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´╗┐Title: The Cardinal's Snuff-Box
Author: Harland, Henry, 1861-1905
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Cardinal's Snuff-Box" ***

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THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX

By Henry Harland



I


"The Signorino will take coffee?" old Marietta asked, as she set the
fruit before him.

Peter deliberated for a moment; then burned his ships.

"Yes," he answered.

"But in the garden, perhaps?" the little brown old woman suggested, with
a persuasive flourish.

"No," he corrected her, gently smiling, and shaking his head, "not
perhaps--certainly."

Her small, sharp old black Italian eyes twinkled, responsive.

"The Signorino will find a rustic table, under the big willow-tree, at
the water's edge," she informed him, with a good deal of gesture. "Shall
I serve it there?"

"Where you will. I leave myself entirely in your hands," he said.

So he sat by the rustic table, on a rustic bench, under the willow,
sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette, and gazed in contemplation at
the view.

Of its kind, it was rather a striking view.

In the immediate foreground--at his feet, indeed--there was the river,
the narrow Aco, peacock-green, a dark file of poplars on either bank,
rushing pell-mell away from the quiet waters of the lake. Then, just
across the river, at his left, stretched the smooth lawns of the park of
Ventirose, with glimpses of the many-pinnacled castle through the trees;
and, beyond, undulating country, flourishing, friendly, a perspective of
vineyards, cornfields, groves, and gardens, pointed by numberless white
villas. At his right loomed the gaunt mass of the Gnisi, with its black
forests, its bare crags, its foaming ascade, and the crenelated range of
the Cornobastone; and finally, climax and cynosure, at the valley's
end, Monte Sfiorito, its three snow-covered summits almost
insubstantial-seeming, floating forms of luminous pink vapour, in the
evening sunshine, against the intense blue of the sky.

A familiar verse had come into Peter's mind, and kept running there
obstinately.

"Really," he said to himself, "feature for feature, down to the very
'cataract leaping in glory,' the scene might have been got up, apres
coup, to illustrate it." And he began to repeat the beautiful hackneyed
words, under his breath....

But about midway of the third line he was interrupted.



II

"It's not altogether a bad sort of view--is it?" some one said, in
English.

The voice was a woman's. It was clear and smooth; it was crisp-cut,
distinguished.

Peter glanced about him.

On the opposite bank of the Aco, in the grounds of Ventirose, five or
six yards away, a lady was standing, looking at him, smiling.

Peter's eyes met hers, took in her face.... And suddenly his heart gave
a jump. Then it stopped dead still, tingling, for a second. Then it flew
off, racing perilously.--Oh, for reasons--for the best reasons in the
world: but thereby hangs my tale.

She was a young woman, tall, slender, in a white frock, with a white
cloak, an indescribable complexity of soft lace and airy ruffles, round
her shoulders. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow,
sparkled, where it caught the light, in a kind of crinkly iridescence,
like threads of glass.

Peter's heart (for the best reasons in the world) was racing perilously.
"It's impossible--impossible--impossible"--the words strummed themselves
to its rhythm. Peter's wits (for had not the impossible come to pass?)
were in a perilous confusion. But he managed to rise from his rustic
bench, and to achieve a bow.

She inclined her head graciously.

"You do not think it altogether bad--I hope?" she questioned, in her
crisp-cut voice, raising her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little
assumption of solicitude.

Peter's wits were in confusion; but he must answer her. An automatic
second-self, summoned by the emergency, answered for him.

"I think one might safely call it altogether good."

"Oh--?" she exclaimed.

Her eyebrows went up again, but now they expressed a certain whimsical
surprise. She threw back her head, and regarded the prospect critically.

"It is not, then, too spectacular, too violent?" she wondered, returning
her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to defer to his
opinion. "Not too much like a decor de theatre?"

"One should judge it," his automatic second-self submitted, "with some
leniency. It is, after all, only unaided Nature."

A spark flickered in her eyes, while she appeared to ponder. (But I am
not sure whether she was pondering the speech or its speaker.)

"Really?" she said, in the end. "Did did Nature build the villas, and
plant the cornfields?"

But his automatic second-self was on its mettle.

"Yes," it asserted boldly; "the kind of men who build villas and plant
cornfields must be classified as natural forces."

She gave a light little laugh--and again appeared to ponder for a
moment.

Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an
interrogative brightening of the eyes, "Mr. Marchdale no doubt?" she
hazarded.

Peter bowed.

"I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect," she went
on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito. "I"--there was the
briefest suspension--"I am your landlady."

For a third time Peter bowed, a rather more elaborate bow than his
earlier ones, a bow of respectful enlightenment, of feudal homage.

"You arrived this afternoon?" she conjectured.

"By the five-twenty-five from Bergamo," said he.

"A very convenient train," she remarked; and then, in the pleasantest
manner, whereby the unusual mode of valediction was carried off, "Good
evening."

"Good evening," responded Peter, and accomplished his fourth bow.

She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the trees,
towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the surrounding
green.

Peter stood still, looking after her.

But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic bench, like
a man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh. He was absurdly pale.
All the same, clenching his fists, and softly pounding the table with
them, he muttered exultantly, between his teeth, "What luck! What
incredible luck! It's she--it's she, as I 'm a heathen. Oh, what
supernatural luck!"



III


Old Marietta--the bravest of small figures, in her neat black-and-white
peasant dress, with her silver ornaments, and her red silk coif and
apron--came for the coffee things.

But at sight of Peter, she abruptly halted. She struck an attitude of
alarm. She fixed him with her fiery little black eyes.

"The Signorino is not well!" she cried, in the tones of one launching a
denunciation.

Peter roused himself.

"Er--yes--I 'm pretty well, thank you," he reassured her. "I--I 'm only
dying," he added, sweetly, after an instant's hesitation.

"Dying--!" echoed Marietta, wild, aghast.

"Ah, but you can save my life--you come in the very nick of time," he
said. "I'm dying of curiosity--dying to know something that you can tell
me."

Her stare dissolved, her attitude relaxed. She smiled--relief, rebuke.
She shook her finger at him.

"Ah, the Signorino gave me a fine fright," she said.

"A thousand regrets," said Peter. "Now be a succouring angel, and make a
clean breast of it. Who is my landlady?"

Marietta drew back a little. Her brown old visage wrinkled up,
perplexed.

"Who is the Signorino's landlady?" she repeated.

"Ang," said he, imitating the characteristic nasalised eh of Italian
affirmation, and accompanying it by the characteristic Italian jerk of
the head.

Marietta eyed him, still perplexed--even (one might have fancied) a bit
suspicious.

"But is it not in the Signorino's lease?" she asked, with caution.

"Of course it is," said he. "That's just the point. Who is she?"

"But if it is in your lease!" she expostulated.

"All the more reason why you should make no secret of it," he argued
plausibly. "Come! Out with it! Who is my landlady?"

Marietta exchanged a glance with heaven.

"The Signorino's landlady is the Duchessa di Santangiolo," she answered,
in accents of resignation.

But then the name seemed to stimulate her; and she went on "She lives
there--at Castel Ventirose." Marietta pointed towards the castle. "She
owns all, all this country, all these houses--all, all." Marietta joined
her brown old hands together, and separated them, like a swimmer, in a
gesture that swept the horizon. Her eyes snapped.

"All Lombardy?" said Peter, without emotion.

Marietta stared again.

"All Lombardy? Mache!" was her scornful remonstrance. "Nobody owns all
Lombardy. All these lands, these houses."

"Who is she?" Peter asked.

Marietta's eyes blinked, in stupefaction before such stupidity.

"But I have just told you," she cried "She is the Duchessa di
Santangiolo."

"Who is the Duchessa di Santangiolo?" he asked.

Marietta, blinking harder, shrugged her shoulders.

"But"--she raised her voice, screamed almost, as to one deaf--"but the
Duchessa di Santangiolo is the Signorino's landlady la, proprietaria di
tutte queste terre, tutte queste case, tutte, tutte."

And she twice, with some violence, reacted her comprehensive gesture,
like a swimmer's.

"You evade me by a vicious circle," Peter murmured.

Marietta made a mighty effort-brought all her faculties to a
focus--studied Peter's countenance intently. Her own was suddenly
illumined.

"Ah, I understand," she proclaimed, vigorously nodding. "The Signorino
desires to know who she is personally!"

"I express myself in obscure paraphrases," said he; "but you, with
your unfailing Italian simpatia, have divined the exact shade of my
intention."

"She is the widow of the Duca di Santangiolo," said Marietta.

"Enfin vous entrez dans la voie des aveux," said Peter.

"Scusi?" said Marietta.

"I am glad to hear she's a widow," said he. "She--she might strike a
casual observer as somewhat young, for a widow."

"She is not very old," agreed Marietta; "only twenty-six, twenty-seven.
She was married from the convent. That was eight, nine years ago. The
Duca has been dead five or six."

"And was he also young and lovely?"

Peter asked.

"Young and lovely! Mache!" derided Marietta. "He was past forty. He was
fat. But he was a good man."

"So much the better for him now," said Peter.

"Gia," approved Marietta, and solemnly made the Sign of the Cross.

"But will you have the kindness to explain to me," the young man
continued, "how it happens that the Duchessa di Santangiolo speaks
English as well as I do?"

The old woman frowned surprise.

"Come? She speaks English?"

"For all the world like an Englishman," asseverated Peter.

"Ah, well," Marietta reflected, "she was English, you know."

"Oho!" exclaimed Peter. "She was English! Was she?" He bore a little on
the tense of the verb. "That lets in a flood of light. And--and what, by
the bye, is she now?" he questioned.

"Ma! Italian, naturally, since she married the Duca," Marietta replied.

"Indeed? Then the leopard can change his spots?" was Peter's inference.

"The leopard?" said Marietta, at a loss.

"If the Devil may quote Scripture for his purpose, why may n't I?"
Peter demanded. "At all events, the Duchessa di Santangiolo is a very
beautiful woman."

"The Signorino has seen her?" Marietta asked.

"I have grounds for believing so. An apparition--a phantom of
delight--appeared on the opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco, and
announced herself as my landlady. Of course, she may have been an
impostor--but she made no attempt to get the rent. A tall woman, in
white, with hair, and a figure, and a voice like cooling streams, and an
eye that can speak volumes with a look."

Marietta nodded recognition.

"That would be the Duchessa."

"She's a very beautiful duchessa," reiterated Peter.

Marietta was Italian. So, Italian--wise, she answered, "We are all as
God makes us."

"For years I have thought her the most beautiful woman in Europe," Peter
averred.

Marietta opened her eyes wide.

"For years? The Signorino knows her? The Signorino has seen her before?"

A phrase came back to him from a novel he had been reading that
afternoon in the train. He adapted it to the occasion.

"I rather think she is my long-lost brother."

"Brother--?" faltered Marietta.

"Well, certainly not sister," said Peter, with determination. "You have
my permission to take away the coffee things."



IV


Up at the castle, in her rose-and-white boudoir, Beatrice was writing a
letter to a friend in England.

"Villa Floriano," she wrote, among other words, "has been let to an
Englishman--a youngish, presentable-looking creature, in a dinner
jacket, with a tongue in his head, and an indulgent eye for
Nature--named Peter Marchdale. Do you happen by any chance to know who
he is, or anything about him?"



V


Peter very likely slept but little, that first night at the villa; and
more than once, I fancy, he repeated to his pillow his pious ejaculation
of the afternoon: "What luck! What supernatural luck!" He was up, in
any case, at an unconscionable hour next morning, up, and down in his
garden.

"It really is a surprisingly jolly garden," he confessed. "The agent was
guiltless of exaggeration, and the photographs were not the perjuries
one feared."

There were some fine old trees, lindens, acacias, chestnuts, a
flat-topped Lombardy pine, a darkling ilex, besides the willow that
overhung the river, and the poplars that stiffly stood along its border.
Then there was the peacock-blue river itself, dancing and singing as it
sped away, with a thousand diamonds flashing on its surface--floating,
sinking, rising--where the sun caught its ripples. There were some
charming bits of greensward. There was a fountain, plashing melodious
coolness, in a nimbus of spray which the sun touched to rainbow
pinks and yellows. There were vivid parterres of flowers, begonia and
geranium. There were oleanders, with their heady southern perfume; there
were pomegranate-blossoms, like knots of scarlet crepe; there were
white carnations, sweet-peas, heliotrope, mignonette; there were endless
roses. And there were birds, birds, birds. Everywhere you heard their
joyous piping, the busy flutter of their wings. There were goldfinches,
blackbirds, thrushes, with their young--the plumpest, clumsiest,
ruffle-feathered little blunderers, at the age ingrat, just beginning to
fly, a terrible anxiety to their parents--and there were also (I regret
to own) a good many rowdy sparrows. There were bees and bumblebees;
there were brilliant, dangerous-looking dragonflies; there were
butterflies, blue ones and white ones, fluttering in couples; there were
also (I am afraid) a good many gadflies--but che volete? Who minds
a gadfly or two in Italy? On the other side of the house there were
fig-trees and peach-trees, and artichokes holding their heads high in
rigid rows; and a vine, heavy with great clusters of yellow grapes, was
festooned upon the northern wall.

The morning air was ineffably sweet and keen--penetrant, tonic, with
moist, racy smells, the smell of the good brown earth, the smell of
green things and growing things. The dew was spread over the grass like
a veil of silver gossamer, spangled with crystals. The friendly country
westward, vineyards and white villas, laughed in the sun at the Gnisi,
sulking black in shadow to the east. The lake lay deep and still, a
dark sapphire. And away at the valley's end, Monte Sfiorito, always
insubstantial-seeming, showed pale blue-grey, upon a sky in which still
lingered some of the flush of dawn.

It was a surprisingly jolly garden, true enough. But though Peter
remained in it all day long--though he haunted the riverside, and cast
a million desirous glances, between the trees, and up the lawns, towards
Castel Ventirose--he enjoyed no briefest vision of the Duchessa di
Santangiolo.

Nor the next day; nor the next.

"Why does n't that old dowager ever come down and look after her river?"
he asked Marietta. "For all the attention she gives it, the water might
be undermining her property on both sides."

"That old dowager--?" repeated Marietta, blank.

"That old widow woman--my landlady--the Duchessa Vedova di Santangiolo."

"She is not very old--only twenty-six, twenty-seven," said Marietta.

"Don't try to persuade me that she is n't old enough to know better,"
retorted Peter, sternly.

"But she has her guards, her keepers, to look after her property," said
Marietta.

"Guards and keepers are mere mercenaries. If you want a thing well done,
you should do it yourself," said Peter, with gloomy sententiousness.

On Sunday he went to the little grey rococo parish church. There were
two Masses, one at eight o'clock, one at ten--and the church was quite
a mile from Villa Floriano, and up a hill; and the Italian sun was
hot--but the devoted young man went to both.

The Duchessa was at neither.

"What does she think will become of her immortal soul?" he asked
Marietta.

On Monday he went to the pink-stuccoed village post-office.

Before the post-office door a smart little victoria, with a pair
of sprightly, fine-limbed French bays, was drawn up, ducal coronets
emblazoned on its panels.

Peter's heart began to beat.

And while he was hesitating on the doorstep, the door opened, and
the Duchessa came forth--tall, sumptuous, in white, with a wonderful
black-plumed hat, and a wonderful white-frilled sunshade. She was
followed by a young girl--a pretty, dark-complexioned girl, of fourteen,
fifteen perhaps, with pleasant brown eyes (that lucent Italian brown),
and in her cheeks a pleasant hint of red (that covert Italian red, which
seems to glow through the thinnest film of satin).

Peter bowed, standing aside to let them pass.

But when he looked up, the Duchessa had stopped, and was smiling on him.

His heart beat harder.

"A lovely day," said the Duchessa.

"Delightful," agreed Peter, between two heart-beats.--Yet he looked, in
his grey flannels, with his straw-hat and his eyeglass, with his lean
face, his even colour, his slightly supercilious moustaches--he looked a
very embodiment of cool-blooded English equanimity.

"A trifle warm, perhaps?" the Duchessa suggested, with her air of polite
(or was it in some part humorous?) readiness to defer to his opinion.

"But surely," suggested he, "in Italy, in summer, it is its bounden duty
to be a trifle warm?"

The Duchessa smiled.

"You like it? So do I. But what the country really needs is rain."

"Then let us hope," said he, "that the country's real needs may remain
unsatisfied."

The Duchessa tittered.

"Think of the poor farmers," she said reproachfully.

"It's vain to think of them," he answered. "'T is an ascertained fact
that no condition of the weather ever contents the farmers."

The Duchessa laughed.

"Ah, well," she consented, "then I 'll join in your hope that the fine
weather may last. I--I trust," she was so good as to add, "that you're
not entirely uncomfortable at Villa Floriano?"

"I dare n't allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano," he replied. "I
should become dithyrambic. It's too adorable."

"It has a pretty garden, and--I remember--you admired the view," the
Duchessa said. "And that old Marietta? I trust she does for you fairly
well?" Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some part
humorous?) concern.

"She does for me to perfection. That old Marietta is a priceless old
jewel," Peter vowed.

"A good cook?" questioned the Duchessa.

"A good cook--but also a counsellor and friend. And with a flow of
language!"

The Duchessa laughed again.

"Oh, these Lombard peasant women. They are untiring chatterers."

"I 'm not sure," Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, "that
Marietta is n't equally untiring as a listener. In fact, there's only
one respect in which she has disappointed me."

"Oh--?" said the Duchessa. And her raised eyebrows demanded particulars.

"She swears she does n't wear a dagger in her garter--has never heard of
such a practice," Peter explained. "And now," he whispered to his soul,
"we 'll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature."

Still again the Duchessa laughed. And, apparently, she was up in modern
literature. At any rate--

"Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast," she reminded him.
"We are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea. But you had best be on
your guard, none the less." She shook her head, in warning. "Through all
this country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a witch."

"If she's a witch," said Peter, undismayed, "her usefulness will be
doubled. I shall put her to the test directly I get home."

"Sprinkle her with holy water?" laughed the Duchessa. "Have a care. If
she should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you'd
never forgive yourself."

Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young companion.

The sprightly French bays tossed their heads, making the harness tinkle.
The footman mounted the box. The carriage rolled away.

But Peter remained for quite a minute motionless on the door-step,
gazing, bemused, down the long, straight, improbable village street,
with its poplars, its bridge, its ancient stone cross, its irregular
pink and yellow houses--as improbable as a street in opera-bouffe. A
thin cloud of dust floated after the carriage, a thin screen of white
dust, which, in the sun, looked like a fume of silver.

"I think I could put my finger on a witch worth two of Marietta," he
said, in the end. "And thus we see," he added, struck by something
perhaps not altogether novel in his own reflection, "how the primary
emotions, being perennial, tend to express themselves in perennial
formulae."



VI


Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed
young girl might have been.

"The Signorina Emilia," Marietta promptly informed him.

"Really and truly?" questioned he.

"Ang," affirmed Marietta, with the national jerk of the head; "the
Signorina Emilia Manfredi--the daughter of the Duca."

"Oh--? Then the Duca was married before?" concluded Peter, with
simplicity.

"Che-e-e!" scoffed Marietta, on her highest note. "Married? He?" Then
she winked and nodded--as one man of the world to another. "Ma molto
porn! La mamma fu robaccia di Milano. But after his death, the Duchessa
had her brought to the castle. She is the same as adopted."

"That looks as if your Duchessa's heart were in the right place, after
all," commented Peter.

"Gia," agreed Marietta.

"Hang the right place!" cried he. "What's the good of telling me her
heart is in the right place, if the right place is inaccessible?"

But Marietta only looked bewildered.

He lived in his garden, he haunted the riverside, he made a daily
pilgrimage to the village post, he thoroughly neglected the work he had
come to this quiet spot to do. But a week passed, during which he never
once beheld so much as the shadow of the Duchessa.

On Sunday he trudged his mile, through the sun, and up the hill, not
only to both Masses, but to Vespers and Benediction.

She was present at none of these offices.

"The Pagan!" he exclaimed.



VII


Up at the castle, on the broad marble terrace, where clematis and
jessamine climbed over the balustrade and twined about its pilasters,
where oleanders grew in tall marble urns and shed their roseate petals
on the pavement, Beatrice, dressed for dinner, in white, with pearls in
her hair, and pearls round her throat, was walking slowly backwards and
forwards, reading a letter.

"There is a Peter Marchdale--I don't know whether he will be your Peter
Marchdale or not, my dear; though the name seems hardly likely to be
common--son of the late Mr. Archibald Marchdale, Q. C., and nephew of
old General Marchdale, of Whitstoke. A highly respectable and stodgy
Norfolk family. I've never happened to meet the man myself, but I'm
told he's a bit of an eccentric, who amuses himself globe-trotting, and
writing books (novels, I believe) which nobody, so far as I am aware,
ever reads. He writes under a pseudonym, Felix--I 'm not sure whether
it's Mildmay or Wildmay. He began life, by the bye, in the Diplomatic,
and was attache for a while at Berlin, or Petersburg, or somewhere; but
whether (in the elegant language of Diplomacy) he 'chucked it up,' or
failed to pass his exams, I'm not in a position to say. He will be near
thirty, and ought to have a couple of thousand a year--more or less.
His father, at any rate, was a great man at the bar, and must have left
something decent. And the only other thing in the world I know about
him is that he's a great friend of that clever gossip Margaret
Winchfield--which goes to show that however obscure he may be as a
scribbler of fiction, he must possess some redeeming virtues as a social
being--for Mrs. Winchfield is by no means the sort that falls in love
with bores. As you 're not, either--well, verbum sap., as my little
brother Freddie says."

Beatrice gazed off, over the sunny lawn, with its trees and their
long shadows, with its shrubberies, its bright flower-beds, its marble
benches, its artificial ruin; over the lake, with its coloured sails,
its incongruous puffing steamboats; down the valley, away to the rosy
peaks of Monte Sfiorito, and the deep blue sky behind them. She plucked
a spray of jessamine, and brushed the cool white blossoms across her
cheek, and inhaled their fairy fragrance.

"An obscure scribbler of fiction," she mused. "Ah, well, one is an
obscure reader of fiction oneself. We must send to London for Mr. Felix
Mildmay Wildmay's works."



VIII


On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit before
him, "The Signorino will take coffee?" old Marietta asked.

Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches--

    "Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches"--

ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a central
heap of translucent yellow grapes.

"Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?" he demanded.

"Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree," replied Marietta.

"Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?" he enquired.

"No, Signorino," said Marietta.

"Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not," said he.

"It is n't Nature," was Marietta's confident generalisation.

"Marietta Cignolesi," Peter pronounced severely, looking her hard in the
eyes, "I am told you are a witch."

"No," said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.

"I quite understand," he genially persisted. "It's a part of the game
to deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you with holy water-so
don't be frightened. Besides, if you should do anything outrageous--if
you should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, for
example--I could never forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ
a little of your witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost
something--something very precious--more precious than rubies--more
precious than fine gold."

Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.

"In the villa? In the garden?" she exclaimed, anxiously.

"No, you conscientious old thing you," Peter hastened to relieve her.
"Nowhere in your jurisdiction--so don't distress yourself: Laggiu,
laggiu."

And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space.

"The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,"
counselled this Catholic witch.

"St. Anthony of Padua? Why of Padua?" asked Peter.

"St. Anthony of Padua," said Marietta.

"You mean of Lisbon," corrected Peter.

"No," insisted the old woman, with energy. "St. Anthony of Padua."

"But he was born in Lisbon;" insisted Peter.

"No," said Marietta.

"Yes," said he, "parola d' onore. And, what's more to the purpose, he
died in Lisbon. You clearly mean St. Anthony of Lisbon."

"No!" Marietta raised her voice, for his speedier conviction. "There is
no St. Anthony of Lisbon. St. Anthony of Padua."

"What's the use of sticking to your guns in that obstinate fashion?"
Peter complained. "It's mere pride of opinion. Don't you know that the
ready concession of minor points is a part of the grace of life?"

"When you lose an object, you put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,"
said Marietta, weary but resolved.

"Not unless you wish to recover the object," contended Peter.

Marietta stared at him, blinking.

"I have no wish to recover the object I have lost," he continued
blandly. "The loss of it is a new, thrilling, humanising experience.
It will make a man of me--and, let us hope, a better man. Besides, in
a sense, I lost it long ago--'when first my smitten eyes beat full
on her,' one evening at the Francais, three, four years ago. But it's
essential to my happiness that I should see the person into whose
possession it has fallen. That is why I am not angry with you for being
a witch. It suits my convenience. Please arrange with the powers of
darkness to the end that I may meet the person in question tomorrow
at the latest. No!" He raised a forbidding hand. "I will listen to
no protestations. And, for the rest, you may count upon my absolute
discretion.

           'She is the darling of my heart
            And she lives in our valley,'"

he carolled softly.

           "E del mio cuore la carina,
            E dimor' nella nostra vallettina,"

he obligingly translated. "But for all the good I get of her, she might
as well live on the top of the Cornobastone," he added dismally. "Yes,
now you may bring me my coffee--only, let it be tea. When your coffee is
coffee it keeps me awake at night."

Marietta trudged back to her kitchen, nodding at the sky.

The next afternoon, however, the Duchessa di Santangiolo appeared on the
opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco.



IX


Peter happened to be engaged in the amiable pastime of tossing
bread-crumbs to his goldfinches.

But a score or so of sparrows, vulture-like, lurked under cover of the
neighbouring foliage, to dash in viciously, at the critical moment, and
snatch the food from the finches' very mouths.

The Duchessa watched this little drama for a minute, smiling, in silent
meditation: while Peter--who, for a wonder, had his back turned to the
park of Ventirose, and, for a greater wonder still perhaps, felt no
pricking in his thumbs--remained unconscious of her presence.

At last, sorrowfully, (but there was always a smile at the back of her
eyes), she shook her head.

"Oh, the pirates, the daredevils," she sighed.

Peter started; faced about; saluted.

"The brigands," said she, with a glance towards the sparrows' outposts.

"Yes, poor things," said he.

"Poor things?" cried she, indignant. "The unprincipled little monsters!"

"They can't help it," he pleaded for them. "'It is their nature to.'
They were born so. They had no choice."

"You actually defend them!" she marvelled, rebukefully.

"Oh, dear, no," he disclaimed. "I don't defend them. I defend nothing.
I merely recognise and accept. Sparrows--finches. It's the way of the
world--the established division of the world."

She frowned incomprehension.

"The established division of the world--?"

"Exactly," said he. "Sparrows--finches the snatchers and the
snatched-from. Everything that breathes is either a sparrow or a finch.
'T is the universal war--the struggle for existence--the survival of
the most unscrupulous. 'T is a miniature presentment of what's going on
everywhere in earth and sky."

She shook her head again.

"YOU see the earth and sky through black spectacles, I 'm afraid,"
she remarked, with a long face. But there was still an underglow of
amusement in her eyes.

"No," he answered, "because there's a compensation. As you rise in the
scale of moral development, it is true, you pass from the category of
the snatchers to the category of the snatched-from, and your ultimate
extinction is assured. But, on the other hand, you gain talents and
sensibilities. You do not live by bread alone. These goldfinches, for a
case in point, can sing--and they have your sympathy. The sparrows
can only make a horrid noise--and you contemn them. That is the
compensation. The snatchers can never know the joy of singing--or of
being pitied by ladies."

"N... o, perhaps not," she consented doubtfully. The underglow of
amusement in her eyes shone nearer to the surface. "But--but they can
never know, either, the despair of the singer when his songs won't
come."

"Or when the ladies are pitiless. That is true," consented Peter.

"And meanwhile they get the bread, crumbs," she said.

"They certainly get the bread-crumbs," he admitted.

"I 'm afraid "--she smiled, as one who has conducted a syllogism
safely to its conclusion--"I 'm afraid I do not think your compensation
compensates."

"To be quite honest, I daresay it does n't," he confessed.

"And anyhow"--she followed her victory up--"I should not wish my garden
to represent the universal war. I should not wish my garden to be a
battle-field. I should wish it to be a retreat from the battle--an abode
of peace--a happy valley--a sanctuary for the snatched-from."

"But why distress one's soul with wishes that are vain?" asked he. "What
could one do?"

"One could keep a dragon," she answered promptly. "If I were you, I
should keep a sparrow-devouring, finch-respecting dragon."

"It would do no good," said he. "You'd get rid of one species of
snatcher, but some other species of snatcher would instantly pop UP."

She gazed at him with those amused eyes of hers, and still again,
slowly, sorrowfully, shook her head.

"Oh, your spectacles are black--black," she murmured.

"I hope not," said he; "but such as they are, they show me the
inevitable conditions of our planet. The snatcher, here below, is
ubiquitous and eternal--as ubiquitous, as eternal, as the force of
gravitation. He is likewise protean. Banish him--he takes half a minute
to change his visible form, and returns au galop. Sometimes he's an
ugly little cacophonous brown sparrow; sometimes he's a splendid florid
money-lender, or an aproned and obsequious greengrocer, or a trusted
friend, hearty and familiar. But he 's always there; and he's always--if
you don't mind the vernacular--'on the snatch.'"

The Duchessa arched her eyebrows.

"If things are really at such a sorry pass," she said, "I will commend
my former proposal to you with increased confidence. You should keep a
dragon. After all, you only wish to protect your garden; and that"--she
embraced it with her glance--"is not so very big. You could teach
your dragon, if you procured one of an intelligent breed, to devour
greengrocers, trusted friends, and even moneylenders too (tough though
no doubt they are), as well as sparrows."

"Your proposal is a surrender to my contention," said Peter. "You would
set a snatcher to catch the snatchers. Other heights in other lives,
perhaps. But in the dark backward and abysm of space to which our lives
are confined, the snatcher is indigenous and inexpugnable."

The Duchessa looked at the sunny landscape, the bright lawns, the high
bending trees, with the light caught in the network of their million
leaves; she looked at the laughing white villas westward, the pale-green
vineyards, the yellow cornfields; she looked at the rushing river, with
the diamonds sparkling on its surface, at the far-away gleaming snows of
Monte Sfiorito, at the scintillant blue shy overhead.

Then she looked at Peter, a fine admixture of mirth with something like
gravity in her smile.

"The dark backward and abysm of space?" she repeated. "And you do not
wear black spectacles? Then it must be that your eyes themselves are
just a pair of black-seeing pessimists."

"On the contrary," triumphed Peter, "it is because they are optimists,
that they suspect there must be forwarder and more luminous regions than
the Solar System."

The Duchessa laughed.

"I think you have the prettiest mouth, and the most exquisite little
teeth, and the eyes richest in promise, and the sweetest laughter, of
any woman out of Paradise," said Peter, in the silence of his soul.

"It is clear I shall never be your match in debate," said she.

Peter made a gesture of deprecating modesty.

"But I wonder," she went on, "whether you would put me down as 'another
species of snatcher,' if I should ask you to spare me just the merest
end of a crust of bread?" And she lifted those eyes rich in promise
appealingly to his.

