It was May in the Tuscany Hills; blue distances; a rolling horizon; a sky rimmed like a broken cup; a shallow, winding river, gleaming fitfully in the sun; a compact city in a valley, a city of red-tiled roofs, of domes and towers and palaces, of ruined ivy-grown walls and battlements; shades of Michelangelo and Dante and Machiavelli, the Borgias and the Medicis: Florence, the city of flowers.
Upon a hill, perhaps three miles to the northeast of the city, stood the ancient Etruscan town of Fiesole. The flat white road which passes through the heart of the village leads into the mountains beyond. Here one sees an occasional villa, surrounded by high walls of stone, plastered in white or pink, half hidden in roses, great, bloomy, sweet-scented roses, which of their quality and abundance rule the kingdom of flowers, as Florence once ruled the kingdom of art and learning.
The Villa Ariadne rested upon a small knoll half a mile or more north of and above Fiesole, from which the panoramic beauty of Florence was to be seen at all times, glistening in the sun, glowing in the rain, sparkling in the night. A terrace reached to the very frontal walls, which were twelve feet above the road. On the other side of the road swept down abruptly a precipitous ravine, dangerous to careless riders. A small stream dashed north, twisted, and joined the Mugnone, which in turn emptied into the drab waters of the Arno.
The villa was white and cool in the shade of dark cypresses and beeches and pink-blossomed horse-chestnuts. There were beds and gardens of flowers, and behind the villa a forest spread out and upward to the very top of the overshadowing mountain. The gates and the porter's lodge were at that end of the confines nearest Fiesole. The old gardener and his wife lived in the lodge, earning an extra lira now and then by escorting tourists through the park and exhibiting the Della Robias, the Hadrian mosaic, the fountain by Donatello, and some antique marbles, supposed to have been restored by Michelangelo. He never permitted any one to touch these glories. Periodically the agents of the government paid a visit to ascertain that none of these treasures had been sold or removed. The old gardener spoke some English.
Life ran smoothly enough at the Villa Ariadne. La Signorina, at the very last moment, surrendered to the entreaties of Kitty. She agreed not to pass herself off as the princess. So they occupied the villa pleasurably and in safety. The police, as prescribed by law, made two visits and had gone away satisfied that, however odd they might be, the temporary tenants were proper persons. Among themselves each played the role originally assigned. It was innocent fun now, and La Signorina seemed to enjoy the farce as much as any one. It was a great temptation not to prowl round the forbidden rooms, not to steal a look into the marvelous chests and sideboards, bulging as they knew with priceless glass and silver and linen and laces. But La Signorina each day inspected the seals and uttered solemn warnings.
There was only one in this strange medley of persons who was not contented with his lot, who cared not if the letter from home never came at all, and this person was Worth. To set down the trouble briefly, he was desperately in love with La Signorina; and the knowledge of how hopeless this passion was, together with the frequent efforts he had put forth to repress the ardent declaration, were making him taciturn and solitary. La Signorina never went down to Florence, not even to Fiesole; so Worth never joined his companions when they took, pleasant excursions into the city.
As one fences in the dark, instinctively, so she kept him a foil's length away. Yet she would have been glad had he spoken; she could have silenced him effectually then. It was rather nerve-racking to wait for this unwelcome declaration day by day. They had now lived in the Villa Ariadne for two weeks, a careless, thoughtless, happy-go-lucky family. The gossip might have looked askance at them; but La Signorina would not have cared and the others would not have thought.
Every afternoon at two o'clock O'Mally and the ancient gardener would get together and give each other lessons, the one in English and the other in Italian. When this was done, a small flask of Chianti was forthcoming, and the old man enjoyed himself as he hadn't done since his youth: a pipe of good tobacco and two glasses of Chianti. It was enough for any reasonable man. He never inquired where the wine came from; sufficient it was to him that it came at all. And O'Mally saw no reason for discovering its source; in fact, he admired Pietro's reticence. For, like Planchet in the immortalThree Musketeers, O'Mally had done some neat fishing through one of the cellar windows. Through the broken pane of glass he could see bin upon bin of dust-covered bottles, Burgundy, claret, Sauterne, champagne, and no end of cordials, prime vintages every one of them. And here they were, useless to any one, turning into jelly from old age. It was sad. It was more than that—it was a blessed shame. All these bottles were, unfortunately, on the far side of the cellar, out of reach, and he dared not break another window. Under this which served him lay the bin of Chianti. This was better than nothing; and the princess would never miss the few bottles he purloined. Sometimes he shared a bottle with Smith, who was equally incurious.
To-day was warm and mellow. On the stone bench by the porter's lodge, hard by the gate, sat the old Florentine and O'Mally. From some unknown source O'Mally had produced a concierge's hat and coat, a little moth-eaten, a little tarnished, but serviceable. Both were smoking red-clay pipes with long bamboo stems.
"Pietro," said O'Mally, teetering, "have you ever waited for money from home?"
Pietro puffed studiously, separating each word with all the care of a naturalist opening the wings of some new butterfly. He made a negative sign.
"Well, don't you ever wait. There's nothing to it. But I've got an idea."
Pietro expressed some surprise.
"Yes, and a good idea, too. If any tourists come to-day, I propose to show them round the place." O'Mally was quite in earnest.
Pietro's eyes flashed angrily. "No, no! Mine, all mine!"
"Oh, I'm not going to rob you. I'll give you the tips,amico. What I want is the fun of the thing.Comprendery?"
Pietro understood; that was different. If his Excellency would pay over to him the receipts, he could conduct the tourists as often as he pleased. Yes. To him it was tiresome. Most people were fools.
