

when she was married to Sangaletti.

And?

Both were notorious for unbridled extravagance

and, their own term for it, loose living.

The duel in which Sangaletti died

was fought because of another man.

These people said...

Don't you ever talk to anyone but gossips?

These people said that when they heard

of Ambrose's marriage to the Countess Sangaletti,

they were horrified.

They predicted she would run through his fortune in a matter of months.

I'm sorry to have to tell you all this, Philip,

but my friends are responsible people and not given to idle gossip.

I've never heard anything so despicable.

- Who are these people anyway? - Oh, it doesn't matter.

All that's important for the moment is that necklace.

You know its tradition very well.

You must explain this to her

and ask her to return it to the collection.

Not in a thousand years.

- Then I must do it for you. - I forbid you, sir.

You will not utter one word to Mrs. Ashley on the subject.

The necklace is now hers.

Philip, you're very young, very impressionable,

and I quite understand your wanting to give your cousin

some token of esteem,

but family jewels are rather more than that,

particularly that necklace.

So, as your guardian and executor of the estate,

I must be firm about it.

If you won't ask Mrs. Ashley to return it, I shall.

I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing.

But I assure you there's no need

for either of you to be embarrassed.

It was dear of Philip to let me wear this for the evening,

but quite right of you, Mr. Kendall, to insist on its return.

Here.

- I shan't forget this, Nick. - Philip, please.

You mustn't mind. Really.

And I was proud to have worn it for even that once.

I wanted you to wear it for always.

I know. I understand.

But that stupid, unspeakable oaf...

Now, dear, you're acting like a child.

It doesn't matter, I assure you, not in the least.

I'm not a child, and I ask you please to remember that.

But I do, I do, darling.

I'm 5 and 20 all but three blasted months.

I object to any further patronage from anybody.

My mother wore those pearls on her wedding day.

Before that, my aunt.

Before that, my grandmother.

Don't you realize why I wanted you to wear them too?

Bless you.

Then I remembered that other evening

when apparently everyone in Florence was there,

and your dear, lamented mother behaved so badly

with, uh, wasn't it Prince Somanatti?

With mia madre, it might have been anyone,

but not Lorenzo that night.

He was much too busy running after me, don't you remember?

That's very naughty of you.

At last.

Good evening, sir.

We've been waiting for you.

You remember Guido, of course.

I must apologize for coming without an invitation,

but then neither did I expect you when you called on me.

You're welcome here, sir.

He should be scolded though.

Imagine his being in England for a week

without letting me know.

I couldn't have been more surprised when he walked in.

Will you have a glass with us?

Thank you, no, I— I think I should bathe

and change first, if you'll excuse me.

Hurry then. We'll see you at dinner.

- I'm not certain that— - Now, Philip.

It's a pleasure to see you here, sir.

It's very good of you to say so.

He reminds me only of one person.

May I ask what that is?

It's tisane.

Guido's favorite tisane,

which he says nobody can make as well as myself.

No one can make any tisane so well as your cousin.

I'm sure she knows more about herbs

than any other person in the world.

Yes, but what is it, uh, tisane?

I'm sorry.

I should have introduced you to it long before now.

It's a tea made with herbs, a mixture of herbs.

In Italy, it's a very ancient art with endless variations

in flavor and strength and purposes, et cetera,

some of it for pleasure, some for the health.

Ambrose loved it.

And if you like it, we'll have it again.

For this young man,

it must always be for pleasure,

for I can imagine no one standing

less in need of more health.

Have you ever had an illness in your life?

Not that I can remember.

Doesn't that worry you?

No. Why should it?

Because such people are so often the first to go

when finally they are stricken.

Haven't you heard that?

I'm unalarmed by the situation.

It is probably all this violent riding and walking

and swimming that young Englishmen do.

It develops the wrong portion of the body.

Now, in Italy...

Would you forgive us, Philip?

Guido and I have a good deal of rather dull business to discuss,

and I believe it can be done more conveniently upstairs.

Certainly.

Will you join us later?

I'm afraid not, thank you. I'm rather tired, really.