"Oh, I beg of you--take all I have," he responded, with effusion.
"But--but how--?"

"Toss," she commanded tersely.

So he tossed what was left of his bread into the air, above the river;
and the Duchessa, easily, deftly, threw up a hand, and caught it on the
wing.

"Thank you very much," she laughed, with a little bow.

Then she crumbled the bread, and began to sprinkle the ground with it;
and in an instant she was the centre of a cloud of birds. Peter was at
liberty to watch her, to admire the swift grace of her motions, their
suggestion of delicate strength, of joy in things physical, and the
lithe elasticity of her figure, against the background of satiny lawn,
and the further vistas of lofty sunlit trees. She was dressed in white,
as always--a frock of I know not what supple fabric, that looked as if
you might have passed it through your ring, and fell in multitudes of
small soft creases. Two big red roses drooped from her bodice. She wore
a garden-hat, of white straw, with a big daring rose-red bow, under
which the dense meshes of her hair, warmly dark, dimly bright, shimmered
in a blur of brownish gold.

"What vigour, what verve, what health," thought Peter, watching
her, "what--lean, fresh, fragrant health!" And he had, no doubt, his
emotions.

She bestowed her bread crumbs on the birds; but she was able, somehow,
to discriminate mightily in favour of the goldfinches. She would make a
diversion, the semblance of a fling, with her empty right hand; and the
too-greedy sparrows would dart off, avid, on that false lead. Whereupon,
quickly, stealthily, she would rain a little shower of crumbs, from
her left hand, on the grass beside her, to a confiding group of finches
assembled there. And if ever a sparrow ventured to intrude his ruffianly
black beak into this sacred quarter, she would manage, with a kind of
restrained ferocity, to "shoo" him away, without thereby frightening the
finches.

And all the while her eyes laughed; and there was colour in her cheeks;
and there was the forceful, graceful action of her body.

When the bread was finished, she clapped her hands together gently,
to dust the last mites from them, and looked over at Peter, and smiled
significantly.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "you outwitted them very skilfully. You, at any
rate, have no need of a dragon."

"Oh, in default of a dragon, one can do dragon's work oneself," she
answered lightly. "Or, rather, one can make oneself an instrument of
justice."

"All the same, I should call it uncommonly hard luck to be born a
sparrow--within your jurisdiction," he said.

"It is not an affair of luck," said she. "One is born a sparrow--within
my jurisdiction--for one's sins in a former state.--No, you little
dovelings"--she turned to a pair of finches on the greensward near her,
who were lingering, and gazing up into her face with hungry, expectant
eyes--"I have no more. I have given you my all." And she stretched out
her open hands, palms downwards, to convince them.

"The sparrows got nothing; and the goldfinches, who got 'your all,'
grumble because you gave so little," said Peter, sadly. "That is what
comes of interfering with the laws of Nature." And then, as the two
birds flew away, "See the dark, doubtful, reproachful glances with which
they cover you."

"You think they are ungrateful?" she said. "No--listen."

She held up a finger.

For, at that moment, on the branch of an acacia, just over her head, a
goldfinch began to sing--his thin, sweet, crystalline trill of song.

"Do you call that grumbling?" she asked.

"It implies a grumble," said Peter, "like the 'thank you' of a
servant dissatisfied with his tip. It's the very least he can do. It's
perfunctory--I 'm not sure it is n't even ironical."

"Perfunctory! Ironical!" cried the Duchessa. "Look at him! He's warbling
his delicious little soul out."

They both paused to look and listen.

The bird's gold-red bosom palpitated. He marked his modulations by
sudden emphatic movements of the head. His eyes were fixed intently
before him, as if he could actually see and follow the shining thread of
his song, as it wound away through the air. His performance had all the
effect of a spontaneous rhapsody. When it was terminated, he looked
down at his auditors, eager, inquisitive, as who should say, "I hope you
liked it?"--and then, with a nod clearly meant as a farewell, flew out
of sight.

The Duchessa smiled again at Peter, with intention.

"You must really try to take a cheerier view of things," she said.

And next instant she too was off, walking slowly, lightly, up the green
lawns, between the trees, towards the castle, her gown fluttering in the
breeze, now dazzling white as she came into the sun, now pearly grey as
she passed into the shade.

"What a woman it is," said Peter to himself, looking after her. "What
vigour, what verve, what sex! What a woman!"

And, indeed, there was nothing of the too-prevalent epicene in the
Duchessa's aspect; she was very certainly a woman. "Heavens, how she
walks!" he cried in a deep whisper.

But then a sudden wave of dejection swept over him. At first he could
not account for it. By and by, however, a malicious little voice began
to repeat and repeat within him, "Oh, the futile impression you must
have made upon her! Oh, the ineptitudes you uttered! Oh, the precious
opportunity you have misemployed!"

"You are a witch," he said to Marietta. "You've proved it to the hilt. I
've seen the person, and the object is more desperately lost than ever."



X


That evening, among the letters Peter received from England, there was
one from his friend Mrs. Winchfield, which contained certain statistics.

"Your Duchessa di Santangiolo 'was' indeed, as your funny old servant
told you, English: the only child and heiress of the last Lord Belfont.
The Belfonts of Lancashire (now, save for your Duchessa, extinct) were
the most bigoted sort of Roman Catholics, and always educated their
daughters in foreign convents, and as often as not married them to
foreigners. The Belfont men, besides, were ever and anon marrying
foreign wives; so there will be a goodish deal of un-English blood in
your Duchessa's own ci-devant English veins.

"She was born, as I learn from an indiscretion of my Peerage, in 1870,
and is, therefore, as near to thirty (the dangerous age!) as to the
six-and-twenty your droll old Marietta gives her. Her Christian names
are Beatrice Antonia Teresa Mary--faites en votre choix. She was
married at nineteen to Baldassarre Agosto, Principe Udeschini, Duca di
Santangiolo, Marchese di Castellofranco, Count of the Holy Roman Empire,
Knight of the Holy Ghost and of St. Gregory, (does it take your breath
away?), who, according to Frontin, died in '93; and as there were no
children, his brother Felipe Lorenzo succeeded to the titles. A younger
brother still is Bishop of Sardagna. Cardinal Udeschini is the uncle.

"That, dear child, empties my sack of information. But perhaps I have
a bigger sack, full of good advice, which I have not yet opened. And
perhaps, on the whole, I will not open it at all. Only, remember that
in yonder sentimental Italian lake country, in this summer weather, a
solitary young man's fancy might be much inclined to turn to thoughts
of--folly; and keep an eye on my friend Peter Marchdale."

Our solitary young man brooded over Mrs. Winchfield's letter for a long
while.

"The daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke, and the niece-in-law
of a cardinal," he said. "And, as if that were not enough, a bigoted
Roman Catholic into the bargain.... And yet--and yet," he went on,
taking heart a little, "as for her bigotry, to judge by her assiduity
in attending the village church, that factor, at least, thank goodness,
would appear to be static, rather than dynamic."

After another longish interval of brooding, he sauntered down to the
riverside, through his fragrant garden, fragrant and fresh with the
cool odours of the night, and peered into the darkness, towards Castel
Ventirose. Here and there he could discern a gleam of yellow, where
some lighted window was not entirely hidden by the trees. Thousands
and thousands of insects were threading the silence with their shrill
insistent voices. The repeated wail, harsh, prolonged, eerie, of some
strange wild creature, bird or beast, came down from the forest of
the Gnisi. At his feet, on the troubled surface of the Aco, the stars,
reflected and distorted, shone like broken spearheads.

He lighted a cigarette, and stood there till he had consumed it.

"Heigh-ho!" he sighed at last, and turned back towards the villa. And
"Yes," he concluded, "I must certainly keep an eye on our friend Peter
Marchdale."

"But I 'm doubting it's a bit too late--troppo tardo," he said to
Marietta, whom he found bringing hot water to his dressing-room.

"It is not very late," said Marietta. "Only half-past ten."

"She is a woman--therefore to be loved; she is a duchess--therefore to
be lost," he explained, in his native tongue.

"Cosa." questioned Marietta, in hers.



XI


Beatrice and Emilia, strolling together in one of the flowery lanes up
the hillside, between ranks of the omnipresent poplar, and rose-bush
hedges, or crumbling pink-stuccoed walls that dripped with cyclamen and
snapdragon, met old Marietta descending, with a basket on her arm.

Marietta courtesied to the ground.

"How do you do, Marietta?" Beatrice asked.

"I can't complain, thank your Grandeur. I have the lumbago on and off
pretty constantly, and last week I broke a tooth. But I can't complain.
And your Highness?"

Marietta returned, with brisk aplomb.

Beatrice smiled. "Bene, grazie. Your new master--that young Englishman,"
she continued, "I hope you find him kind, and easy to do for?"

"Kind--yes, Excellency. Also easy to do for. But--!" Marietta shrugged
her shoulders, and gave her head two meaning oscillations.

"Oh--?" wondered Beatrice, knitting puzzled brows.

"Very amiable, your Greatness; but simple, simple," Marietta explained,
and tapped her brown old forehead with a brown forefinger.

"Really--?" wondered Beatrice.

"Yes, Nobility," said Marietta. "Gentle as a canarybird, but innocent,
innocent."

"You astonish me," Beatrice avowed. "How does he show it?"

"The questions he asks, Most Illustrious, the things he says."

"For example--?" pursued Beatrice.

"For example, your Serenity--" Marietta paused, to search her memory.--
"Well, for one example, he calls roast veal a fowl. I give him roast veal
for his luncheon, and he says to me, 'Marietta, this fowl has no wings.'
But everyone knows, your Mercy, that veal is not a fowl. How should veal
have wings?"

"How indeed?" assented Beatrice, on a note of commiseration. And if
the corners of her mouth betrayed a tendency to curve upwards, she
immediately compelled them down. "But perhaps he does not speak Italian
very well?" she suggested.

"Mache, Potenza! Everyone speaks Italian," cried Marietta.

"Indeed?" said Beatrice.

"Naturally, your Grace--all Christians," Marietta declared.

"Oh, I did n't know," said Beatrice, meekly. "Well," she acknowledged,
"since he speaks Italian, it is certainly unreasonable of him to call
veal a fowl."

"But that, Magnificence," Marietta went on, warming to her theme, "that
is only one of his simplicities. He asks me, 'Who puts the whitewash on
Monte Sfiorito? 'And when I tell him that it is not whitewash, but
snow, he says, 'How do you know?' But everyone knows that it is snow.
Whitewash!"

The sprightly old woman gave her whole body a shake, for the better
exposition of her state of mind. And thereupon, from the interior of her
basket, issued a plaintive little squeal.

"What have you in your basket?" Beatrice asked.

"A little piglet, Nobility--un piccolo porcellino," said Marietta.

And lifting the cover an inch or two, she displayed the anxious face of
a poor little sucking pig.

"E carino?" she demanded, whilst her eyes beamed with a pride that
almost seemed maternal.

"What on earth are you going to do with him?" Beatrice gasped.

The light of pride gave place to a light of resolution, in Marietta's
eyes.

"Kill him, Mightiness," was her grim response; "stuff him with almonds,
raisins, rosemary, and onions; cook him sweet and sour; and serve him,
garnished with rosettes of beet-root, for my Signorino's Sunday dinner."

"Oh-h-h!" shuddered Beatrice and Emilia, in a breath; and they resumed
their walk.



XII


Francois was dining--with an appearance of great fervour.

Peter sat on his rustic bench, by the riverside, and watched him,
smoking a cigarette the while.

The Duchessa di Santangiolo stood screened by a tree in the park of
Ventirose, and watched them both.

Francois wore a wide blue ribbon round his pink and chubby neck; and his
dinner consisted of a big bowlful of bread and milk.

Presently the Duchessa stepped forth from her ambush, into the sun, and
laughed.

"What a sweetly pretty scene," she said. "Pastoral--idyllic--it reminds
one of Theocritus--it reminds one of Watteau."

Peter threw his cigarette into the river, and made an obeisance.

"I am very glad you feel the charm of it," he responded. "May I be
permitted to present Master Francois Vllon?"

"We have met before," said the Duchessa, graciously smiling upon
Francois, and inclining her head.

"Oh, I did n't know," said Peter, apologetic.

"Yes," said the Duchessa, "and in rather tragical circumstances. But
at that time he was anonymous. Why--if you won't think my curiosity
impertinent--why Francois Villon?"

"Why not?" said Peter. "He made such a tremendous outcry when he was
condemned to death, for one thing. You should have heard him. He has
a voice! Then, for another, he takes such a passionate interest in his
meat and drink. And then, if you come to that, I really had n't the
heart to call him Pauvre Lelian."

The Duchessa raised amused eyebrows.

"You felt that Pauvre Lelian was the only alternative?"

"I had in mind a remark of Pauvre Lilian's friend and confrere, the
cryptic Stephane," Peter answered. "You will remember it. 'L'ame d'un
poete dans le corps d'un--' I--I forget the last word," he faltered.

"Shall we say 'little pig'?" suggested the Duchessa.

"Oh, please don't," cried Peter, hastily, with a gesture of
supplication. "Don't say 'pig' in his presence. You'll wound his
feelings."

The Duchessa laughed.

"I knew he was condemned to death," she owned. "Indeed, it was in his
condemned cell that I made his acquaintance. Your Marietta Cignolesi
introduced us. Her air was so inexorable, I 'm a good deal surprised to
see him alive to-day. There was some question of a stuffing of rosemary
and onions."

"Ah, I see," said Peter, "I see that you're familiar with the whole
disgraceful story. Yes, Marietta, the unspeakable old Tartar, was
all for stuffing him with rosemary and onions. But he could not bring
himself to share her point of view. He screamed his protest, like a man,
in twenty different octaves. You really should have heard him. His voice
is of a compass, of a timbre, of an expressiveness! Passive endurance, I
fear, is not his forte. For the sake of peace and silence, I intervened,
interceded. She had her knife at his very throat. I was not an instant
too soon. So, of course, I 've had to adopt him."

"Of course, poor man," sympathised the Duchessa. "It's a recognised
principle that if you save a fellow's life, you 're bound to him for
the rest of yours. But--but won't you find him rather a burdensome
responsibility when he's grownup?" she reflected.

"--Que voulez-vous?" reflected Peter. "Burdensome responsibilities
are the appointed accompaniments of man's pilgrimage. Why not Francois
Villon, as well as another? And besides, as the world is at present
organised, a member of the class vulgarly styled 'the rich' can
generally manage to shift his responsibilities, when they become too
irksome, upon the backs of the poor. For example--Marietta! Marietta!"
he called, raising his voice a little, and clapping his hands.

Marietta came. When she had made her courtesy to the Duchessa, and
a polite enquiry as to her Excellency's health, Peter said, with
an indicative nod of the head, "Will you be so good as to remove my
responsibility?"

"Il porcellino?" questioned Marietta.

"Ang," said he.

And when Marietta had borne Francois, struggling and squealing in her
arms, from the foreground--

"There--you see how it is done," he remarked.

The Duchessa laughed.

"An object-lesson," she agreed. "An object-lesson in--might n't one call
it the science of Applied Cynicism?"

"Science!" Peter plaintively repudiated the word. "No, no. I was rather
flattering myself it was an art."

"Apropos of art--" said the Duchessa.

She came down two or three steps nearer to the brink of the river. She
produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there, and held
up for Peter's inspection a grey-and-gold bound book.

"Apropos of art, I've been reading a novel. Do you know it?"

Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding--and dissembled the emotion
that suddenly swelled big in his heart.

He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look.

"I can't make out the title," he temporised, shaking his head, and
letting his eyeglass drop.

On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult little smile
that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile of appreciation.

"It has a highly appropriate title," she said. "It is called 'A Man of
Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of before, named Felix
Wildmay."

"Oh, yes. How very odd," said Peter. "By a curious chance, I know it
very well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do. How on earth did
it fall into your hands?"

"Why on earth shouldn't it?" wondered she. "Novels are intended to fall
into people's hands, are they not?"

"I believe so," he assented. "But intentions, in this vale of tears,
are not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of Words' is not like
other novels. It's peculiar."

"Peculiar--?" she repeated.

"Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity," he explained. "There has
been no failure approaching it since What's-his-name invented printing.
I hadn't supposed that seven copies of it were in circulation."

"Really?" said the Duchessa. "A correspondent of mine in London
recommended it. But--in view of its unparalleled obscurity is n't it
almost equally a matter for surprise that you should know it?"

"It would be, sure enough," consented Peter, "if it weren't that I just
happen also to know the author."

"Oh--? You know the author?" cried the Duchessa, with animation.

"Comme ma poche," said Peter. "We were boys together."

"Really?" said she. "What a coincidence."

"Yes," said he.

"And--and his book?" Her eyebrows went up, interrogative. "I expect, as
you know the man, you think rather poorly of it?"

"On the contrary, in the teeth of verisimilitude, I think extremely
well of it," he answered firmly. "I admire it immensely. I think it's
an altogether ripping little book. I think it's one of the nicest little
books I've read for ages.

"How funny," said she.

"Why funny?" asked he.

"It's so unlikely that one should seem a genius to one's old familiar
friends."

"Did I say he seemed a genius to me? I misled you. He does n't. In fact,
he very frequently seems--but, for Charity's sake, I 'd best forbear
to tell. However, I admire his book. And--to be entirely frank--it's a
constant source of astonishment to me that he should ever have been able
to do anything one-tenth so good."

The Duchessa smiled pensively.

"Ah, well," she mused, "we must assume that he has happy moments--or,
perhaps, two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show his
manuscripts when he's writing. You hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.
That, indeed, is only natural, on the part of an old friend. But you
pique my interest. What is the trouble with him? Is--is he conceited,
for example?"

"The trouble with him?" Peter pondered. "Oh, it would be too long and
too sad a story. Should I anatomise him to you as he is, I must blush
and weep, and you must look pale and wonder. He has pretty nearly
every weakness, not to mention vices, that flesh is heir to. But as for
conceit... let me see. He concurs in my own high opinion of his work, I
believe; but I don't know whether, as literary men go, it would be fair
to call him conceited. He belongs, at any rate, to the comparatively
modest minority who do not secretly fancy that Shakespeare has come back
to life."

"That Shakespeare has come back to life!" marvelled the Duchessa. "Do
you mean to say that most literary men fancy that?"

"I think perhaps I am acquainted with three who don't," Peter replied;
"but one of them merely wears his rue with a difference. He fancies that
it's Goethe."

"How extravagantly--how exquisitely droll!" she laughed.

"I confess, it struck me so, until I got accustomed to it," said he,
"until I learned that it was one of the commonplaces, one of the normal
attributes of the literary temperament. It's as much to be taken
for granted, when you meet an author, as the tail is to be taken for
granted, when you meet a cat."

"I'm vastly your debtor for the information--it will stand me in stead
with the next author who comes my way. But, in that case, your friend
Mr. Felix Wildmay will be, as it were, a sort of Manx cat?" was her
smiling deduction.

"Yes, if you like, in that particular, a sort of Manx cat," acquiesced
Peter, with a laugh.

The Duchessa laughed too; and then there was a little pause.

Overhead, never so light a breeze lisped never so faintly in the
tree-tops; here and there bird-notes fell, liquid, desultory, like drops
of rain after a shower; and constantly one heard the cool music of the
river. The sun, filtering through worlds and worlds of leaves, shed upon
everything a green-gold penumbra. The air, warm and still, was sweet
with garden-scents. The lake, according to its habit at this hour of
the afternoon, had drawn a grey veil over its face, a thin grey veil,
through which its sapphire-blue shone furtively. Far away, in the summer
haze, Monte Sfiorito seemed a mere dim spectre of itself--a stranger
might easily have mistaken it for a vague mass of cloud floating above
the horizon.

"Are you aware that it 's a singularly lovely afternoon?" the Duchessa
asked, by and by.

"I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so," Peter hazarded, with the
least perceptible approach to a meaning bow.

In the Duchessa's face, perhaps, there flickered, for half-a-second, the
least perceptible light, as of a comprehending and unresentful smile.
But she went on, with fine aloofness.

"I rather envy you your river, you know. We are too far from it at
the castle. Is n't the sound, the murmur, of it delicious? And its
colour--how does it come by such a subtle colour? Is it green? Is it
blue? And the diamonds on its surface--see how they glitter. You know,
of course," she questioned, "who the owner is of those unequalled gems?"

"Surely," Peter answered, "the lady paramount of this demesne?"

"No, no." She shook her head, smiling. "Undine. They are Undine's--her
necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's jewel-case contains anything
half so brilliant. But look at them--look at the long chains of
them--how they float for a minute--and are then drawn down. They are
Undine's--Undine and her companions are sporting with them just below
the surface. A moment ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm."

"Ah," said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, "that's what it is to have 'the
seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in such a wanton mood. I
had hoped she would still be weeping her unhappy love-affair."

"What! with that horrid, stolid German--Hildebrandt, was his name?"
cried the Duchessa. "Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to say, she learned to
laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her immaturity. However, this is a
digression. I want to return to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me--what is the
quality you especially like in it?"

"I like its every quality," Peter affirmed, unblushing. "Its style,
its finish, its concentration; its wit, humour, sentiment; its texture,
tone, atmosphere; its scenes, its subject; the paper it's printed
on, the type, the binding. But above all, I like its heroine. I think
Pauline de Fleuvieres the pearl of human women--the cleverest, the
loveliest, the most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most
feminine. I can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a mere shadow
on paper. I think of her as a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood woman,
whom I have actually known. I can see her before me now--I can see
her eyes, full of mystery and mischief--I can see her exquisite little
teeth, as she smiles--I can see her hair, her hands--I can almost catch
the perfume of her garments. I 'm utterly infatuated with her--I could
commit a hundred follies for her."

"Mercy!" exclaimed the Duchessa. "You are enthusiastic."

"The book's admirers are so few, they must endeavour to make up in
enthusiasm what they lack in numbers," he submitted.

"But--at that rate--why are they so few?" she puzzled. "If the book is
all you think it, how do you account for its unpopularity?"

"It could never conceivably be anything but unpopular," said he. "It has
the fatal gift of beauty."

The Duchessa laughed surprise.

"Is beauty a fatal gift--in works of art?"

"Yes--in England," he declared.

"In England? Why especially in England?"

"In English-speaking--in Anglo-Saxon lands, if you prefer. The
Anglo-Saxon public is beauty-blind. They have fifty religions--only one
sauce--and no sense of beauty whatsoever. They can see the nose on one's
face--the mote in their neighbour's eye; they can see when a bargain is
good, when a war will be expedient. But the one thing they can never see
is beauty. And when, by some rare chance, you catch them in the act of
admiring a beautiful object, it will never be for its beauty--it will be
in spite of its beauty for some other, some extra-aesthetic interest it
possesses--some topical or historical interest. Beauty is necessarily
detached from all that is topical or historical, or documentary or
actual. It is also necessarily an effect of fine shades, delicate
values, vanishing distinctions, of evasiveness, inconsequence,
suggestion. It is also absolute, unrelated--it is positive or negative
or superlative--it is never comparative. Well, the Anglo-Saxon public
is totally insensible to such things. They can no more feel them, than a
blind worm can feel the colours of the rainbow."

She laughed again, and regarded him with an air of humorous meditation.

"And that accounts for the unsuccess of 'A Man of Words'?"

"You might as well offer Francois Villon a banquet of Orient pearls."

"You are bitterly hard on the Anglo-Saxon public."

"Oh, no," he disclaimed, "not hard--but just. I wish them all sorts of
prosperity, with a little more taste."

"Oh, but surely," she caught him up, "if their taste were greater, their
prosperity would be less?"

"I don't know," said he. "The Greeks were fairly prosperous, were n't
they? And the Venetians? And the French are not yet quite bankrupt."

Still again she laughed--always with that little air of humorous
meditation.

"You--you don't exactly overwhelm one with compliments," she observed.

He looked alarm, anxiety.

"Don't I? What have I neglected?" he cried.

"You 've never once evinced the slightest curiosity to learn what I
think of the book in question."

"Oh, I'm sure you like it," he rejoined hardily. "You have 'the seeing
eye.'"

"And yet I'm just a humble member of the Anglo-Saxon public."

"No--you're a distinguished member of the Anglo-Saxon 'remnant.' Thank
heaven, there's a remnant, a little scattered remnant. I'm perfectly
sure you like 'A Man of Words.'"

"'Like it' is a proposition so general. Perhaps I am burning to tell
someone what I think of it in detail."

She smiled into his eyes, a trifle oddly.

"If you are, then I know someone who is burning to hear you," he avowed.

"Well, then, I think--I think..." she began, on a note of deliberation.
"But I 'm afraid, just now, it would take too long to formulate my
thought. Perhaps I'll try another day."

She gave him a derisory little nod--and in a minute was well up the
lawn, towards the castle.

Peter glared after her, his fists clenched, teeth set.

"You fiend!" he muttered. Then, turning savagely upon himself, "You
duffer!"

Nevertheless, that evening, he said to Marietta, "The plot thickens.
We've advanced a step. We've reached what the vulgar call a
psychological moment. She's seen my Portrait of a Lady. But as yet, if
you can believe me, she doesn't dream who painted it; and she has n't
recognised the subject. As if one were to face one's image in the glass,
and take it for another's! 3--I 'll--I 'll double your wages--if you
will induce events to hurry up."

However, as he spoke English, Marietta was in no position to profit by
his offer.



XIII


Peter was walking in the high-road, on the other side of the river--the
great high-road that leads from Bergamo to Milan.

It was late in the afternoon, and already, in the west, the sky was
beginning to put on some of its sunset splendours. In the east, framed
to Peter's vision by parallel lines of poplars, it hung like a curtain
of dark-blue velvet.

Peter sat on the grass, by the roadside, in the shadow of a hedge--a
rose-bush hedge, of course--and lighted a cigarette.

Far down the long white road, against the blue velvet sky, between the
poplars, two little spots of black, two small human figures, were moving
towards him.

Half absently, he let his eyes accompany them.

As they came nearer, they defined themselves as a boy and a girl.
Nearer still, he saw that they were ragged and dusty and barefoot.

The boy had three or four gaudy-hued wicker baskets slung over his
shoulder.

Vaguely, tacitly, Peter supposed that they would be the children of some
of the peasants of the countryside, on their way home from the village.

As they arrived abreast of him, they paid him the usual peasants'
salute. The boy lifted a tattered felt hat from his head, the girl
bobbed a courtesy, and "Buona sera, Eccellenza," they said in concert,
without, however, pausing in their march.

Peter put his hand in his pocket.

"Here, little girl," he called.

The little girl glanced at him, doubting.

"Come here," he said.

Her face a question, she came up to him; and he gave her a few coppers.

"To buy sweetmeats," he said.

"A thousand thanks; Excellency," said she, bobbing another courtesy.

"A thousand thanks, Excellency," said the boy, from his distance, again
lifting his rag of a hat.

And they trudged on.

But Peter looked after them--and his heart smote him. They were clearly
of the poorest of the poor. He thought of Hansel and Gretel. Why had he
given them so little? He called to them to stop.

The little girl came running back.

Peter rose to meet her.

"You may as well buy some ribbons too," he said, and gave her a couple
of lire.

She looked at the money with surprise--even with an appearance of
hesitation. Plainly, it was a sum, in her eyes.

"It's all right. Now run along," said Peter.

"A thousand thanks, Excellency," said she, with a third courtesy, and
rejoined her brother....

"Where are they going?" asked a voice.

Peter faced about.

There stood the Duchessa, in a bicycling costume, her bicycle beside
her. Her bicycling costume was of blue serge, and she wore a jaunty
sailor-hat with a blue ribbon. Peter (in spite of the commotion in his
breast) was able to remember that this was the first time he had seen
her in anything but white.

Her attention was all upon the children, whom he, perhaps, had more or
less banished to Cracklimbo.

"Where are they going?" she repeated, trouble in her voice and in her
eyes.

Peter collected himself.

"The children? I don't know--I didn't ask. Home, aren't they?"

"Home? Oh, no. They don't live hereabouts," she said. "I know all the
poor of this neighbourhood.--Ohe there! Children! Children!" she cried.

But they were quite a hundred yards away, and did not hear.

"Do you wish them to come back?" asked Peter.

"Yes--of course," she answered, with a shade of impatience.

He put his fingers to his lips (you know the schoolboy accomplishment),
and gave a long whistle.

That the children did hear.

They halted, and turned round, looking, enquiring.

"Come back--come back!" called the Duchessa, raising her hand, and
beckoning.

They came back.

"The pathetic little imps," she murmured while they were on the way.

The boy was a sturdy, square-built fellow, of twelve, thirteen, with
a shock of brown hair, brown cheeks, and sunny brown eyes; with
a precocious air of doggedness, of responsibility. He wore an old
tail-coat, the tail-coat of a man, ragged, discoloured, falling to his
ankles.

The girl was ten or eleven, pale, pinched; hungry, weary, and sorry
looking. Her hair too had been brown, upon a time; but now it was faded
to something near the tint of ashes, and had almost the effect of being
grey. Her pale little forehead was crossed by thin wrinkles, lines of
pain, of worry, like an old woman's.

The Duchessa, pushing her bicycle, and followed by Peter, moved down
the road, to meet them. Peter had never been so near to her before--at
moments her arm all but brushed his sleeve. I think he blessed the
children.

"Where are you going?" the Duchessa asked, softly, smiling into the
girl's sad little face.

The girl had shown no fear of Peter; but apparently she was somewhat
frightened by this grand lady. The toes of her bare feet worked
nervously in the dust. She hung her head shyly, and eyed her brother.

But the brother, removing his hat, with the bow of an Italian
peasant--and that is to say, the bow of a courtier--spoke up bravely.

"To Turin, Nobility."

He said it in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, quite as he might have
said, "To the next farm-house."

The Duchessa, however, had not bargained for an answer of this measure.
Startled, doubting her ears perhaps, "To--Turin--!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Excellency," said the boy.

"But--but Turin--Turin is hundreds of kilometres from here," she said,
in a kind of gasp.

"Yes, Excellency," said the boy.

"You are going to Turin--you two children--walking--like that!" she
persisted.

"Yes, Excellency."

"But--but it will take you a month."

"Pardon, noble lady," said the boy. "With your Excellency's permission,
we were told it should take fifteen days."

"Where do you come from?" she asked.

"From Bergamo, Excellency."

"When did you leave Bergamo?"

"Yesterday morning, Excellency."

"The little girl is your sister?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Have you a mother and father?"

"A father, Excellency. The mother is dead." Each of the children made
the Sign of the Cross; and Peter was somewhat surprised, no doubt, to
see the Duchessa do likewise. He had yet to learn the beautiful custom
of that pious Lombard land, whereby, when the Dead are mentioned, you
make the Sign of the Cross, and, pausing reverently for a moment, say in
silence the traditional prayer of the Church:

"May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the
Mercy of God, rest in peace."

"And where is your father?" the Duchessa asked.