"Let's begin the lesson, then."
"Come sta?" said Pietro, shifting his pipe.
"That's howdy do," said O'Mally. "How is your wife?"
"That eesCome sta vostra!"
Pause.
"Che tempo fa?" said Pietro suddenly.
O'Mally frowned and jammed down the coal in his pipe. "Who—no, how!—is the weather. Who can say?Che lo sa?"
"Bene!"
Solemnly they went over the same ground. To be sure, O'Mally always failed to get the right twist to the final vowels, but he could make himself understood, and that was the main thing. It was a rare moment to him at night to strike Smith dumb by asking in Italian for a match, a cigar, or a book. Smith wondered how he did it; but when asked to join the primary class at the porter's lodge, he always excused himself by saying that he was deep in the writing of a comedy, which was true. If there was a play in one's system, the Villa Ariadne was sure to bring it out.
Having finished the lesson for that day, they shared the flask of wine.
"It is old, Pietro," said O'Mally.
"Vecchio, anticato," responded Pietro with grave satisfaction.
"Hold on, now; this is no lesson. You talk English. Now about this guide business. You will let me be guide if I turn over the profits; that is agreed?"
"Yes." Pietro wished the flask had been twice as large.
"All right; that's fixed. By the way, Pietro, did you ever see the princess?"
Pietro looked into the bowl of his pipe. "No; she not come here; never."
"Hum! I should, if I owned a place like this."
"Trouble."
"Trouble? How?"
"I not know. But trouble she come bime-by."
"Rats!" There was not a cloud in the sky, so far as O'Mally could see. And what trouble could possibly befall them?
"Sh!" said Pietro.
The porter's bell rang loudly.
"Tourists!" whispered O'Mally, sliding off the bench and buttoning up his coat. "Remember I am the guide; you get the lire."
Surely Pietro understood, but he was nervous, doubting the ability of this novice to demand the right sum for his labor.
O'Mally settled his cap on straight and went to the gates and opened them. A party of five Americans stood outside—two men, two women, and a girl of twelve or fourteen. The whole party wore that eager look, now familiar to O'Mally, of persons who intended to see everything if they eventually died for it.
"This is the Villa Ariadne?" asked one of the women. She wore eyeglasses and had a bitter expression.
"It is," said O'Mally, touching his cap.
"He speaks English!" cried the woman, turning joyfully to the others. "We wish to see the villa and the park."
"The villa is now occupied, signora," replied O'Mally; "but you are permitted to see the park and gardens."
"How much?" asked one of the men.
"Cinquanty," said O'Mally; then correcting himself, "for each person."
"Ten cents? Two lire fifty? Why, this is downright extortion!" declared the woman with the eyeglasses. She was vehement, too.
O'Mally gave vent to a perfect Italian shrug, and put a hand out suggestively toward the gates.
"Oh, come, dear," protested one of the men wearily; "you've dragged us up here from Fiesole and I'm not going back without seeing what's to be seen."
"That's like you men; always willing to be robbed rather than stand upon your rights. But I vow that you weak men will ruin travel by giving in all the time."
The man at whom this brief jeremiad was hurled painfully counted out two lire fifty, which was immediately transferred to the palm of the guide, who ushered the wayfarers in.
Solemnly Pietro watched them pass, wondering what the terms were. O'Mally led the party to the fountain.
"What's this?" asked the woman.
"This," O'Mally began, with a careless wave of the hand, "is the famed fountain by Donatello. It was originally owned by Catherine d'Medissy. The Borgias stole it from her, and Italy and France nearly came to war over it."
"The Borgias?" doubtfully. "Were these two families contemporaneous?"
"They were," scornfully. "These Borgias were not the head of the family, however. Finally it fell into the hands of the first Prince d' Monty Bianchy, and it has stood where you see it for three hundred years. It is considered the finest specimen of its kind. The Italian government has offered fabulous sums for it."
"I thought the government could force the sale of these things?"
"There has been some litigation over this property, consequently the government can do nothing till the courts have settled the matter," recited O'Mally glibly.
"Oh."
The quintet consulted their guide-books, but before they had located the paragraph referring to this work, O'Mally was cunningly leading them on to the Della Robbias which hung in the ruined pavilion. With a grand yet familiar air he declaimed over the marvelous beauties of this peculiar clay with an eloquence which was little short of masterful. He passed on to the antique marbles, touching them lightly and explaining how this one was Nero's, that one Caligula's, that one Tiberius'. He lied so easily and gracefully that, wherever it rested, the tomb of Ananias must have rocked. And whenever his victims tried to compare his statements with those in the guide-books, he was extolling some other treasure. They finally put the guide-books under their arms and trusted in the kindness of Providence.
"Do you know," said the woman who had not yet spoken, "you speak English remarkably well? There is an accent I do not quite understand."
O'Mally shivered for a moment. Was she going to spring Dago on him? "I am Italian," he said easily. "I was born, however, in County Clare. My father and mother were immigrants to Ireland." His face was as solemn as an owl's.
"That explains it."
O'Mally took a new lease of life. "Now let me show you the Hadrian mosaic, from the Villa Hadrian in Tivoli, out of Rome." He swept back the sand. "Is it not magnificent?"
"Looks like a linoleum pattern," was the comment of one of the men.
"You are not far from right," said O'Mally. "It was from this very mosaic that the American linoleums were originally designed."
"Indeed!" said the woman with the glasses.
"Yes, Signora."
"Ma," whispered the girl, "ask him for one of those buttons."