If you change your mind, come in at any time.

It is very kind of you to have me as a guest in your home.

I trust that you'll be comfortable.

And I must thank you, too, for all you have done for your cousin.

She wrote to me about the allowance.

You might be pleased to know

that that was precisely what she had planned for you

if the other will had been signed.

What other will?

She didn't tell you?

No one's told me of any other will.

Then perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it.

Nevertheless, there was one, with a more normal arrangement.

He left all this, this entire estate, to his widow.

But unfortunately, by the time it was drawn and copied,

poor Ambrose's collapse was complete,

and it was never signed.

You still have the copy, though, of course.

No, we destroyed it.

If you'll pardon me,

may I ask in what sense you use the word "we"?

Is it royal or domestic?

Why, neither, sir.

It's legalistic, for lawyer and client.

Though I confess, I expect someday

to be able to use it in a sense more intimate.

When that day comes,

I shall, of course, be happy to congratulate you.

Thank you, sir.

Your graciousness helps me to understand

with what regret your cousin will leave here.

If and when she does.

I understand.

Good night, sir.

Good night.

You'll have to go further than this to escape me.

How did you know I was here?

You're always here when you're angry with me.

You'll have to go back. It's far too cold for you here.

Not if we sit close and you put your arms around me.

You didn't come to say good night.

You didn't really expect me, did you?

I waited up for you till after 11.

With your friend?

A good hour after I'd sent him off to bed.

Is that true?

But of course. Why do you ask that?

Where is he now?

On his way back to London.

I'm terribly sorry.

You're a goose.

You really do think me a fool, don't you?

I've told you not to say that. It's absurd.

I've become fonder and fonder of you,

in fact, each day that passes.

And each day that passes,

I'm more and more determined that I shall never let you leave here.

Date it today, if that's necessary,

but make it effective tomorrow, which is my birthday.

Very well.

At midnight tonight,

the property becomes mine absolutely.

There can be no objections whatever from anyone

as to what I do with it.

I've never heard of such a thing before in my life.

Never.

You mean you've never before heard of a wrong being righted?

You're quite determined on this?

Quite.

Does she know about it?

Nothing whatever. The idea is mine and mine alone.

But isn't it possible you could satisfy your love or your conscience

or whatever it is

with something less than the entire estate?

But suppose this were what Ambrose himself intended

until he became too ill to arrange it?

We don't know that, not for a fact.

No, but I knew Ambrose, and so did you.

Would he have done anything less for the woman he loved?

No, not if he still loved her.

If you'll let me sign...

I'm sorry, Philip, but I can't help regarding this

as the completest folly.

I wish now she'd never come to England.

However, if there's nothing I can say to dissuade you,

sign here, and I'll witness it.

There are some women— good women, very possibly...

who through no fault of their own impel disaster.

Whatever they touch somehow turns to tragedy.

Rachel.

Wake up, Rachel.

This is not the time for sleeping, girl.

Wake up and come to the window.

Or do you want me to come in and wake you up?

What on earth, Philip?

Blessed Rachel.

What are you doing at this hour?

I wanted you to look at the moon

and smell the fragrance of spring in the air.

You've been drinking.

Only at the springs of love. Here, catch this.

I'll do no such thing.

Catch it, I tell you.

I do believe you must be raving mad.

Now pull it.

- It's heavy. - Pull hard.

What is it?

I'll show you.

You idiot, you'll fall and hurt yourself.

Only a clod would walk upstairs on such a night.

A man in love must scale the walls.

Oh, do be careful, please.

Have you taken leave of your senses?

Perhaps, but never happier.

Please, Philip, you can't do this. You must leave at once.

- Don't you know what today is? - It's not day, to begin with,

and if it's your birthday you mean, that's not till tomorrow.

And when, pray, do you think tomorrow begins?

- Now, Philip, you can't mean— - Listen.

So now it's all yours.

No. Yours.

I'm cold.

Stand by the fire.

Do you remember what your mother used to tell you,

- what must happen on a birthday? - Your hair is wet.

- I've been swimming in the sea. - Philip, how could you in this weather?