"In Turin, Excellency," answered the boy. "He is a glass-blower. After
the strike at Bergamo, he went to Turin to seek work. Now he has found
it. So he has sent for us to come to him."

"And you two children--alone--are going to walk all the way to Turin!"
She could not get over the pitiful wonder of it.

"Yes, Excellency."

"The heart-rending little waifs," she said, in English, with something
like a sob. Then, in Italian, "But--but how do you live by the way?"

The boy touched his shoulder-load of baskets.

"We sell these, Excellency."

"What is their price?" she asked.

"Thirty soldi, Excellency."

"Have you sold many since you started?"

The boy looked away; and now it was his turn to hang his head, and to
let his toes work nervously in the dust.

"Haven't you sold any?" she exclaimed, drawing her conclusions.

"No, Excellency. The people would not buy," he owned, in a dull voice,
keeping his eyes down.

"Poverino," she murmured. "Where are you going to sleep to-night?"

"In a house, Excellency," said he.

But that seemed to strike the Duchessa as somewhat vague.

"In what house?" she asked.

"I do not know, Excellency," he confessed. "We will find a house."

"Would you like to come back with me, and sleep at my house?"

The boy and girl looked at each other, taking mute counsel.

Then, "Pardon, noble lady--with your Excellency's permission, is it
far?" the boy questioned.

"I am afraid it is not very near--three or four kilometres."

Again the children looked at each other, conferring. Afterwards, the boy
shook his head.

"A thousand thanks, Excellency. With your permission, we must not turn
back. We must walk on till later. At night we will find a house."

"They are too proud to own that their house will be a hedge," she said
to Peter, again in English. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked the children.

"No, Excellency. We had bread in the village, below there," answered the
boy.

"You will not come home with me, and have a good dinner, and a good
night's sleep?"

"Pardon, Excellency. With your favour, the father would not wish us to
turn back."

The Duchessa looked at the little girl.

The little girl wore a medal of the Immaculate Conception on a ribbon
round her neck--a forlorn blue ribbon, soiled and frayed.

"Oh, you have a holy medal," said the Duchessa.

"Yes, noble lady," said the girl, dropping a courtesy, and lifting up
her sad little weazened face.

"She has been saying her prayers all along the road," the boy
volunteered.

"That is right," approved the Duchessa. "You have not made your First
Communion yet, have you?"

"No, Excellency," said the girl. "I shall make it next year."

"And you?" the Duchessa asked the boy.

"I made mine at Corpus Christi," said the boy, with a touch of pride.

The Duchessa turned to Peter.

"Do you know, I haven't a penny in my pocket. I have come out without my
purse."

"How much ought one to give them?" Peter asked.

"Of course, there is the fear that they might be robbed," she reflected.
"If one should give them a note of any value, they would have to change
it; and they would probably be robbed. What to do?"

"I will speak to the boy," said Peter. "Would you like to go to Turin by
train?" he asked.

The boy and girl looked at each other. "Yes, Excellency," said the boy.

"But if I give you money for your fare, will you know how to take care
of it--how to prevent people from robbing you?"

"Oh, yes, Excellency."

"You could take the train this evening, at Venzona, about two kilometres
from here, in the direction you are walking. In an hour or two you would
arrive at Milan; there you would change into the train for Turin. You
would be at Turin to-morrow morning."

"Yes, Excellency."

"But if I give you money, you will not let people rob you? If I give you
a hundred lire?"

The boy drew back, stared, as if frightened.

"A hundred lire--?" he said.

"Yes," said Peter.

The boy looked at his sister.

"Pardon, Nobility," he said. "With your condescension, does it cost a
hundred lire to go to Turin by train?"

"Oh, no. I think it costs eight or ten."

Again the boy looked at his sister.

"Pardon, Nobility. With your Excellency's permission, we should not
desire a hundred lire then," he said.

Peter and the Duchessa were not altogether to be blamed, I hope, if they
exchanged the merest hint of a smile.

"Well, if I should give you fifty?" Peter asked.

"Fifty lire, Excellency?"

Peter nodded.

Still again the boy sought counsel of his sister, with his eyes.

"Yes, Excellency," he said.

"You are sure you will be able to take care of it--you will not let
people rob you," the Duchessa put in, anxious. "They will wish to
rob you. If you go to sleep in the train, they will try to pick your
pocket."

"I will hide it, noble lady. No one shall rob me. If I go to sleep in
the train, I will sit on it, and my sister will watch. If she goes to
sleep, I will watch," the boy promised confidently.

"You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape
together," she advised Peter.

And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver
and copper, he made up the amount.

"A thousand thanks, Excellency," said the boy, with a bow that was
magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various
obscure pockets.

"A thousand thanks, Excellency," said the girl, with a courtesy.

"Addio, a buon' viaggio," said Peter.

"Addio, Eccellenze," said the boy.

"Addio, Eccellenze," said the girl.

But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her
poor little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her
eyes were wet.

The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and
gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something.
Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister
waited.

He doffed his hat, and said, "A thousand pardons, Excellency-"

"Yes? What is it?" Peter asked.

"With your Excellency's favour--is it obligatory that we should take the
train?"

"Obligatory?" puzzled Peter. "How do you mean?"

"If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your
Excellency, to save the money."

"But--but then you will have to walk!" cried Peter.

"But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your
Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the
money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is
so much."

This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa.

Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, "Let them do as they
will."

"No, it is not obligatory--it is only recommended," he said to the boy,
with a smile that he could n't help. "Do as you will. But if I were you,
I should spare my poor little feet."

"Mille grazie, Eccellenze," the boy said, with a final sweep of his
tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were
walking resolutely on, westward, "into the great red light."


The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them.

They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned,
disappeared.

At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to herself.

"There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your
hand," she said.

We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had
found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite,
between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat.

But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.

"Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write
a story round?" she asked.

We may guess whether he was relieved.

"Oh--oh, yes," he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his
relief, would agree to anything.

"Have you ever seen such courage?" she went on. "The wonderful babies!
Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone, unprotected, on the
highway, those poor little atoms! Down in their hearts they are really
filled with terror. Who would n't be, with such a journey before him?
But how finely they concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be
robbed. God help them--God help them!"

"God help them, indeed," said Peter.

"And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate Conception. The
father, after all, can hardly be the brute one might suspect, since he
has given them a religious education. Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was
the Blessed Virgin herself who sent us across their path, in answer to
that poor little creature's prayers."

"Yes," said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way in which
she united him to herself in the pronoun.

"Which, of course," she added, smiling gravely into his eyes, "seems the
height of absurdity to you?"

"Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?" he asked.

"You are a Protestant, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe there are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the usual
philosophies. And I see no reason why it should not have been the
Blessed Virgin who sent us across their path."

"What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they heard you?
Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?"

"I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as
superstition. Superstition, in its essence, is merely a recognition of
the truth that in a universe of mysteries and contradictions, like ours,
nothing conceivable or inconceivable is impossible."

"Oh, no, no," she objected. "Superstition is the belief in something
that is ugly and bad and unmeaning. That is the difference between
superstition and religion. Religion is the belief in something that is
beautiful and good and significant--something that throws light into the
dark places of life--that helps us to see and to live."

"Yes," said Peter, "I admit the distinction." After a little suspension,
"I thought," he questioned, "that all Catholics were required to go to
Mass on Sunday?"

"Of course--so they are," said she.

"But--but you--" he began.

"I hear Mass not on Sunday only--I hear it every morning of my life."

"Oh? Indeed? I beg your pardon," he stumbled. "I--one--one never sees
you at the village church."

"No. We have a chapel and a chaplain at the castle."

She mounted her bicycle.

"Good-bye," she said, and lightly rode away.

"So-ho! Her bigotry is not such a negligible quantity, after all," Peter
concluded.

"But what," he demanded of Marietta, as she ministered to his wants
at dinner, "what does one barrier more or less matter, when people are
already divided by a gulf that never can be traversed? You see that
river?" He pointed through his open window to the Aco. "It is a symbol.
She stands on one side of it, I stand on the other, and we exchange
little jokes. But the river is always there, flowing between us,
separating us. She is the daughter of a lord, and the widow of a duke,
and the fairest of her sex, and a millionaire, and a Roman Catholic.
What am I? Oh, I don't deny I 'm clever. But for the rest? ... My
dear Marietta, I am simply, in one word, the victim of a misplaced
attachment."

"Non capisco Francese," said Marietta.



XIV


And after that, for I forget how many days, Peter and the Duchessa did
not meet; and so he sank low and lower in his mind.

Nothing that can befall us, optimists aver, is without its value; and
this, I have heard, is especially true if we happen to be literary men.
All is grist that comes to a writer's mill.

By his present experience, accordingly, Peter learned--and in the
regretful prose of some future masterpiece will perhaps be enabled to
remember--how exceeding great is the impatience of the lovesick,
with what febrile vehemence the smitten heart can burn, and to
what improbable lengths hours and minutes can on occasions stretch
themselves.

He tried many methods of distraction.

There was always the panorama of his valley--the dark-blue lake, pale
Monte Sfiorito, the frowning Gnisi, the smiling uplands westward. There
were always the sky, the clouds, the clear sunshine, the crisp-etched
shadows; and in the afternoon there was always the wondrous opalescent
haze of August, filling every distance. There was always his
garden--there were the great trees, with the light sifting through high
spaces of feathery green; there were the flowers, the birds, the bees,
the butterflies, with their colour, and their fragrance, and their
music; there was his tinkling fountain, in its nimbus of prismatic
spray; there was the swift, symbolic Aco. And then, at a half-hour's
walk, there was the pretty pink-stuccoed village, with its hill-top
church, its odd little shrines, its grim-grotesque ossuary, its faded
frescoed house-fronts, its busy, vociferous, out-of-door Italian
life:--the cobbler tapping in his stall; women gossiping at their
toilets; children sprawling in the dirt, chasing each other, shouting;
men drinking, playing mora, quarrelling, laughing, singing, twanging
mandolines, at the tables under the withered bush of the wine-shop; and
two or three more pensive citizens swinging their legs from the parapet
of the bridge, and angling for fish that never bit, in the impetuous
stream below.

Peter looked at these things; and, it is to be presumed, he saw them.
But, for all the joy they gave him, he, this cultivator of the sense of
beauty, might have been the basest unit of his own purblind Anglo-Saxon
public. They were the background for an absent figure. They were the
stage-accessories of a drama whose action was arrested. They were an
empty theatre.

He tried to read. He had brought a trunkful of books to Villa Floriano;
but that book had been left behind which could fix his interest now.

He tried to write--and wondered, in a kind of daze, that any man should
ever have felt the faintest ambition to do a thing so thankless and so
futile.

"I shall never write again. Writing," he generalised, and possibly not
without some reason, "when it is n't the sordidest of trades, is a mere
fatuous assertion of one's egotism. Breaking stones in the street were
a nobler occupation; weaving ropes of sand were better sport. The only
things that are worth writing are inexpressible, and can't be written.
The only things that can be written are obvious and worthless--the very
crackling of thorns under a pot. Oh, why does n't she turn up?"

And the worst of it was that at any moment, for aught he knew, she might
turn up. That was the worst of it, and the best. It kept hope alive,
only to torture hope. It encouraged him to wait, to watch, to expect;
to linger in his garden, gazing hungry-eyed up the lawns of Ventirose,
striving to pierce the foliage that embowered the castle; to wander the
country round-about, scanning every vista, scrutinising every shape and
shadow, a tweed-clad Gastibelza. At any moment, indeed, she might turn
up; but the days passed--the hypocritic days--and she did not turn up.


Marietta, the kind soul, noticing his despondency, sought in divers
artless ways to cheer him.

One evening she burst into his sitting-room with the effect of a small
explosion, excitement in every line of her brown old face and wiry
little figure.

"The fireflies! The fireflies, Signorino!" she cried, with strenuous
gestures.

"What fireflies?" asked he, with phlegm.

"It is the feast of St. Dominic. The fireflies have arrived. They
arrive every year on the feast of St. Dominic. They are the beads of his
rosary. They are St. Dominic's Aves. There are thousands of them. Come,
Signorino, Come and see."

Her black eyes snapped. She waved her hands urgently towards the window.

Peter languidly got up, languidly crossed the room, looked out.

There were, in truth, thousands of them, thousands and thousands of tiny
primrose flames, circling, fluttering, rising, sinking, in the purple
blackness of the night, like snowflakes in a wind, palpitating like
hearts of living gold--Jove descending upon Danae invisible.

"Son carin', eh?" cried eager Marietta.

"Hum--yes--pretty enough," he grudgingly acknowledged. "But even so?"
the ingrate added, as he turned away, and let himself drop back into
his lounging-chair. "My dear good woman, no amount of prettiness
can disguise the fundamental banality of things. Your fireflies--St.
Dominic's beads, if you like--and, apropos of that, do you know what
they call them in America?--they call them lightning-bugs, if you can
believe me--remark the difference between southern euphuism and western
bluntness--your fireflies are pretty enough, I grant. But they are
tinsel pasted on the Desert of Sahara. They are condiments added to a
dinner of dust and ashes. Life, trick it out as you will, is just an
incubus--is just the Old Man of the Sea. Language fails me to convey to
you any notion how heavily he sits on my poor shoulders. I thought I had
suffered from ennui in my youth. But the malady merely plays with the
green fruit; it reserves its serious ravages for the ripe. I can promise
you 't is not a laughing matter. Have you ever had a fixed idea? Have
you ever spent days and nights racking your brain, importuning the
unanswering Powers, to learn whether there was--well, whether there was
Another Man, for instance? Oh, bring me drink. Bring me Seltzer water
and Vermouth. I will seek nepenthe at the bottom of the wine-cup."

Was there another man? Why should there not be? And yet was there? In
her continued absence, the question came back persistently, and scarcely
contributed to his peace of mind.


A few days later, nothing discouraged, "Would you like to have a good
laugh, Signorino?" Marietta enquired.

"Yes," he answered, apathetic.

"Then do me the favour to come," she said.

She led him out of his garden, to the gate of a neighbouring meadow. A
beautiful black-horned white cow stood there, her head over the
bars, looking up and down the road, and now and then uttering a low
distressful "moo."

"See her," said Marietta.

"I see her. Well--?" said Peter.

"This morning they took her calf from her--to wean it," said Marietta.

"Did they, the cruel things? Well--?" said he.

"And ever since, she has stood there by the gate, looking down the road,
waiting, calling."

"The poor dear. Well--?" said he.

"But do you not see, Signorino? Look at her eyes. She is
weeping--weeping like a Christian."

Peter looked-and, sure enough, from the poor cow's eyes tears were
falling, steadily, rapidly: big limpid tears that trickled down her
cheek, her great homely hairy cheek, and dropped on the grass: tears of
helpless pain, uncomprehending endurance. "Why have they done this thing
to me?" they seemed dumbly to cry.

"Have you ever seen a cow weep before? Is it comical, at least?"
demanded Marietta, exultant.

"Comical--?" Peter gasped. "Comical--!" he groaned....

But then he spoke to the cow.

"Poor dear--poor dear," he repeated. He patted her soft warm neck, and
scratched her between the horns and along the dewlap.

"Poor dear--poor dear."

The cow lifted up her head, and rested her great chin on Peter's
shoulder, breathing upon his face.

"Yes, you know that we are companions in misery, don't you?" he said.
"They have taken my calf from me too--though my calf, indeed, was only a
calf in an extremely metaphorical sense--and it never was exactly mine,
anyhow--I daresay it's belonged from the beginning to another man. You,
at least, have n't that gall and wormwood added to your cup. And now
you must really try to pull yourself together. It's no good crying. And
besides, there are more calves in the sea than have ever been taken from
it. You'll have a much handsomer and fatter one next time. And besides,
you must remember that your loss subserves someone else's gain--the
farmer would never have done it if it hadn't been to his advantage.
If you 're an altruist, that should comfort you. And you must n't mind
Marietta,--you must n't mind her laughter. Marietta is a Latin. The
Latin conception of what is laughable differs by the whole span of
heaven from the Teuton. You and I are Teutons."

"Teutons--?" questioned Marietta wrinkling her brow.

"Yes--Germanic," said he.

"But I thought the Signorino was English?"

"So he is."

"But the cow is not Germanic. White, with black horns, that is the
purest Roman breed, Signorino."

"Fa niente," he instructed her. "Cows and Englishmen, and all such
sentimental cattle, including Germans, are Germanic. Italians are
Latin--with a touch of the Goth and Vandal. Lions and tigers growl and
fight because they're Mohammedans. Dogs still bear without abuse the
grand old name of Sycophant. Cats are of the princely line of Persia,
and worship fire, fish, and flattery--as you may have noticed. Geese
belong indifferently to any race you like--they are cosmopolitans;
and I've known here and there a person who, without distinction of
nationality, was a duck. In fact, you're rather by way of being a duck
yourself: And now," he perorated, "never deny again that I can talk
nonsense with an aching heart."

"All the same," insisted Marietta, "it is very comical to see a cow
weep."

"At any rate," retorted Peter, "it is not in the least comical to hear a
hyaena laugh."

"I have never heard one," said she.

"Pray that you never may. The sound would make an old woman of you. It's
quite blood-curdling."

"Davvero?" said Marietta.

"Davvero," he assured her.

And meanwhile the cow stood there, with her head on his shoulder,
silently weeping, weeping.

He gave her a farewell rub along the nose.

"Good-bye," he said. "Your breath is like meadowsweet. So dry your
tears, and set your hopes upon the future. I 'll come and see you again
to-morrow, and I 'll bring you some nice coarse salt. Good-bye."

But when he went to see her on the morrow, she was grazing peacefully;
and she ate the salt he brought her with heart-whole bovine
relish--putting out her soft white pad of a tongue, licking it
deliberately from his hand, savouring it tranquilly, and crunching
the bigger grains with ruminative enjoyment between her teeth. So soon
consoled! They were companions in misery no longer. "I 'm afraid you
are a Latin, after all," he said, and left her with a sense of
disappointment.

That afternoon Marietta asked, "Would you care to visit the castle,
Signorino?"

He was seated under his willow-tree, by the river, smoking
cigarettes--burning superfluous time.

Marietta pointed towards Ventirose.

"Why?" said he.

"The family are away. In the absence of the family, the public are
admitted, upon presentation of their cards."

"Oho!" he cried. "So the family are away, are they?"

"Yes, Signorino."

"Aha!" cried he. "The family are away. That explains everything.
Have--have they been gone long?"

"Since a week, ten days, Signorino."

"A week! Ten days!" He started up, indignant. "You secretive wretch! Why
have you never breathed a word of this to me?"

Marietta looked rather frightened.

"I did not know it myself, Signorino," was her meek apology. "I heard
it in the village this morning, when the Signorino sent me to buy coarse
salt."

"Oh, I see." He sank back upon his rustic bench. "You are forgiven." He
extended his hand in sign of absolution. "Are they ever coming back?"

"Naturally, Signorino."

"What makes you think so?"

"But they will naturally come back."

"I felicitate you upon your simple faith. When?"

"Oh, fra poco. They have gone to Rome."

"To Rome? You're trifling with me. People do not go to Rome in August."

"Pardon, Signorino. People go to Rome for the feast of the Assumption.
That is the 15th. Afterwards they come back," said Marietta, firmly.

"I withdraw my protest," said Peter. "They have gone to Rome for the
feast of the Assumption. Afterwards they will come back."

"Precisely, Signorino. But you have now the right to visit the castle,
upon presentation of your card. You address yourself to the porter at
the lodge. The castle is grand, magnificent. The Court of Honour alone
is thirty metres long."

Marietta stretched her hands to right and left as far as they would go.

"Marietta," Peter enquired solemnly, "are you familiar with the tragedy
of 'Hamlet'?"

Marietta blinked.

"No, Signorino."

"You have never read it," he pursued, "in that famous edition from which
the character of the Prince of Denmark happened to be omitted?"

Marietta shook her head, wearily, patiently.

Wearily, patiently, "No, Signorino," she replied.

"Neither have I," said he, "and I don't desire to."

Marietta shrugged her shoulders; then returned gallantly to her charge.

"If you would care to visit the castle, Signorino, you could see the
crypt which contains the tombs of the family of Farfalla, the former
owners. They are of black marble and alabaster, with gilding--very rich.
You could also see the wine-cellars. Many years ago a tun there burst,
and a serving man was drowned in the wine. You could also see the bed
in which Nabulione, the Emperor of Europe, slept, when he was in this
country. Also the ancient kitchen. Many years ago, in a storm, the
skeleton of a man fell down the chimney, out upon the hearth. Also
what is called the Court of Foxes. Many years ago there was a plague
of foxes; and the foxes came down from the forest like a great army,
thousands of them. And the lords of the castle, and the peasants, and
the village people, all, all, had to run away like rabbits--or the foxes
would have eaten them. It was in what they call the Court of Foxes that
the King of the foxes held his court. There is also the park. In the
park there are statues, ruins, and white peacocks."

"What have I in common with ruins and white peacocks?" Peter demanded
tragically, when Marietta had brought her much-gesticulated exposition
to a close. "Let me impress upon you once for all that I am not a
tripper. As for your castle--you invite me to a banquet-hall deserted.
As for your park, I see quite as much of it as I wish to see, from the
seclusion of my own pleached garden. I learned long ago the folly of
investigating things too closely, the wisdom of leaving things in
the vague. At present the park of Ventirose provides me with the raw
material for day-dreams. It is a sort of looking-glass country,--I can
see just so far into it, and no farther--that lies beyond is mystery,
is potentiality--terra incognita, which I can populate with monsters or
pleasant phantoms, at my whim. Why should you attempt to deprive me of
so innocent a recreation?"

"After the return of the family," said Marietta, "the public will no
longer be admitted. Meantime--"

"Upon presentation of my card, the porter will conduct me from
disenchantment to disenchantment. No, thank you. Now, if it were the
other way round, it would be different. If it were the castle and
the park that had gone to Rome, and if the family could be visited on
presentation of my card, I might be tempted."

"But that would be impossible, Signorino," said Marietta.



XV.


Beatrice walking with a priest--ay, I am not sure it would n't be
more accurate to say conspiring with a priest: but you shall judge.

They were in a room of the Palazzo Udeschini, at Rome--a reception
room, on the piano nobile. Therefore you see it: for are not all
reception-rooms in Roman palaces alike?

Vast, lofty, sombre; the walls hung with dark-green tapestry--a pattern
of vertical stripes, dark green and darker green; here and there a
great dark painting, a Crucifixion, a Holy Family, in a massive dim-gold
frame; dark-hued rugs on the tiled floor; dark pieces of furniture,
tables, cabinets, dark and heavy; and tall windows, bare of curtains
at this season, opening upon a court--a wide stone-eaved court, planted
with fantastic-leaved eucalyptus-trees, in the midst of which a brown
old fountain, indefatigable, played its sibilant monotone.

In the streets there were the smells, the noises, the heat, the glare
of August of August in Rome, "the most Roman of the months," they say;
certainly the hottest, noisiest, noisomest, and most glaring. But here
all was shadow, coolness, stillness, fragrance-the fragrance of the
clean air coming in from among the eucalyptus-trees.

Beatrice, critical-eyed, stood before a pier-glass, between two of the
tall windows, turning her head from side to side, craning her neck a
little--examining (if I must confess it) the effect of a new hat. It
was a very stunning hat--if a man's opinion hath any pertinence; it was
beyond doubt very complicated. There was an upward-springing black brim;
there was a downward-sweeping black feather; there was a defiant white
aigrette not unlike the Shah of Persia's; there were glints of red.

The priest sat in an arm-chair--one of those stiff, upright Roman
arm-chairs, which no one would ever dream of calling easy-chairs,
high-backed, covered with hard leather, studded with steel nails--and
watched her, smiling amusement, indulgence.

He was an oldish priest--sixty, sixty-five. He was small, lightly built,
lean-faced, with delicate-strong features: a prominent, delicate nose; a
well-marked, delicate jaw-bone, ending in a prominent, delicate chin;
a large, humorous mouth, the full lips delicately chiselled; a high,
delicate, perhaps rather narrow brow, rising above humorous grey eyes,
rather deep-set. Then he had silky-soft smooth white hair, and, topping
the occiput, a tonsure that might have passed for a natural bald spot.

He was decidedly clever-looking; he was aristocratic-looking,
distinguished-looking; but he was, above all, pleasant-looking,
kindly-looking, sweet-looking.

He wore a plain black cassock, by no means in its first youth--brown
along the seams, and, at the salient angles, at the shoulders, at
the elbows, shining with the lustre of hard service. Even without his
cassock, I imagine, you would have divined him for a clergyman--he
bore the clerical impress, that odd indefinable air of clericism which
everyone recognises, though it might not be altogether easy to tell
just where or from what it takes its origin. In the garb of an
Anglican--there being nothing, at first blush, necessarily Italian,
necessarily un-English, in his face--he would have struck you, I think,
as a pleasant, shrewd old parson of the scholarly--earnest type, mildly
donnish, with a fondness for gentle mirth. What, however, you would
scarcely have divined--unless you had chanced to notice, inconspicuous
in this sober light, the red sash round his waist, or the amethyst on
the third finger of his right hand--was his rank in the Roman hierarchy.
I have the honour of presenting his Eminence Egidio Maria Cardinal
Udeschini, formerly Bishop of Cittareggio, Prefect of the Congregation
of Archives and Inscriptions.

That was his title ecclesiastical. He had two other titles. He was a
Prince of the Udeschini by accident of birth. But his third title was
perhaps his most curious. It had been conferred upon him informally by
the populace of the Roman slum in which his titular church, St. Mary of
the Lilies, was situated: the little Uncle of the Poor.

As Italians measure wealth, Cardinal Udeschini was a wealthy man. What
with his private fortune and official stipends, he commanded an income
of something like a hundred thousand lire. He allowed himself five
thousand lire a year for food, clothing, and general expenses. Lodging
and service he had for nothing in the palace of his family. The
remaining ninety-odd thousand lire of his budget... Well, we all know
that titles can be purchased in Italy; and that was no doubt the price
he paid for the title I have mentioned.

However, it was not in money only that Cardinal Udeschim paid. He paid
also in labour. I have said that his titular church was in a slum. Rome
surely contained no slum more fetid, none more perilous--a region of
cut-throat alleys, south of the Ghetto, along the Tiber bank. Night
after night, accompanied by his stout young vicar, Don Giorgio
Appolloni, the Cardinal worked there as hard as any hard-working curate:
visiting the sick, comforting the afflicted, admonishing the knavish,
persuading the drunken from their taverns, making peace between the
combative. Not infrequently, when he came home, he would add a pair
of stilettos to his already large collection of such relics. And his
homecomings were apt to be late--oftener than not, after midnight; and
sometimes, indeed, in the vague twilight of morning, at the hour when,
as he once expressed it to Don Giorgio, "the tired burglar is just
lying down to rest." And every Saturday evening the Cardinal Prefect
of Archives and Inscriptions sat for three hours boxed up in his
confessional, like any parish priest--in his confessional at St. Mary
of the Lilies, where the penitents who breathed their secrets into his
ears, and received his fatherly counsels... I beg your pardon. One must
not, of course, remember his rags or his sores, when Lazarus approaches
that tribunal.

But I don't pretend that the Cardinal was a saint; I am sure he was not
a prig. For all his works of supererogation, his life was a life of pomp
and luxury, compared to the proper saint's life. He wore no hair shirt;
I doubt if he knew the taste of the Discipline. He had his weaknesses,
his foibles--even, if you will, his vices. I have intimated that he was
fond of a jest. "The Sacred College," I heard him remark one day, "has
fifty centres of gravity. I sometimes fear that I am its centre of
levity." He was also fond of music. He was also fond of snuff:

"'T is an abominable habit," he admitted. "I can't tolerate it at
all--in others. When I was Bishop of Cittareggio, I discountenanced
it utterly among my clergy. But for myself--I need not say there are
special circumstances. Oddly enough, by the bye, at Cittareggio each
separate member of my clergy was able to plead special circumstances
for himself I have tried to give it up, and the effort has spoiled
my temper--turned me into a perfect old shrew. For my friends' sake,
therefore, I appease myself with an occasional pinch. You see, tobacco
is antiseptic. It's an excellent preservative of the milk of human
kindness."

The friends in question kept him supplied with sound rappee. Jests and
music he was abundantly competent to supply himself. He played the piano
and the organ, and he sang--in a clear, sweet, slightly faded tenor. Of
secular composers his favourites were "the lucid Scarlatti, the luminous
Bach." But the music that roused him to enthusiasm was Gregorian. He
would have none other at St. Mary of the Lilies. He had trained his
priests and his people there to sing it admirably--you should have heard
them sing Vespers; and he sang it admirably himself--you should have
heard him sing a Mass--you should have heard that sweet old tenor voice
of his in the Preface and the Pater Noster.


So, then, Beatrice stood before a pier-glass, and studied her new hat;
whilst the Cardinal, amused, indulgent, sat in his high-backed armchair,
and watched her.

"Well--? What do you think?" she asked, turning towards him.

"You appeal to me as an expert?" he questioned.

His speaking-voice, as well as his singing-voice, was sweet, but with
a kind of trenchant edge upon it, a genial asperity, that gave it
character, tang.

"As one who should certainly be able to advise," said she.

"Well, then--" said he. He took his chin into his hand, as if it were
a beard, and looked up at her, considering; and the lines of
amusement--the "parentheses"--deepened at either side of his mouth.
"Well, then, I think if the feather were to be lifted a little higher in
front, and brought down a little lower behind--"

"Good gracious, I don't mean my hat," cried Beatrice. "What in the world
can an old dear like you know about hats?"

There was a further deepening of the parentheses.

"Surely," he contended, "a cardinal should know much. Is it not 'the
badge of all our tribe,' as your poet Byron says?"

Beatrice laughed. Then, "Byron--?" she doubted, with a look.

The Cardinal waved his hand--a gesture of amiable concession.

"Oh, if you prefer, Shakespeare. Everything in English is one or the
other. We will not fall out, like the Morellists, over an attribution.
The point is that I should be a good judge of hats."

He took snuff.

"It's a shame you haven't a decent snuff-box," Beatrice observed, with
an eye on the enamelled wooden one, cheap and shabby, from which he
helped himself.

"The box is but the guinea-stamp; the snuff's the thing.--Was it
Shakespeare or Byron who said that?" enquired the Cardinal.

Beatrice laughed again.

"I think it must have been Pulcinella. I'll give you a lovely silver
one, if you'll accept it."

"Will you? Really?" asked the Cardinal, alert.

"Of course I will. It's a shame you haven't one already."

"What would a lovely silver one cost?" he asked.

"I don't know. It does n't matter," answered she.

"But approximately? More or less?" he pursued.

"Oh, a couple of hundred lire, more or less, I daresay."

"A couple of hundred lire?" He glanced up, alerter. "Do you happen to
have that amount of money on your person?"

Beatrice (the unwary woman) hunted for her pocket--took out her
purse--computed its contents.