The stage-whisper was overheard by O'Mally. "These buttons," he explained, "cost a lira each; but if the signorina really wishes one—" And thus another lira swelled the profits of the day. O'Mally wondered if he ought not to keep this one lira since it was off his own coat and not Pietro's.
On the balcony of the villa appeared two women. The woman with the glasses at once discovered them.
"Who is that handsome woman?" she demanded.
O'Mally paled slightly. "That," touching his cap respectfully, "is her Highness, La Principessy d' Monty Bianchy, the owner of the Villa Ariadne." Ha! He had them here.
The tourists stared at the balcony. A real live princess! They no longer regretted the two lire fifty. This was something worth while.
"We did not know that the princess lived here."
"It is but a temporary visit. She is here incognito. You must not repeat what I have told you," was O'Mally's added warning.
On the balcony the two women were talking quietly.
"What in the world is that man O'Mally up to now?" said La Signorina curiously.
"Can't you see?" replied Kitty. "He is acting as guide in Pietro's place."
"Merciful heavens!" La Signorina retired, stifling her laughter.
At the gates O'Mally received hispourboireof twenty centesimi, saw his charge outside, closed and locked the gates, and returned to Pietro, who was in a greatly agitated state of mind.
"Quando!" he cried.
O'Mally handed him the exact amount, minus the lira for the button.
"Santa Maria!All thees? How? No more I take dem; you!"
O'Mally sat down on the bench and laughed. It was as good a part as he had ever had.
Early evening. La Signorina leaned over the terrace wall, her hand idly trailing over the soft cool roses. Afar down the valley shimmered the lights of Florence. There were no outlines; no towers, no domes, no roofs were visible; nothing but the dim haze upon which the lights serenely floated. It might have been a harbor in the peace of night. To the south, crowning the hills with a faint halo, the moon, yet hidden, was rising across the heavens. Stretched out on either hand, white and shadowy, lay the great road. She was dreaming. Presently upon the silence came the echo of galloping horses. She listened. The sound came from the north. It died away, only to return again sharply, and this time without echo. Two horsemen came cantering toward the Villa Ariadne. They drew down to a walk, and she watched them carelessly. It was not long before they passed under her. She heard their voices.
"Jack, this has been the trip of my life. Verona, Padua, Bologna, and now Florence! This is life; nothing like it."
"I am glad, Dan. It has been enjoyable. I only hope our luggage will be at the hotel for us. Twelve days in riding-breeches are quite enough for a single stretch."
La Signorina's hand closed convulsively over a rose, and crushed it. The vine, as she did so, gave forth a rustling sound. The men turned and glanced up. They saw a woman dimly. That was all.
"A last canter to Fiesole!"
"Off she goes!"
The two went clattering down the road.
La Signorina released the imprisoned rose, and, unmindful of the prick of the thorn, walked slowly back to the villa. It was fatality that this man should again cross her path.
"What's the matter, Jack? Whenever you smoke, your cigar goes out; you read a newspaper by staring over the top of it; you bump into people on the streets, when there is plenty of room for you to pass; you leave your watch under the pillow and have to hike back for it; you forget, you are absent-minded. Now, what's the matter?"
"I don't know, Dan," said Hillard, relighting his cigar.
"Or you won't tell."
"Perhaps that's more like it."
"It's that woman, though you will not acknowledge it. By George, I'd like to meet her face to face; I'd give her a piece of my mind."
"Or a piece of your heart!"
"Bah!" cried Merrihew, flipping his cigar-ash to the walk below, careless whether it struck any of the leisurely-going pedestrians or not.
"You have not seen her face, Dan; I have."
"Oh, she may be a queen and all that; but she has an evil influence over all the people she meets. Here's Kitty, following her round, and the Lord knows in what kind of trouble. She has hooked you, and presently you'll be leaving me to get back home the best way I can."
"It is quite possible, my boy." And Hillard did not smile.
"Come, Jack, have you really got it? If you have, why, we'll pack up and leave by the next steamer. I don't care to wander about Italy with a sick man on my hands."
"Don't be hard on me, Dan," pleaded Hillard, smiling now. "Think of all the Kitty Killigrews you've poured into my uncomplaining ears!"
"I got over it each time." But Merrihew felt a warmth in his cheeks.
"Happy man! And, once you see the face of this adventuress, as you call her, Kitty Killigrew will pass with all the other lasses."
"I?" indignantly. "Rot! She won't hold a candle to Kitty."
"No, not a candle, but the most powerful light known to the human eye—perfect beauty." Hillard sighed unconsciously.
"There you go again!" laughed Merrihew. "You tack that sigh to everything you say; and that's what I've been complaining about."
Hillard was human; he might be deeply in love, but this had not destroyed his healthy sense of humor. So he laughed at himself.
Then they mused silently for a while. On either side, from their window-balcony, the lights of Lungarno spread out in a brilliant half-circle, repeating themselves, after the fashion of women, in the mirror of the Arno. On the hill across the river the statue of David was visible above the Piazza Michelangelo.
"You never told me what she was like," said Merrihew finally.
"Haven't I? Perhaps you never asked. We went through the Pitti Palace to-day. I couldn't drag you from Raphael'sMadonna of the Chair. She is as beautiful as that."
"Imagination is a wonderful thing," was Merrihew's solitary comment.
"Mine has not been unduly worked in this instance," Hillard declared with emphasis. "Beauty in women has always been to me something in the abstract, but it is so no longer. There is one thing which I wish to impress upon you, Dan. She is not an adventuress. She has made no effort to trap me. On the contrary, she has done all she could to keep out of my way."
"It's a curious business; the dinner, the mask, the veil, the mystery. I tell you frankly, Jack, something's wrong, and we shall both live to find it out."