Do you remember?

No, but it was something foolish, I'm sure.

That on a man's birthday, his every wish must be granted.

No, that's not it at all.

That's exactly what you told me not two weeks ago.

- Only up to the age of 10. - There was no such restriction as that.

Then there is now. Up to the age of 10 and not one day older.

Very well then.

Suppose this time we reverse it.

The celebrator will try to grant you every wish.

Whatever you want.

Home, money,

or perhaps these to help you while you decide.

- Are you out of your mind, Philip? - No, and far from it.

It's only that it's my 25th birthday, and everything I have is yours.

Let me have your hand.

And this.

And, uh, this.

This.

And...

this.

This is impossible, darling.

No.

This is right. They belong on you.

And as for this...

you can read it later.

What is it?

Take it.

No, Philip.

This home, this land.

Everything.

Which should always have been yours anyway.

Philip, darling.

If I owned the world, it would be yours too.

And all I had for you

is a little pin for your cravat.

Blessed creature.

Remember once I told you

there was nothing else I needed in the world

but the warmth and comfort of these four walls?

I remember.

I was wrong.

I know now that there's something else.

Are you very sure of that?

More sure than of anything else on earth.

For all his willfulness,

for all that he provokes and bewilders me at times,

my regard for you, Philip, only increases with the years.

Your errors have never been mean or selfish.

My guardianship is ended today,

but I rejoice to think you will never cease to be my godson.

To your 5 and 20 years, dear boy.

Long life and happiness.

- To you, Philip. - To Philip.

Thank you, Nick.

My dear Louise, my dearest Rachel.

Now I too have a toast that I wish you to drink tonight.

Since this morning, I've been the happiest of men.

I want you, Godfather, and you, Louise,

to drink to Rachel, who is to be my wife.

Have you lost your senses, Philip?

Uh, I'm sorry if it was premature to break the news,

but... it's my birthday,

and these are my oldest friends.

I hope you can forgive this piece of schoolboy folly

and forget it if you can.

The day and the wine seem to have gone to Philip's head.

He'll apologize when he's himself again.

Shall we go to the drawing room?

I thought you'd gone to bed.

Not before I'd begged your forgiveness.

Then you may go now before you think of some other mischief to do.

- They won't betray us, believe me. - Betray us?

What a shameful thing to say.

You make me feel like a backstairs servant

creeping up to some attic with the groom.

- Will you let me pass, please? - You know better than that, I'm sure.

I said, will you let me pass?

Nor were you either ashamed or angry last night

- when you gave me your promise. - What promise?

To marry me, of course.

I promised to marry you last night?

But you couldn't possibly have misunderstood.

What else could I have been asking?

That meant everything in the world to me.

Whatever you may have thought,

I gave you no such promise or anything like it.

Then let me ask you now in the plainest of language.

Will you marry me?

No, Philip.

And you may take that as final and forever.

- Now will you let me pass? - But you love me. I know you did.

It couldn't have been pretense.

That was last night, Philip, and you'd given me the jewels.

Philip!

I was trying to think of what else I had to give.

You had my heart, my mind, the property, the money, the jewels.

My name you already had.

Never leave me.

You understand?

What are you going to do, lecture me?

No. I just thought you might want to talk about it.

It was my fault last night.

I don't believe that.

What you said was the truth, otherwise you wouldn't have said it.

I know that.

I misunderstood her.

You may have, but not I.

Ever.

How do you mean that?

Why do you think she came here all that long distance from Florence?

The answer to that was obvious.

It was a pilgrimage to Ambrose's home.

No, no, Philip.

It wasn't sentiment, and it wasn't idle curiosity.

She had another purpose in mind, and now it's accomplished.

You don't know what you're talking about.

If you'd been older or stronger, she'd never have stayed here.

She'd have called on my father,

settled for a sum, and gone on her way.

- Can't you see that yet? - If that's why you've asked me here,

there's no need to continue this discussion.

- You've never liked her. - Why has she sent her allowance

out of the country this whole winter?

How can you say that when you couldn't possibly know it for a fact?

