Signor Vanni, full of importance and inwardly delighted at the accident which had placed the hero of the hour in his hands, gathered up his portfolio and descended nimbly on to the platform with a suave:
"If Monsieur le Marquis will deign to wait?"
He was off, crying lustily for the station-master.
McTaggart drew out his watch. It was nearly four o'clock. He felt hungry but his weariness had passed, killed by his present sense of excitement. The air, crisp and sweet, blew in his face like frozen honey, the night was still; and through the dark he could just make out the sheltering walls rising black and sheer with a crenellated edge against the indigo of the sky, where a single luminous star was poised.
The lawyer returned with a bowing superintendent, two bowing servants and a bowing porter.
McTaggart's cap was busy again as the little group fussed about him.
He found himself at last in a vast landau, the lawyer facing him, two men on the box and a third individual mounted behind on a narrow platform between the wheels. "Like the Lord Mayor!" he said to himself and checked a wild desire to laugh.
They rumbled on through deserted streets, dark and narrow, mounted a hill, turned to the left, past a Hotel where lights were gleaming, and on again.
"The Signora Marchesa," said the lawyer, "makes her compliments and is looking forward to receive Monsieur le Marquis in the morning. The hour being so late, he would wish to sleep and, doubtless, prefers this arrangement. She asked Giuseppe to deliver the message."
"Very thoughtful of my aunt." McTaggart felt relieved at the news.
They twisted down between high houses and then there came a sudden halt. Lanterns flashed out. Peering eagerly, he saw a massive doorway before him, flanked by windows narrow and deep with spiked bars, rusty from age. With a hollow echo they drove through the arch and emerged into an inner court, vast and full of shadows thrown by the high walls on every side.
In the centre a fountain towered up: dolphins massed with icicles and a deep basin covered with frost supported by crouching griffins.
The carriage encircled it and stopped. The door was opened. McTaggart descended.
He found himself gazing at a marble staircase, silvery-white, with shallow steps that curved round like a parchment scroll, fairy-like, against the night.
He passed up like a man in a dream. It led to a long gallery on the first floor, dim and high, open on one side to the air and laced with slender twisted columns. Where these supported the domed roof arches formed and the carved points bit into the outer dark like sharp teeth nibbling the heart of the sky.
A bell tolled with a sweet, low note and the entrance doors were flung wide. With a sudden sense of warmth and light he passed through into the palace.
Walls hung with tapestry, a painted ceiling, myriad candles glimmering in crystal lustres...
For a second McTaggart stood there, dazed. He felt an odd lump rise in his throat. Then Signor Vanni touched his arm with a whispered word of apology.
"If Monsieur le Marquis would speak to Beppo? Beppo was there in his mother's time."
"Mia madre..." The long-forgotten words rose from the mirage of the past. He looked down into a wrinkled face: an old, old man in shabby livery. The next moment his hand went out and was held in the shaky clasp of age.
"Mother of all the Saints!Herface!" Tears were in the dim old eyes. "Ahi!—she was a Saint herself. A thousand humble welcomes 'a Lei'! He must forgive this old man who worships his blesséd lady's memory ... God be praised that I see this day..."
"Basta ... Basta!" Vanni checked him as the soft Italian speech flowed on, unintelligible to McTaggart, smiling down at the faithful servant. "The Signor Marchese is tired and would sleep."
The "maestro di casa" effaced himself, leading the way, on tottering feet, through a long suite of rooms, into a corridor lined with statues and Etruscan pottery.
They came at last to narrow stairs, built in the thickness of the wall, mounted these to another passage and paused before a double door.
Within was a bedroom with marble floor and deep-set windows draped with silk. A stove was burning and candles gleamed, but the place felt cheerless and rather damp: magnificent, but strangely bare, the high walls discolored with age.
Another servant appeared with a tray and a steaming tureen of thick red soup. McTaggart welcomed it where he sat at a round table before the stove with sandwiches and fruit arranged in heavy dishes of silver-gilt.
The bread, he thought, tasted sour, but when the man filled his glass with a golden wine, clear and sparkling, he drank it down and his eyes shone.
"What is it?" he asked Vanni—"not champagne?" The lawyer smiled.
"Asti Spumante—The late Marquis was well known for his cellar. And the dried figs and oranges and the goat's milk cheese are from the estate."