"But what? Heaven on earth, what? Haven't I tried to figure it out till my brain aches? I haven't gone forward a single inch. On the steps of the Formosa I told her that I loved her. There, you have it! I was in doubt till I looked at her face, and then I knew that I had met the one woman, and that there was a barrier between us that was not self-imposed. Not even friendship, Dan; not even an ordinary thing like that. I have spoken to this woman on only two occasions, and only once have I seen her face. I am not a disciple of the theory of love at first sight. I never shall be. An educated, rational man must have something besides physical beauty; there must be wit, intellect, accomplishments. Usually we recognize the beauty first, and then the other attributes, one by one, as the acquaintance ripens. With me the things have been switched round. The accomplishments came first; I became fascinated by a voice and a mind. But when I saw her face.... Oh, well! Mrs. Sandford warned me against her; the woman herself has warned me; the primal instinct of self-preservation has warned me; yet, here I am! I had not intended to bother you, Dan."
"It doesn't bother me, it worries me. If I have hurt you with any of my careless jests, forgive me." Merrihew now realized that his friend was in a bad way. Still, there was a hidden gladness in his heart that Hillard, always railing at his (Merrihew's) affairs, was in the same boat now, and rudderless at that.
"You haven't hurt me, Dan. As a matter of fact, your gibes have been a tonic. They have made me face the fact that I was on the highroad to imbecility."
"What shall you do?"
"Nothing. When we have seen Florence we'll drop down to Perugia and Rome, then up to the Italian lakes; after that, home, if you say. The bass season will be on then, and we've had some good sport on Lake Ontario."
"Bass!" Merrihew went through the pleasant foolery of casting a line, of drawing the bait, of lifting the hook, and of reeling in. "Four pounds, Jack. He fit hard, as old Joe used to say. Remember?"
And so naturally they fell to recounting the splendid catches of the gamiest fish in water. When the interest in this waned, Hillard looked at his watch.
"Only nine," he said. "Let's go over to Gambrinus' and hear the music."
"And drink a boot of beer. Better than moping here."
The Hotel Italie was but a few blocks from the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. They found theHallecrowded, noisy and interesting. The music was good, as it always is in Italy, and the beer had the true German flavor, Münchener. Handsome uniforms brightened the scene; and there was flirting and laughter, in which Merrihew found opportunity to join.
"If Kitty should see you!"
"Well, what if she did? When I'm married to her it will be mutually understood that so long as I do not speak to them I may look at pretty women."
"You seem very sure of marrying her."
"It's only a matter of time. The man who hangs on wins finally." Merrihew had lost none of his confidence.
"I see; they marry you to get rid of you," said Hillard. "Yes, the man who hangs on finally wins, in love or war or fortune. But I haven't anything to hang on to."
"Who knows?" said Merrihew, wagging his head.
From theHallethey went down-stairs to the billiard-room. The pockets in the table bothered Merrihew; he did not care particularly for the English game; and the American table was occupied by a quartet of young Americans who were drinking champagne like Pittsburg millionaires. The ventilation was so bad that the two friends were forced to give up the game. Under the arcade they found a small table. It was cool and delightful here, and there was a second boot of Munich beer.
Officers passed to and fro, in pairs or with women. Presently two officers, one in the resplendent uniform of a colonel, went past. Merrihew touched Hillard with his foot excitedly. Hillard nodded, but his pulse was tuned to a quicker stroke.
"I hope he doesn't see us," he said, tipping his panama over his eyes.
Merrihew curled the ends of his juvenile mustache and scowled fiercely.
"This is his post evidently," he said. "What a smacking uniform! He must have had a long furlough, to be wandering over Europe and America. If I get a chance I'm going to ask a waiter who he is."
"So long as he doesn't observe us," said Hillard, "I have no interest in his affairs." Had he none? he wondered. "A lady? Grace of Mary, that is droll!" The muscles in his jaws hardened.
"But you twisted his cuffs for him that night in Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo!" reminiscently. "Eighteen hundred dollars, my boy, and a good fourteen still in my inside pocket. Wasn't I lucky? But I'll never forgive Kitty for running away from us. That's got to be explained fully some day."
"He is coming this way again, Dan," Hillard observed quietly.
"Ah!"
They waited. Hillard changed his mind; he pushed back his hat and held up his chin. If the man with the scar saw him and spoke he would reply. The colonel, glancing at the pair casually, halted. At first he was not certain, but as he met the steady eyes of Hillard he no longer doubted. It was true. He turned and spoke to his brother officer. Merrihew's throat grew full, but not from fear. The man with the scar stepped over to the table and leaned with his hands upon it. There was a savage humor in his dark eyes.
"Did I not tell you that we should meet again?" he said to Hillard. "This is a pleasant moment." He stood back again.
"Are you speaking to me?" asked Hillard, not the least perturbed. He had not stirred in his chair, though every muscle in his body was alert and ready at a moment's call.
"Certainly I am speaking to you. You understand Italian sufficiently well. This is the fellow," speaking to his companion, at the same time drawing off his gloves, "this is the fellow I spoke to you about."
"I object to the word fellow," said Hillard, smiling grimly. "Besides, I do not know you."
"Ah, discreet!" sneered the man with the scar.
"Be careful, Enrico," warned the brother officer. "There are many about, and a scene is not wise. Ask the American to take a walk. You could arrange with more ease."
"Thank you," said Hillard, "but I am perfectly comfortable where I am. If this gentleman has anything to say, he must say it here and now."
"Colonel!" cried the subaltern, as his senior smoothed the gloves and placed them carefully in his left hand, closing his fingers over them.