"Yes," she innocently answered.

The Cardinal chuckled--the satisfied chuckle of one whose unsuspected
tactics have succeeded.

"Then give me the couple of hundred lire."

He put forth his hand.

But Beatrice held back.

"What for?" she asked, suspicion waking.

"Oh, I shall have uses for it."

His outstretched hand--a slim old tapering, bony hand, in colour like
dusky ivory--closed peremptorily, in a dumb-show of receiving; and now,
by the bye, you could not have failed to notice the big lucent amethyst,
in its setting of elaborately-wrought pale gold, on the third finger.

"Come! Give!" he insisted, imperative.

Rueful but resigned, Beatrice shook her head.

"You have caught me finely," she sighed, and gave.

"You should n't have jingled your purse--you should n't have flaunted
your wealth in my face," laughed the Cardinal, putting away the
notes. He took snuff again. "I think I honestly earned that pinch," he
murmured.

"At any rate," said Beatrice, laying what unction she could to her soul,
"I am acquainted with a dignitary of the Church, who has lost a handsome
silver snuffbox--beautiful repousse work, with his arms engraved on the
lid."

"And I," retaliated he, "I am acquainted with a broken-down old doctor
and his wife, in Trastevere, who shall have meat and wine at dinner for
the next two months--at the expense of a niece of mine. 'I am so glad,'
as Alice of Wonderland says, 'that you married into our family.'"

"Alice of Wonderland--?" doubted Beatrice.

The Cardinal waved his hand.

"Oh, if you prefer, Punch. Everything in English is one or the other."

Beatrice laughed. "It was the I of which especially surprised my English
ear," she explained.

"I am your debtor for two hundred lire. I cannot quarrel with you over a
particle," said he.

"But why," asked she, "why did you give yourself such superfluous pains?
Why couldn't you ask me for the money point-blank? Why lure it from me,
by trick and device?"

The Cardinal chuckled.

"Ah, one must keep one's hand in. And one must not look like a Jesuit
for nothing."

"Do you look like a Jesuit?"

"I have been told so."

"By whom--for mercy's sake?"

"By a gentleman I had the pleasure of meeting not long ago in the
train--a very gorgeous gentleman, with gold chains and diamonds flashing
from every corner of his person, and a splendid waxed moustache, and a
bald head which, I think, was made of polished pink coral. He turned to
me in the most affable manner, and said, 'I see, Reverend Sir, that you
are a Jesuit. There should be a fellow-feeling between you and me. I am
a Jew. Jews and Jesuits have an almost equally bad name!'"

The Cardinal's humorous grey eyes swam in a glow of delighted merriment.

"I could have hugged him for his 'almost.' I have been wondering ever
since whether in his mind it was the Jews or the Jesuits who benefited
by that reservation. I have been wondering also what I ought to have
replied."

"What did you reply?" asked Beatrice, curious.

"No, no," said the Cardinal. "With sentiments of the highest
consideration, I must respectfully decline to tell you. It was too flat.
I am humiliated whenever I recall it."

"You might have replied that the Jews, at least, have the advantage of
meriting their bad name," she suggested.

"Oh, my dear child!" objected he. "My reply was flat--you would have had
it sharp. I should have hurt the poor well-meaning man's feelings, and
perhaps have burdened my own soul with a falsehood, into the bargain.
Who are we, to judge whether people merit their bad name or not? No, no.
The humiliating circumstance is, that if I had possessed the substance
as well as the show, if I had really been a son of St. Ignatius,
I should have found a retort that would have effected the Jew's
conversion."

"And apropos of conversions," said Beatrice, "see how far we have
strayed from our muttons."

"Our muttons--?" The Cardinal looked up, enquiring.

"I want to know what you think--not of my hat--but of my man."

"Oh--ah, yes; your Englishman, your tenant." The Cardinal nodded.

"My Englishman--my tenant--my heretic," said she.

"Well," said he, pondering, while the parentheses became marked
again,--"I should think, from what you tell me, that you would find him
a useful neighbour. Let me see... You got fifty lire out of him, for a
word; and the children went off, blessing you as their benefactress. I
should think that you would find him a valuable neighbour--and that he,
on his side, might find you an expensive one."

Beatrice, with a gesture, implored him to be serious.

"Ah, please don't tease about this," she said. "I want to know what you
think of his conversion?"

"The conversion of a heretic is always 'a consummation devoutly to be
desired,' as well, you may settle it between Shakespeare and Byron,
to suit yourself. And there are none so devoutly desirous of such
consummations as you Catholics of England--especially you women. It is
said that a Catholic Englishwoman once tried to convert the Pope."

"Well, there have been popes whom it would n't have hurt," commented
Beatrice. "And as for Mr. Marchdale," she continued, "he has shown
'dispositions.' He admitted that he could see no reason why it should
not have been Our Blessed Lady who sent us to the children's aid.
Surely, from a Protestant, that is an extraordinary admission?"

"Yes," said the Cardinal. "And if he meant it, one may conclude that he
has a philosophic mind."

"If he meant it?" Beatrice cried. "Why should he not have meant it? Why
should he have said it if he did not mean it?"

"Oh, don't ask me," protested the Cardinal. "There is a thing the French
call politesse. I can conceive a young man professing to agree with a
lady for the sake of what the French might call her beaux yeux."

"I give you my word," said Beatrice, "that my beaux yeux had nothing to
do with the case. He said it in the most absolute good faith. He said he
believed that in a universe like ours nothing was impossible--that
there were more things in heaven and earth than people generally dreamed
of--that he could see no reason why the Blessed Virgin should not have
sent us across the children's path. Oh, he meant it. I am perfectly sure
he meant it."

The Cardinal smiled--at her eagerness, perhaps.

"Well, then," he repeated, "we must conclude that he has a philosophic
mind."

"But what is one to do?" asked she. "Surely one ought to do something?
One ought to follow such an admission up? When a man is so far on the
way to the light, it is surely one's duty to lead him farther?"

"Without doubt," said the Cardinal.

"Well--? What can one do?"

The Cardinal looked grave.

"One can pray," he said.

"Emilia and I pray for his conversion night and morning."

"That is good," he approved.

"But that is surely not enough?"

"One can have Masses said."

"Monsignor Langshawe, at the castle, says a Mass for him twice a week."

"That is good," approved the Cardinal.

"But is that enough?"

"Why doesn't Monsignor Langshawe call upon him--cultivate his
acquaintance--talk with him--set him thinking?" the Cardinal enquired.

"Oh, Monsignor Langshawe!" Beatrice sighed, with a gesture. "He is
interested in nothing but geology--he would talk to him of nothing
but moraines--he would set him thinking of nothing but the march of
glaciers."

"Hum," said the Cardinal.

"Well, then--?" questioned Beatrice.

"Well, then, Carissima, why do you not take the affair in hand
yourself?"

"But that is just the difficulty. What can I what can a mere woman--do
in such a case?"

The Cardinal looked into his amethyst, as a crystal-gazer into his
crystal; and the lines about his humorous old mouth deepened and
quivered.

"I will lend you the works of Bellarmine in I forget how many volumes.
You can prime yourself with them, and then invite your heretic to a
course of instructions."

"Oh, I wish you would n't turn it to a joke," said Beatrice.

"Bellarmine--a joke!" exclaimed the Cardinal. "It is the first time
I have ever heard him called so. However, I will not press the
suggestion."

"But then--? Oh, please advise me seriously. What can I do? What can a
mere unlearned woman do?"

The Cardinal took snuff. He gazed into his amethyst again, beaming at
it, as if he could descry something deliciously comical in its depths.
He gave a soft little laugh. At last he looked up.

"Well," he responded slowly, "in an extremity, I should think that a
mere unlearned woman might, if she made an effort, ask the heretic to
dinner. I 'll come down and stay with you for a day or two, and you can
ask him to dinner."

"You're a perfect old darling," cried Beatrice, with rapture. "He'll
never be able to resist you."'

"Oh, I 'm not undertaking to discuss theology with him," said the
Cardinal. "But one must do something in exchange for a couple of hundred
lire--so I'll come and give you my moral support."

"You shall have your lovely silver snuffbox, all the same," said she.

Mark the predestination!



XVI


                                      "CASTEL VENTIROSE,
                                          "August 21 st.

"DEAR Mr. Marchdale: It will give me great pleasure if you can dine
with us on Thursday evening next, at eight o'clock, to meet my uncle,
Cardinal Udeschini, who is staying here for a few days.

"I have been re-reading 'A Man of Words.' I want you to tell me a great
deal more about your friend, the author.

                                        Yours sincerely,
                                     BEATRICE DI SANTANGIOLO."

It is astonishing, what men will prize, what men will treasure. Peter
Marchdale, for example, prizes, treasures, (and imagines that he will
always prize and treasure), the perfectly conventional, the perfectly
commonplace little document, of which the foregoing is a copy.

The original is written in rather a small, concentrated hand, not
overwhelmingly legible perhaps, but, as we say, "full of character," on
paper lightly blueish, in the prescribed corner of which a tiny ducal
coronet is embossed, above the initials "B. S." curiously interlaced in
a cypher.

When Peter received it, and (need I mention?) approached it to his face,
he fancied he could detect just a trace, just the faintest reminder, of
a perfume--something like an afterthought of orris. It was by no means
anodyne. It was a breath, a whisper, vague, elusive, hinting of things
exquisite, intimate of things intimately feminine, exquisitely personal.
I don't know how many times he repeated that manoeuvre of conveying the
letter to his face; but I do know that when I was privileged to inspect
it, a few months later, the only perfume it retained was an unmistakable
perfume of tobacco.

I don't know, either, how many times he read it, searched it, as if
secrets might lie perdu between the lines, as if his gaze could warm
into evidence some sympathetic ink, or compel a cryptic sub-intention
from the text itself.

Well, to be sure, the text had cryptic subintentions; but these were as
far as may be from any that Peter was in a position to conjecture. How
could he guess, for instance, that the letter was an instrument, and he
the victim, of a Popish machination? How could he guess that its writer
knew as well as he did who was the author of "A Man of Words"?

And then, all at once, a shade of trouble of quite another nature fell
upon his mind. He frowned for a while in silent perplexity. At last he
addressed himself to Marietta.

"Have you ever dined with a cardinal?" he asked.

"No, Signorino," that patient sufferer replied.

"Well, I'm in the very dickens of a quandary--son' proprio nel dickens
d'un imbarazzo." he informed her.

"Dickens--?" she repeated.

"Si--Dickens, Carlo, celebre autore inglese. Why not?" he asked.

Marietta gazed with long-suffering eyes at the horizon.

"Or, to put it differently," Peter resumed, "I've come all the way from
London with nothing better than a dinner jacket in my kit."

"Dina giacca? Cosa e?" questioned Marietta.

"No matter what it is--the important thing is what it is n't. It is n't
a dress-coat."

"Non e un abito nero," said Marietta, seeing that he expected her to say
something.

"Well--? You perceive my difficulty. Do you think you could make me
one?" said Peter.

"Make the Signorino a dress-coat? I? Oh, no, Signorino." Marietta shook
her head.

"I feared as much," he acknowledged. "Is there a decent tailor in the
village?"

"No, Signorino."

"Nor in the whole length and breadth of this peninsula, if you come to
that. Well, what am I to do? How am I to dine with a cardinal? Do you
think a cardinal would have a fit if a man were to dine with him in a
dina giacca?"

"Have a fit? Why should he have a fit, Signorino?" Marietta blinked.

"Would he do anything to the man? Would he launch the awful curses of
the Church at him, for instance?"

"Mache, Signorino!" She struck an attitude that put to scorn his
apprehensions.

"I see," said Peter. "You think there is no danger? You advise me to
brazen the dina giacca out, to swagger it off?"

"I don't understand, Signorino," said Marietta.

"To understand is to forgive," said he; "and yet you can't trifle with
English servants like this, though they ought to understand, ought n't
they? In any case, I 'll be guided by your judgment. I'll wear my dina
giacca, but I'll wear it with an air! I 'll confer upon it the dignity
of a court-suit. Is that a gardener--that person working over there?"

Marietta looked in the quarter indicated by Peter's nod.

"Yes, Signorino; ha is the same gardener who works here three days every
week," she answered.

"Is he, really? He looks like a pirate," Peter murmured.

"Like a pirate? Luigi?" she exclaimed.

"Yes," affirmed her master. "He wears green corduroy trousers, and a
red belt, and a blue shirt. That is the pirate uniform. He has a swarthy
skin, and a piercing eye, and hair as black as the Jolly Roger. Those
are the marks by which you recognise a pirate, even when in mufti. I
believe you said his name is Luigi?"

"Yes, Signorino--Luigi Maroni. We call him Gigi."

"Is Gigi versatile?" asked Peter.

"Versatile--?" puzzled Marietta. But then, risking her own
interpretation of the recondite word, "Oh, no, Signorino. He is of the
country."

"Ah, he's of the country, is he? So much the better. Then he will know
the way to Castel Ventirose?"

"But naturally, Signorino." Marietta nodded.

"And do you think, for once in a way, though not versatile, he could be
prevailed upon to divert his faculties from the work of a gardener to
that of a messenger?"

"A messenger, Signorino?" Marietta wrinkled up her brow.

"Ang--an unofficial postman. Do you think he could be induced to carry a
letter for me to the castle?"

"But certainly, Signorino. He is here to obey the Signorino's orders."
Marietta shrugged her shoulders, and waved her hands.

"Then tell him, please, to go and put the necessary touches to his
toilet," said Peter. "Meanwhile I'll indite the letter."

When his letter was indited, he found the piratical-looking Gigi in
attendance, and he gave it to him, with instructions.

Thereupon Gigi (with a smile of sympathetic intelligence, inimitably
Italian) put the letter in his hat, put his hat upon his head, and
started briskly off--but not in the proper direction: not in the
direction of the road, which led to the village, and across the bridge,
and then round upon itself to the gates of the park. He started briskly
off towards Peter's own toolhouse, a low red-tiled pavilion, opposite
the door of Marietta's kitchen.

Peter was on the point of calling to him, of remonstrating. Then he
thought better of it. He would wait a bit, and watch.

He waited and watched; and this was what he saw.

Gigi entered the tool-house, and presently brought out a ladder, which
he carried down to the riverside, and left there. Then he returned to
the tool-house, and came back bearing an armful of planks, each perhaps
a foot wide by five or six feet long. Now he raised his ladder to the
perpendicular, and let it descend before him, so that, one extremity
resting upon the nearer bank, one attained the further, and it spanned
the flood. Finally he laid a plank lengthwise upon the hithermost rungs,
and advanced to the end of it; then another plank; then a third: and he
stood in the grounds of Ventirose.

He had improvised a bridge--a bridge that swayed upwards and downwards
more or less dizzily about the middle, if you will--but an entirely
practicable bridge, for all that. And he had saved himself at least a
good three miles, to the castle and back, by the road.

Peter watched, and admired.

"And I asked whether he was versatile!" he muttered. "Trust an Italian
for economising labour. It looks like unwarrantable invasion of friendly
territory--but it's a dodge worth remembering, all the same."

He drew the Duchessa's letter from his pocket, and read it again, and
again approached it to his face, communing with that ghost of a perfume.

"Heavens! how it makes one think of chiffons," he exclaimed.
"Thursday--Thursday--help me to live till Thursday!"



XVII


But he had n't to live till Thursday--he was destined to see her not
later than the next afternoon.

You know with what abruptness, with how brief a warning, storms will
spring from the blue, in that land of lakes and mountains.

It was three o'clock or thereabouts; and Peter was reading in his
garden; and the whole world lay basking in unmitigated sunshine.

Then, all at once, somehow, you felt a change in things: the sunshine
seemed less brilliant, the shadows less solid, less sharply outlined.
Oh, it was very slight, very uncertain; you had to look twice to assure
yourself that it was n't a mere fancy. It seemed as if never so thin a
gauze had been drawn over the face of the sun, just faintly bedimming,
without obscuring it. You could have ransacked the sky in vain to
discover the smallest shred of cloud.

At the same time, the air, which had been hot all day--hot, but buoyant,
but stimulant, but quick with oxygen--seemed to become thick, sluggish,
suffocating, seemed to yield up its vital principle, and to fall a
dead weight upon the earth. And this effect was accompanied by a
sudden silence--the usual busy out-of-door country noises were suddenly
suspended: the locusts stopped their singing; not a bird twittered;
not a leaf rustled: the world held its breath. And if the river went
on babbling, babbling, that was a very part of the silence--accented,
underscored it.

Yet still you could not discern a rack of cloud anywhere in the
sky--still, for a minute or two.... Then, before you knew how it had
happened, the snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito were completely lapped in
cloud.

And now the cloud spread with astonishing rapidity--spread and sank,
cancelling the sun, shrouding the Gnisi to its waist, curling in smoky
wreaths among the battlements of the Cornobastone, turning the lake
from sapphire to sombre steel, filling the entire valley with a strange
mixture of darkness and an uncanny pallid light. Overhead it hung like
a vast canopy of leaden-hued cotton-wool; at the west it had a fringe of
fiery crimson, beyond which a strip of clear sky on the horizon diffused
a dull metallic yellow, like tarnished brass.

Presently, in the distance, there was a low growl of thunder; in a
minute, a louder, angrier growl--as if the first were a menace which had
not been heeded. Then there was a violent gush of wind--cold; smelling
of the forests from which it came; scattering everything before it,
dust, dead leaves, the fallen petals of flowers; making the trees writhe
and labour, like giants wrestling with invisible giants; making the
short grass shudder; corrugating the steel surface of the lake. Then two
or three big raindrops fell--and then, the deluge.

Peter climbed up to his observatory--a square four-windowed turret, at
the top of the house--thence to watch the storm and exult in it. Really
it was splendid--to see, to hear; its immense wild force, its immense
reckless fury. Rain had never rained so hard, he thought. Already,
the lake, the mountain slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were
totally blotted out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even
the neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own garden,
were barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog. The big drops pelted
the river like bullets, sending up splashes bigger than themselves.
And the tiled roof just above his head resounded with a continual loud
crepitation, as if a multitude of iron-shod elves were dancing on it.
The thunder crashed, roared, reverberated, like the toppling of great
edifices. The lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long
blinding zig-zags. The wind moaned, howled, hooted--and the square
chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its buffetings, and
was full of the chill and the smell of it. Really the whole thing was
splendid.

His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond his
hedge was transformed to a shallow torrent.... And, just at that moment,
looking off along the highroad, he saw something that brought his heart
into his throat.

Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain--the
Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest.

In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate.

"Come in--come in," he called.

"We are simply drenched--we shall inundate your house," the Duchessa
said, as he showed them into his sitting-room.

They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees with mud.

"Good heavens!" gasped Peter, stupid. "How were you ever out in such a
downpour?"

She smiled, rather forlornly.

"No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for a good
long walk--for pleasure."

"You must be wet to the bone--you must be perishing with cold," he
cried, looking from one to another.

"Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold," she admitted.

"And I have no means of offering you a fire--there are no fireplaces,"
he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian room, to certify
their absence.

"Is n't there a kitchen?" asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of raillery
kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.

Peter threw up his hands.

"I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell Marietta to
light a fire."

He excused himself, and sought out Marietta. He found her in her
housekeeper's room, on her knees, saying her rosary, in obvious terror.
I 'm afraid he interrupted her orisons somewhat brusquely.

"Will you be so good as to start a rousing fire in the kitchen--as
quickly as ever it can be done?"

And he rejoined his guests.

"If you will come this way--" he said.

Marietta had a fire of logs and pine-cones blazing in no time. She
courtesied low to the Duchessa, lower still to the priest--in fact,
Peter was n't sure that she did n't genuflect before him, while he made
a rapid movement with his hand over her head: the Sign of the Cross,
perhaps.

He was a little, unassuming-looking, white haired priest, with a
remarkably clever, humorous, kindly face; and he wore a remarkably
shabby cassock. The Duchessa's chaplain, Peter supposed. How should it
occur to him that this was Cardinal Udeschini? Do Cardinals (in one's
antecedent notion of them) wear shabby cassocks, and look humorous and
unassuming? Do they go tramping about the country in the rain, attended
by no retinue save a woman and a fourteen-year-old girl? And are they
little men--in one's antecedent notion? True, his shabby cassock had red
buttons, and there was a red sash round his waist, and a big amethyst
glittered in a setting of pale gold on his annular finger. But Peter was
not sufficiently versed in fashions canonical, to recognise the meaning
of these insignia.

How, on the other hand, should it occur to the Duchessa that Peter
needed enlightenment? At all events, she said to him, "Let me introduce
you;" and then, to the priest, "Let me present Mr. Marchdale--of whom
you have heard before now."

The white-haired old man smiled sweetly into Peter's eyes, and gave him
a slender, sensitive old hand.

"E cattivo vento che non e buono per qualcuno--debbo a questa burrasca
la pregustazione d' un piacere," he said, with a mingling of ceremonious
politeness and sunny geniality that was of his age and race.

Peter--instinctively--he could not have told why--put a good deal more
deference into his bow, than men of his age and race commonly put into
their bows, and murmured something about "grand' onore."

Marietta placed a row of chairs before the raised stone hearth, and
afterwards, at her master's request, busied herself preparing tea.

"But I think you would all be wise to take a little brandy first," Peter
suggested. "It is my despair that I am not able to provide you with a
change of raiment. Brandy will be the best substitute, perhaps."

The old priest laughed, and put his hand upon the shoulder of Emilia.

"You have spared this young lady an embarrassing avowal. Brandy is
exactly what she was screwing her courage to the point of asking for."

"Oh, no!" protested Emilia, in a deep Italian voice, with passionate
seriousness.

But Peter fetched a decanter, and poured brandy for everyone.

"I drink to your health--c'est bien le cas de le dire. I hope you will
not have caught your deaths of cold," he said.

"Oh, we are quite warm now," said the Duchessa. "We are snug in an ingle
on Mount Ararat."

"Our wetting will have done us good--it will make us grow. You and I
will never regret that, will we, Emilietta?" said the priest.

A lively colour had come into the Duchessa's cheeks; her eyes seemed
unusually bright. Her hair was in some disorder, drooping at the sides,
and blown over her brow in fine free wavelets. It was dark in the
kitchen, save for the firelight, which danced fantastically on the walls
and ceiling, and struck a ruddy glow from Marietta's copper pots and
pans. The rain pattered lustily without; the wind wailed in the chimney;
the lightning flashed, the thunder volleyed. And Peter looked at the
Duchessa--and blessed the elements. To see her seated there, in her wet
gown, seated familiarly, at her ease, before his fire, in his kitchen,
with that colour in her cheeks, that brightness in her eyes, and her
hair in that disarray--it was unspeakable; his heart closed in a kind
of delicious spasm. And the fragrance, subtle, secret, evasive, that
hovered in the air near her, did not diminish his emotion.

"I wonder," she asked, with a comical little glance upwards at
him, "whether you would resent it very much if I should take off my
hat--because it's a perfect reservoir, and the water will keep trickling
down my neck."

His joy needed but this culmination that she should take off her hat!

"Oh, I beg of you--" he returned fervently.

"You had better take yours off too, Emilia," said the Duchessa.

"Admire masculine foresight," said the priest. "I took mine off when I
came in."

"Let me hang them up," said Peter.

It was wonderful to hold her hat in his hand--it was like holding a part
of herself. He brushed it surreptitiously against his face, as he
hung it up. Its fragrance--which met him like an answering caress,
almost--did not lessen his emotion.

Then Marietta brought the tea, with bread-and-butter, and toast, and
cakes, and pretty blue china cups and saucers, and silver that glittered
in the firelight.

"Will you do me the honour of pouring the tea?" Peter asked the
Duchessa.

So she poured the tea, and Peter passed it. As he stood close to her,
to take it--oh, but his heart beat, believe me! And once, when she was
giving him a cup, the warm tips of her fingers lightly touched his hand.
Believe me, the touch had its effect. And always there was that heady
fragrance in the air, like a mysterious little voice, singing secrets.

"I wonder," the old priest said, "why tea is not more generally drunk by
us Italians. I never taste it without resolving to acquire the habit. I
remember, when I was a child, our mothers used to keep it as a medicine;
and you could only buy it at the chemists' shops."

"It's coming in, you know, at Rome--among the Whites," said the
Duchessa.

"Among the Whites!" cried he, with a jocular simulation of disquiet.
"You should not have told me that, till I had finished my cup. Now I
shall feel that I am sharing a dissipation with our spoliators."

"That should give an edge to its aroma," laughed she. "And besides, the
Whites aren't all responsible for our spoliation--some of them are not
so white as your fancy paints them. They'd be very decent people, for
the most part--if they were n't so vulgar."

"If you stick up for the Whites like that when I am Pope, I shall
excommunicate you," the priest threatened. "Meanwhile, what have you to
say against the Blacks?"

"The Blacks, with few exceptions, are even blacker than they're painted;
but they too would be fairly decent people in their way--if they were
n't so respectable. That is what makes Rome impossible as a residence
for any one who cares for human society. White society is so
vulgar--Black society is so deadly dull."

"It is rather curious," said the priest, "that the chief of each party
should wear the colour of his adversary. Our chief dresses in white, and
their chief can be seen any day driving about the streets in black."

And Peter, during this interchange of small-talk, was at liberty to
feast his eyes upon her.

"Perhaps you have not yet reached the time of life where men begin to
find a virtue in snuff?" the priest said, producing a smart silver snuff
box, tapping the lid, and proffering it to Peter.

"On the contrary--thank you," Peter answered, and absorbed his pinch
like an adept.

"How on earth have you learned to take it without a paroxysm?" cried the
surprised Duchessa.

"Oh, a thousand years ago I was in the Diplomatic Service," he
explained. "It is one of the requirements."

Emilia Manfredi lifted her big brown eyes, filled with girlish wonder,
to his face, and exclaimed, "How extraordinary!"

"It is n't half so extraordinary as it would be if it were true, my
dear," said the Duchessa.

"Oh? Non e poi vero?" murmured Emilia, and her eyes darkened with
disappointment.

Peter meanwhile was looking at the snuffbox, which the priest still held
in his hand, and admiring its brave repousse work of leaves and flowers,
and the escutcheon engraved on the lid. But what if he could have
guessed the part he had passively played in obtaining it for its
possessor--or the part that it was still to play in his own epopee? Mark
again the predestination!

"The storm is passing," said the priest.

"Worse luck!" thought Peter.

For indeed the rain and the wind were moderating, the thunder had rolled
farther away, the sky was becoming lighter.

"But there's a mighty problem before us still," said the Duchessa. "How
are we to get to Ventirose? The roads will, be ankle-deep with mud."

"If you wish to do me a very great kindness--" Peter began.

"Yes--?" she encouraged him.

"You will allow me to go before you, and tell them to come for you with
a carriage."

"I shall certainly allow you to do nothing of the sort," she replied
severely. "I suppose there is no one whom you could send?"

"I should hardly like to send Marietta. I 'm afraid there is no one
else. But upon my word, I should enjoy going myself."

She shook her head, smiling at him with mock compassion.

"Would you? Poor man, poor man! That is an enjoyment which you will have
to renounce. One must n't expect too much in this sad life."

"Well, then," said Peter, "I have an expedient. If you can walk a
somewhat narrow plank--?"

"Yes--?" questioned she.

"I think I can improvise a bridge across the river."

"I believe the rain has stopped," said the priest, looking towards the
window.

Peter, manning his soul for the inevitable, got up, went to the door,
opened it, stuck out his head.

"Yes," he acknowledged, while his heart sank within him, "the rain has
stopped."

And now the storm departed almost as rapidly as it had arrived. In
the north the sky was already clear, blue and hard-looking--a wall of
lapis-lazuli. The dark cloud-canopy was drifting to the south. Suddenly
the sun came out, flashing first from the snows of Monte Sfiorito, then,
in an instant, flooding the entire prospect with a marvellous yellow
light, ethereal amber; whilst long streamers of tinted vapour--columns
of pearl-dust, one might have fancied--rose to meet it; and all wet
surfaces, leaves, lawns, tree-trunks, housetops, the bare crags of the
Gnisi, gleamed in a wash of gold.

Puffs of fresh air blew into the kitchen, filling it with the keen sweet
odour of wet earth. The priest and the Duchessa and Emilia joined Peter
at the open door.

"Oh, your poor, poor garden!" the Duchessa cried.

His garden had suffered a good deal, to be sure. The flowers lay supine,
their faces beaten into the mud; the greensward was littered with fallen
leaves and twigs--and even in one or two places whole branches had been
broken from the trees; on the ground about each rose-bush a snow of pink
rose-petals lay scattered; in the paths there were hundreds of little
pools, shining in the sun like pools of fire.

"There's nothing a gardener can't set right," said Peter, feeling no
doubt that here was a trifling tax upon the delights the storm had
procured him.

"And oh, our poor, poor hats!" said the Duchessa, eyeing ruefully those
damaged pieces of finery. "I fear no gardener can ever set them right."

"It sounds inhospitable," said Peter, "but I suppose I had better go and
build your bridge."

So he threw a ladder athwart the river, and laid the planks in place, as
he had seen Gigi do the day before.

"How ingenious--and, like all great things, how simple," laughed the
Duchessa.

Peter waved his hand, as who should modestly deprecate applause. But, I
'm ashamed to own, he didn't disclaim the credit of the invention.

"It will require some nerve," she reflected, looking at the narrow
planks, the foaming green water. "However--"

And gathering in her skirts, she set bravely forward, and made the
transit without mishap. The priest and Emilia, gathering in their
skirts, made it after her.

She paused on the other side, and looked back, smiling.

"Since you have discovered so efficacious a means of cutting short the
distance between our places of abode," she said, "I hope you will not
fail to profit by it whenever you may have occasion--on Thursday, for
example."

"Thank you very much," said Peter.

"Of course," she went on, "we may all die of our wetting yet. It would
perhaps show a neighbourly interest if you were to come up to-morrow,
and take our news. Come at four o'clock; and if we're alive... you shall
have another pinch of snuff," she promised, laughing.

"I adore you," said Peter, under his breath. "I'll come with great
pleasure," he said aloud.


"Marietta," he observed, that evening, as he dined, "I would have you
to know that the Aco is bridged. Hence, there is one symbol the fewer
in Lombardy. But why does--you mustn't mind the Ollendorfian form of my
enquiry--why does the chaplain of the Duchessa wear red stockings?"

"The chaplain of the Duchessa--?" repeated Marietta, wrinkling up her
brow.

"Ang--of the Duchessa di Santangiolo. He wore red stockings, and shoes
with silver buckles. Do you think that's precisely decorous--don't you
think it 's the least bit light-minded--in an ecclesiastic?"

"He--? Who--?" questioned Marietta.

"But the chaplain of the Duchessa--when he was here this afternoon."

"The chaplain of the Duchessa!" exclaimed Marietta. "Here this
afternoon? The chaplain of the Duchessa was not here this afternoon. His
Eminence the Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was here this afternoon."