"Excellent." McTaggart approved. "Won't you have a glass with me?"
The old man was visibly pleased. He propounded an elaborate toast.
"And now, I think, with his permission, I will retire." He bowed low. "May pleasant dreams wait on slumber." The door closed gently behind him.
McTaggart drew a deep breath, glad at last to be alone. He finished the wine and began to smoke, his cold feet planted against the stove.
He could not quite free himself from the spell of a fairy-tale; this strange arrival in the night into a mediæval land.
He glanced round him at the room, with its painted ceiling and comfortless floor and the huge bed of gilded wood shrouded with blue brocade.
He began sleepily to undress, but a low tap came at the door.
"Come in!—Entrez!—whatever's the word?"
Beppo appeared with a slim, dark youth.
"Ecco Mario." He explained. The newcomer bowed and stood, expectant, gazing respectfully at his bewildered new master.
McTaggart hunted for a phrase.
"Non capisco." He looked triumphant and immediately old Beppo smiled and fell back on pantomime.
He turned and took from Mario a long garment in thin batiste, embroidered at the neck and wrist, with a breast-pocket where a monogram was worked beneath a tiny coronet.
McTaggart struggled with his mirth. It was evident that his own luggage had been delayed at the closed Customs. This was a relic of his Uncle, destined for his use that night.
Mario bowed and disappeared to return with a small jug of hot water, ivory brushes and other articles destined for his master's toilette.
Solemnly he arranged the room while Beppo cleared the supper table. Then, to McTaggart's vast relief, both men wished him "good repose."
He locked the door and hastily slipped out of his remaining clothes, proceeding to encase himself in the ridiculous thin night-shirt.
"Can't say much for my Uncle's taste!—it's only fit for a ballet dancer!" He caught sight of himself in the glass and chuckled with a faint disgust. The batiste strained on his broad chest and beneath the folds his legs appeared, long and sinewy. He shivered.
"Brr!—thisisthe limit!"
He drew it up above his knees and gingerly clambered on to his bed; snuggled down among the pillows, thankful for the eider down.
The candle beside him was still alight and, before he leaned to blow it out, he glanced upward curiously at the dark draperies overhead.
And then he started.
For on the ceiling a shadow lay, huge, grotesque: the shadow of a mighty crown! A sudden memory assailed him.
He looked closer. The curtains were drawn into a knot and held in place by a heavy ring of gilded wood, carved into a coronet.
What was it the gipsy had said?
"There's fortune coming over-seas ... and a castle, my fine gentleman..."
Again he heard the husky voice crooning above his outstretched hand.
And he stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide.
For there it hung ... his "golden crown!"
When he awoke it was ten o'clock.
A shaft of sunshine from under the blind fell across his vast bed and he rubbed his eyes, sleepy, bewildered, wondering where on earth he could be? Then he remembered, felt for his watch, throwing back the heavy clothes, and caught his knees in the frail night-shirt. The batiste ripped as he slid to the floor.
The icy cold of the marble roused him, effectually banishing further sleep. He pattered across toward the light for the first glimpse of the world outside.
Here he was foiled at the start. For the deep windows were set high, the opening far above his head, dating from those warlike times when the solid walls were a shelter from missiles.
He dragged a heavy gilded chair underneath and mounting upon it, drew the faded curtains aside and peered forth eagerly.
But his room faced the court-yard. He could only see the opposite wing of the palace dark against the sky, rugged and gray, with a turreted roof, a picture of mediæval strength.
A cloud of pigeons swirled up, flashing their myriad silver wings, as a servant passed along the gallery, with its twisted columns of carved marble.
Beneath he caught a glimpse of the fountain and against the dazzling sapphire sky, like a lily on a slender stem, a single tower rose above the walls, in faded brick with a pointed belfry, white as snow, and an iron cross.
Dissatisfied, he returned to bed and, conscious of his appetite, rang the bell by his side, his teeth chattering with the cold.
Beppo answered to the summons, his old face wreathed in smiles, voluble and bearing a tray with hot chocolate and rolls. In vain McTaggart tried to gather the gist of the old man's talk. One word stood out plain, recurrent, with a questioning, anxious note.