"Oh, I am calm. But I have been dreaming of this moment. Now!" The colonel readdressed Hillard. "You meddled with an affair that night in which you had no concern," he began truculently.
"Are you quite sure?"
Merrihew eyed Hillard nervously. He did not understand the words, worse luck, but the tone conveyed volumes. It was crisp and angry. Hillard possessed a temper which was backed by considerable strength, and only on rare occasions did this temper slip from his control. Thoroughly angry, Hillard was not a happy man to antagonize.
"Yes, I am sure. And yet, as I think it over, as I recollect the woman," went on the colonel, with a smile which was evil and insinuating.... "Well, I shall not question you. The main thing is, you annoyed me. In Monte Carlo I was practically alone. Here the scene is different; it is Florence. Doubtless you will understand." He struck out with the gloves.
But they never touched Hillard's face. His hand, expectant of this very movement, caught the assailant's wrist, and, with a quick jerk, brought him half-way across the table. He bore down on the wrist so fiercely that the Italian cried faintly. Hillard, with his face but a span from the other's, spoke tensely, but in an undertone.
"Listen carefully to what I have to say, signore. I understand perfectly, but I shall fight no duel. It is an obsolete fashion, and proves nothing but mechanical skill. I do not know what kind of blackguard you are, but blackguard I know you to be. If you ever address me again I promise on the word of a gentleman to give you a whipping which will have a more lasting effect upon your future actions than a dozen sermons. If that will not serve, I shall appeal to the police."
"Poltroon!"
"As often as you please!" Hillard flung him off roughly.
A small but interested crowd had gathered by now, and Merrihew saw visions of Italian jails. Through the crowd the ever-presentcarabinierishouldered their way.
"It is nothing," said the colonel, motioning them to stand back, which they did with a sign of respect. This sign gave Hillard some food for thought. His antagonist was evidently a personage of some importance.
"Figure of an American pig!"
Hillard laughed. "I might have broken your wrist, but did not. You are not grateful."
Thecarabinierimoved forward again.
"The affair is over," said Hillard amiably. "This officer has mistaken me for some one he knows."
The scar was livid on the Italian's cheek. He stood undecided for a space. His companion laid a restraining hand on his arm. He nodded, and the two made off. What might in former days have been a tragedy was nothing more than a farce. But it spoiled the night for Merrihew, and he was for going back to the hotel. Hillard agreed.
"At first I wanted you to give him a good stiff punch," said Merrihew, "but I am glad you didn't."
"We should have slept in the lockup over night if I had. Thecarabinieriwould not have understood my excuses. If our friend is left-handed, he'll be inconvenienced for a day or two. I put some force into that grip. You see, Dan, the Italian still fights his duels. Dueling is not extinct in the army here. An officer who refuses to accept a challenge for a good or bad cause is practically hounded out of the service. It would have been a fine joke if I had been fool enough to accept his challenge. He would have put daylight through me at the first stroke."
"I don't know about that," replied Merrihew loyally. "You are the crack fencer in New York."
"But New York isn't Florence, my boy. I'll show you some fencing to-morrow. If my old fencing master, Foresti Paoli, is yet in Florence, I'll have him arrange some matches. New York affairs will look tame to you then."
"But what has he to do with your vanishing lady?"
"I should like to know."
"I wish I had thought to ask a waiter who the duffer is. Did you notice how respectful thecarabinieriwere?"
"It set me thinking. Oh, I've a premonition that we haven't seen the last of this distinguished gentleman. Perhaps we'll find out who he is sooner than we care to."
"When the time comes," said Merrihew with a laugh, "be sure you soak it to him, and an extra one for me."
Early on the morrow they rode out to the Cascine, formerly a dairy-farm, but now a splendid park. The bridle-paths are the finest in the world, not excepting those in the Bois de Bologne in Paris. They are not so long, perhaps, but they are infinitely more beautiful. Take, for instance, the long path under a tunnel of enormous trees, a bridle-path where ten men may ride abreast with room to spare, and nearly half a mile in length; there is nothing like it.
"I tell you what it is, Jack; Italy may put a tax on salt and sea-water, but always gives something in return; she puts up a picture-gallery or a museum, or a park like this. What do we get back in America?Niente!"
For two hours they romped through the park, running races, hurdling, and playing rough pranks upon each other, such as only expert riders dare attempt. They were both hardened by the long ride down to Florence, a pair of animals as healthy as their mounts. They had determined not to sell the horses till the last moment. A riding-master in the Via Lorenzo ii Magnifico agreed to board them against the time of sale.
In the three days in Florence they had been through the galleries and the museums; and Merrihew, to his great delight, began to find that he could tell a Botticelli from a Lippi at first glance. He was beginning to understand why people raved over this style or that. There was something so gentle, so peaceful in a Botticelli that he really preferred it to some of the famed colorists, always excepting Veronese, to whom he had given his first admiration.
For luncheon this day Hillard took him to Paoli's in the Via dei Tavolini—the way of the little tables. Here Merrihew saw a tavern such as he had often conjured up while reading his Dumas; sausages and hams and bacons and garlic and cheeses and dried vegetables hanging from the ceiling, abrupt passages, rough tables and common chairs and strange dishes; oil, oil, oil, even on the top of his coffee-cup, and magnums of red and white Chianti. Hillard informed him that this was the most famous Bohemian place in the city, the rendezvous of artists, sculptors, writers, physicians, and civil authorities. The military seldom patronized it, because it was not showy enough. Merrihew enjoyed the scene, with its jabber-jabber and its clatter-clatter. And he was still hungry when he left, but he would not admit it to Hillard, who adapted himself to the over-abundance of oil with all the zest of an expatriated Tuscan.