"What!" gasped Peter.

"Ang," said Marietta.

"That was Cardinal Udeschini--that little harmless-looking, sweet-faced
old man!" Peter wondered.

"Sicuro--the uncle of the Duca," said she.

"Good heavens!" sighed he. "And I allowed myself to hobnob with him like
a boon-companion."

"Gia," said she.

"You need n't rub it in," said he. "For the matter of that, you yourself
entertained him in your kitchen."

"Scusi?" said she.

"Ah, well--it was probably for the best," he concluded. "I daresay I
should n't have behaved much better if I had known."

"It was his coming which saved this house from being struck by
lightning," announced Marietta.

"Oh--? Was it?" exclaimed Peter.

"Yes, Signorino. The lightning would never strike a house that the Lord
Prince Cardinal was in."

"I see--it would n't venture--it would n't presume. Did--did it strike
all the houses that the Lord Prince Cardinal was n't in?"

"I do not think so, Signorino. Ma non fa niente. It was a terrible
storm--terrible, terrible. The lightning was going to strike this house,
when the Lord Prince Cardinal arrived."

"Hum," said Peter. "Then you, as well as I, have reason for regarding
his arrival as providential."



XVIII


"I think something must have happened to my watch," Peter said, next
day.

Indeed, its hands moved with extraordinary, with exasperating slowness.

"It seems absurd that it should do no good to push them on," he thought.

He would force himself, between twice ascertaining their position, to
wait for a period that felt like an eternity, walking about miserably,
and smoking flavourless cigarettes;--then he would stand amazed,
incredulous, when, with a smirk (as it almost struck him) of ironical
complacence, they would attest that his eternity had lasted something
near a quarter of an hour.

"And I had professed myself a Kantian, and made light of the objective
reality of Time! thou laggard, Time!" he cried, and shook his fist at
Space, Time's unoffending consort.

"I believe it will never be four o'clock again," he said, in despair,
finally; and once more had out his watch. It was half-past three. He
scowled at the instrument's bland white face. "You have no bowels, no
sensibilities--nothing but dry little methodical jog-trot wheels and
pivots!" he exclaimed, flying to insult for relief. "You're as inhuman
as a French functionary. Do you call yourself a sympathetic comrade
for an impatient man?" He laid it open on his rustic table, and waited
through a last eternity. At a quarter to four he crossed the river. "If
I am early--tant pis!" he decided, choosing the lesser of two evils, and
challenging Fate.

He crossed the river, and stood for the first time in the grounds of
Ventirose--stood where she had been in the habit of standing, during
their water-side colloquies. He glanced back at his house and garden,
envisaging them for the first time, as it were, from her point of
view. They had a queer air of belonging to an era that had passed, to
a yesterday already remote. They looked, somehow, curiously small,
moreover--the garden circumscribed, the two-storied house, with its
striped sunblinds, poor and petty. He turned his back upon them--left
them behind. He would have to come home to them later in the day, to be
sure; but then everything would be different. A chapter would have added
itself to the history of the world; a great event, a great step forward,
would have definitely taken place. He would have been received
at Ventirose as a friend. He would be no longer a mere nodding
acquaintance, owing even that meagre relationship to the haphazard
of propinquity. The ice-broken, if you will, but still present in
abundance--would have been gently thawed away. One era had passed; but
then a new era would have begun.

So he turned his back upon Villa F'loriano, and set off, high-hearted,
up the wide lawns, under the bending trees--whither, on four red-marked
occasions, he had watched her disappear--towards the castle, which
faced him in its vast irregular picturesqueness. There were the oldest
portions, grimly mediaeval, a lakeside fortress, with ponderous round
towers, meurtrieres, machiolations, its grey stone walls discoloured
in fantastic streaks and patches by weather-stains and lichens, or
else shaggily overgrown by creepers. Then there were later portions,
rectangular, pink-stuccoed, with rusticated work at the corners, and,
on the blank spaces between the windows, quaint allegorical frescoes,
faded, half washed-out. And then there were entirely modern-looking
portions, of gleaming marble, with numberless fanciful carvings, spires,
pinnacles, reliefs--wonderfully light, gay, habitable, and (Peter
thought) beautiful, in the clear Italian atmosphere, against the blue
Italian sky.

"It's a perfect house for her," he said. "It suits her--like an
appropriate garment; it almost seems to express her."

And all the while, as he proceeded, her voice kept sounding in his ears;
scraps of her conversation, phrases that she had spoken, kept coming
back to him.


One end of the long, wide marble terrace had been arranged as a sort
of out-of-door living-room. A white awning was stretched overhead;
warm-hued rugs were laid on the pavement; there were wicker
lounging-chairs, with bright cushions, and a little table, holding books
and things.

The Duchessa rose from one of the lounging-chairs, and came forward,
smiling, to meet him.

She gave him her hand--for the first time.

It was warm--electrically warm; and it was soft--womanly soft; and it
was firm, alive--it spoke of a vitality, a temperament. Peter was sure,
besides, that it would be sweet to smell; and he longed to bend over it,
and press it with his lips. He might almost have done so, according to
Italian etiquette. But, of course, he simply bowed over it, and let it
go.

"Mi trova abbandonata," she said, leading the way back to the
terrace-end. There were notes of a peculiar richness in her voice, when
she spoke Italian; and she dwelt languorously on the vowels, and rather
slurred the consonants, lazily, in the manner Italian women have,
whereby they give the quality of velvet to their tongue. She was not an
Italian woman; Heaven be praised, she was English: so this was just pure
gain to the sum-total of her graces. "My uncle and my niece have gone to
the village. But I 'm expecting them to come home at any moment now--and
you'll not have long, I hope, to wait for your snuff."

She flashed a whimsical little smile into his eyes. Then she returned
to her wicker chair, glancing an invitation at Peter to place himself
in the one facing her. She leaned back, resting her head on a pink silk
cushion.

Peter, no doubt, sent up a silent prayer that her uncle and her niece
might be detained at the village for the rest of the afternoon. By her
niece he took her to mean Emilia: he liked her for the kindly euphemism.
"What hair she has!" he thought, admiring the loose brown masses, warm
upon their background of pink silk.

"Oh, I'm inured to waiting," he replied, with a retrospective mind for
the interminable waits of that interminable day.

The Duchessa had taken a fan from the table, and was playing with it,
opening and shutting it slowly, in her lap. Now she caught Peter's eyes
examining it, and she gave it to him. (My own suspicion is that Peter's
eyes had been occupied rather with the hands that held the fan, than
with the fan itself--but that's a detail.)

"I picked it up the other day, in Rome," she said. "Of course, it's
an imitation of the French fans of the last century, but I thought it
pretty."

It was of white silk, that had been thinly stained a soft yellow, like
the yellow of faded yellow rose-leaves. It was painted with innumerable
plump little cupids, flying among pale clouds. The sticks were of
mother-of=pearl. The end-sticks were elaborately incised, and in the
incisions opals were set, big ones and small ones, smouldering with
green and scarlet fires.

"Very pretty indeed," said Peter, "and very curious. It's like a great
butterfly's wing is n't it? But are n't you afraid of opals?"

"Afraid of opals?" she wondered. "Why should one be?"

"Unless your birthday happens to fall in October, they're reputed to
bring bad luck," he reminded her.

"My birthday happens to fall in June but I 'll never believe that such
pretty things as opals can bring bad luck," she laughed, taking the fan,
which he returned to her, and stroking one of the bigger opals with her
finger tip.

"Have you no superstitions?" he asked.

"I hope not--I don't think I have," she answered. "We're not allowed to
have superstitions, you know--nous autres Catholiques."

"Oh?" he said, with surprise. "No, I did n't know."

"Yes, they're a forbidden luxury. But you--? Are you superstitious?
Would you be afraid of opals?"

"I doubt if I should have the courage to wear one. At all events, I
don't regard superstitions in the light of a luxury. I should be glad
to be rid of those I have. They're a horrible inconvenience. But I can't
get it out of my head that the air is filled with a swarm of malignant
little devils, who are always watching their chance to do us an ill
turn. We don't in the least know the conditions under which they can
bring it off; but it's legendary that if we wear opals, or sit thirteen
at table, or start an enterprise on Friday, or what not, we somehow
give them their opportunity. And one naturally wishes to be on the safe
side."

She looked at him with doubt, considering.

"You don't seriously believe all that?" she said.

"No, I don't seriously believe it. But one breathes it in with the air
of one's nursery, and it sticks. I don't believe it, but I fear it just
enough to be made uneasy. The evil eye, for instance. How can one spend
any time in Italy, where everybody goes loaded with charms against it,
and help having a sort of sneaking half-belief in the evil eye?"

She shook her head, laughing.

"I 've spent a good deal of time in Italy, but I have n't so much as a
sneaking quarter-belief in it."

"I envy you your strength of mind," said he. "But surely, though
superstition is a luxury forbidden to Catholics, there are plenty of
good Catholics who indulge in it, all the same?"

"There are never plenty of good Catholics," said sire. "You employ a
much-abused expression. To profess the Catholic faith, to go to Mass on
Sunday and abstain from meat on Friday, that is by no means sufficient
to constitute a good Catholic. To be a good Catholic one would have to
be a saint, nothing less--and not a mere formal saint, either, but a
very real saint, a saint in thought and feeling, as well as in speech
and action. Just in so far as one is superstitious, one is a bad
Catholic. Oh, if the world were populated by good Catholics, it would be
the Millennium come to pass."

"It would be that, if it were populated by good Christians--wouldn't
it?" asked Peter.

"The terms are interchangeable," she answered sweetly, with a
half-comical look of defiance.

"Mercy!" cried he. "Can't a Protestant be a good Christian too?"

"Yes," she said, "because a Protestant can be a Catholic without knowing
it."

"Oh--?" he puzzled, frowning.

"It's quite simple," she explained. "You can't be a Christian unless
you're a Catholic. But if you believe as much of Christian truth as
you've ever had a fair opportunity of learning, and if you try to live
in accordance with Christian morals, you are a Catholic, you're a
member of the Catholic Church, whether you know it or not. You can't be
deprived of your birthright, you see."

"That seems rather broad," said Peter; "and one had always heard that
Catholicism was nothing if not narrow."

"How could it be Catholic if it were narrow?" asked she. "However, if
a Protestant uses his intelligence, and is logical, he'll not remain
an unconscious Catholic long. If he studies the matter, and is logical,
he'll wish to unite himself to the Church in her visible body. Look at
England. See how logic is multiplying converts year by year."

"But it's the glory of Englishmen to be illogical," said Peter, with
a laugh. "Our capacity for not following premisses to their logical
consequences is the principal source of our national greatness. So the
bulk of the English are likely to resist conversion for centuries
to come--are they not? And then, nowadays, one is so apt to be an
indifferentist in matters of religion--and Catholicism is so exacting.
One remains a Protestant from the love of ease."

"And from the desire, on the part of a good many Englishmen at least, to
sail in a boat of their own--not to get mixed up with a lot of foreign
publicans and sinners--no?" she suggested.

"Oh, of course, we're insular and we're Pharisaical," admitted Peter.

"And as for one's indifference," she smiled, "that is most probably due
to one's youth and inexperience. One can't come to close quarters with
the realities of life--with sorrow, with great joy, with temptation,
with sin or with heroic virtue, with death, with the birth of a new
soul, with any of the awful, wonderful realities of life--and continue
to be an indifferentist in matters of religion, do you think?"

"When one comes to close quarters with the awful, wonderful realities
of life, one has religious moments," he acknowledged. "But they're
generally rather fugitive, are n't they?"

"One can cultivate them--one can encourage them," she said. "If you
would care to know a good Catholic," she added, "my niece, my little
ward, Emilia is one. She wants to become a Sister of Mercy, to spend her
life nursing the poor."

"Oh? Would n't that be rather a pity?" Peter said. "She's so extremely
pretty. I don't know when I have seen prettier brown eyes than hers."

"Well, in a few years, I expect we shall see those pretty brown eyes
looking out from under a sister's coif. No, I don't think it will be
a pity. Nuns and sisters, I think, are the happiest people in the
world--and priests. Have you ever met any one who seemed happier than my
uncle, for example?"

"I have certainly never met any one who seemed sweeter, kinder," Peter
confessed. "He has a wonderful old face."

"He's a wonderful old man," said she. "I 'm going to try to keep him a
prisoner here for the rest of the summer--though he will have it that
he's just run down for a week. He works a great deal too hard when he's
in Rome. He's the only Cardinal I've ever heard of, who takes practical
charge of his titular church. But here in the country he's out-of-doors
all the blessed day, hand in hand with Emilia. He's as young as she is,
I believe. They play together like children--and make--me feel as staid
and solemn and grown-up as one of Mr. Kenneth Grahame's Olympians."

Peter laughed. Then, in the moment of silence that followed, he happened
to let his eyes stray up the valley.

"Hello!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Someone has been painting our mountain
green."

The Duchessa turned, to look; and she too uttered an exclamation.

By some accident of reflection or refraction, the snows of Monte
Sfiorito had become bright green, as if the light that fell on them
had passed through emeralds. They both paused, to gaze and marvel for
a little. Indeed, the prospect was a pleasing one, as well as a
surprising--the sunny lawns, the high trees, the blue lake, and then
that bright green mountain.

"I have never known anything like those snow-peaks for sailing under
false colours," Peter said. "I have seen them every colour of the
calendar, except their native white."

"You must n't blame the poor things," pleaded the Duchessa. "They can't
help it. It's all along o' the distance and the atmosphere and the sun."

She closed her fan, with which she had been more or less idly playing
throughout their dialogue, and replaced it on the table. Among the books
there--French books, for the most part, in yellow paper--Peter saw, with
something of a flutter (he could never see it without something of a
flutter), the grey-and-gold binding of "A Man of Words."

The Duchessa caught his glance.

"Yes," she said; "your friend's novel. I told you I had been re-reading
it."

"Yes," said he.

"And--do you know--I 'm inclined to agree with your own enthusiastic
estimate of it?" she went on. "I think it's extremely--but
extremely--clever; and more--very charming, very beautiful. The fatal
gift of beauty!"

And her smile reminded him that the application of the tag was his own.

"Yes," said he.

"Its beauty, though," she reflected, "is n't exactly of the obvious
sort--is it? It does n't jump at you, for instance. It is rather in the
texture of the work, than on the surface. One has to look, to see it."

"One always has to look, to see beauty that is worth seeing," he safely
generalised. But then--he had put his foot in the stirrup--his hobby
bolted with him. "It takes two to make a beautiful object. The eye of
the beholder is every bit as indispensable as the hand of the
artist. The artist does his work--the beholder must do his. They are
collaborators. Each must be the other's equal; and they must also be
like each other--with the likeness of opposites, of complements. Art,
in short, is entirely a matter of reciprocity. The kind of beauty that
jumps at you is the kind you end by getting heartily tired of--is the
skin-deep kind; and therefore it is n't really beauty at all--it is only
an approximation to beauty--it may be only a simulacrum of it."

Her eyes were smiling, her face was glowing, softly, with interest,
with friendliness and perhaps with the least suspicion of something
else--perhaps with the faintest glimmer of suppressed amusement; but
interest was easily predominant.

"Yes," she assented.... But then she pursued her own train of ideas.
"And--with you--I particularly like the woman--Pauline. I can't tell
you how much I like her. I--it sounds extravagant, but it's true--I can
think of no other woman in the whole of fiction whom I like so
well--who makes so curiously personal an appeal to me. Her wit--her
waywardness--her tenderness--her generosity--everything. How did your
friend come by his conception of her? She's as real to me as any woman
I have ever known she's more real to me than most of the women I
know--she's absolutely real, she lives, she breathes. Yet I have never
known a woman resembling her. Life would be a merrier business if one
did know women resembling her. She seems to me all that a woman ought
ideally to be. Does your friend know women like that--the lucky man? Or
is Pauline, for all her convincingness, a pure creature of imagination?"

"Ah," said Peter, laughing, "you touch the secret springs of my friend's
inspiration. That is a story in itself. Felix Wildmay is a perfectly
commonplace Englishman. How could a woman like Pauline be the creature
of his imagination? No--she was a 'thing seen.' God made her. Wildmay
was a mere copyist. He drew her, tant bien que mal, from the life from
a woman who's actually alive on this dull globe to-day. But that's the
story."

The Duchessa's eyes were intent.

"The story-? Tell me the story," she pronounced in a breath, with
imperious eagerness.

And her eyes waited, intently.

"Oh," said Peter, "it's one of those stories that can scarcely be told.
There's hardly any thing to take hold of. It's without incident, without
progression--it's all subjective--it's a drama in states of mind.
Pauline was a 'thing seen,' indeed; but she wasn't a thing known: she
was a thing divined. Wildmay never knew her--never even knew who she
was--never knew her name--never even knew her nationality, though,
as the book shows, he guessed her to be an Englishwoman, married to
a Frenchman. He simply saw her, from a distance, half-a-dozen times
perhaps. He saw her in Paris, once or twice, at the theatre, at the
opera; and then later again, once or twice, in London; and then, once
more, in Paris, in the Bois. That was all, but that was enough. Her
appearance--her face, her eyes, her smile, her way of carrying herself,
her way of carrying her head, her gestures, her movements, her way of
dressing--he never so much as heard her voice--her mere appearance
made an impression on him such as all the rest of womankind had totally
failed to make. She was exceedingly lovely, of course, exceedingly
distinguished, noble-looking; but she was infinitely more. Her face her
whole person--had an expression! A spirit burned in her--a prismatic,
aromatic fire. Other women seemed dust, seemed dead, beside her. She
was a garden, inexhaustible, of promises, of suggestions. Wit,
capriciousness, generosity, emotion--you have said it--they were all
there. Race was there, nerve. Sex was there--all the mystery, magic, all
the essential, elemental principles of the Feminine, were there: she was
a woman. A wonderful, strenuous soul was there: Wildmay saw it, felt it.
He did n't know her--he had no hope of ever knowing her--but he knew her
better than he knew any one else in the world. She became the absorbing
subject of his thoughts, the heroine of his dreams. She became, in fact,
the supreme influence of his life."

The Duchessa's eyes had not lost their intentness, while he was
speaking. Now that he had finished, she looked down at her hands, folded
in her lap, and mused for a moment in silence. At last she looked up
again.

"It's as strange as anything I have ever heard," she said, "it's
furiously strange--and romantic--and interesting. But--but--" She
frowned a little, hesitating between a choice of questions.

"Oh, it's a story all compact of 'buts,'" Peter threw out laughing.

She let the remark pass her--she had settled upon her question.

"But how could he endure such a situation?" she asked. "How could he sit
still under it? Did n't he try in any way--did n't he make any effort at
all--to--to find her out--to discover who she was--to get introduced to
her? I should think he could never have rested--I should think he would
have moved heaven and earth."

"What could he do? Tell me a single thing he could have done," said
Peter. "Society has made no provision for a case like his. It 's
absurd--but there it is. You see a woman somewhere; you long to make
her acquaintance; and there's no natural bar to your doing so--you 're a
presentable man she's what they call a lady--you're both, more or less,
of the same monde. Yet there 's positively no way known by which you can
contrive it--unless chance, mere fortuitous chance, just happens to drop
a common acquaintance between you, at the right time and place. Chance,
in Wildmay's case, happened to drop all the common acquaintances they
may possibly have had at a deplorable distance. He was alone on each
of the occasions when he saw her. There was no one he could ask to
introduce him; there was no one he could apply to for information
concerning her. He could n't very well follow her carriage through the
streets--dog her to her lair, like a detective. Well--what then?"

The Duchessa was playing with her fan again.

"No," she agreed; "I suppose it was hopeless. But it seems rather hard
on the poor man--rather baffling and tantalising."

"The poor man thought it so, to be sure," said Peter; "he fretted and
fumed a good deal, and kicked against the pricks. Here, there, now,
anon, he would enjoy his brief little vision of her--then she would
vanish into the deep inane. So, in the end--he had to take it out in
something--he took it out in writing a book about her. He propped up a
mental portrait of her on his desk before him, and translated it
into the character of Pauline. In that way he was able to spend long
delightful hours alone with her every day, in a kind of metaphysical
intimacy. He had never heard her voice--but now he heard it as often as
Pauline opened her lips. He owned her--he possessed her--she lived under
his roof--she was always waiting for him in his study. She is real to
you? She was inexpressibly, miraculously real to him. He saw her, knew
her, felt her, realised her, in every detail of her mind, her soul, her
person--down to the very intonations of her speech--down to the veins
in her hands, the rings on her fingers--down to her very furs and laces,
the frou-frou of her skirts, the scent upon her pocket-handkerchief. He
had numbered the hairs of her head, almost."

Again the Duchessa mused for a while in silence, opening and shutting
her fan, and gazing into its opals.

"I am thinking of it from the woman's point of view," she said, by
and by. "To have played such a part in a man's life--and never to have
dreamed it! Never even, very likely, to have dreamed that such a man
existed--for it's entirely possible she didn't notice him, on those
occasions when he saw her. And to have been the subject of such a
novel--and never to have dreamed that, either! To have read the novel
perhaps--without dreaming for an instant that there was any sort of
connection between Pauline and herself! Or else--what would almost be
stranger still--not to have read the novel, not to have heard of it! To
have inspired such a book, such a beautiful book--yet to remain in sheer
unconscious ignorance that there was such a book! Oh, I think it is even
more extraordinary from the woman's point of view than from the man's.
There is something almost terrifying about it. To have had such an
influence on the destiny of someone you've never heard of! There's a
kind of intangible sense of a responsibility."

"There is also, perhaps," laughed Peter, "a kind of intangible sense of
a liberty taken. I'm bound to say I think Wildmay was decidedly at his
ease. To appropriate in that cool fashion the personality of a total
stranger! But artists are the most unprincipled folk unhung. Ils
prennent leur bien la, ou ils le trouvent."

"Oh, no," said the Duchessa, "I think she was fair game. One can carry
delicacy too far. He was entitled to the benefits of his discovery--for,
after all, it was a discovery, was n't it? You have said yourself how
indispensable the eye of the beholder is--'the seeing eye.' I think,
indeed, the whole affair speaks extremely well for Mr. Wildmay. It is
not every man who would be capable of so purely intellectual a passion.
I suppose one must call his feeling for her a passion? It indicates a
distinction in his nature. He can hardly be a mere materialist. But--but
I think it's heart-rending that he never met her."

"Oh, but that's the continuation of the story," said Peter. "He did meet
her in the end, you know."

"He did meet her!" cried the Duchessa, starting up, with a sudden access
of interest, whilst her eyes lightened. "He did meet her? Oh, you must
tell me about that."

And just at this crisis the Cardinal and Emilia appeared, climbing the
terrace steps.

"Bother!" exclaimed the Duchessa, under her breath. Then, to Peter, "It
will have to be for another time--unless I die of the suspense."

After the necessary greetings were transacted, another elderly priest
joined the company; a tall, burly, rather florid man, mentioned, when
Peter was introduced to him, as Monsignor Langshawe. "This really is her
chaplain," Peter concluded. Then a servant brought tea.

"Ah, Diamond, Diamond, you little know what mischief you might have
wrought," he admonished himself, as he walked home through the level
sunshine. "In another instant, if we'd not been interrupted, you would
have let the cat out of the bag. The premature escape of the cat from
the bag would spoil everything."

And he hugged himself, as one snatched from peril, in a qualm of
retroactive terror. At the same time he was filled with a kind of
exultancy. All that he had hoped had come to pass, and more, vastly
more. Not only had he been received as a friend at Ventirose, but he had
been encouraged to tell her a part at least of the story by which her
life and his were so curiously connected; and he had been snatched from
the peril of telling her too much. The day was not yet when he could
safely say, "Mutato nomine....." Would the day ever be? But, meanwhile,
just to have told her the first ten lines of that story, he could not
help feeling, somehow advanced matters tremendously, somehow put a new
face on matters.

"The hour for which the ages sighed may not be so far away as you
think," he said to Marietta. "The curtain has risen upon Act Three. I
fancy I can perceive faint glimmerings of the beginning of the end."



XIX


All that evening, something which he had not been conscious of noticing
especially when it was present to him--certainly he had paid no
conscious attention to its details--kept recurring and recurring to
Peter's memory: the appearance of the prettily-arranged terrace-end at
Ventirose: the white awning, with the blue sky at its edges, the sunny
park beyond; the warm-hued carpets on the marble pavement; the wicker
chairs, with their bright cushions; the table, with its books and
bibelots--the yellow French books, a tortoise-shell paperknife, a silver
paperweight, a crystal smelling-bottle, a bowlful of drooping poppies;
and the marble balustrade, with its delicate tracery of leaves and
tendrils, where the jessamine twined round its pillars.

This kept recurring, recurring, vividly, a picture that he could see
without closing his eyes, a picture with a very decided sentiment.
Like the gay and gleaming many-pinnacled facade of her house, it seemed
appropriate to her; it seemed in its fashion to express her. Nay, it
seemed to do more. It was a corner of her every-day environment; these
things were the companions, the witnesses, of moments of her life,
phases of herself, which were hidden from Peter; they were the
companions and witnesses of her solitude, her privacy; they were her
confidants, in a way. They seemed not merely to express her, therefore,
but to be continually on the point--I had almost said of betraying her.
At all events, if he could only understand their silent language,
they would prove rich in precious revelations. So he welcomed their
recurrences, dwelt upon them, pondered them, and got a deep if somewhat
inarticulate pleasure from them.

On Thursday, as he approached the castle, the last fires of sunset were
burning in the sky behind it--the long irregular mass of buildings stood
out in varying shades of blue, against varying, dying shades of red: the
grey stone, dark, velvety indigo; the pink stucco, pink still, but
with a transparent blue penumbra over it; the white marble, palely,
scintillantly amethystine. And if he was interested in her environment,
now he could study it to his heart's content: the wide marble staircase,
up which he was shown, with its crimson carpet, and the big mellow
painting, that looked as if it might be a Titian, at the top; the great
saloon, in which he was received, with its polished mosaic floor,
its frescoed ceiling, its white-and-gold panelling, its hangings and
upholsteries of yellow brocade, its satinwood chairs and tables, its
bronzes, porcelains, embroideries, its screens and mirrors; the long
dining-hall, with its high pointed windows, its slender marble columns
supporting a vaulted roof, its twinkling candles in chandeliers and
sconces of cloudy Venetian glass, its brilliant table, its flowers and
their colours and their scents.

He could study her environment to his heart's content, indeed--or to
his heart's despair. For all this had rather the effect of chilling,
of depressing him. It was very splendid; it was very luxurious and
cheerful; it was appropriate and personal to her, if you like; no doubt,
in its fashion, in its measure, it, too, expressed her. But, at that
rate, it expressed her in an aspect which Peter had instinctively made
it his habit to forget, which he by no means found it inspiriting
to remember. It expressed, it emphasised, her wealth, her rank; it
emphasised the distance, in a worldly sense, between her and himself,
the conventional barriers.

And she...

She was very lovely, she was entirely cordial, friendly, she was all
that she had ever been--and yet--and yet--Well, somehow, she seemed
indefinably different. Somehow, again, the distance, the barriers, were
emphasised. She was very lovely, she was entirely cordial, friendly, she
was all that she had ever been; but, somehow, to-night, she seemed very
much the great lady, very much the duchess....

"My dear man," he said to himself, "you were mad to dream for a single
instant that there was the remotest possibility of anything ever
happening."

The only other guests, besides the Cardinal and Monsignor Langshawe,
were an old Frenchwoman, with beautiful white hair, from one of the
neighbouring villas, Madame de Lafere, and a young, pretty, witty, and
voluble Irishwoman, Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, from an hotel at Spiaggia.
In deference, perhaps, to the cloth of the two ecclesiastics, none of
the women were in full evening-dress, and there was no arm-taking when
they went in to dinner. The dinner itself was of a simplicity which
Peter thought admirable, and which, of course, he attributed to his
Duchessa's own good taste. He was not yet familiar enough with the Black
aristocracy of Italy, to be aware that in the matter of food and drink
simplicity is as much the criterion of good form amongst them, as lavish
complexity is the criterion of good form amongst the English-imitating
Whites.

The conversation, I believe, took its direction chiefly from the
initiative of Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. With great sprightliness and
humour, and with an astonishing light-hearted courage, she rallied the
Cardinal upon the neglect in which her native island was allowed to
languish by the powers at Rome. "The most Catholic country in three
hemispheres, to be sure," she said; "every inch of its soil soaked
with the blood of martyrs. Yet you've not added an Irish saint to the
Calendar for I see you're blushing to think how many ages; and you've
taken sides with the heretic Saxon against us in our struggle for Home
Rule--which I blame you for, though, being a landowner and a bit of an
absentee, I 'm a traitorous Unionist myself."

The Cardinal laughingly retorted that the Irish were far too fine, too
imaginative and poetical a race, to be bothered with material questions
of government and administration. They should leave such cares to the
stolid, practical English, and devote the leisure they would thus obtain
to the further exercise and development of what someone had called "the
starfire of the Celtic nature." Ireland should look upon England as
her working-housekeeper. And as for the addition of Irish saints to
the Calendar, the stumbling-block was their excessive number. "'T is an
embarrassment of riches. If we were once to begin, we could never leave
off till we had canonised nine-tenths of the dead population."

Monsignor Langshawe, at this (making jest the cue for earnest), spoke
up for Scotland, and deplored the delay in the beatification of Blessed
Mary. "The official beatification," he discriminated, "for she was
beatified in the heart of every true Catholic Scot on the day when
Bloody Elizabeth murdered her."

And Madame de Lafere put in a plea for Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette, and
the little Dauphin.

"Blessed Mary--Bloody Elizabeth," laughed the Duchessa, in an aside
to Peter; "here is language to use in the presence of a Protestant
Englishman."

"Oh, I'm accustomed to 'Bloody Elizabeth,'" said he. "Was n't it a word
of Cardinal Newman's?"

"Yes, I think so," said she. "And since every one is naming his
candidate; for the Calendar, you have named mine. I think there never
was a saintlier saint than Cardinal Newman."

"What is your Eminence's attitude towards the question of mixed
marriages?" Mrs. O'Donovan Florence asked.

Peter pricked up his ears.

"It is not the question of actuality in Italy that it is in England,"
his Eminence replied; "but in the abstract, and other things equal, my
attitude would of course be one of disapproval."

"And yet surely," contended she, "if a pious Catholic girl marries a
Protestant man, she has a hundred chances of converting him?"

"I don't know," said the Cardinal. "Would n't it be safer to let the
conversion precede the marriage? Afterwards, I 'm afraid, he would
have a hundred chances of inducing her to apostatise, or, at least, of
rendering her lukewarm."