"Toob"—he pondered upon it as at last the old servant withdrew and he leaned back against the pillows, glad of the somewhat scanty breakfast.
Presently he heard steps. A knock sounded on the door, and in came four men, staggering under a heavy burden. It proved to be an enormous bath, of the kind one associates with a fixed base and many fittings, utterly devoid of paint. McTaggart watched with wide eyes. It was bumped down before the stove, which Mario proceeded to light, and then under Beppo's guidance a sheet was spread over the vast sarcophagus and tucked in to form a lining.
Then the men filed out. The bath was filled with cold water and beside it—like a tender offspring!—a small foot-tub was arranged. From the latter a cloud of steam arose—a welcome sight to McTaggart—and on a chair before the stove was laid a garment in bath-toweling.
Mario approached the bed.
"Good morning to Him. His 'toob' is ready." He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth that lit up the olive face and lingered in the sloe-like eyes.
His tub! McTaggart solved the enigma. And what a tub! He checked a laugh as Beppo gravely took his tray with a glance in which triumph lurked.
But still Mario stood, expectant. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled up and—Beppo, lingering in the rear—he began a long respectful inquiry.
McTaggart, bewildered, shook his head. He caught the words "fregamento"—"massage" ... Good Heavens!—they were going to bathe him!
"Non, non!"—he stammered—"solo!" He pointed to the door, confused, as the two men consulted together.
Beppo resumed his pantomime. He took Mario's strong hand and rubbed it sharply across his chest.
"Ecco! ... 'friction'?" His anxious eyes watched his master's amazed face.
"Io," said McTaggart stoutly—"always ... sempre." He waved them away. "Grazia—ma ...addio!"
At this very obvious hint the two servants slowly withdrew.
McTaggart shot from his bed and turned the key in the door. Then his stifled mirth exploded and he laughed until he cried.
"That was a narrow shave," he said, staring into the huge bath. "My uncle had some funny habits—muslin night-shirts and massage! Horrible, this wet sheet..." He dipped a finger in and shivered. "I'll swear there's ice in it——" he said. "Happy thought!" He took the foot-tub and poured in the boiling water.
His bath over, he dressed quickly, then rang the bell for the man, after a vain hunt for razors among the many toilette articles.
But Mario was prepared for this. He shaved McTaggart skilfully, produced powder, produced perfumes—which Peter hurriedly declined.
Then Beppo reappeared, with a message from the Marchesa. She would receive her new nephew as soon as it suited him.
He followed the "maestro di casa" to the further wing of the palace and was shown into a small boudoir hung with a striped primrose silk. The room was dainty, filled with flowers and photographs, scattered about on the modern French furniture above the delicate Aubusson carpet. On an easel under a palm, stood a large portrait in pastel of a dapper little gentleman, with a slim waist and padded shoulders. The face, old but still handsome, bore lines of dissipation around the keen dark eyes. He had grizzled hair, grey eyebrows, and a startlingly black moustache.
"My uncle, I should imagine." McTaggart was bending down to examine the picture more closely when a door on his right was opened by a smiling maid.
"Par ici, Monsieur." She stood aside for him to pass and a musical voice from the room beyond welcomed him.
"Entrez donc!—Bonjour, mon neveu..."
He stood on the threshold, tall and eager, his blue eyes opening wide, as he looked into a dainty bedroom, dim and warm and heavily scented.
Before him was a high bed, draped in black, and against the pillows, vivid, alive, in the sable setting, a young and very lovely woman.
Her hair, of a glossy raven hue, was piled loosely on her head under a boudoir cap of lace and she wore a filmy negligee, from which her arms, white and rounded, escaped beneath knots of ribbon and lay on the black satin bedspread with the effect of chiselled marble.
Her face, oval and ivory-white, was faintly amused. Her great brown eyes, languorous and insolent, swept McTaggart from head to foot.
But what absorbed his attention most was her mouth, like a curved scarlet flower blown on to her still face by a breath of Spring ... He gazed at her.
Then his wits returned to him.
He walked forward and took the hand lazily extended, stooped, and, with a happy inspiration, raised it gravely to his lips.
The Marchesa's dark eyes flashed. The red mouth smiled at him.