At three o'clock they went to the fencing academy of Foresti Paoli, near the post-office. Foresti was a fine example of the military Italian of former days. He was past sixty, but was as agile as any of his celebrated pupils. As Hillard had written him the night before, he was expected. He had been a pupil of Foresti's, and the veteran was glad to see him. Merrihew saw some interesting bouts, and at length Foresti prevailed upon Hillard to don the mask against an old pupil, a physician who had formerly been amateur champion of Italy. Hillard, having been in the saddle and the open air for two weeks, was in prime condition; and he gave the ex-champion a pretty handful. But constant practice told in the end, and Hillard was beaten. It was fine sport to Merrihew; the quick pad-pad of the feet on the mat, the short triumphant cries as the foil bent almost double, and the flash of the whites of their eyes behind the mask. Merrihew knew that he should love Florence all the rest of his days.
They were entering the Via Tornabuoni, toward the Havana cigar-store, when a young woman came out of the little millinery shop a few doors from the tobacconist's. Immediately Hillard stepped to one side of her and Merrihew to the other.
"You can not run away this time, Kitty Killigrew!" cried Merrihew joyously.
Kitty closed her eyes for a second, and the neat little bandbox slipped to the sidewalk.
In the Villa Ariadne the wonderful fountain by Donatello was encircled by a deep basin in which many generations of goldfish swam about. Only the old gardener knew the secret of how these fish lived through the chill Florentine winters. Yet, every spring, about the time when the tourists began to prowl round, the little goldfish were to be seen again, ready for bread-crumbs and bugs of suicidal tendencies. Forming a kind of triangle about the basin were three ancient marble benches, such as the amiable old Roman senators were wont to lounge upon during the heat of the afternoon, or such as Catullus reclined upon while reading his latest lyric to his latest affinity. At any rate, they were very old, earth-stained and time-stained and full of unutterable history, and with the eternal cold touch of stone which never wholly warms even under warmest sun. The kind of bench which Alma-Tadema usually fills with diaphanous maidens.
At this particular time a maiden, not at all diaphanous, but mentally and physically material, sat on one of these benches, her arms thrown out on either side of the crumbling back, her chin lowered, and her eyes thoughtfully directed toward the little circle of disturbed water where the goldfish were urging for the next crumb. Now, as Phoebus was somewhere near four in the afternoon, he was growing ruddy with effort in the final spurt for the western horizon. So the marbles and the fountain and the water and the maiden all melted into a harmonious golden tone.
Merrihew was not so poetical as to permit this picture to go on indefinitely; so he stole up from behind with all the care of a practised hunter till he stood directly behind the maiden. She still dreamed. Then he put his hands over her eyes. She struggled for a brief moment, then desisted.
"It is no puzzle at all," she declared. "I can smell horse, horse, and again horse. Mr. Merrihew—"
"Yes, I know all about it. I should have fetched along a sachet-powder. I never remember anything but one thing, Kitty, and that's you." He came round and sat down beside her. "There's no doubt that I reek of the animal. But the real question is," bluntly, "how much longer are you going to keep me dangling on the string? I've been coming up here for ten days, now, every afternoon."
"Ten days," Kitty murmured. She was more than pretty to-day, and there was malice aforethought in all the little ribbons and trinkets and furbelows. She had dressed expressly for this moment, but Merrihew was not going to be told so. "Ten days," she repeated; and mentally she recounted the pleasant little journeys into the hills and the cherry-pickings.
"And dangling, dangling. I've been hanging in mid-air for nearly a year now. When are you going to put me out of my misery?" His tone was chiding and moody.
"But am I to be blamed if, after having refused twice to marry you, you still persist?" Kitty assumed a judicial air.
"All you have to do," sadly, "is to tell me to clear out."
"That's just it," cried Kitty wrathfully. "If I tell you to go it will be for good; and I don't want you to go that way. I like you; you are cheerful and amusing, and I find pleasure in your company. But every day in the year, breakfast and dinner!" She appealed to the god in the fountain. What unreasonable beings men were!
"But you haven't refused me this time."
"Because I wish to make it as easy as possible for you." Which of the two meanings she offered him was lost upon Merrihew; he saw but one, nor the covert glance, roguish and mischievous withal. "Come, let us be sensible for ten minutes."
Merrihew laid his watch on the bench beside him. Kitty dimpled.
"Don't you love it in Florence?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," scraping the gravel with his crop. "Hillard says I'm finishing my bally education at a canter. I can tell a saint from a gentleman in a night-gown, a halo from a barrel-hoop, and I can drink Chianti without making a face."
Kitty laughed rollickingly. For beneath her furbelows and ribbons and trinkets she was inordinately happy and light of heart. Her letter had come; she was only waiting for the day of sailing; and she was to take back with her the memory of the rarest adventure which ever befell a person, always excepting those of the peripatetic sailor from Bagdad.
"I want to go home," said Merrihew, when her laughter died away in a soft mutter.
"What! leave this beautiful world for the sordid one yonder?"
"Sordid it may be, but it's home. I can speak to and understand every man I meet on the streets there; there are the theaters and the club and the hunting and fishing and all that. Here it's nothing but pictures and concierges and lying cabbies. If I could collect all my friends and plant 'em over here, why, I could stand it. But I'm lonesome. Did you ever try to spread frozen butter on hot biscuits? Well, that's the way I feel."
This metaphor brought tears of merriment to Kitty's eyes. She would have laughed at anything this day.
"Daniel, you are hopeless."