But I do say it, and it is a fact.

Do you suppose my father and the bank don't know

what she's been doing with her money?

She had debts in Florence. I've known that all along.

But now there's no longer any need to bleed you bit by bit,

because suddenly you've given her exactly what she set out to get.

Everything.

May I see you to your carriage?

Do you really love her, then, that much?

I've already asked her to marry me twice.

When the time is right, I intend to ask her again.

I simply cannot believe...

- She'll never marry you, Philip. - Perhaps not.

Do you know why she brought that document to my father?

Yes. Some of it wasn't altogether clear to her.

- One point in particular. - Which was that?

The conditions of remarriage.

There can't have been any misunderstanding about that.

It states simply that if she remarries while I'm alive,

the estate reverts to me.

But if she married me, the condition would have no meaning, actually.

Why wouldn't it?

Because she'd still share in it. It would be ours together.

You certainly can't be suggesting that she'd refuse to marry me

because she'd no longer own the whole property.

No, but remember this.

A wife cannot take her husband's money

into another country, such as Italy,

nor can she herself wander away whenever the impulse seizes her.

Beyond that, I suggest nothing.

Good day.

Oh, Philip, how can you be so blind?

How can you let yourself be torn and shamed and humiliated?

Because I love her, don't you understand?

I love her and nothing else.

Because it isn't a little love, and it isn't a fancy,

and it isn't something you would turn on and off.

It's everything I think and feel and want and know,

and there's no room in me for anything else.

Now is it clear to you?

Why three?

The mistress said there'd be a third for dinner, sir.

Come in.

Come in.

Oh, look, Philip.

Mrs. Ashley's found the most exquisite design

for the sunken garden.

It's Italian, of course,

but this ravine could very well be the one

below this house, don't you think?

Won't you look at it?

She's so clever, really,

to have found an arrangement so suitable.

It's quite nice, I'm sure.

You'll be pleased to hear

that Mary's going to be with us for a while now.

Oh, and such a surprise, Philip, when she came to fetch me.

The others were quite green with envy.

Do you play cribbage?

I'm afraid not.

Well, then I'll teach you.

I'll teach you both. You'll be wild for it.

Tonight after dinner, if you wish.

- May I speak to you alone? - I don't see the need.

You're quite free to say anything you wish in front of Mary.

Oh, please, I'm sorry. I must go to my room anyway.

You needn't, really.

Oh, but I must, to be ready for dinner.

Will you leave the doors open, please, so you can hear if I call?

Why, yes. Indeed I will.

Why have you done this?

You know perfectly well why.

And you know quite as well it wasn't in the least necessary.

One such display of violence is enough, thank you.

I don't think I care to be alone with you again.

But there are matters here

that can't be settled in a moment's conversation

like this with the doors open.

Can't I come back here later in the evening

after she's gone to bed?

No.

- How long is she to stay? - As long as I choose.

Or until I order her out myself.

I can't really imagine your being so impertinent

as to order a guest of mine out of my house.

Are you ill, sir?

I have a headache.

The ladies are in the drawing room.

Will you be coming down for dinner?

No, no. I'll see them in the morning.

You shouldn't have ridden out in weather like today.

I knew you'd be sorry for it.

Go away and leave me alone.

I'll tell the mistress that you're not well.

Rachel.

Rachel?

Mr. Philip, Mr. Philip.

My head aches.

I'll call the mistress.

- What is it, Philip? - Rachel.

What is it, dear?

Send her away, will you?

Isn't the doctor here yet?

I won't harm you, I promise you I won't.

Swimming at midnight, eh, and in this weather?

He shouldn't have ridden out yesterday either.

It's my head.

I've seen this fever before. I've seen children die ofit.

You must do something quickly, Doctor.

Is that how I died?

Ambrose!

My dear Philip.

My head aches, Ambrose.

I know, dear. I know, dear.

But if you take this, it'll be better soon.

Drink it all.

Don't ever leave me, please.

I won't.

- Will you promise? - I promise.

But you promised me you'd come back to me.

No. No, please don't.

I won't, darling, ever.