"Mais vous êtes tr ... es bien!" She rolled her r's with Italian emphasis.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, my aunt." And, indeed, he only spoke the truth. In a flash he found a valid excuse for his late uncle's dandyism; that somewhat pathetic defiance of age beside his youthful second wife.
"You have well slept?—Had all you needed?" Her French, full of liquid vowel sounds, fell musically on his ears.
"And the 'tub'? Ah! I know the English ways. I say to Beppo: See now!—a cold bath—cold ... cold ...! That is what the English love." She gave a clear, rippling laugh.
"And then you appear—a true Italian! Ma si!" she nodded her head gaily. "A Maramonte—Mon Dieu, I am glad!—without the teeth. You understand?"
"Not quite," McTaggart smiled back, showing a white row as he spoke.
"The English teeth—quel horreur!—that stick out like the wild boar."
The young man laughed outright.
"Oh—we aren't all as bad as that! But Italy is the land of beauty——" he gazed at her—"I am learning that."
Then, suddenly, it flashed across him that his attitude was hardly correct toward a newly made widow, and the mirth died out of his blue eyes.
"I wish," he said, "that my first visit had been at a less painful moment. Believe me..." He stammered, searching for words, trying to find the proper phrase.
She watched him with a shade of malice, divining his perplexity.
"Death is sad," she said calmly. "But it has to be ... and he was old."
McTaggart started. This cold philosophy struck him as distinctly heartless, and with quick intuition she guessed his thought, a touch of sadness in her eyes.
"You think it strange I speak like that?—My nephew, wait ... I am but nineteen. The marriage was arranged for me; I left the convent to come here. Ah! I was young—too young by far!"
Under the ivory of her cheek the colour rose and into her eyes came a shrinking look, like a hurt child, remembering past punishment.
"I come here, to this ...tomb," she shivered as she chose the word—"so gay, so fresh ... so innocent! He had seen me once among the Sisters—his cousin was the Mother Superior...
"And then—to be alone so much. He loved Paris well, you see"—(McTaggart remembered the phrase before and the shrewd glance of the French guard)—"He did not take me even to Rome, but left me here with old Beppo. And jealous!—jealous all the time ... of his own sons—of my music master!——
"Ah—what a life!" Her hands went up. She gave a fierce little laugh. "I thank the good God from my heart. I make no pretence to you."
A deep pity stirred the man with a horror of foreign marriages. He thought for a second of Cydonia—and pictured her, here and alone, at the mercy of the late marquis. His soul rose in revolt.
"Poor little Aunt—I understand." His voice was grave, his eyes tender.
She raised herself against the pillows with a quick smile of gratitude.
"My nephew—I like you very much. You have a heart—one feels that. And—see you—I will pray for his soul." She crossed herself with a touch of fervour. "I will have many masses sung ... But regret?—ah, no! that is beyond me."
A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart averted his eyes and they fell on the sombre hangings of the huge funereal-looking bed.
"This is the custom here?" he asked.
"The custom?" She frowned slightly. Then her tense look relaxed. The red lips quivered apart. "Dieu!—qu'il est drôle!" She laughed aloud. "This?—and this?" She touched the curtains, then the counterpane with her hand.
"You think this is mourning, perhaps?—Au contraire..." She shook with mirth.
"Your Uncle had these made forme... il avait des idées ... assez bizarres!" She stretched out one perfect arm on the black satin and admired it.
McTaggart felt a swift horror of the old man with his tired eyes. Then he laughed. The Marchesa's face was like an impudent, healthy child's.
"And now, my nephew—au revoir. We meet again at twelve for lunch."
He stooped and kissed her outstretched hand. The dreaded interview was over.
He found his way into the hall and sat down at a writing-table, determined to get his letter off to Cydonia's father before lunch.
"Dear Sir."
He wrote the words on a sheet edged with an inch of black. Then tore it up and started again.
"Suppose I must call him Mr. Cadell!" This done, he stared into space, searching for an opening phrase; faced with the problem of explaining the urgency of his trip abroad.
"If I start by saying my uncle is dead it opens the question of my inheritance—I shall have to explain about my family and it makes the letter long-winded. Besides, I don't want him to know anything about the title. I'd rather, as I said before, go in and win as Peter McTaggart."
He thought for a moment, then covered a page; read it through and crumpled it up.
"Too colloquial—oh, hang! What on earth am I to say?"