"I admit it."
"How beautiful the cypresses are in the sunshine!" she exclaimed, standing.
He reached out and caught her hand, gently pulling her down to the bench.
"The ten minutes are up," he said.
"Oh, I said let us be sensible for ten minutes," she demurred.
"I've been telling you the truth; that's sensible enough. Kitty, will you marry me?"
"Could you take care of me?"
"I have these two hands. I'll work."
"That would be terrible! Oh, if you were only rich!"
"You don't mean that, Kitty."
"No," relenting, "I don't. But you bother me."
"All right. This will be the last time. Will you marry me? I will do all a man can to make you happy. I love you with all my heart. I know. You're afraid; you've an idea that I am fickle. But not this time, Kitty, not this time. Will you?"
"I can not give up the stage." She knew very well that she could, but she had an idea.
"I don't ask even that. I'll travel with you and make myself useful."
"You would soon tire of that." But Kitty eyed him with a kindly look. Hewasgood to look at. Kitty was like the timid bather; she knew that she was going to take the plunge, but she must put one foot into the water, withdraw it, shudder, and try it again.
"Tire?" said Merrihew. "If I did I shouldn't let you know it. I'm a homeless beggar, anyhow; I've always been living in boarding-houses and clubs and hotels; it won't matter so long as you are with me."
Kitty threw a crust to the goldfish and watched them swirl about it greedily. Merrihew had no eyes but for her. Impulsively he held out his hand. Kitty looked at it with thought; this would be the final plunge. Then, without further hesitance, indifferent to the future or the past, conscious only of the vast happiness of the present, Kitty laid her hand in his. He would have drawn her into his arms had not they both seen O'Mally pushing through the box-hedge, followed by some belated tourists. Merrihew swore softly and Kitty laughed.
On the terrace the tea-table dazzled the eye with its spotless linen, its blue Canton, and its bundle of pink roses. Hillard extended his cup for a second filling, vaguely wondering where Merrihew was. They had threshed continental politics, engineering, art and the relative crafts, precious stones, astronomy and the applied sciences, music, horses, and geology, with long pauses in between. Both knew instinctively that this learned discourse was but a makeshift, a circuitous route past danger-points. "Have you ever heard of telling fortunes in tea-grounds?" he asked.
"Yes. It is a pleasant fallacy, and nothing ever comes true." And La Signorina vaguely wondered where Kitty was. She needed Kitty at this moment, she who had never needed anybody.
The tramp of feet beyond the wall diverted them for a space. A troop of marksmen from the range were returning cityward. They were dirty and tired, yet none seemed discontented with his lot. They passed in a haze of dust.
The man and woman resumed their chairs, and Hillard bent his head over the cup and stared at the circling tea-grounds in the bottom. The movement gave her the opportunity she desired: to look freely and without let at his shapely head. Day after day, serene and cloudless Florentine days, this same scene or its like had been enacted. It took all her verbal skill to play this game safely; a hundred times she saw something in his eyes that warned her and armed her. When he passed that evening on horseback she knew that these things were to be. She had two battles where he had only one; for she had herself to war against. Each night after he had gone she fought with innocent desire; argument after argument she offered in defense. But these were all useless; she must send him away. And yet, when he came, as she knew he would, she offered him tea! And in rebellion she asked, Why not? What harm, what evil? Was it absolutely necessary that she should let all pleasure pass, thrust it aside? The suffering she had known, would not that be sufficient penance for this little sin? But on his side, was this being fair to him? This man loved her, and she knew it. Up to this time he had met her but twice, and yet he loved her, incredible as it seemed. And though he never spoke of this love with his lips, he was always speaking it with his eyes; and she was always looking into his eyes.
She never looked into her own heart; wisely she never gave rein to self-analysis; she dared not. And so she drifted on, as in some sunny dream of remote end.
How inexplicable were the currents and cross-currents of life! She had met a thousand men, handsomer, more brilliant; they had not awakened more than normal interest. And yet this man, quiet, humorous, ordinarily good-looking, aroused in her heart discord and penetrated the barriers to the guarded sentiment. Why? Always this query. Perhaps, after all, it was simply the initial romance which made the impression so lasting. Ah, well; to-morrow or the next day the end would come; so it did not matter.
There was one bit of light in this labyrinth: Worth had spoken; that disagreeable incident was closed. And this present dream, upon what reef would it carry her? She shrugged. This action brought Hillard back to earth, for he, too, had been dreaming. He raised his head.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Shrug."
"Did I shrug? I did so unconsciously. Perhaps I was thinking of O'Mally and his flock of tourists."
"Doesn't it annoy you?"
"Not in the least. It has been a fine comedy. I believe he is the most accomplished prevaricator I ever met. He remembers the lie of yesterday and keeps adding to it. I don't see how he manages to do it. He is better than Pietro. Pietro used to bring them into the house." She gathered up a handful of the roses and pressed them against her face, breathing deeply.
Hillard trembled. She was so beautiful; the glow of the roses on her cheeks and throat, the sun in her hair, and the shadows in her eyes. To smother the rush of words which were gathering at his lips, he raised his cup and drank. Ten days! It was something. But the battle was wearing; the ceaseless struggle not to speak from his full heart was weakening him. Yet he knew that to speak was to banish the dream, himself to be banished with it.
"If I were a poet, which I am not—" He paused irresolutely.
"You would extemporize on the beauty of the perspective," she supplemented. "How the Duomo shines! And the towers, and the Arno—"
"I was thinking of your hair," he interrupted. "I have never seen anything quite like it. It isn't a wig, is it?" jestingly.