"Not if she had a spark of the true zeal," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
"Any wife can make her husband's life a burden to him, if she will
conscientiously lay herself out to do so. The man would be glad to
submit, for the sake of peace in his household. I often sigh for the
good old days of the Inquisition; but it's still possible, in the
blessed seclusion of the family circle, to apply the rack and the
thumbscrew in a modified form. I know a dozen fine young Protestant men
in London whom I'm labouring to convert, and I feel I 'm defeated only
by the circumstance that I'm not in a position to lead them to the altar
in the full meaning of the expression."

"A dozen?" the Cardinal laughed. "Aren't you complicating the question
of mixed marriages with that of plural marriage?"

"'T was merely a little Hibernicism, for which I beg your Eminence's
indulgence," laughed she. "But what puts the most spokes in a
proselytiser's wheel is the Faith itself. If we only deserved the
reputation for sharp practice and double dealing which the Protestants
have foisted upon us, it would be roses, roses, all the way. Why are
we forbidden to let the end justify the means? And where are those
accommodements avec le ciel of which we've heard? We're not even
permitted a few poor accommodements avec le monde."

"Look at my uncle's face," whispered the Duchessa to Peter. The
Cardinal's fine old face was all alight with amusement. "In his fondness
for taking things by their humorous end, he has met an affinity."

"It will be a grand day for the Church and the nations, when we have
an Irish Pope," Mrs. O'Donovan Florence continued. "A good, stalwart,
militant Irishman is what's needed to set everything right. With a sweet
Irish tongue, he'd win home the wandering sheep; and with a strong Irish
arm, he'd drive the wolves from the fold. It's he that would soon sweep
the Italians out of Rome."

"The Italians will soon be swept out of Rome by the natural current
of events," said the Cardinal. "But an Irish bishop of my acquaintance
insists that we have already had many Irish Popes, without knowing it.
Of all the greatest Popes he cries, 'Surely, they must have had Irish
blood.' He's perfectly convinced that Pius the Ninth was Irish. His very
name, his family-name, Ferretti, was merely the Irish name, Farrity,
Italianised, the good bishop says. No one but an Irishman, he insists,
could have been so witty."

Mrs. O'Donovan Florence looked intensely thoughtful for a moment....
Then, "I 'm trying to think of the original Irish form of Udeschini,"
she declared.

At which there was a general laugh.

"When you say 'soon,' Eminence, do you mean that we may hope to see the
Italians driven from Rome in our time?" enquired Madame de Lafere.

"They are on the verge of bankruptcy--for their sins," the Cardinal
answered. "When the crash comes--and it can't fail to come before many
years--there will necessarily be a readjustment. I do not believe that
the conscience of Christendom will again allow Peter to be deprived of
his inheritance."

"God hasten the good day," said Monsignor Langshawe.

"If I can live to see Rome restored to the Pope, I shall die content,
even though I cannot live to see France restored to the King," said the
old Frenchwoman.

"And I--even though I cannot live to see Britain restored to the Faith,"
said the Monsignore.

The Duchessa smiled at Peter.

"What a hotbed of Ultramontanes and reactionaries you have fallen into,"
she murmured.

"It is exhilarating," said he, "to meet people who have convictions."

"Even when you regard their convictions as erroneous?" she asked.

"Yes, even then," he answered. "But I'm not sure I regard as erroneous
the convictions I have heard expressed to-night."

"Oh--?" she wondered. "Would you like to see Rome restored to the Pope?"

"Yes," said he, "decidedly--for aesthetic reasons, if for no others."

"I suppose there are aesthetic reasons," she assented. "But we, of
course, think there are conclusive reasons in mere justice."

"I don't doubt there are conclusive reasons in mere justice, too," said
he.

After dinner, at the Cardinal's invitation, the Duchessa went to the
piano, and played Bach and Scarlatti. Her face, in the soft candlelight,
as she discoursed that "luminous, lucid" music, Peter thought... But
what do lovers always think of their ladies' faces, when they look up
from their pianos, in soft candlelight?

Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, taking her departure, said to the Cardinal, "I
owe your Eminence the two proudest days of my life. The first was when I
read in the paper that you had received the hat, and I was able to boast
to all my acquaintances that I had been in the convent with your
niece by marriage. And the second is now, when I can boast forevermore
hereafter that I've enjoyed the honour of making my courtesy to you."

"So," said Peter, as he walked home through the dew and the starlight of
the park, amid the phantom perfumes of the night, "so the Cardinal
does n't approve of mixed marriages and, of course, his niece does n't,
either. But what can it matter to me? For alas and alas--as he truly
said--it's hardly a question of actuality."

And he lit a cigarette.



XX


"So he did meet her, after all?" the Duchessa said.

"Yes, he met her in the end," Peter answered.

They were seated under the gay white awning, against the bright
perspective of lawn, lake, and mountains, on the terrace at Ventirose,
where Peter was paying his dinner-call. The August day was hot and
still and beautiful--a day made of gold and velvet and sweet odours. The
Duchessa lay back languidly, among the crisp silk cushions, in her low,
lounging chair; and Peter, as he looked at her, told himself that he
must be cautious, cautious.

"Yes, he met her in the end," he said.

"Well--? And then--?" she questioned, with a show of eagerness, smiling
into his eyes. "What happened? Did she come up to his expectations?
Or was she just the usual disappointment? I have been pining--oh, but
pining--to hear the continuation of the story."

She smiled into his eyes, and his heart fluttered. "I must be cautious,"
he told himself. "In more ways than one, this is a crucial moment." At
the same time, as a very part of his caution, he must appear entirely
nonchalant and candid.

"Oh, no--tutt' altro," he said, with an assumption of nonchalant
airiness and candid promptness. "She 'better bettered' his
expectations--she surpassed his fondest. She was a thousand times more
delightful than he had dreamed--though, as you know, he had dreamed a
good deal. Pauline de Fleuvieres turned out to be the feeblest, faintest
echo of her."

The Duchessa meditated for an instant.

"It seems impossible. It's one of those situations in which a
disenchantment seems the foregone conclusion," she said, at last.

"It seems so, indeed," assented Peter; "but disenchantment, there was
none. She was all that he had imagined, and infinitely more. She was the
substance--he had imagined the shadow. He had divined her, as it were,
from a single angle, and there were many angles. Pauline was the pale
reflection of one side of her--a pencil-sketch in profile."

The Duchessa shook her head, marvelling, and smiled again.

"You pile wonder upon wonder," she said. "That the reality should excel
the poet's ideal! That the cloud-capped towers which looked splendid
from afar, with all the glamour of distance, should prove to be more
splendid still, on close inspection! It's dead against the accepted
theory of things. And that any woman should be nicer than that adorable
Pauline! You tax belief. But I want to know what happened. Had she read
his book?"

"Nothing happened," said Peter. "I warned you that it was a drama
without action. A good deal happened, no doubt, in Wildmay's secret
soul. But externally, nothing. They simply chatted together--exchanged
the time o' day--like any pair of acquaintances. No, I don't think she
had read his book. She did read it afterwards, though."

"And liked it?"

"Yes--she said she liked it."

"Well--? But then-?" the Duchessa pressed him, insistently. "When
she discovered the part she had had in its composition--? Was n't she
overwhelmed? Wasn't she immensely interested--surprised--moved?"

She leaned forward a little. Her eyes were shining. Her lips were
slightly parted, so that between their warm rosiness Peter could see the
exquisite white line of her teeth. His heart fluttered again. "I must be
cautious, cautious," he remembered, and made a strenuous "act of will"
to steady himself.

"Oh, she never discovered that," he said.

"What!" exclaimed the Duchessa. Her face fell. Her eyes darkened--with
dismay, with incomprehension. "Do you--you don't--mean to say that
he didn't tell her?" There was reluctance to believe, there was a
conditional implication of deep reproach, in her voice.

Peter had to repeat his act of will.

"How could he tell her?" he asked.

She frowned at him, with reproach that was explicit now, and a kind of
pained astonishment.

"How could he help telling her?" she cried. "But--but it was the one
great fact between them. But it was a fact that intimately concerned
her--it was a fact of her own destiny. But it was her right to be told.
Do you seriously mean that he did n't tell her? But why did n't he? What
could have possessed him?"

There was something like a tremor in her voice. "I must appear entirely
nonchalant and candid," Peter remembered.

"I fancy he was possessed, in some measure, by a sense of the liberty he
had taken by a sense of what one might, perhaps, venture to qualify as
his 'cheek.' For, if it was n't already a liberty to embody his notion
of her in a novel--in a published book, for daws to peck at--it would
have become a liberty the moment he informed her that he had done so.
That would have had the effect of making her a kind of involuntary
particeps criminis."

"Oh, the foolish man!" sighed the Duchessa, with a rueful shake of the
head. "His foolish British self-consciousness! His British inability
to put himself in another person's place, to see things from another's
point of view! Could n't he see, from her point of view, from any point
of view but his own, that it was her right to be told? That the matter
affected her in one way, as much as it affected him in another? That
since she had influenced--since she had contributed to--his life and his
art as she had, it was her right to know it? Couldn't he see that his
'cheek,' his real 'cheek,' began when he withheld from her that great
strange chapter of her own history? Oh, he ought to have told her, he
ought to have told her."

She sank back in her chair, giving her head another rueful shake,
and gazed ruefully away, over the sunny landscape, through the mellow
atmosphere, into the golden-hazy distance.

Peter looked at her--and then, quickly, for caution's sake, looked
elsewhere.

"But there were other things to be taken into account," he said.

The Duchessa raised her eyes. "What other things?" they gravely
questioned.

"Would n't his telling her have been equivalent to a declaration of
love?" questioned he, looking at the signet-ring on the little finger of
his left hand.

"A declaration of love?" She considered for a moment. "Yes, I suppose
in a way it would," she acknowledged. "But even so?" she asked, after
another moment of consideration. "Why should he not have made her a
declaration of love? He was in love with her, wasn't he?"

The point of frank interrogation in her eyes showed clearly, showed
cruelly, how detached, how impersonal, her interest was.

"Frantically," said Peter. For caution's sake, he kept HIS eyes on the
golden-hazy peaks of Monte Sfionto. "He had been in love with her, in a
fashion, of course, from the beginning. But after he met her, he fell in
love with her anew. His mind, his imagination, had been in love with its
conception of her. But now he, the man, loved her, the woman herself,
frantically, with just a downright common human love. There were
circumstances, however, which made it impossible for him to tell her
so."

"What circumstances?" There was the same frank look of interrogation.
"Do you mean that she was married?"

"No, not that. By the mercy of heaven," he pronounced, with energy, "she
was a widow."

The Duchessa broke into an amused laugh.

"Permit me to admire your piety," she said.

And Peter, as his somewhat outrageous ejaculation came back to him,
laughed vaguely too.

"But then--?" she went on. "What else? By the mercy of heaven, she was a
widow. What other circumstance could have tied his tongue?"

"Oh," he answered, a trifle uneasily, "a multitude of circumstances.
Pretty nearly every conventional barrier the world has invented, existed
between him and her. She was a frightful swell, for one thing."

"A frightful swell--?" The Duchessa raised her eyebrows.

"Yes," said Peter, "at a vertiginous height above him--horribly 'aloft
and lone' in the social hierarchy." He tried to smile.

"What could that matter?" the Duchessa objected simply. "Mr. Wildmay is
a gentleman."

"How do you know he is?" Peter asked, thinking to create a diversion.

"Of course, he is. He must be. No one but a gentleman could have had
such an experience, could have written such a book. And besides, he's
a friend of yours. Of course he's a gentleman," returned the adroit
Duchessa.

"But there are degrees of gentleness, I believe," said Peter. "She was
at the topmost top. He--well, at all events, he knew his place. He had
too much humour, too just a sense of proportion, to contemplate offering
her his hand."

"A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman--under royalty," said the
Duchessa.

"He can, to be sure--and he can also see it declined with thanks,"
Peter answered. "But it wasn't merely her rank. She was horribly
rich, besides. And then--and then--! There were ten thousand other
impediments. But the chief of them all, I daresay, was Wildmay's fear
lest an avowal of his attachment should lead to his exile from her
presence--and he naturally did not wish to be exiled."

"Faint heart!" the Duchessa said. "He ought to have told her. The case
was peculiar, was unique. Ordinary rules could n't apply to it. And
how could he be sure, after all, that she would n't have despised the
conventional barriers, as you call them? Every man gets the wife he
deserves--and certainly he had gone a long way towards deserving her.
She could n't have felt quite indifferent to him--if he had told her;
quite indifferent to the man who had drawn that magnificent Pauline from
his vision of her. No woman could be entirely proof against a compliment
like that. And I insist that it was her right to know. He should simply
have told her the story of his book and of her part in it. She would
have inferred the rest. He needn't have mentioned love--the word."

"Well," said Peter, "it is not always too late to mend. He may tell her
some fine day yet."

And in his soul two voices were contending.

"Tell her--tell her--tell her! Tell her now, at once, and abide your
chances," urged one. "No--no--no--do nothing of the kind," protested the
second. "She is arguing the point for its abstract interest. She is a
hundred miles from dreaming that you are the man--hundreds of miles from
dreaming that she is the woman. If she had the least suspicion of that,
she would sing a song as different as may be. Caution, caution."

He looked at her--warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white
gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him--he looked
at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the
white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead,
at her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the
flowing lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and
behind her, surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the
golden August world, in the golden August weather--of the green park,
and the pure sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and
the blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the
long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and
the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns.
The picture was very beautiful--but something was wanting to perfect its
beauty; and the name of the something that was wanting sang itself
in poignant iteration to the beating of his pulses. And he longed and
longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated....

And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of
carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears--and so the situation was
saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it. For next
minute a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence.

And shortly after that lady's arrival, Peter took his leave.



XXI


"Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?" asked Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence.

"Congratulate me--? On what?" asked Beatrice.

"On what, indeed!" cried the vivacious Irishwoman. "Don't try to pull
the wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me."

Beatrice looked blank.

"I can't in the least think what you mean," she said.

"Get along with you," cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished
her sunshade threateningly. "On your engagement to Mr.--what's this his
name is?--to be sure."

She glanced indicatively down the lawn, in the direction of Peter's
retreating tweeds.

Beatrice had looked blank. But now she looked--first, perhaps, for
a tiny fraction of a second, startled--then gently, compassionately
ironical.

"My poor Kate! Are you out of your senses?" she enquired, in accents of
concern, nodding her head, with a feint of pensive pity.

"Not I," returned Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, cheerfully confident. "But I
'm thinking I could lay my finger on a long-limbed young Englishman less
than a mile from here, who very nearly is. Hasn't he asked you yet?"

"Es-to bete?" Beatrice murmured, pitifully nodding again.

"Ah, well, if he has n't, it's merely a question of time when he will,"
said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "You've only to notice the famished
gaze with which he devours you, to see his condition. But don't try to
hoodwink me. Don't pretend that this is news to you."

"News!" scoffed Beatrice. "It's news and nonsense--the product of your
irrepressible imagination. Mr. What's-this-his-name-is, as you call him,
and I are the barest acquaintances. He's our temporary neighbour--the
tenant for the season of Villa Floriano--the house you can catch a
glimpse of, below there, through the trees, on the other side of the
river."

"Is he, now, really? And that's very interesting too. But I wasn't
denying it." Mrs. O'Donovan Florence smiled, with derisive sweetness.
"The fact of his being the tenant of the house I can catch a glimpse
of, through the trees, on the other side of the river, though a valuable
acquisition to my stores of knowledge, does n't explain away his
famished glance unless, indeed, he's behind with the rent: but even
then, it's not famished he'd look, but merely anxious and persuasive.
I'm a landlord myself. No, Trixie, dear, you've made roast meat of the
poor fellow's heart, as the poetical Persians express it; and if he has
n't told you so yet with his tongue, he tells the whole world so with
his eyes as often as he allows them to rest on their loadstone, your
face. You can see the sparks and the smoke escaping from them, as though
they were chimneys. If you've not observed that for yourself, it can
only be that excessive modesty has rendered you blind. The man is head
over ears in love with you. Nonsense or bonsense, that is the sober
truth."

Beatrice laughed.

"I 'm sorry to destroy a romance, Kate," she said; "but alas for the
pretty one you 've woven, I happen to know that, so far from being in
love with me, Mr. Marchdale is quite desperately in love with another
woman. He was talking to me about her the moment before you arrived."

"Was he, indeed?--and you the barest acquaintances!" quizzed Mrs.
O'Donovan Florence, pulling a face. "Well, well," she went on
thoughtfully, "if he's in love with another woman, that settles my last
remaining doubt. It can only be that the other woman's yourself."

Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again.

"Is that what they call an Irishism?" she asked, with polite curiosity.

"And an Irishism is a very good thing, too--when employed with
intention," retorted her friend. "Did he just chance, now, in a casual
way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?"

"Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!" Beatrice laughed. "What
can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify? For since he's
in love with her, it's hardly likely that he's in love with you or me at
the same time, is it?"

"That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her
name myself. And what else did he tell you about her? He's told me
nothing; but I'll warrant I could paint her portrait. She's a fine
figure of a young Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands
about five-feet-eight in her shoes. There's an expression of great
malice and humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care
haughtiness in the poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into
the bargain--something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she's
monstrously rich; and she adds, you'll be surprised to learn, to her
other fascinations that of being a widow. Faith, the men are so fond
of widows, it's a marvel to me that we're ever married at all until we
reach that condition;--and there, if you like, is another Irishism for
you. But what's this? Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have
I touched the heel of Achilles? She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a
widow?... But--bless us and save us!--what's come to you now? You're as
white as a sheet. What is it?"

"Good heavens!" gasped Beatrice. She lay back in her chair, and stared
with horrified eyes into space. "Good--good heavens!"

Mrs. O' Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand.

"What is it, my dear? What's come to you?" she asked, in alarm.

Beatrice gave a kind of groan.

"It's absurd--it's impossible," she said; "and yet, if by any ridiculous
chance you should be right, it's too horribly horrible." She repeated
her groan. "If by any ridiculous chance you are right, the man will
think that I have been leading him on!"

"LEADING HIM ON!" Mrs. O'Donovan Florence suppressed a shriek of
ecstatic mirth. "There's no question about my being right," she averred
soberly. "He wears his heart behind his eyeglass; and whoso runs may
read it."

"Well, then--" began Beatrice, with an air of desperation... "But no,"
she broke off. "YOU CAN'T be right. It's impossible, impossible. Wait.
I'll tell you the whole story. You shall see for yourself."

"Go on," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, assuming an attitude of devout
attention, which she retained while Beatrice (not without certain starts
and hesitations) recounted the fond tale of Peter's novel, and of the
woman who had suggested the character of Pauline.

"But OF COURSE!" cried the Irishwoman, when the tale was finished;
and this time her shriek of mirth, of glee, was not suppressed. "Of
course--you miracle of unsuspecting innocence! The man would never have
breathed a whisper of the affair to any soul alive, save to his heroine
herself--let alone to you, if you and she were not the same. Couple that
with the eyes he makes at you, and you've got assurance twice assured.
You ought to have guessed it from the first syllable he uttered. And
when he went on about her exalted station and her fabulous wealth! Oh,
my ingenue! Oh, my guileless lambkin! And you Trixie Belfont! Where's
your famous wit? Where are your famous intuitions?"

"BUT DON'T YOU SEE," wailed Beatrice, "don't you see the utterly odious
position this leaves me in? I've been urging him with all my might to
tell her! I said... oh, the things I said!" She shuddered visibly. "I
said that differences of rank and fortune could n't matter." She gave a
melancholy laugh. "I said that very likely she'd accept him. I said she
couldn't help being... Oh, my dear, my dear! He'll think--of course,
he can't help thinking--that I was encouraging him--that I was coming
halfway to meet him."

"Hush, hush! It's not so bad as that," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence,
soothingly. "For surely, as I understand it, the man doesn't dream that
you knew it was about himself he was speaking. He always talked of the
book as by a friend of his; and you never let him suspect that you had
pierced his subterfuge."

Beatrice frowned for an instant, putting this consideration in its
place, in her troubled mind. Then suddenly a light of intense, of
immense relief broke in her face.

"Thank goodness!" she sighed. "I had forgotten. No, he does n't dream
that. But oh, the fright I had!"

"He'll tell you, all the same," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I 'll give him
no chance," Beatrice answered.

"Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him," said her friend.

"Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities," cried Beatrice.

"You'll marry him," reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly. "You'll
end by marrying him--if you're human; and I've seldom known a human
being who was more so. It's not in flesh and blood to remain unmoved by
a tribute such as that man has paid you. The first thing you'll do will
be to re-read the novel. Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself,
for I 'm naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin
gold--but I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will itself be
wanting, directly it's alone. And then the poison will work. And you'll
end by marrying him."

"In the first place," replied Beatrice, firmly, "I shall never marry any
one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place, I shall not re-read
the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I shall insist on your taking it
with you when you leave to-day. And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced
that you're right about my being... well, you might as well say the
raw material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare
possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me before.
Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know how to prevent any
possible developments."

"In the first place," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal firmness,
"wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel. Wait till you're
alone. A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind;
you'd be miserable if you had n't it to refer to. In the next place, the
poison will work and work. Say what you will, it's flattery that wins
us. In the third place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good
Catholic of him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow,
for a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And
your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and he's not
bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title, now, I wonder? Or
will you step down, and be plain Mrs. Marchdale? No--the Honourable
Mrs.--excuse me--'Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in
the 'Morning Post' already. And will you continue to live in Italy? Or
will you come back to England?"

"Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an
extravagantly silly Kate you can be when the mood takes you," Beatrice
laughed.

"Kate me as many Kates as you like, the man is really not bad-looking.
He has a nice lithe springy figure, and a clean complexion, and an open
brow. And if there's a suggestion of superciliousness in the tilt of his
nose, of scepticism in the twirl of his moustaches, and of obstinacy in
the squareness of his chin--ma foi, you must take the bitter with the
sweet. Besides, he has decent hair, and plenty of it--he'll not go bald.
And he dresses well, and wears his clothes with an air. In short, you'll
make a very handsome couple. Anyhow, when your family are gathered
round the evening lamp to-night, I 'll stake my fortune on it, but I
can foretell the name of the book they'll find Trixie Belfont reading,"
laughed Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.


For a few minutes, after her friend had left her, Beatrice sat still,
her head resting on her hand, and gazed with fixed eyes at Monte
Sfiorito. Then she rose, and walked briskly backwards and forwards, for
a while, up and down the terrace. Presently she came to a standstill,
and leaning on the balustrade, while one of her feet kept lightly
tapping the pavement, looked off again towards the mountain.

The prospect was well worth her attention, with its blue and green and
gold, its wood and water, its misty-blushing snows, its spaciousness
and its atmosphere. In the sky a million fluffy little cloudlets floated
like a flock of fantastic birds, with mother-of-pearl tinted plumage.
The shadows were lengthening now. The sunshine glanced from the smooth
surface of the lake as from burnished metal, and falling on the coloured
sails of the fishing-boats, made them gleam like sails of crimson silk.
But I wonder how much of this Beatrice really saw.

She plucked an oleander from one of the tall marble urns set along the
balustrade, and pressed the pink blossom against her face, and, closing
her eyes, breathed in its perfume; then, absent-minded, she let it drop,
over the terrace, upon the path below.

"It's impossible," she said suddenly, aloud. At last she went into the
house, and up to her rose-and-white retiring-room. There she took a book
from the table, and sank into a deep easy-chair, and began to turn the
pages.

But when, by and by, approaching footsteps became audible in the
stone-floored corridor without, Beatrice hastily shut the book, thrust
it back upon the table, and caught up another so that Emilia Manfredi,
entering, found her reading Monsieur Anatole France's "Etui de nacre."

"Emilia," she said, "I wish you would translate the I Jongleur de Notre
Dame' into Italian."



XXII


Peter, we may suppose, returned to Villa Floriano that afternoon in a
state of some excitement.

"He ought to have told her--"

"It was her right to be told--"

"What could her rank matter--"

"A gentleman can offer his hand to any woman--"

"She would have despised the conventional barriers--"

"No woman could be proof against such a compliment--"

"The case was peculiar--ordinary rules could not apply to it--"

"Every man gets the wife he deserves--and he had certainly gone a long
way towards deserving her--"

"He should simply have told her the story of his book and of her part in
it--he need n't have mentioned love--she would have understood--"

The Duchessa's voice, clear and cool and crisp-cut, sounded perpetually
in his ears; the words she had spoken, the arguments she had urged,
repeated and repeated themselves, danced round and round, in his memory.

"Ought I to have told her--then and there? Shall I go to her and tell
her to-morrow?"

He tried to think; but he could not think. His faculties were in a
whirl--he could by no means command them. He could only wait, inert,
while the dance went on. It was an extremely riotous dance. The
Duchessa's conversation was reproduced without sequence, without
coherence--scattered fragments of it were flashed before him fitfully,
in swift disorder. If he would attempt to seize upon one of those
fragments, to detain and fix it, for consideration--a speech of hers,
a look, an inflection--then the whole experience suddenly lost its
outlines, his recollection of it became a jumble, and he was left, as it
were, intellectually gasping.

He walked about his garden, he went into the house, he came out, he
walked about again, he went in and dressed for dinner, he sat on his
rustic bench, he smoked cigarette after cigarette.

"Ought I to have told her? Ought I to tell her to-morrow?"

At moments there would come a lull in the turmoil, an interval of quiet,
of apparent clearness; and the answer would seem perfectly plain.

"Of course, you ought to tell her. Tell her--and all will be well. She
has put herself in the supposititious woman's place, and she says, 'He
ought to tell her.' She says it earnestly, vehemently. That means that
if she were the woman, she would wish to be told. She will despise the
conventional barriers--she will be touched, she will be moved. 'No woman
could be proof against such a compliment.' Go to her to-morrow, and tell
her--and all will be well."

At these moments he would look up towards the castle, and picture
the morrow's consummation; and his heart would have a convulsion.
Imagination flew on the wings of his desire. She stood before him in all
her sumptuous womanhood, tender and strong and glowing. As he spoke, her
eyes lightened, her eyes burned, the blood came and went in her cheeks;
her lips parted. Then she whispered something; and his heart leapt
terribly; and he called her name--"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Her name
expressed the inexpressible--the adoring passion, the wild hunger and
wild triumph of his soul. But now she was moving towards him--she was
holding out her hands. He caught her in his arms--he held her yielding
body in his arms. And his heart leapt terribly, terribly. And he
wondered how he could endure, how he could live through, the hateful
hours that must elapse before tomorrow would be to-day.

But "hearts, after leaps, ache." Presently the whirl would begin again;
and then, by and by, in another lull, a contrary answer would seem
equally plain.

"Tell her, indeed? My dear man, are you mad? She would simply be amazed,
struck dumb, by your presumption. I can see from here her incredulity--I
can see the scorn with which she would wither you. It has never dimly
occurred to her as conceivable that you would venture to be in love with
her, that you would dare to lift your eyes to her--you who are nothing,
to her who is all. Yes--nothing, nobody. In her view, you are just a
harmless nobody, whose society she tolerates for kindness' sake--and
faute de mieux. It is precisely because she deems you a nobody--because
she is profoundly conscious of the gulf that separates you from
her--that she can condescend to be amiably familiar. If you were of a
rank even remotely approximating to her own, she would be a thousand
times more circumspect. Remember--she does not dream that you are Felix
Wildmay. He is a mere name to her; and his story is an amusing little
romance, perfectly external to herself, which she discusses with
entirely impersonal interest. Tell her by all means, if you like Say,
'I am Wildmay--you are Pauline.' And see how amazed she will be, and how
incensed, and how indignant."

Then he would look up at the castle stonily, in a mood of desperate
renunciation, and vaguely meditate packing his belongings, and going
home to England.

At other moments a third answer would seem the plain one: something
between these extremes of optimism and pessimism, a compromise, it not a
reconciliation.

"Come! Let us be calm, let us be judicial. The consequences of our
actions, here below, if hardly ever so good as we could hope, are hardly
ever so bad as we might fear. Let us regard this matter in the light of
that guiding principle. True, she does n't dream that you are Wildmay.
True, if you were abruptly to say to her, 'I am Wildmay--you are the
woman,' she would be astonished--even, if you will, at first, more or
less taken aback, disconcerted. But indignant? Why? What is this gulf
that separates you from her? What are these conventional barriers of
which you make so much? She is a duchess, she is the daughter of a lord,
and she is rich. Well, all that is to be regretted. But you are neither
a plebeian nor a pauper yourself. You are a man of good birth, you are a
man of some parts, and you have a decent income. It amounts to this--she
is a great lady, you are a small gentleman. In ordinary circumstances,
to be sure, so small a gentleman could not ask so great a lady to become
his wife. But here the circumstances are not ordinary. Destiny has
meddled in the business. Small gentleman though you are, an unusual and
subtle relation-ship has been established between you and your great
lady. She herself says, 'Ordinary rules cannot apply--he ought to tell
her.' Very good: tell her. She will be astonished, but she will see that
there is no occasion for resentment. And though the odds are, of course,
a hundred to one that she will not accept you, still she must treat you
as an honourable suitor. And whether she accepts you or rejects you,
it is better to tell her and to have it over, than to go on forever
dangling this way, like the poor cat in the adage. Tell her--put your
fate to the touch--hope nothing, fear nothing--and bow to the event."

But even this temperate answer provoked its counter-answer.

"The odds are a hundred to one, a thousand to one, that she will not
accept you. And if you tell her, and she does not accept you, she will
not allow you to see her any more, you will be exiled from her presence.
And I thought, you did not wish to be exiled from her presence, You
would stake, then, this great privilege, the privilege of seeing her, of
knowing her, upon a. chance that has a thousand to one against it. You
make light of the conventional barriers--but the principal barrier of
them all, you are forgetting. She is a Roman Catholic, and a devout one.
Marry a Protestant? She would as soon think of marrying a Paynim Turk."

In the end, no doubt, a kind of exhaustion followed upon his excitement.
Questions and answers suspended themselves; and he could only look up
towards Ventirose, and dumbly wish that he was there. The distance was
so trifling--in five minutes he could traverse it--the law seemed absurd
and arbitrary, which condemned him to sit apart, free only to look and
wish.

It was in this condition of mind that Marietta found him, when she came
to announce dinner.

Peter gave himself a shake. The sight of the brown old woman, with
her homely, friendly face, brought him back to small things, to actual
things; and that, if it was n't a comfort, was, at any rate, a relief.

"Dinner?" he questioned. "Do peris at the gates of Eden DINE?"

"The soup is on the table," said Marietta.

He rose, casting a last glance towards the castle.

            Towers and battlements...
            Bosomed high in tufted trees,
            Where perhaps some beauty lies,
            The cynosure of neighbouring eyes."

He repeated the lines in an undertone, and went in to dinner. And then
the restorative spirit of nonsense descended upon him.

"Marietta," he asked, "what is your attitude towards the question of
mixed marriages?"

Marietta wrinkled her brow.

"Mixed marriages? What is that, Signorino?"

"Marriages between Catholics and Protestants," he explained.

"Protestants?" Her brow was still a network. "What things are they?"