Like many men who talk easily, he could not put his thoughts on paper.
For speech is merely to let loose words; writing to draw them close together.
At last he flung down his pen.
"It's no good!" He rose to his feet. "After all, he's got my wire, and I shall be back within the week. But I wish I could write to Cydonia..." He stood for a moment by the stove. "I do hope they're not worrying her, and that the child understands? I know the letter would never reach her, and I'd rather have it fair and square ... It would make things worse to do anything now the Cadells could call underhand!"
He stretched his arms above his head with a yawn that ended in a sigh. Then started to explore his kingdom, casting dull care aside.
He walked down the corridor, glancing at the statuary, and came, at last, to a pair of doors with a coat of arms carved above them.
Here he hesitated for a second, wondering what lay within, and as he did so he heard a step shuffling along in his wake.
He turned to find an old woman, her head shrouded in a shawl, clasping between her withered hands a rounded jar of baked clay. It had a high handle bridging it resembling that of a market basket, and over this the wrinkled face peered at him with sharp black eyes.
"Buon' giorno," said McTaggart. He stared down at her burden. The old creature smiled back and held it out invitingly.
He saw it was filled with hot ashes, the primitive brazier of the people. He warmed his hands for a moment against it, and then pointed to the door.
"Si, si. Venga, Signore." She slipped past him and turned the handle and he found himself in a picture gallery, dimly lighted, with drawn blinds. The door closed, he was alone. Curiously he stared about him.
Above his head was a painted ceiling, a battle scene, mellow with age, with the slightly artificial splendour of the early Sienese School. But from the walls, on every side, out of their dull gilded frames, faces peered down at him, measuring him with liquid eyes.
McTaggart felt a curious pride, swift and clean, run through him. These were his! The same blood stirred in his veins; here was his real inheritance!
He passed slowly along the room. Men in armour challenged him; Cardinals in scarlet robes; fair women smiled down; children paused in their play...
Then he came to the last picture, vivid, with its modern paint, in contrast to those earlier ones, softened by the touch of time.
A young girl in a white dress, a blue riband at her waist and a leghorn hat that swung from her arm wreathed with tiny pink roses. One hand, with taper [Transcriber's note: tapering?] fingers, lay on the sleek head of a greyhound, the other held her flowing skirts from beneath which a slender foot in white stocking and buckled shoe pointed its way down marble steps against a background of cypresses.
And the face? The smile so like his own, the dark hair piled high, the slim form and girlish grace...? Tears rose to the young man's eyes.
Here was his mother in her youth. Before that first season in Rome when she had met his father there, and, with the passion of her race, loved and married the hardy Scot, brought down the anger of her house and sailed away to that northern land never more to return home.
It seemed to her son that she smiled now with triumph in her glowing eyes; calling upon him to vindicate the choice she had made in the past.
And, suddenly, the deeper side of his nature responded to the cry. He saw that it lay within his hands to restore her tarnished honour now.
He drew himself up, his mouth firm, aware of a new responsibility. The fairy atmosphere had fled—this was life ... no mere adventure.
He was the last Maramonte. His eyes swept down the long room, past Cesare—the patriot—to Giordano, hero of Montaperti.
His face, under its olive skin, paled, then flushed; his eyes were grave.
For he must hand on the torch ... he caught his breath, seeing Cydonia.
And a new reverence tinged his love. Not only sweetheart and wife but mother. And at the word he pictured her with a little golden-headed son, clasped within her loving arms.
He had that passionate affection the Italian—of all nations on earth—feels for his offspring and, looking up into his mother's lovely face, he shared his secret hope with her.
Then he started with a frown. For, like some unworthy ghost into that throng, centuries old, came the heavy form of Cadell.
This was the blood he chose to mix with that proud Maramonte strain!
It seemed to him, at his treachery, a silence fell upon the room; eyes turned with a cold stare, haughty faces sneered at him...
Cydonia's parent!—He saw him there with his bourgeois birth stamped upon him; heard again that grating voice, marked the coarse congested face.
For a moment he shrank from the tie.
Then the quick reaction came. What did he owe to this ancient stock? How had they treated his fair young mother?
He was his father's son as well—an Englishman. Up went his head. Cydonia should be his wife—the wife of plain Peter McTaggart.