"No, it is my own," with an answering smile.
"Ah, that night! It is true, as you said; it is impossible to forget the charm of it."
She had recourse to the roses again. Dangerous ground.
"You have not told me the real reason why you sang under my window that night."
"Have I not? Well, then, there can be no harm in telling you that. I had just signed the contract to sing with the American Comic Opera Company in Europe. I saw the world at my feet, for it would be false modesty to deny that I have a voice. More disillusions! The world isnotat my feet," lightly.
"But I am," he replied quietly.
She passed this declaration. "I might have more successfully applied to the grand opera in New York; but my ambition was to sing here first."
"But in comic opera?"
"Another blunder, common of its kind to me. Have I not told you that I am always making missteps such as have no retracing?"
"Will you answer a single question?"
She stroked the roses.
"Will you?"
"I can make no promise. Rather ask the question. If I see the wisdom of answering it, I shall do so."
"Is there another man?" He did not look at her but rather at her fingers embedded in the roses. Silence, which grew and lengthened.
"What do you mean?" she asked evenly, when she realized that the silence was becoming too long.
"In Venice you told me that there was a barrier. I ask now if this barrier be a man."
"Yes."
A wrinkle of pain passed over his heart. "If you love him—"
"Love him? No, no!... I had hoped you would not speak like this; I relied upon your honor."
"Is it dishonorable for me to love you?"
"No, but it is for me—to permit you to say so!"
He could hear the birds twittering in the boughs of the oak. A lizard paused on the damp stone near-by. A bee hovered over the roses, twirled a leaf impatiently, and buzzed its flight over the old wall. He was conscious of recognizing these sounds and these objects, but with the consciousness of a man suddenly put down in an unknown country, in an unknown age, far away from all familiar things.
"I deplore the misfortune which crossed your path and mine again," she went on relentlessly, as much to herself as to him. "But I am something of a fatalist. We can not avoid what is to be."
He was pale, but not paler than she.
"I offer you nothing, Mr. Hillard, nothing; no promise, no hope, nothing. A few days longer, and we shall separate finally."
She was about to rise and ask him to excuse her and retire, when Merrihew and Kitty came into view. There was nothing now to do but wait. She sought ease from the tenseness of the moment in sorting the roses. Hillard stirred the cold dregs in his tea-cup. Cold dregs, indeed! The light of the world was gone out.
Merrihew's face was as broad and shining as the harvest moon. He came swinging down the path, Kitty's arm locked in his. And Kitty's face was rosy. Upon reaching the table Merrihew imitated the bow of an old-time courtier.
"It is all over," he said, swallowing. "Kitty has promised to marry me as soon as we land in America. I'm a lucky beggar!"
"Yes, you are," said Hillard. "Congratulations to both of you."
La Signorina took hold of Kitty's hands. This was a much-needed diversion.
"Is it true, Kitty?"
"Yes, ma'am," Kitty answered, with a stage courtesy. "I have promised to marry him, for there seemed no other way of getting rid of him."
Hillard forced a smile. "It's a shame to change such a pretty name as yours, Miss Killigrew."
"I realize that," replied Kitty with affected sadness.
"Go to!" laughed the happy groom-elect. "Merrihew and Killigrew; there's not enough difference to matter. And this very night I shall cable to America."
"Cable to America?" echoed a tri-chorus.
"Yes; to have a parson in the custom-shed when we land. I know Kitty, and I am not going to take any chances."
This caused real laughter. La Signorina relighted the tea-lamp, and presently they were all talking together, jesting and offering suggestions. No matter how great the ache in the heart may be, there is always some temporary surcease. Hillard was a man.
They laughed quietly as they saw O'Mally gravely conducting his charge to the gates. He returned with Smith. Both were solemn-visaged.
"Well, noble concierge?" inquired La Signorina. "Why, you look as if you were the bearer of ill-tidings."
"Perhaps I am," said O'Mally. He tossed his cap on the stones and sat down with Smith on the iron bench. "No, no tea, thank you. What I need is a glass, a whole glass, of good Irish whisky. This thing has been on my mind since noon, but I concluded to wait rather than spoil the whole day. I should have known nothing about it if it hadn't been for old Pietro."
"What has happened?" asked Merrihew.
"Enough," said O'Mally laconically. He directed his next words to La Signorina. "You are sure of this friend of yours, the princess?"
"Certainly," answered La Signorina, her astonishment increasing.
"She gave you the right authority?"
"Absolutely," more and more astonished.
"Agreed that we could remain here as long as we pleased?"
"Yes, yes!" impatiently.
"Well, before I swing the thunder, let me tell you something," said O'Mally. "I was in Florence a few days ago. I made some inquiries."
"About my friend the princess?"
"Yes. It was impertinent, I know. I interviewed four or five hotel concierges. Only one of them ever heard of the name; and then it was an old prince, not a woman. This concierge directed me to another, but as he spoke only Italian, we could not make things fit. But when I mentioned the princess' name, he shrugged and laughed, as if something highly amusing had hit him."
"Go on, Mr. O'Mally; go on. This is interesting. Your doubt is not at all complimentary to me. The police have recognized my authority."
"And that's what feazes me. But the main thing is this: your princess has played us all rather a shabby trick. In the letter you read to us in Venice she said that she had never visited this villa."
"Only in her youth," replied La Signorina, her brows drawing together in a frown. "But I know her so well; she is not in the habit of making misstatements. To the point at once. What has happened to bring about all this pother?"
"It is simply this: our little jig is up," responded O'Mally. "Read these and see for yourself." He gave to her a broad white envelope and a clipping fromLa Nazioneof the day before.