"They are things--or perhaps it would be less invidious to say
people--who are not Catholics--who repudiate Catholicism as a deadly and
soul-destroying error."

"Jews?" asked Marietta.

"No--not exactly. They are generally classified as Christians. But
they protest, you know. Protesto, protestare, verb, active, first
conjugation. 'Mi pare che la donna protesta troppo,' as the poet
sings. They're Christians, but they protest against the Pope and the
Pretender."

"The Signorino means Freemasons," said Marietta.

"No, he does n't," said Peter. "He means Protestants."

"But pardon, Signorino," she insisted; "if they are not Catholics,
they must be Freemasons or Jews. They cannot be Christians.
Christian--Catholic: it is the same. All Christians are Catholics."

"Tu quoque!" he cried. "You regard the terms as interchangeable? I 've
heard the identical sentiment similarly enunciated by another. Do I look
like a Freemason?"

She bent her sharp old eyes upon him studiously for a moment. Then she
shook her head.

"No," she answered slowly. "I do not think that the Signorino looks like
a Freemason."

"A Jew, then?"

"Mache! A Jew? The Signorino!" She shrugged derision.

"And yet I'm what they call a Protestant," he said.

"No," said she.

"Yes," said he. "I refer you to my sponsors in baptism. A regular, true
blue moderate High Churchman and Tory, British and Protestant to the
backbone, with 'Frustrate their Popish tricks' writ large all over me.
You have never by any chance married a Protestant yourself?" he asked.

"No, Signorino. I have never married any one. But it was not for the
lack of occasions. Twenty, thirty young men courted me when I was a
girl. But--mica!--I would not look at them. When men are young they are
too unsteady for husbands; when they are old they have the rheumatism."

"Admirably philosophised," he approved. "But it sometimes happens that
men are neither young nor old. There are men of thirty-five--I have even
heard that there are men of forty. What of them?"

"There is a proverb, Signorino, which says, Sposi di quarant' anni son
mai sempre tiranni," she informed him.

"For the matter of that," he retorted, "there is a proverb which says,
Love laughs at locksmiths."

"Non capisco," said Marietta.

"That's merely because it's English," said he. "You'd understand fast
enough if I should put it in Italian. But I only quoted it to show the
futility of proverbs. Laugh at locksmiths, indeed! Why, it can't even
laugh at such an insignificant detail as a Papist's prejudices. But
I wish I were a duke and a millionaire. Do you know any one who could
create me a duke and endow me with a million?"

"No, Signorino," she answered, shaking her head.

"Fragrant Cytherea, foam-born Venus, deathless Aphrodite, cannot,
goddess though she is," he complained. "The fact is, I 'm feeling
rather undone. I think I will ask you to bring me a bottle of
Asti-spumante--some of the dry kind, with the white seal. I 'll try
to pretend that it's champagne. To tell or not to tell--that is the
question.

           'A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
            With the dream of, meet death with--

And yet, if you can believe me, the man who penned those lines had never
seen her. He penned another line equally pat to the situation, though he
had never seen me, either

           'Is there no method to tell her in Spanish?"

But you can't imagine how I detest that vulgar use of 'pen' for
'write'--as if literature were a kind of pig. However, it's perhaps
no worse than the use of Asti for champagne. One should n't be too
fastidious. I must really try to think of some method of telling her in
Spanish."

Marietta went to fetch the Asti.



XXIII


When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night.

"You are a detected cheat," he cried, "an unmasked impostor. You live
upon your reputation as a counsellor--'tis the only reason why we bear
with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what counsel have you brought to
me?--and I at the pass where my need is uttermost. Shall I go to her
this afternoon, and unburden my soul--or shall I not? You have left
me where you found me--in the same fine, free, and liberal state of
vacillation. Discredited oracle!"

He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair. The image
in the glass frowned back at him. Then something struck him.

"At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair
cut," he resolved.

So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for
Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de
Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he
entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards,
one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay
toilets of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made
the terrace look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band
played brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian,
English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents--the women's
perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped
in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte
Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick
and scratch one's name upon them.... And here, as luck would have it,
Peter came face to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"How do you do?" said she, offering her hand.

"How do you do?" said he.

"It's a fine day," said she.

"Very," said he.

"Shall I make you a confidence?" she asked.

"Do," he answered.

"Are you sure I can trust you?" She scanned his face dubiously.

"Try it and see," he urged.

"Well, then, if you must know, I was thirsting to take a table and call
for coffee; but having no man at hand to chaperon me, I dared not."

"Je vous en prie," cried Peter, with a gesture of gallantry; and he
led her to one of the round marble tables. "Due caffe," he said to the
brilliant creature (chains, buckles, ear-rings, of silver filigree,
and head-dress and apron of flame-red silk) who came to learn their
pleasure.

"Softly, softly," put in Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. "Not a drop of
coffee for me. An orange-sherbet, if you please. Coffee was a figure of
speech--a generic term for light refreshments."

Peter laughed, and amended his order.

"Do you see those three innocent darlings playing together, under the
eye of their governess, by the Wellingtonia yonder?" enquired the lady.

"The little girl in white and the two boys?" asked Peter.

"Precisely," said she. "Such as they are, they're me own."

"Really?" he responded, in the tone of profound and sympathetic interest
we are apt to affect when parents begin about their children.

"I give you my word for it," she assured him. "But I mention the fact,
not in a spirit of boastfulness, but merely to show you that I 'm not
entirely alone and unprotected. There's an American at our hotel, by the
bye, who goes up and down telling every one who'll listen that it ought
to be Washingtonia, and declaiming with tears in his eyes against the
arrogance of the English in changing Washington to Wellington. As he's
a respectable-looking man with grown-up daughters, I should think very
likely he's right."

"Very likely," said Peter. "It's an American tree, is n't it?"

"Whether it is n't or whether it is," said she, "one thing is
undeniable: you English are the coldest-blooded animals south of the
Arctic Circle."

"Oh--? Are we?" he doubted.

"You are that," she affirmed, with sorrowing emphasis.

"Ah, well," he reflected, "the temperature of our blood does n't matter.
We're, at any rate, notoriously warm-hearted."

"Are you indeed?" she exclaimed. "If you are, it's a mighty quiet kind
of notoriety, let me tell you, and a mighty cold kind of warmth."

Peter laughed.

"You're all for prudence and expediency. You're the slaves of your
reason. You're dominated by the head, not by the heart. You're little
better than calculating-machines. Are you ever known, now, for instance,
to risk earth and heaven, and all things between them, on a sudden
unthinking impulse?"

"Not often, I daresay," he admitted.

"And you sit there as serene as a brazen statue, and own it without a
quaver," she reproached him.

"Surely," he urged, "in my character of Englishman, it behooves me to
appear smug and self-satisfied?"

"You're right," she agreed. "I wonder," she continued, after a moment's
pause, during which her eyes looked thoughtful, "I wonder whether you
would fall upon and annihilate a person who should venture to offer you
a word of well-meant advice."

"I should sit as serene as a brazen statue, and receive it without a
quaver," he promised.

"Well, then," said she, leaning forward a little, and dropping her
voice, "why don't you take your courage in both hands, and ask her?"

Peter stared.

"Be guided by me--and do it," she said.

"Do what?" he puzzled.

"Ask her to marry you, of course," she returned amiably. Then, without
allowing him time to shape an answer, "Touche!" she cried, in triumph.
"I 've brought the tell-tale colour to your cheek. And you a brazen
statue! 'They do not love who do not show their love.' But, in faith,
you show yours to any one who'll be at pains to watch you. Your eyes
betray you as often as ever you look at her. I had n't observed you for
two minutes by the clock, when I knew your secret as well as if you 'd
chosen me for your confessor. But what's holding you back? You
can't expect her to do the proposing. Now curse me for a meddlesome
Irishwoman, if you will--but why don't you throw yourself at her feet,
and ask her, like a man?"

"How can I?" said Peter, abandoning any desire he may have felt to beat
about the bush. Nay, indeed, it is very possible he welcomed, rather
than resented, the Irishwoman's meddling.

"What's to prevent you?" said she.

"Everything," said he.

"Everything is nothing. That?"

"Dear lady! She is hideously rich, for one thing."

"Getaway with you!" was the dear lady's warm expostulation. "What
has money to do with the question, if a man's in love? But that's the
English of it--there you are with your cold-blooded calculation. You
chain up your natural impulses as if they were dangerous beasts. Her
money never saved you from succumbing to her enchantments. Why should it
bar you from declaring your passion."

"There's a sort of tendency in society," said Peter, "to look upon the
poor man who seeks the hand of a rich woman as a fortunehunter."

"A fig for the opinion of society," she cried. "The only opinion you
should consider is the opinion of the woman you adore. I was an heiress
myself; and when Teddy O'Donovan proposed to me, upon my conscience
I believe the sole piece of property he possessed in the world was a
corkscrew. So much for her ducats!"

Peter laughed.

"Men, after coffee, are frequently in the habit of smoking," said she.
"You have my sanction for a cigarette. It will keep you in countenance."

"Thank you," said Peter, and lit his cigarette.

"And surely, it's a countenance you'll need, to be going on like that
about her money. However--if you can find a ray of comfort in the
information--small good will her future husband get of it, even if he is
a fortunehunter: for she gives the bulk of it away in charity, and I 'm
doubtful if she keeps two thousand a year for her own spending."

"Really?" said Peter; and for a breathing-space it seemed to him that
there was a ray of comfort in the information.

"Yes, you may rate her at two thousand a year," said Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence. "I suppose you can match that yourself. So the disparity
disappears."

The ray of comfort had flickered for a second, and gone out.

"There are unfortunately other disparities," he remarked gloomily.

"Put a name on them," said she.

"There's her rank."

His impetuous adviser flung up a hand of scorn.

"Her rank, do you say?" she cried. "To the mischief with her rank.
What's rank to love? A woman is only a woman, whether she calls herself
a duchess or a dairy-maid. A woman with any spirit would marry a bank
manager, if she loved him. A man's a man. You should n't care that for
her rank."

"That," was a snap of Mrs. O' Donovan Florence's fingers.

"I suppose you know," said Peter, "that I am a Protestant."

"Are you--you poor benighted creature? Well, that's easily remedied. Go
and get yourself baptised directly."

She waved her hand towards the town, as if to recommend his immediate
procedure in quest of a baptistery.

Peter laughed again.

"I 'm afraid that's more easily said than done."

"Easy!" she exclaimed. "Why, you've only to stand still and let yourself
be sprinkled. It's the priest who does the work. Don't tell me," she
added, with persuasive inconsequence, "that you'll allow a little thing
like being in love with a woman to keep you back from professing the
true faith."

"Ah, if I were convinced that it is true," he sighed, still laughing.

"What call have you to doubt it? And anyhow, what does it matter whether
you 're convinced or not? I remember, when I was a school-girl, I never
was myself convinced of the theorems of Euclid; but I professed them
gladly, for the sake of the marks they brought; and the eternal verities
of mathematics remained unshaken by my scepticism."

"Your reasoning is subtle," laughed Peter. "But the worst of it is, if I
were ten times a Catholic, she wouldn't have me. So what's the use?"

"You never can tell whether a woman will have you or not, until you
offer yourself. And even if she refuses you, is that a ground for
despair? My own husband asked me three times, and three times I said no.
And then he took to writing verses--and I saw there was but one way to
stop him. So we were married. Ask her; ask her again--and again. You can
always resort in the end to versification. And now," the lady concluded,
rising, "I have spoken, and I leave you to your fate. I'm obliged
to return to the hotel, to hold a bed of justice. It appears that my
innocent darlings, beyond there, innocent as they look, have managed
among them to break the electric light in my sitting-room. They're to be
arraigned before me at three for an instruction criminelle. Put what I
've said in your pipe, and smoke it--'tis a mother's last request. If
I 've not succeeded in determining you, don't pretend, at least, that I
haven't encouraged you a bit. Put what I 've said in your pipe, and see
whether, by vigorous drawing, you can't fan the smouldering fires of
encouragement into a small blaze of determination."

Peter resumed his stroll backwards and forwards by the lakeside.
Encouragement was all very well; but... "Shall I--shall I not? Shall
I--shall I not? Shall I--shall I not?" The eternal question went
tick-tack, tick-tack, to the rhythm of his march. He glared at vacancy,
and tried hard to make up his mind.

"I'm afraid I must be somewhat lacking in decision of character," he
said, with pathetic wonder.

Then suddenly he stamped his foot.

"Come! An end to this tergiversation. Do it. Do it," cried his manlier
soul.

"I will," he resolved all at once, drawing a deep breath, and clenching
his fists.

He left the Casino, and set forth to walk to Ventirose. He could not
wait for the omnibus, which would not leave till four. He must strike
while his will was hot.

He walked rapidly; in less than an hour he had reached the tall gilded
grille of the park. He stopped for an instant, and looked up the
straight avenue of chestnuts, to the western front of the castle, softly
alight in the afternoon sun. He put his hand upon the pendent bell-pull
of twisted iron, to summon the porter. In another second he would have
rung, he would have been admitted.... And just then one of the little
demons that inhabit the circumambient air, called his attention to an
aspect of the situation which he had not thought of.

"Wait a bit," it whispered in his ear. "You were there only yesterday.
It can't fail, therefore, to seem extraordinary, your calling again
to-day. You must be prepared with an excuse, an explanation. But
suppose, when you arrive, suppose that (like the lady in the ballad) she
greets you with 'a glance of cold surprise'--what then, my dear? Why,
then, it's obvious, you can't allege the true explanation--can you?
If she greets you with a glance of cold, surprise, you 'll have your
answer, as it were, before the fact you 'll know that there's no manner
of hope for you; and the time for passionate avowals will automatically
defer itself. But then--? How will you justify your visit? What face can
you put on?"

"H'm," assented Peter, "there's something in that."

"There's a great deal in that," said the demon. "You must have an excuse
up your sleeve, a pretext. A true excuse is a fine thing in its way;
but when you come to a serious emergency, an alternative false excuse is
indispensable."

"H'm," said Peter.

However, if there are demons in the atmosphere, there are gods in the
machine--("Paraschkine even goes so far as to maintain that there are
more gods in the machine than have ever been taken from it.")
While Peter stood still, pondering the demon's really rather cogent
intervention, his eye was caught by something that glittered in the
grass at the roadside.

"The Cardinal's snuff-box," he exclaimed, picking it up.

The Cardinal had dropped his snuff-box. Here was an excuse, and to
spare. Peter rang the bell.



XXIV


And, like the lady in the ballad, sure enough, she greeted his arrival
with a glance of cold surprise.

At all events, eyebrows raised, face unsmiling, it was a glance that
clearly supplemented her spoken "How do you do?" by a tacit (perhaps
self-addressed?) "What can bring him here?"

You or I, indeed, or Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, in the fulness of our
knowledge, might very likely have interpreted it rather as a glance of
nervous apprehension. Anyhow, it was a glance that perfectly checked the
impetus of his intent. Something snapped and gave way within him; and
he needed no further signal that the occasion for passionate avowals was
not the present.

And thereupon befell a scene that was really quite too absurd, that was
really childish, a scene over the memory of which, I must believe, they
themselves have sometimes laughed together; though, at the moment, its
absurdity held, for him at least, elements of the tragic.

He met her in the broad gravelled carriage-sweep, before the great
hall-door. She had on her hat and gloves, as if she were just going out.
It seemed to him that she was a little pale; her eyes seemed darker than
usual, and graver. Certainly--cold surprise, or nervous apprehension, as
you will--her attitude was by no means cordial. It was not oncoming. It
showed none of her accustomed easy, half-humorous, wholly good-humoured
friendliness. It was decidedly the attitude of a person standing off,
shut in, withheld.

"I have never seen her in the least like this before," he thought, as
he looked at her pale face, her dark, grave eyes; "I have never seen her
more beautiful. And there is not one single atom of hope for me."

"How do you do?" she said, unsmiling and waited, as who should invite
him to state his errand. She did not offer him her hand but, for that
matter, (she might have pleaded), she could not, very well: for one of
her hands held her sunshade, and the other held an embroidered silk bag,
woman's makeshift for a pocket.

And then, capping the first pang of his disappointment, a kind of
anger seized him. After all, what right had she to receive him in this
fashion?--as if he were an intrusive stranger. In common civility, in
common justice, she owed it to him to suppose that he would not be there
without abundant reason.

And now, with Peter angry, the absurd little scene began.

Assuming an attitude designed to be, in its own way, as reticent as
hers, "I was passing your gate," he explained, "when I happened to find
this, lying by the roadside. I took the liberty of bringing it to you."

He gave her the Cardinal's snuff box, which, in spite of her hands'
preoccupation, she was able to accept.

"A liberty!" he thought, grinding his teeth. "Yes! No doubt she would
have wished me to leave it with the porter at the lodge. No doubt she
deems it an act of officiousness on my part to have found it at all."

And his anger mounted.

"How very good of you," she said. "My uncle could not think where he had
mislaid it."

"I am very fortunate to be the means of restoring it," said he.

Then, after a second's suspension, as she said nothing (she kept her
eyes on the snuffbox, examining it as if it were quite new to her), he
lifted his hat, and bowed, preparatory to retiring down the avenue.

"Oh, but my uncle will wish to thank you," she exclaimed, looking up,
with a kind of start. "Will you not come in? I--I will see whether he is
disengaged."

She made a tentative movement towards the door. She had thawed
perceptibly.

But even as she thawed, Peter, in his anger, froze and stiffened. "I
will see whether he is disengaged." The expression grated. And perhaps,
in effect, it was not a particularly felicitous expression. But if the
poor woman was suffering from nervous apprehension--?

"I beg you on no account to disturb Cardinal Udeschini," he returned
loftily. "It is not a matter of the slightest consequence."

And even as he stiffened, she unbent.

"But it is a matter of consequence to him, to us," she said, faintly
smiling. "We have hunted high and low for it. We feared it was lost for
good. It must have fallen from his pocket when he was walking. He will
wish to thank you."

"I am more than thanked already," said Peter. Alas (as Monsieur de la
Pallisse has sagely noted), when we aim to appear dignified, how often
do we just succeed in appearing churlish.

And to put a seal upon this ridiculous encounter, to make it
irrevocable, he lifted his hat again, and turned away.

"Oh, very well," murmured the Duchessa, in a voice that did not reach
him. If it had reached him, perhaps he would have come back, perhaps
things might have happened. I think there was regret in her voice, as
well as despite. She stood for a minute, as he tramped down the avenue,
and looked after him, with those unusually dark, grave eyes. At last,
making a little gesture--as of regret? despite? impatience?--she went
into the house.

"Here is your snuff-box," she said to the Cardinal.

The old man put down his Breviary (he was seated by an open window,
getting through his office), and smiled at the snuff box fondly,
caressing it with his finger. Afterwards, he shook it, opened it, and
took a pinch of snuff.

"Where did you find it?" he enquired.

"It was found by that Mr. Marchdale," she said, "in the road, outside
the gate. You must have let it drop this morning, when you were walking
with Emilia."

"That Mr. Marchdale?" exclaimed the Cardinal. "What a coincidence."

"A coincidence--?" questioned Beatrice.

"To be sure," said he. "Was it not to Mr. Marchdale that I owed it in
the first instance?"

"Oh--? Was it? I had fancied that you owed it to me."

"Yes--but," he reminded her, whilst the lines deepened about his
humorous old mouth, "but as a reward of my virtue in conspiring with you
to convert him. And, by the way, how is his conversion progressing?"

The Cardinal looked up, with interest.

"It is not progressing at all. I think there is no chance of it,"
answered Beatrice, in a tone that seemed to imply a certain irritation.

"Oh--?" said the Cardinal.

"No," said she.

"I thought he had shown 'dispositions'?" said the Cardinal.

"That was a mistake. He has shown none. He is a very tiresome and silly
person. He is not worth converting," she declared succinctly.

"Good gracious!" said the Cardinal.

He resumed his office. But every now and again he would pause, and look
out of the window, with the frown of a man meditating something; then he
would shake his head significantly, and take snuff.

Peter tramped down the avenue, angry and sick.

Her reception of him had not only administered an instant death-blow
to his hopes as a lover, but in its ungenial aloofness it had cruelly
wounded his pride as a man. He felt snubbed and humiliated. Oh, true
enough, she had unbent a little, towards the end. But it was the look
with which she had first greeted him--it was the air with which she had
waited for him to state his errand--that stung, and rankled, and would
not be forgotten.

He was angry with her, angry with circumstances, with life, angry with
himself.

"I am a fool--and a double fool--and a triple fool," he said. "I am
a fool ever to have thought of her at all; a double fool ever to have
allowed myself to think so much of her; a triple and quadruple and
quintuple idiot ever to have imagined for a moment that anything could
come of it. I have wasted time enough. The next best thing to winning is
to know when you are beaten. I acknowledge myself beaten. I will go back
to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed."

He gazed darkly round the familiar valley, with eyes that abjured it.

Olympus, no doubt, laughed.



XXV


"I shall go back to England as soon as I can get my boxes packed."

But he took no immediate steps to get them packed.

"Hope," observes the clear-sighted French publicist quoted in the
preceding chapter, "hope dies hard."

Hope, Peter fancied, had received its death-blow that afternoon.
Already, that evening, it began to revive a little. It was very much
enfeebled; it was very indefinite and diffident; but it was not dead. It
amounted, perhaps, to nothing more than a vague kind of feeling that
he would not, on the whole, make his departure for England quite so
precipitate as, in the first heat of his anger, the first chill of his
despair, he had intended. Piano, piano! He would move slowly, he would
do nothing rash.

But he was not happy, he was very far from happy. He spent a wretched
night, a wretched, restless morrow. He walked about a great deal--about
his garden, and afterwards, when the damnable iteration of his garden
had become unbearable, he walked to the village, and took the riverside
path, under the poplars, along the racing Aco, and followed it, as
the waters paled and broadened, for I forget how many joyless,
unremunerative miles.

When he came home, fagged out and dusty, at dinner time, Marietta
presented a visiting card to him, on her handsomest salver. She
presented it with a flourish that was almost a swagger.

Twice the size of an ordinary visiting-card, the fashion of it was
roughly thus:

                   IL CARDLE UDESCHINI
          Sacr: Congr: Archiv: et Inscript: Praef:

          Palazzo Udeschini.

And above the legend, was pencilled, in a small oldfashioned hand,
wonderfully neat and pretty:--

"To thank Mr. Marchdale for his courtesy in returning my snuff-box."

"The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was here," said Marietta. There was
a swagger in her accent. There was also something in her accent that
seemed to rebuke Peter for his absence.

"I had inferred as much from this," said he, tapping the card. "We
English, you know, are great at putting two and two together."

"He came in a carriage," said Marietta.

"Not really?" said her master.

"Ang--veramente," she affirmed.

"Was--was he alone?" Peter asked, an obscure little twinge of hope
stirring in his heart.

"No. Signorino." And then she generalised, with untranslatable
magniloquence: "Un amplissimo porporato non va mai solo."

Peter ought to have hugged her for that amplissimo porporato. But he was
selfishly engrossed in his emotions.

"Who was with him?" He tried to throw the question out with a casual
effect, an effect of unconcern.

"The Signorina Emelia Manfredi was with him," answered Marietta, little
recking how mere words can stab.

"Oh," said Peter.

"The Lord Prince Cardinal Udeschini was very sorry not to see the
Signorino," continued Marietta.

"Poor man--was he? Let us trust that time will console him," said Peter,
callously.

But, "I wonder," he asked himself, "I wonder whether perhaps I was the
least bit hasty yesterday? If I had stopped, I should have saved the
Cardinal a journey here to-day--I might have known that he would come,
these Italians are so punctilious--and then, if I had stopped--if I had
stopped--possibly--possibly--"

Possibly what? Oh, nothing. And yet, if he had stopped... well, at any
rate, he would have gained time. The Duchessa had already begun to thaw.
If he had stopped... He could formulate no precise conclusion to that
if; but he felt dimly remorseful that he had not stopped, he felt that
he had indeed been the least bit hasty. And his remorse was somehow
medicine to his reviving hope.

"After all, I scarcely gave things a fair trial yesterday," he said.

And the corollary of that, of course, was that he might give things a
further and fairer trial some other day.

But his hope was still hard hurt; he was still in a profound dejection.

"The Signorino is not eating his dinner," cried Marietta, fixing him
with suspicious, upbraiding eyes.

"I never said I was," he retorted.

"The Signorino is not well?" she questioned, anxious.

"Oh, yes--cosi, cosi; the Signorino is well enough," he answered.

"The dinner"--you could perceive that she brought herself with
difficulty to frame the dread hypothesis--"the dinner is not good?" Her
voice sank. She waited, tense, for his reply.

"The dinner," said he, "if one may criticise without eating it, the
dinner is excellent. I will have no aspersions cast upon my cook."

"Ah-h-h!" breathed Marietta, a tremulous sigh of relief.

"It is not the Signorino, it is not the dinner, it is the world that is
awry," Peter went on, in reflective melancholy. "'T is the times that
are out of joint. 'T is the sex, the Sex, that is not well, that is not
good, that needs a thorough overhauling and reforming."

"Which sex?" asked Marietta.

"The sex," said Peter. "By the unanimous consent of rhetoricians, there
is but one sex the sex, the fair sex, the unfair sex, the gentle sex,
the barbaric sex. We men do not form a sex, we do not even form a sect.
We are your mere hangers-on, camp-followers, satellites--your things,
your playthings--we are the mere shuttlecocks which you toss hither and
thither with your battledores, as the wanton mood impels you. We are
born of woman, we are swaddled and nursed by woman, we are governessed
by woman; subsequently, we are beguiled by woman, fooled by woman, led
on, put off, tantalised by woman, fretted and bullied by her; finally,
last scene of all, we are wrapped in our cerements by woman. Man's
life, birth, death, turn upon woman, as upon a hinge. I have ever been a
misanthrope, but now I am seriously thinking of becoming a misogynist as
well. Would you advise me to-do so?"

"A misogynist? What is that, Signorino?" asked Marietta.

"A woman-hater," he explained; "one who abhors and forswears the sex;
one who has dashed his rose-coloured spectacles from his eyes, and sees
woman as she really is, with no illusive glamour; one who has found her
out. Yes, I think I shall become a misogynist. It is the only way of
rendering yourself invulnerable, 't is the only safe course. During my
walk this afternoon, I recollected, from the scattered pigeon-holes of
memory, and arranged in consequent order, at least a score of good old
apothegmatic shafts against the sex. Was it not, for example, in the
grey beginning of days, was it not woman whose mortal taste brought
sin into the world and all our woe? Was not that Pandora a woman, who
liberated, from the box wherein they were confined, the swarm of
winged evils that still afflict us? I will not remind you of St.
John Chrysostom's golden parable about a temple and the thing it is
constructed over. But I will come straight to the point, and ask whether
this is truth the poet sings, when he informs us roundly that 'every
woman is a scold at heart'?"

Marietta was gazing patiently at the sky. She did not answer.

"The tongue," Peter resumed, "is woman's weapon, even as the fist is
man's. And it is a far deadlier weapon. Words break no bones--they break
hearts, instead. Yet were men one-tenth part so ready with their fists,
as women are with their barbed and envenomed tongues, what savage
brutes you would think us--would n't you?--and what a rushing trade
the police-courts would drive, to be sure. That is one of the good
old cliches that came back to me during my walk. All women are
alike--there's no choice amongst animated fashion-plates: that is
another. A woman is the creature of her temper; her husband, her
children, and her servants are its victims: that is a third. Woman is a
bundle of pins; man is her pin-cushion. When woman loves, 't is not the
man she loves, but the man's flattery; woman's love is reflex self-love.
The man who marries puts himself in irons. Marriage is a bird-cage in
a garden. The birds without hanker to get in; but the birds within know
that there is no condition so enviable as that of the birds without.
Well, speak up. What do you think? Do you advise me to become a
misogynist?"

"I do not understand, Signorino," said Marietta.

"Of course, you don't," said Peter. "Who ever could understand
such stuff and nonsense? That's the worst of it. If only one could
understand, if only one could believe it, one might find peace, one
might resign oneself. But alas and alas! I have never had any real faith
in human wickedness; and now, try as I will, I cannot imbue my mind with
any real faith in the undesirability of woman. That is why you see
me dissolved in tears, and unable to eat my dinner. Oh, to think, to
think," he cried with passion, suddenly breaking into English, "to think
that less than a fortnight ago, less than one little brief fortnight
ago, she was seated in your kitchen, seated there familiarly, in her wet
clothes, pouring tea, for all the world as if she was the mistress of
the house!"

Days passed. He could not go to Ventirose--or, anyhow, he thought
he could not. He reverted to his old habit of living in his garden,
haunting the riverside, keeping watchful, covetous eyes turned towards
the castle. The river bubbled and babbled; the sun shone strong and
clear; his fountain tinkled; his birds flew about their affairs; his
flowers breathed forth their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands
westward laughed, the snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour
of the calendar except their native white. All was as it had ever
been--but oh, the difference to him. A week passed. He caught no glimpse
of the Duchessa. Yet he took no steps to get his boxes packed.



XXVI


And then Marietta fell ill.

One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open
the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him
with her customary brisk "Buon giorno, Signorino."

Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, "Buon'
giorno, Marietta."

"Buon' giorno, Signorino," she returned but in a whisper.

"What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?" Peter asked.

"I have a cold, Signorino," she whispered, pointing to her chest. "I
cannot speak."

The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He
looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and
set, it seemed flushed.

"Come here," he said, with a certain peremptoriness. "Give me your
hand."

She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron;
then gave it to him.

It was hot and dry.

"Your cold is feverish," he said. "You must go to bed, and stay there
till the fever has passed."

"I cannot go to bed, Signorino," she replied.

"Can't you? Have you tried?" asked he.

"No, Signorino," she admitted.

"Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you
try," said he. "Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed,
try, try again."

"I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?" was her
whispered objection.

"Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have
you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work,
it somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold;
you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure
of keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once."

She left the room.

But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving
in her kitchen.

"Marietta!" he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis.
"I thought I told you to go to bed."

Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the
flagrant fact of misdemeanour.

"Yes, Signorino," she whispered.

"Well--? Do you call this bed?" he demanded.

"No, Signorino," she acknowledged.

"Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Signorino," she protested, horror in her whisper.

"Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of
wilful insubordination."

"Bene, Signorino," reluctantly consented Marietta.

Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.

"The very man I most desired to meet," said Peter, and beckoned to
him. "Is there a doctor in the village?" he enquired, when Gigi had
approached.

"Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor--Dr. Carretaji."

"Good," said Peter. "Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr.
Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day? Marietta is
not well."

"Yes, Signorino."

"And stop a bit," said Peter. "Are there such things as women in the
village?'

"Ah, mache, Signorino! But many, many," answered Gigi, rolling his dark
eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands.

"I need but one," said Peter. "A woman to come and do Marietta's work
for a day or two--cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing. Do you
think you could procure me such a woman?"