He swung round and marched out, more in love with her than ever!
A thaw had followed the long frost and from the South, on eager feet, came Primavera, hooded still but clasping pale buds to her breast.
Birds sang as she glided by, anemones peered through the grass and in the olive trees young leaves danced in the sun like silver coins, tossed up by gay Mother Earth as ransom to the pirate Winter.
Light poured down from the sapphire sky, gilding the ivory city of towers as McTaggart drove through the winding roads, the Marchesa, still muffled in furs, beside him.
They had been to the borders of his estate, by vineyards planted on the slopes in terraces like a giant staircase, screened from the north by dark lines of cypresses, warped with the cruel wind; past fields of oranges and lemons, covered with screens of plaited reeds, to the agent's house where they had lunched and tasted later the olive oil, smooth and sweet, stored in huge jars, suggesting those of the "Forty Thieves."
Now they were returning home, drowsy from the long day spent in the open air, happily tired, soothed by the motion of the carriage.
A mischievous breeze played with the veil the Marchesa wore, of heavy crape, and every now and then McTaggart could catch a glimpse of her rounded chin and that flower-like mouth beneath the folds, vivid, alive and tantalizing.
He watched for it, lazily, leaning back against the high, padded cushions, and, conscious suddenly of his gaze, she turned her head and broke the silence.
"You are quite decided then, Pietro?" Her voice was sweetly disconsolate. "You will not come with me to Fiesole?"
"I can't, really. I'm very sorry. I must be getting back to England"—a faint smile curved his lips. "I've important business there just now. I assure you I'd stay if I could."
His aunt laughed, a trifle sharply.
"That means a woman, I should say!—'Important business'—at your age. There never yet was a Maramonte who was happy unless he was playing with fire."
Her dark eyes flashed through her veil an inquisitive glance, but he shook his head. He was not in a mood for confidences. Moreover, he knew that Cydonia's birth would hardly fulfil his aunt's requirements and dreaded a possible catechism.
"It's your sister's villa, near Florence, where you are going, isn't it?"
The Marchesa nodded lazily.
"And beautiful..." she stirred herself—"it faces the Arno valley with a wide loggia due south. She's my eldest sister—I was the baby—and her daughter, Bianca, must be sixteen. There's no son—such a grief! My brother-in-law breaks his heart about it. He is a Florentine himself, with an old palazzo (now shut up) and some fine pictures near the Cascine."
"You will be happy there?" asked Peter.
"But, yes!" She shrugged her shoulders lightly. "For a time, until my mourning's over. It's a quiet spot, Fiesole, and I am very attached to my sister. Then I shall go to live in Rome."
"And your life begins?" He guessed her thought.
"Chi lo sa?" But her eyes were bright. "At any rate, it's farewell to Siena! In Rome one can live as one likes."
"May I come and see you there?"
Impulsively she turned to him.
"Mais je crois bien!—For as long as you can. I shall be proud of my handsome nephew. And then, caro mio, I will find you a wife." She nodded her head with an air of wisdom.
"Some beautiful Roman. Let me think ... There is Princess Doria's only girl—the Principe was my mother's cousin—and Donna Maria Archiveschi...? Well—we shall choose, you and I."
A sudden thought sprang into her brain. Why not Bianca?—her sister's child. What an excellent match it would be for her—as soon as she should leave the convent.
Moreover, it would suit the Marchesa. She would have a double right of entry in the Maramonte family circle and indulge to the full her love of intrigue.
Following up this train of thought, she smiled sweetly at McTaggart.
"You could not spare me one week now?—a little week before you return ...? At Fiesole—just think again. To abandon your poor aunt at once—one sees you do not care for her! ... Just seven days, Pietro mio, to leave me happily settled there?"
She drew back her veil and her velvet eyes, like darkest pansies, pleaded mutely. McTaggart summoned all his strength, conjuring up Cydonia.
"Pleasedon't make it any harder! I'd love to come, you know that. It's not every day in one's life one ... inherits such a perfect aunt!"
He smiled at her with real affection.
"I'll come back when you're at Rome—(and not alone!" he said to himself). "But I'm bound to return to England first and settle up my business there."
"You talk as if you kept a shop!" She shrugged her shoulders pettishly. "What does the Marquis Maramonte want with commissions on the 'Bourse'?"