But you said you'd marry me.

No, Guido, I can't. Not while Philip lives.

Promise it, Rachel.

I do love you so.

Not more than I love you, dear darling.

Then will you marry me now?

I will, with the happiest of hearts.

Dearly beloved.

Well...

at long last.

How do you feel?

Strange. Very strange.

I shouldn't wonder.

You've been very ill for a long time.

So welcome home again.

How long?

For more than three weeks.

That's not possible.

Is this a few days' growth?

Good heavens.

Would you like a mirror?

No, thank you.

I feel like Rip Van Winkle.

You'll be all right again soon.

What was the matter with me?

On the continent, we call it meningite,

but none of the doctors here seem ever to have heard of it.

Then how did they treat it?

We worked it out together.

I told them what I had seen done, and they did it,

such as puncturing the spine to take out the fluid

and letting into your blood a serum I made of herbs.

You don't remember that?

No. You're an amazing woman.

In what respect now?

You're an apothecary too.

No.

Would you like anything to eat?

No. But I'm thirsty.

Good.

I have a cool drink here,

made from limes sent down from London.

I feel very sorry for you.

Why for me?

For having such a poor, weak stick of a husband on your hands.

Are you sure you don't want me to go with you, sir?

No, it's only to the sunken garden.

I want to surprise Mrs. Ashley.

She said I wouldn't be able to walk alone for another week yet.

But she's not there, sir.

She drove into Plymouth this morning.

You don't now what you're talking about.

I heard her make the appointment with the man in charge.

Come on, Don.

How are you, Tammie?

Well, sir, thankee.

And glad I am to see you out again,

looking so wonderful strong too.

I'm feeling better. Trevor.

Mr. Philip.

What's the matter with the tree, dead?

No, sir. We're moving it to the old orchard.

It's getting so big, it's dropping its seed

over the fence into the meadow.

I don't want the cattle to get hold of any.

Laburnum seeds. Poison, you know.

Did you know they grow in Italy too?

- Really, sir? - Yes, I remember now.

I saw several on Mrs. Ashley's grounds in Florence.

Must be wonderful climate.

I can understand the mistress wishing to return there.

But she doesn't anymore.

No, sir? I'm glad to hear that.

We hear different.

That she was just waiting to see you get well again before she went.

No, this is to be her home from now on.

- Have you seen her this morning? - Not this morning, sir.

Good morning, Corbett.

Oh, Mr. Ashley, sir.

I must say, it's good to see you out and around again, sir.

Thank you very much, indeed. How's it coming along?

Well enough, I suppose, sir,

but it's going to be more of an undertaking than we thought.

How's that?

The underpinnings are rotten, sir. They'll have to be replaced.

Can you brace it for the time being?

We can on Monday, sir, when we get more timber up here,

but meanwhile,

you should warn everyone in the house not to use it.

That's a long drop down there to those rocks, sir.

I will, though nobody ever uses it anyway.

Did you tell Mrs. Ashley?

I haven't seen her, sir.

I expected her, but she hasn't been round here this morning.

Oh. I'll tell her.

Addio, caro Guido.

Thank you.

- Good evening, Seecombe. - Good evening, ma'am.

Philip, dear, I'm so pleased to see you down here.

Not only down here but about on the grounds too.

- Alone? - Yes. I looked for you.

I'm terribly sorry. I went into Bodmin to do some shopping.

- I should have told you. - Bodmin?

Yes, I needed some lace.

But I thought you said Plymouth.

I'm sorry, sir.

I had it from Wellington,

who thought that it was to be Plymouth again.

I tried Plymouth last week. I couldn't find what I wanted.

What about the headache?

None today. Not the least sign of one.

- Oh, I'm so glad. - First day this week without one.

Perhaps they're all gone at last.

I hope so.

I heard some gossip today that I don't quite like.

What are they saying now?

That you're going back to Florence.

Of course, but not till you're well.

You mean you're going back to sell the villa?

Oh, no, there's no need to do that now.

I can afford to keep it now.

Then why would you be going?

Can't we wait until you're better to discuss that?

You mean you want to spend the winter there?