"There is my wife, Signorino," suggested Gigi. "If she would content the
Signorino?"

"Oh? I was n't aware that you were married. A hundred felicitations.
Yes, your wife, by all means. Ask her to come and rule as Marietta's
vicereine."

Gigi started for the village.

Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He
found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work,
she would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life,
work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and
complementary duties.

"But you are not half warmly enough covered up," said Peter.

He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to
the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with
hot water.

"Put this at your feet," he said, returning to Marietta.

"Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this," the old
woman mustered voice to murmur.

"The Signorino likes it--it affords him healthful exercise," Peter
assured her.

Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of
black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned
by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he
seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.

"She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of
bronchitis," was his verdict.

"Is there any danger?" Peter asked.

"Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent
nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some
medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call
again to-morrow."

Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked
young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced
it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.

Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that
she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good
deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.

But next day she was manifestly worse.

"Yes--bronchitis, as I feared," said the doctor. "Danger? No--none, if
properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she
has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier
for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There
is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a
sister."

"Thank you very much. I hope you will," said Peter.

And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself
in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent.
But sometimes she had to send for Peter.

"She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you," the
sister said.

Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of
mastery.

"Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You
must not disobey the Signorino."

And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter
holding the cup to her lips.

On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, "She imagines
that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating
that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would
make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know
that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good
if he would come and talk with her."

And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta,
confirmed the sister's opinion.

"She is no worse--she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is
taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are
going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of
ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there
is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments."

So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back
with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and
would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.

"What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.

"There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the sister.

"Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted.

"Certainly," said the sister. "In a case of illness, the nearest priest
will always gladly come."

So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.

And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the
coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but
Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.

The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so
sunny-bright--it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent
anthem.

"Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come
in his place. Your man told me of your need," the Cardinal explained.

"I don't know how to thank your Eminence," Peter murmured, and conducted
him to Marietta's room.

Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and
received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the
garden.

The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards
together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and
waited.

Nearly an hour passed.

At length the Cardinal came out.

Peter rose, and went forward to meet him.

The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive
redness.

"Mr. Marchdale," he said, "your housekeeper is in great distress of
conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty
of towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But
I cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she
has asked and received your pardon for them."

"Offences towards me?" Peter wondered. "Unless excess of patience with
a very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of
none."

"Never mind," said the Cardinal. "Her conscience accuses her--she must
satisfy it. Will you come?"

The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took her hand.

"Now, dear," he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of one
speaking to a beloved child, "here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell him what you
have on your mind. He is ready to hear and to forgive you."

Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face.

"First," she whispered, "I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this
trouble I am making for him. I am the Signorino's servant; but instead
of serving, I make trouble for him."

She paused. The Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Peter answered, "Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the
Signorino cry. You are the best servant that ever lived. You are putting
me to no trouble at all. You are giving me a chance--which I should be
glad of, except that it involves your suffering--to show my affection
for you, and my gratitude."

"There, dear," said the Cardinal to her, "you see the Signorino makes
nothing of that. Now the next thing. Go on."

"I have to ask the Signorino's forgiveness for my impertinence,"
whispered Marietta.

"Impertinence--?" faltered Peter. "You have never been impertinent."

"Scusi, Signorino," she went on, in her whisper. "I have sometimes
contradicted the Signorino. I contradicted the Signorino when he told
me that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon. It is impertinent of
a servant to contradict her master. And now his most high Eminence says
the Signorino was right. I beg the Signorino to forgive me."

Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

"You dear old woman," Peter half laughed, half sobbed, "how can you ask
me to forgive a mere difference of opinion? You--you dear old thing."

The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta's hand.

"The Signorino is too good," Marietta sighed.

"Go on, dear," said the Cardinal.

"I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking. I have spoken
evil of the Signorino," she went on. "I said--I said to people--that the
Signorino was simple--that he was simple and natural. I thought so
then. Now I know it is not so. I know it is only that the Signorino is
English."

Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed.

"Marietta! Of course I am simple and natural. At least, I try to be.
Come! Look up. Smile. Promise you will not worry about these things any
more."

She looked up, she smiled faintly.

"The Signorino is too good," she whispered.

After a little interval of silence, "Now, dear," said the Cardinal, "the
last thing of all."

Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow.

"You need not be afraid," said the Cardinal. "Mr. Marchdale will
certainly forgive you."

"Oh-h-h," groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an instant.

The Cardinal patted her hand. "Courage, courage," he said.

"Oh--Signorino mio," she groaned again, "this you never can forgive me.
It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The Signorino remembers the
little pig, which he called Francesco?"

"Yes," answered Peter.

"The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for
him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is
a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?"

"Yes," answered Peter. "Yes, you dear old thing. I remember."

Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.

"Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The--the Signorino ate him."

Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of
half-choked "Oh?"

"Yes," whispered Marietta. "He was bought with the Signorino's money.
I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the
Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty."

This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal--well, his
smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff.

"I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry,"
Marietta said.

Peter knelt down at her bedside.

"Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing
Francesco--we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as
for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember
that chicken-pasty. It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted.
You must not worry any more about the little pig."

Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.

"The Signorino forgives his servant?" she whispered.

Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown old
cheek.

"She will be easier now," said the Cardinal. "I will stay with her a
little longer."

Peter went out. The scene had been childish--do you say?--ridiculous,
almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his
heart was full of unshed tears. At the same time, as he thought of the
Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of
his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held
Marietta's hand and patted it--at the same time a kind of strange
joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of
enthusiasm.

"What a heavenly old man," he said.

In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together.

They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, "With your consent,
Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant. I will
come every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day. That will
relieve the sister, who has to be up with her at night."

And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park,
and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now
permanently in its position. And once or twice a week, in the afternoon,
the Cardinal would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little
visit to Marietta, would drive Emilia home.

In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the rosary for
her.

Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight she was
able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the afternoon, and sit in
the sun in the garden. Then Sister Scholastica went back to her convent
at Venzona. At the end of the third week Marietta could be up all day.
But Gigi's stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in
the kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning.

"Why does the Duchessa never come?" Peter wondered. "It would be decent
of her to come and see the poor old woman."

Whenever he thought of Cardinal Udeschini, the same strange feeling of
joy would spring up in his heart, which he had felt when he had left the
beautiful old man with Marietta, on the day of his first visit. In the
beginning he could only give this feeling a very general and indefinite
expression. "He is a man who renews one's faith in things, who renews
one's faith in human nature." But gradually, I suppose, the feeling
crystallised; and at last, in due season, it found for itself an
expression that was not so indefinite.

It was in the afternoon, and he had just conducted the Cardinal and
Emilia to their carriage. He stood at his gate for a minute, and watched
the carriage as it rolled away.

"What a heavenly old man, what a heavenly old man," he thought.

Then, still looking after the carriage, before turning back into his
garden, he heard himself repeat, half aloud

       "Nor knowest thou what argument
        Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent."

The words had come to his lips, and were pronounced, were addressed to
his mental image of the Cardinal, without any conscious act of volition
on his part. He heard them with a sort of surprise, almost as if some
one else had spoken them. He could not in the least remember what poem
they were from, he could not even remember what poet they were by. Were
they by Emerson? It was years since he had read a line of Emerson's.

All that evening the couplet kept running in his head. And the feeling
of joy, of enthusiasm, in his heart, was not so strange now. But I think
it was intensified.

The next time the Cardinal arrived at Villa Floriano, and gave Peter his
hand, Peter did not merely shake it, English fashion, as he had hitherto
done.

The Cardinal looked startled.

Then his eyes searched Peter's face for a second, keenly interrogative.
Then they softened; and a wonderful clear light shone in them, a
wonderful pure, sweet light.

"Benedicat te Omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,"
he said, making the Sign of the Cross.



XXVII


Up at the castle, Cardinal Udeschini was walking backwards and forwards
on the terrace, reading his Breviary.

Beatrice was seated under the white awning, at the terrace-end, doing
some kind of needlework.

Presently the Cardinal came to a standstill near her, and closed his
book, putting his finger in it, to keep the place.

"It will be, of course, a great loss to Casa Udeschini, when you marry,"
he remarked.

Beatrice looked up, astonishment on her brow.

"When I marry?" she exclaimed. "Well, if ever there was a thunderbolt
from a clear sky!"

And she laughed.

"Yes-when you marry," the Cardinal repeated, with conviction. "You are a
young woman--you are twenty-eight years old. You will, marry. It is only
right that you should marry. You have not the vocation for a religious.
Therefore you must marry. But it will be a great loss to the house of
Udeschini."

"Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof," said Beatrice, laughing
again. "I haven't the remotest thought of marrying. I shall never
marry."

"Il ne faut jamais dire a la fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau,"
his Eminence cautioned her, whilst the lines of humour about his mouth
emphasised themselves, and his grey eyes twinkled. "Other things equal,
marriage is as much the proper state for the laity, as celibacy is the
proper state for the clergy. You will marry. It would be selfish of us
to oppose your marrying. You ought to marry. But it will be a great loss
to the family--it will be a great personal loss to me. You are as dear
to me as any of my blood. I am always forgetting that we are uncle and
niece by courtesy only."

"I shall never marry. But nothing that can happen to me can ever make
the faintest difference in my feeling for you. I hope you know how much
I love you?" She looked into his eyes, smiling her love. "You are only
my uncle by courtesy? But you are more than an uncle--you have been like
a father to me, ever since I left my convent."

The Cardinal returned her smile.

"Carissima," he murmured. Then, "It will be a matter of the utmost
importance to me, however," he went on, "that, when the time comes, you
should marry a good man, a suitable man--a man who will love you, whom
you will love--and, if possible, a man who will not altogether separate
you from me, who will perhaps love me a little too. It would send me
in sorrow to my grave, if you should marry a man who was not worthy of
you."

"I will guard against that danger by not marrying at all," laughed
Beatrice.

"No--you will marry, some day," said the Cardinal. "And I wish you to
remember that I shall not oppose your marrying--provided the man is a
good man. Felipe will not like it--Guido will pull a long nose--but I,
at least, will take your part, if I can feel that the man is good. Good
men are rare, my dear; good husbands are rarer still. I can think, for
instance, of no man in our Roman nobility, whom I should be content to
see you marry. Therefore I hope you will not marry a Roman. You would be
more likely to marry one of your own countrymen. That, of course,
would double the loss to us, if it should take you away from Italy. But
remember, if he is a man whom I can think worthy of you, you may count
upon me as an ally."

He resumed his walk, reopening his Breviary.

Beatrice resumed her needlework. But she found it difficult to fix her
attention on it. Every now and then, she would leave her needle stuck
across its seam, let the work drop to her lap, and, with eyes turned
vaguely up the valley, fall, apparently, into a muse.

"I wonder why he said all that to me?" was the question that kept posing
itself.

By and by the Cardinal closed his Breviary, and put it in his pocket.
I suppose he had finished his office for the day. Then he came and sat
down in one of the wicker chairs, under the awning. On the table, among
the books and things, stood a carafe of water, some tumblers, a silver
sugar-bowl, and a crystal dish full of fresh pomegranate seeds. It
looked like a dish full of unset rubies. The Cardinal poured some water
into a tumbler, added a lump of sugar and a spoonful of pomegranate
seeds, stirred the mixture till it became rose-coloured, and drank it
off in a series of little sips.

"What is the matter, Beatrice?" he asked, all at once.

Beatrice raised her eyes, perplexed.

"The matter--? Is anything the matter?"

"Yes," said the Cardinal; "something is the matter. You are depressed,
you are nervous, you are not yourself. I have noticed it for many days.
Have you something on, your mind?"

"Nothing in the world," Beatrice answered, with an appearance of great
candour. "I had not noticed that I was nervous or depressed."

"We are entering October," said the Cardinal. "I must return to Rome. I
have been absent too long already. I must return next week. But I should
not like to go away with the feeling that you are unhappy."

"If a thing were needed to make me unhappy, it would be the announcement
of your intended departure," Beatrice said, smiling. "But otherwise,
I am no more unhappy than it is natural to be. Life, after all, is n't
such a furiously gay business as to keep one perpetually singing and
dancing--is it? But I am not especially unhappy."

"H'm," said the Cardinal. Then, in a minute, "You will come to Rome in
November, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes--towards the end of November, I think," said Beatrice.

The Cardinal rose, and began to walk backwards and forwards again.

In a little while the sound of carriage-wheels could be heard, in the
sweep, round the corner of the house.

The Cardinal looked at his watch.

"Here is the carriage," he said. "I must go down and see that poor old
woman.... Do you know," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I think
it would be well if you were to go with me."

A shadow came into Beatrice's eyes.

"What good would that do?" she asked.

"It would give her pleasure, no doubt. And besides, she is one of your
parishioners, as it were. I think you ought to go. You have never been
to see her since she fell ill."

"Oh--well," said Beatrice.

She was plainly unwilling. But she went to put on her things.

In the carriage, when they had passed the village and crossed the
bridge, as they were bowling along the straight white road that led
to the villa, "What a long time it is since Mr. Marchdale has been at
Ventirose," remarked the Cardinal.

"Oh--? Is it?" responded Beatrice, with indifference.

"It is more than three weeks, I think--it is nearly a month," the
Cardinal said.

"Oh--?" said she.

"He has had his hands full, of course; he has had little leisure," the
Cardinal pursued. "His devotion to his poor old servant has been quite
admirable. But now that she is practically recovered, he will be freer."

"Yes," said Beatrice.

"He is a young man whom I like very much," said the Cardinal. "He is
intelligent; he has good manners; and he has a fine sense of the droll.
Yes, he has wit--a wit that you seldom find in an Anglo-Saxon, a wit
that is almost Latin. But you have lost your interest in him? That is
because you despair of his conversion?"

"I confess I am not greatly interested in him," Beatrice answered. "And
I certainly have no hopes of his conversion."

The Cardinal smiled at his ring. He opened his snuffbox, and inhaled a
long deliberate pinch of snuff.

"Ah, well--who can tell?" he said. "But--he will be free now, and it is
so long since he has been at the castle--had you not better ask him to
luncheon or dinner?"

"Why should I?" answered Beatrice. "If he does not come to Ventirose, it
is presumably because he does not care to come. If he does care to come,
he needs no invitation. He knows that he is at liberty to call whenever
he likes."

"But it would be civil, it would be neighbourly, to ask him to a meal,"
the Cardinal submitted.

"And it would put him in the embarrassing predicament of having either
to accept against his will, or to decline and appear ungracious,"
submitted Beatrice. "No, it is evident that Ventirose does not amuse
him."

"Bene," said the Cardinal. "Be it as you wish."

But when they reached Villa Floriano, Peter was not at home.

"He has gone to Spiaggia for the day," Emilia informed them.

Beatrice, the Cardinal fancied, looked at once relieved and
disappointed.

Marietta was seated in the sun, in a sheltered corner of the garden.

While Beatrice talked with her, the Cardinal walked about.

Now it so happened that on Peter's rustic table a book lay open, face
downwards.

The Cardinal saw the book. He halted in his walk, and glanced round
the garden, as if to make sure that he was not observed. He tapped his
snuff--box, and took a pinch of snuff. Then he appeared to meditate for
an instant, the lines about his mouth becoming very marked indeed.
At last, swiftly, stealthily, almost with the air of a man committing
felony, he slipped his snuff-box under the open book, well under it, so
that it was completely covered up.

On the way back to Ventirose, the Cardinal put his hand in his pocket.

"Dear me!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I have lost my snuff box again." He
shook his head, as one who recognises a fatality. "I am always losing
it."

"Are you sure you had it with you?" Beatrice asked.

"Oh, yes, I think I had it with me. I should have missed it before this,
if I had left it at home. I must have dropped it in Mr. Marchdale's
garden."

"In that case it will probably be found," said Beatrice.


Peter had gone to Spiaggia, I imagine, in the hope of meeting Mrs.
O'Donovan Florence; but the printed visitors' list there told him that
she had left nearly a fortnight since. On his return to the villa, he
was greeted by Marietta with the proud tidings that her Excellency the
Duchessa di Santangiolo had been to see her.

"Oh--? Really?" he questioned lightly. (His heart, I think, dropped a
beat, all the same.)

"Ang," said Marietta. "She came with the most Eminent Prince Cardinal.
They came in the carriage. She stayed half an hour. She was very
gracious."

"Ah?" said Peter. "I am glad to hear it."

"She was beautifully dressed," said Marietta.

"Of that I have not the shadow of a doubt," said he.

"The Signorina Emilia drove away with them," said she.

"Dear, dear! What a chapter of adventures," was his comment.

He went to his rustic table, and picked up his book.

"How the deuce did that come there?" he wondered, discovering the snuff
box.

It was, in truth, an odd place for it. A cardinal may inadvertently
drop his snuff box, to be sure. But if the whole College of Cardinals
together had dropped a snuff box, it would hardly have fallen, of
its own weight, through the covers of an open book, to the under-side
thereof, and have left withal no trace of its passage.

"Solid matter will not pass through solid matter, without fraction--I
learned that at school," said Peter.

The inference would be that someone had purposely put the snuff box
there.

But who?

The Cardinal himself? In the name of reason, why?

Emilia? Nonsense.

Marietta? Absurd.

The Du--

A wild surmise darted through Peter's soul. Could it be? Could it
conceivably be? Was it possible that--that--was it possible, in fine,
that this was a kind of signal, a kind of summons?

Oh, no, no, no. And yet--and yet--

No, certainly not. The idea was preposterous. It deserved, and (I trust)
obtained, summary deletion.

"Nevertheless," said Peter, "it's a long while since I have darkened the
doors of Ventirose. And a poor excuse is better than none. And anyhow,
the Cardinal will be glad to have his snuff."

The ladder-bridge was in its place.

He crossed the Aco.



XXVIII


He crossed the Aco, and struck bravely forward, up the smooth lawns,
under the bending trees, towards the castle.

The sun was setting. The irregular mass of buildings stood out in
varying shades of blue, against varying, dying shades of red.

Half way there, Peter stopped, and looked back.

The level sunshine turned the black forests of the Gnisi to shining
forests of bronze, and the foaming cascade that leapt down its side to
a cascade of liquid gold. The lake, for the greater part, lay in shadow,
violet-grey through a pearl-grey veil of mist; but along the opposite
shore it caught the light, and gleamed a crescent of quicksilver, with
roseate reflections. The three snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito, at the
valley's end, seemed almost insubstantial--floating forms of luminous
pink vapour, above the hazy horizon, in a pure sky intensely blue.

A familiar verse came into Peter's mind.

"Really,"' he said to himself, "down to the very 'cataract leaping in
glory,' I believe they must have pre-arranged the scene, feature for
feature, to illustrate it." And he began to repeat the vivid, musical
lines, under his breath...

But about midway of them he was interrupted.

"It's not altogether a bad sort of view--is it?" a voice asked, behind
him.

Peter faced about.

On a marble bench, under a feathery acacia; a few yards away, a lady was
seated, looking at him, smiling.

Peter's eyes met hers--and suddenly his heart gave a jump. Then it stood
dead still for a second. Then it flew off, racing perilously. Oh, for
the best reasons in the world. There was something in her eyes, there
was a glow, a softness, that seemed--that seemed... But thereby hangs my
tale.

She was dressed in white. She had some big bright-yellow chrysanthemums
stuck in her belt. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow,
sparkled, where the sun touched it, transparent and iridescent, like
crinkly threads of glass.

"You do not think it altogether bad--I hope?" she questioned, arching
her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little assumption of concern.

Peter's heart was racing--but he must answer her.

"I was just wondering," he answered, with a tolerably successful feint
of composure, "whether one might not safely call it altogether good."

"Oh--?" she exclaimed.

She threw back her head, and examined the prospect critically.
Afterwards, she returned her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite
readiness to defer to his opinion.

"It is not too sensational? Not too much like a landscape on the stage?"

"We must judge it leniently," said he; "we must remember that it is only
unaided Nature. Besides," he added, "to be meticulously truthful, there
is a spaciousness, there is a vivacity in the light and colour, there
is a sense of depth and atmosphere, that we should hardly find in a
landscape on the stage."

"Yes--perhaps there is," she admitted thoughtfully.

And with that, they looked into each other's eyes, and laughed.

"Are you aware," the lady asked, after a brief silence, "that it is a
singularly lovely evening."

"I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so," Peter answered, with the
least approach to a meaning bow.

In the lady's face there flickered, perhaps, for half a second, the
faintest light, as of a comprehending and unresentful smile. But she
went on, with fine detachment

"How calm and still it is. The wonderful peace of the day's compline. It
seems as if the earth had stopped breathing--does n't it? The birds have
already gone to bed, though the sun is only just setting. It is the
hour when they are generally noisiest; but they have gone to bed--the
sparrows and the finches, the snatchers and the snatched-from, are equal
in the article of sleep. That is because they feel the touch of autumn.
How beautiful it is, in spite of its sadness, this first touch of
autumn--it is like sad distant music. Can you analyse it, can you
explain it? There is no chill, it is quite warm, and yet one knows
somehow that autumn is here. The birds know it, and have gone to bed.
In another month they will be flying away, to Africa and the
Hesperides--all of them except the sparrows, who stay all winter. I
wonder how they get on during the winter, with no goldfinches to snatch
from?"

She turned to Peter with a look of respectful enquiry, as one appealing
to an authority for information.

"Oh, they snatch from each other, during the winter," he explained. "It
is thief rob thief, when honest victims are not forthcoming. And--what
is more to the point--they must keep their beaks in, against the return
of the goldfinches with the spring."

The Duchessa--for I scorn to deceive the trustful reader longer; and (as
certain fines mouches, despite my efforts at concealment, may ere this
have suspected) the mysterious lady was no one else--the Duchessa gaily
laughed.

"Yes," she said, "the goldfinches will return with the spring. But isn't
that rather foolish of them? If I were a goldfinch, I think I should
make my abode permanent in the sparrowless south."

"There is no sparrowless south," said Peter. "Sparrows, alas, abound in
every latitude; and the farther south you go, the fiercer and bolder and
more impudent they become. In Africa and the Hesperides, which you have
mentioned, they not infrequently attack the caravans, peck the eyes out
of the camels, and are sometimes even known to carry off a man, a
whole man, vainly struggling in their inexorable talons. There is no
sparrowless south. But as for the goldfinches returning--it is the
instinct of us bipeds to return. Plumed and plumeless, we all return to
something, what though we may have registered the most solemn vows to
remain away."

He delivered his last phrases with an accent, he punctuated them with a
glance, in which there may have lurked an intention.

But the Duchessa did not appear to notice it.

"Yes--true--so we do," she assented vaguely. "And what you tell me of
the sparrows in the Hesperides is very novel and impressive--unless,
indeed, it is a mere traveller's tale, with which you are seeking to
practise upon my credulity. But since I find you in this communicative
vein, will you not push complaisance a half-inch further, and tell me
what that thing is, suspended there in the sky above the crest of the
Cornobastone--that pale round thing, that looks like the spectre of a
magnified half-crown?"

Peter turned to the quarter her gaze indicated.

"Oh, that," he said, "is nothing. In frankness, it is only what the
vulgar style the moon."

"How odd," said she. "I thought it was what the vulgar style the moon."

And they both laughed again.

The Duchessa moved a little; and thus she uncovered, carved on the back
of her marble bench, and blazoned in red and gold, a coat of arms.

She touched the shield with her finger.

"Are you interested in canting heraldry?" she asked. "There is no
country so rich in it as Italy. These are the arms of the Farfalla, the
original owners of this property. Or, seme of twenty roses gules; the
crest, on a rose gules, a butterfly or, with wings displayed; and the
motto--how could the heralds ever have sanctioned such an unheraldic and
unheroic motto?

                      Rosa amorosa,
                      Farfalla giojosa,
                      Mi cantano al cuore
                      La gioja e l' amore.

They were the great people of this region for countless generations, the
Farfalla. They were Princes of Ventirose and Patricians of Milan. And
then the last of them was ruined at Monte Carlo, and killed himself
there, twenty-odd years ago. That is how all their gioja and amore
ended. It was the case of a butterfly literally broken upon a wheel. The
estate fell into the hands of the Jews, as everything more or less does
sooner or later; and they--if you can believe me--they were going
to turn the castle into an hotel, into one of those monstrous modern
hotels, for other Jews to come to, when I happened to hear of it, and
bought it. Fancy turning that splendid old castle into a Jew-infested
hotel! It is one of the few castles in Italy that have a ghost. Oh, but
a quite authentic ghost. It is called the White Page--il Paggio Bianco
di Ventirose. It is the ghost of a boy about sixteen. He walks on the
ramparts of the old keep, and looks off towards the lake, as if he
were watching a boat, and sometimes he waves his arms, as if he were
signalling. And from head to foot he is perfectly white, like a statue.
I have never seen him myself; but so many people say they have, I cannot
doubt he is authentic. And the Jews wanted to turn this haunted castle
into an hotel... As a tribute to the memory of the Farfalla, I take
pains to see that their arms, which are carved, as you see them here, in
at least a hundred different places, are remetalled and retinctured as
often as time and the weather render it necessary."

She looked towards the castle, while she spoke; and now she rose, with
the design, perhaps, of moving in that direction.

Peter felt that the moment had come for actualities.

"It seems improbable," he began,--"and I 'm afraid you will think there
is a tiresome monotony in my purposes; but I am here again to return
Cardinal Udeschini's snuff box. He left it in my garden."

"Oh--?" said the Duchessa. "Yes, he thought he must have left it there.
He is always mislaying it. Happily, he has another, for emergencies. It
was very good of you to trouble to bring it back."

She gave a light little laugh..

"I may also improve this occasion," Peter abruptly continued, "to make
my adieux. I shall be leaving for England in a few days now."

The Duchessa raised her eyebrows.

"Really?" she said. "Oh, that is too bad," she added, by way of comment.
"October, you know, is regarded as the best month of all the twelve, in
this lake country."

"Yes, I know it," Peter responded regretfully.

"And it is a horrid month in England," she went on.

"It is an abominable month in England," he acknowledged.

"Here it is blue, like larkspur, and all fragrant of the vintage,
and joyous with the songs of the vintagers," she said. "There it is
dingy-brown, and songless, and it smells of smoke."

"Yes," he agreed.

"But you are a sportsman? You go in for shooting?" she conjectured.

"No," he answered. "I gave up shooting years ago."

"Oh--? Hunting, then?"

"I hate hunting. One is always getting rolled on by one's horse."

"Ah, I see. It--it will be golf, perhaps?"

"No, it is not even golf."

"Don't tell me it is football?"

"Do I look as if it were football?"

"It is sheer homesickness, in fine? You are grieving for the purple of
your native heather?"

"There is scarcely any heather in my native county. No," said Peter,
"no. To tell you the truth, it is the usual thing. It is an histoire de
femme."

"I 'might have guessed it," she exclaimed. "It is still that everlasting
woman."

"That everlasting woman--?" Peter faltered.

"To be sure," said she. "The woman you are always going on about. The
woman of your novel. This woman, in short."

And she produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there,
and held up for his inspection a grey-and-gold bound book.

"MY novel--?" faltered he. (But the sight of it, in her possession, in
these particular circumstances, gave him a thrill that was not a thrill
of despair.)

"Your novel," she repeated, smiling sweetly, and mimicking his tone.
Then she made a little moue. "Of course, I have known that you were your
friend Felix Wildmay, from the outset."

"Oh," said Peter, in a feeble sort of gasp, looking bewildered. "You
have known that from the outset?" And his brain seemed to reel.

"Yes," said she, "of course. Where would the fun have been, otherwise?
And now you are going away, back to her shrine, to renew your worship. I
hope you will find the courage to offer her your hand."

Peter's brain was reeling. But here was the opportunity of his life.

"You give me courage," he pronounced, with sudden daring. "You are in a
position to help me with her. And since you know so much, I should like
you to know more. I should like to tell you who she is."

"One should be careful where one bestows one's confidences," she warned
him; but there was something in her eyes, there was a glow, a softness,
that seemed at the same time to invite them.

"No," he said, "better than telling you who she is, I will tell you
where I first saw her. It was at the Francais, in December, four years
ago, a Thursday night, a subscription night. She sat in one of the
middle boxes of the first tier. She was dressed in white. Her companions
were an elderly woman, English I think, in black, who wore a cap; and an
old man, with white moustache and imperial, who looked as if he might be
a French officer. And the play--."

He broke off, and looked at the Duchessa. She kept her eyes down.

"Yes--the play?" she questioned, in a low voice, after a little wait.

"The play was Monsieur Pailleron's 'Le monde ou l'on s'ennuie'," he
said.

"Oh," said she, still keeping her eyes down. Her voice was still very
low. But there was something in it that made Peter's heart leap.

"The next time I saw her," he began...

But then he had to stop. He felt as if the beating of his heart must
suffocate him.

"Yes--the next time?" she questioned.

He drew a deep breath. He began anew--

"The next time was a week later, at the Opera. They were giving
Lohengrin. She was with the same man and woman, and there was another,
younger man. She had pearls round her neck and in her hair, and she had
a cloak lined with white fur. She left before the opera was over. I did
not see her again until the following May, when I saw her once or twice
in London, driving in the Park. She was always with the same elderly
Englishwoman, but the military-looking old Frenchman had disappeared.
And then I saw her once more, a year later, in Paris, driving in the
Bois."

The Duchessa kept her eyes down. She did not speak.

Peter waited as long as flesh-and-blood could wait, looking at her.

"Well?" he pleaded, at last. "That is all. Have you nothing to say to
me?"

She raised her eyes, and for the tiniest fraction of a second they gave
themselves to his. Then she dropped them again.

"You are sure," she asked, "you are perfectly sure that when,
afterwards, you met her, and came to know her as she really is--you are
perfectly sure there was no disappointment?"

"Disappointment!" cried Peter. "She is in every way immeasurably beyond
anything that I was capable of dreaming. Oh, if you could see her, if
you could hear her speak, if you could look into her eyes--if you
could see her as others see her--you would not ask whether there was a
disappointment. She is... No; the language is not yet invented, in which
I could describe her."

The Duchessa smiled, softly, to herself.

"And you are in love with her--more or less?" she asked.

"I love her so that the bare imagination of being allowed to tell her of
my love almost makes me faint with joy. But it is like the story of the
poor squire who loved his queen. She is the greatest of great ladies.
I am nobody. She is so beautiful, so splendid, and so high above me, it
would be the maddest presumption for me to ask her for her love. To ask
for the love of my Queen! And yet--Oh, I can say no more. God sees my
heart. God knows how I love her."

"And it is on her account--because you think your love is hopeless--that
you are going away, that you are going back to England?"

"Yes," said he.

She raised her eyes again, and again they gave themselves to his. There
was something in them, there was a glow, a softness ...

"Don't go," she said.


Up at the castle--Peter had hurried down to the villa, dressed, and
returned to the castle to dine--he restored the snuff-box to Cardinal
Udeschini.

"I am trebly your debtor for it," said the Cardinal.





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