He laughed outright with the memory of her disgusted, lovely face when he had told her of his profession.
"Fi donc!" Mischievous, she shook a slender finger at him. "It would make poor Gino turn in his grave."
"And serve him right!" was McTaggart's thought. He could not forgive the dead man for his heartless treatment of his sister. He had the Italian's centuries-deep love of justice and liberty and was not without a strain of revenge, the lingering trace of some far-off "Vendetta."
He sat there moody, his mouth hard; grimly glad that the scales of fate had weighed in favour of his rise into the power denied to her.
The sun, sinking toward the hills, plunged the city walls in shadow as they drove through the Porta Romana and past the great church of the Servites.
Then, winding round the ancient market, they emerged into the open "Campo"—that curious shell-shaped piazza where throbs the heart of old Siena.
"What is that tower?" McTaggart pointed. "I can see it from my bedroom window."
"The Torre del Mangia," his aunt replied, "above the palace of the Commune. You must see the frescoes in the Chapel, by Bazzi—pure quattro cento. And there is the famous Fonte Gaia—after Giacomo della Quercia. The original fragments are in the museum. That is a copy—but still fine. This Square is where 'il Palio' is run, the two occasions in the year when Siena awakes to life——" she smiled scornfully as she spoke.
"Dio!—I shall be glad to go—it is a city of the dead. And cold...!" She shivered and drew her furs closer, aware of the sunset hour.
They came at last into the palace. Beppo received them in the hall with letters for his young master. McTaggart eagerly gathered them up.
"Bring 'sweet wine' into the boudoir," said the Marchesa to the servant. She turned to her nephew. "It's warmer there. I will join you when I get rid of my furs."
But McTaggart went to his room first, anxious to find if the letters held any news of Cydonia, and, locking the door, sat down by his stove.
There were three of them, sent on from his club. A line from Bethune, a tailor's bill and an envelope in a clerkly hand. He tore it open carelessly.
Then, quickly, he turned it over, glanced at the signature, set his teeth; and his face flushed with growing anger as he went through the contents again.
It was signed "Ebenezer Cadell," and contained a narrow unfastened note.
He read that too, then leaned back and swore aloud in his bitter chagrin.
Never in all his wildest dreams had he pictured himself a jilted man! Yet here it was—he smiled sourly—Cydonia had thrown him over!
Cydonia—the woman he loved. The girl for whom, in his loyalty, he had sworn to sacrifice the pride of his ancient and historic name.
She had "made a mistake." He read it again, holding to the light of the stove the mauve paper with the monogram "C" engraved in a fantastic wreath.
She was "too young"—as her "parents said"—"to think of marriage for some years." She hoped "Peter would understand"—and "not feel very hurt!" She would "like to keep him as a friend."
("I'll be damned if she will!"—said the angry man.)
Her Mother had been "quite ill" again, upset by their "secrecy."
("Dash it all!" In the midst of his pain McTaggart smiled. "She can't expect a proposal in public—whatever is she driving at?")
Cydonia hoped he would not write. "Father" thought it better not. She was "VERYsorry." For the first time the careful writing shook a little. A line crossed through revealed the fact that she would "miss him dreadfully."
But she thought her parents "knew best." They had been "very kind" to her—and "Father was writing to explain."
This statement was distinctly true. For Cadell rubbed salt into the sore!
McTaggart turned once more to his letter.
To begin with it was plain he mistrusted McTaggart's unforeseen departure; only too evident that he thought this foreign trip a way of escape from the outcome of an evening's folly!
But, in any case, whether or no his intentions toward Cydonia were honorable and uninvolved by any "pecuniary consideration," McTaggart stood no earthly chance of success as his son-in-law.
Cydonia was destined to higher flights ... (McTaggart thought of Bethune's words: "Some young ass with a title and debts!")
She would inherit a large fortune and her beauty and costly education "would fit her for any position."
"She'salmostworthy," McTaggart sneered, "to become the Marchesa Maramonte."
For anger was still dominant. The lonely longing was to follow.
The letter, pompous, devoid of tact, went on to a definite prohibition. Cadell closed the door of his house in the face of the undesirable suitor. A note of spite rang out sharp in the older man's reference to his daughter's note. "The enclosure will make the matter clear."