Possibly. Or the late summer.

There's a good deal of work piled up here since I've been ill.

I don't know that I should leave here as soon as that.

Well, I don't know that you should either,

but you might like to come down in the spring for a visit.

I must still be somewhat slow-witted,

but is that how you expect us to live

with long separations and visits?

Please, Philip.

I've asked you not to talk about the future yet.

We still have all the time in the world for that.

But I promise you I'll not leave here until you're entirely well.

Why should you leave here at all? This is your home now.

So is Florence.

That's where most of my friends are and my villa

and a certain life that I'm more accustomed to actually

than the life here.

I'm sure you must understand that I can't help but miss it.

I suppose so.

I just hadn't thought of it like that.

I find I... am a little tired after all.

You poor dear. Of course you are.

Come on. We'll go up together.

This is our home really. Our true home.

Don't you feel that?

It's a warm and comfortable room.

Someday we must set a metal plate on the wall here.

"Here Philip Ashley first set eyes on his cousin Rachel."

I think you should go now.

Come here.

Why must I, ever?

Please, Philip.

My room is all the lonelier for being so near you here.

Don't you think we could tell them now?

Tell them what?

That we're married now.

But we're not, Philip.

- Not what? - We're not married.

But of course we're married.

On my birthday.

You can't have forgotten.

It is true, isn't it?

It would have been better if you'd let me die.

Don't say things like that. They destroy me too.

Why didn't you tell me?

I couldn't, not while you were so ill and weak.

You'll understand, I'm sure, when you're well.

And it won't seem so important then.

Summer will be coming soon, and you'll swim and sail in the bay,

and you'll be back about your work again.

And in a little while, everything will seem to you

the same as it was before I came.

You really believe that?

If I didn't,

I don't think I should ever have another moment's peace of mind.

Is it Rainaldi?

No, Philip.

I know it is. It's always been Rainaldi.

Let's not go through all that again.

And Ambrose knew it too.

You have no right to pry into such matters,

but I'll answer you nevertheless,

just as I answered Ambrose, who hated him too.

Guido's a friend who's seen me through every trial and trouble,

who's never misjudged me

or tried to see me as other than I am.

He knows all my faults and weaknesses,

but has never condemned me for them,

and without his help, I should have been lost time and again.

He's my only true friend, but friend only.

I'd better leave now, don't you think?

After this, could there be anything but unhappiness for both of us?

Where is he now?

Guido?

In Florence, I imagine.

When have you ever told me anything,

any single word since you came into this house,

but lies?

Who's that?

Thank you, Seecombe.

One of many advantages of being in service, Seecombe,

is that you're not called upon to listen

to a scolding from the pulpit every Sunday morning.

How do you feel this morning?

Better, thank you.

Good to see you on your feet, Philip.

There's whiskey in the library, Nick.

Thank you, my dear.

I'm leaving this evening, Philip.

There's a vessel sailing in the morning,

and I've booked passage on it.

Don't you think we might be friends for these last few hours?

Of course, we must be.

There's an Italian saying that Ambrose loved.

Remember only the happy hours.

That, I think, is the way it should be with us.

It's a beautiful thought.

And in spite of everything, we've had many together, haven't we?

The very happiest.

Let me kiss you.

There are still moments when I could swear

that Ambrose lives all over again in you.

Thank you.

My dear Philip. How much better you do look.

Thank you.

So he does, by George.

The last time I saw him, he looked quite green.

- How do you feel? - Ever so much better, thank you.

Ah, that's splendid, splendid. Come, my dear, come, come.

My dear Louise.

Are you sure you're quite up to all this?

It's precisely what I need— all my old friends again.

Good.

Louise.

Are you staying to dinner?

Nobody is.

The vicar's got his service, and Father's going down to the farm.

Then you must make some excuse to stay here.

I want to see you alone. It's very important.

- I'll arrange it. - Come on, you two.

Time enough for that when I'm gone.

This is my last Sunday here,

and I want it to be as happy as my first,

with only Philip's and Ambrose's dearest friends around me.

Have they gone?