It did. McTaggart leaned down and pushed both letters into the stove, watching the flames rise high, turning love into ashes.
Long he sat there, his chin on his hands, his blue eyes staring into space. The clock ticked on noisily, marking the death of more than Time. Broken ideals, vanished dreams ... enthusiasm, loyalty; wasted at an unworthy shrine—his mind veered round at last to Fantine.
Women were all alike, it seemed. Creatures of impulse, without honour...
There came a knock at his bedroom door—a message from the Marchesa.
He rose to his feet with a curious smile. The French maid was waiting outside.
McTaggart, pointing to Bethune's letter, explained that business of importance required an immediate answer. He would be with her mistress shortly—the time to write a hurried line...
He paused as the girl raised her eyes and, in the darkness of the passage, slipping an arm round her waist, he stole a kiss from her fresh mouth, amused at the maid's swift surrender.
Then he passed her and went downstairs. "That's the only way to treat them!" he said to himself, with no sense of pleasure, but a perverse, cold disgust.
In the hall he sat down, drew out a sheet of black-edged paper with a coronet engraved upon it and wrote forthwith to Cadell.
He abided by the parent's decision ... Cydonia was, indeed, young ... He wished, however, to make it clear that his departure for Italy had been, by its nature, unavoidable.
His uncle and his cousins were dead. He gave them their full sonorous titles. And, as heir to their fortune and estates, his presence had been imperative.
A faint flicker of malice passed over his mouth as he wrote the phrase and pictured the recipient's eyes starting out of his red face.
Mr. Cadell could rest assured that never again would McTaggart trespass across the threshold of his house ... He thanked him for past hospitality.
Then he signed it, read it through, folded it neatly and enclosed it.
Before him lay a bunch of seals and a long stick of black wax. He lit the taper and, smiling slightly, gathered up the largest of these on which were the Maramonte arms surmounted by a coronet.
He pressed it down heavily onto the liquid splash of wax.
"It's snobbish"—his lips curled—"but I know Cadell—it will make him squirm!"
He rang and handed the letter to Beppo. "For the post—presto!"—and walked upstairs. "May I come in?" He opened the door of his Aunt's boudoir, his eyes bright with the pain his smiling mouth concealed.
"Ah, mon cher, how late you are!" It might have been Fantine—he said to himself. But there he misjudged his aunt.
There were only, really, two sorts of women—his bitter reasoning went on—the innocent and stupid and weak: and the strong ones, clever and corrupt.
"Sit down and have some wine." From her seat in the low "bergère" she held out an inviting hand. "Dio! how cold you are!"
For his fingers were icy, his brain hot.
"Never with you, ma chère tante—Impossible." He bent his head to kiss her fragrant slender wrist—then changed his mind as he caught a glance from the dark eyes full of coquetry.
For the first time he took advantage of the new relationship, but without pleasure, merely an outward symbol of the queer recklessness he felt.
"My business is settled. Are you glad? I'm coming with you to Fiesole."
She offered him her other cheek with the frank gaiety of a child.
"Tu vois!" She laughed merrily. "But, indeed, I am charmed. And my sister, too—she will be glad to welcome you." Her face sobered on the words. She poured him out a glass of wine, watching his smile fade away. He looked pale and strained now. Shrewdly she probed his change of mood.
"That 'business'——" she said to herself. "I was right—a woman!—I wonder where? The boy's wounded—one sees that—let's hope it's only a passing fancy. All the better for my plan ... at no time is a man so weak as after a lover's quarrel. But now—one must move cautiously. I shall wire to Fiesole to-night—Bianca must leave the Convent. It would be wise to find her there—a surprise to us both." She glanced at the clock. Then, in her soft, musical voice, she went on with her speech.
"You will not find it dull, I hope? With my mourning, you understand, we shall live very quietly. Just you and I and my sister there—and my brother-in-law, en famille."
"I shall like that," he spoke sincerely. "I'm rather tired of London life—a little rest will do me good. It's so nice of you to wish to have me."
He sipped the glass of sweet liqueur he held with a sudden secret craving for a good strong brandy and soda to steady his quivering nerves.
For the reaction was coming on. Beneath his armour of wounded pride a sense of loss was stabbing him.
He did not close his eyes that night.