All but Miss Louise, sir.

Wellington can drive me home later, can't he?

Of course.

- You read Italian, don't you? - Yes, but not very well, I'm afraid.

There's a letter in Italian that I want you to read for me if I can find it.

They're very dear people, particularly Nick,

and I'm going to miss them more than I can say.

- This is for you, Louise. - What is it?

My special tisane for Philip.

I want you to watch how I make it.

The English way, if there should be an English way,

which I rather doubt, is to use peeled barley.

I brought my own dried herbs from Florence.

If you like the taste, I'll leave some of them here for you too.

In Florence I used to brew my tisane in my room

and let it stand for a while.

Then Ambrose and I would go out into the courtyard

and sit, the fountain playing,

and it was very pleasant and peaceful sipping it slowly

while the water dripped into the pool,

often until after midnight.

Thank you.

I wonder if we couldn't make just such a pleasant place in the sunken garden

where we might sit in the afternoons?

If I could find another little statue

- like the one in the courtyard— - No, thank you.

Now, Philip, really.

You can't refuse this last cup with me.

It's your own brew.

You drink it for me.

No.

It's a pity to waste it,

but mine's already poured and flavored to my taste.

Yes, Seecombe?

The man from the bank is here, ma'am.

Oh, yes. Show him into the office.

Yes, ma'am.

- Will you excuse me for a moment? - Of course.

I have this one last paper to sign.

It's a letter from Rainaldi.

I'm certain it's in her room somewhere.

I have no idea how it can be managed,

but I should like desperately to get hold of that letter and read it.

Why? What's happened?

I haven't the time to explain,

but I'm convinced now that Ambrose was right.

She not only murdered him, but she's done her best to kill me too.

But, Philip, you can't be serious.

Every word you uttered in the church that afternoon was the truth,

and with that letter I'm positive I can prove it.

But not murder, surely.

How else could she marry her lover

and still keep possession of the estate?

Wasn't that the particular point you were intending to be sure about?

You're in a very bad humor today,

and I'd like to think it's because I'm leaving.

In any case, I can't go away

without trying to do something for your sulkiness.

What is it?

A mixture for your tisane, and I want your promise

that you'll take it tonight before going to bed.

Will you?

- If you insist. - I do.

It's helped you before, and it'll help you again.

Now, who'll walk with me to the sunken garden?

I've just thought of a little statue I can get in Florence,

and I want to make sure in my mind how it'd look from the other side.

If you don't mind, Louise must leave in a few minutes,

and I promised to show her an old map of the estate

that someone brought to Seecombe yesterday.

Of course.

You should.

Come on.

Stand by the window and watch.

- I'll find that letter if I have to— - I'm frightened, Philip.

Unless, of course, she's destroyed it.

Rainaldi's been here all the time, you know. In Plymouth.

She's been seeing him for weeks.

She lied about that just as she's been lying about...

Here's an odd one.

It's a receipt from the bank.

She sent them back the jewelry collection.

Then she's not taking it with her.

Very clever of her.

- Did you look all through the desk? - Of course.

Have you looked in the blotter?

Here. It's in English.

What does it say?

"Rachel, love, my ship sails Saturday midnight.

If I don't see you again before then,

I leave defeated but with no reproaches.

I shall continue to serve you with love and friendship as long as I shall live.

As for that boy,

if he is so much in your heart that you cannot bear to leave him,

by all means bring him back to Florence with you,

and we'll— we'll nurse him back to health.

Guido."

Oh, my God!

What is it, Philip? What have you done?

You know the bell rope at the foot of the stairs to call the men in?

- Yes. - Go and pull it. Ring it hard.

If something's happened, I may need help!

I'm coming, darling. I'm coming!

Rachel, darling.

Please, please.

Rachel. Rachel!

Why did you do it?

Blessed Rachel,

onlyyou can know now this burden

that I must carry to the end ofmy days,

this question that I must ask myselfagain and again

every day ofmy life,

never to be answered now until we meet at last in purgatory.

Were you innocent, or were you guilty?

Rachel, my torment,

my blessed, blessed torment.