McTaggart glanced at his watch.
"Ten minutes more. Are you very tired?"
"Not a bit." Jill turned with a bright face from the window in the corridor where she stood, gazing out. "It's all so lovely. Look at that hill rising up like a fir cone, against the sky. Andisn'tit blue! I never saw such colouring. Those silvery trees!—Olives, did you say they were? Fancy seeing olives grow!—and oranges and lemons too. It sounds like the game we used to play in our nursery days."
In a low voice, sweet as a thrush:
"Oranges and lemonsSaid the bells of St. Clement's,I owe you four farthingsSaid the bells of St. Martin's..."
Jill sang happily.
"Can't say much for the rhymes." McTaggart smiled.
But the girl had turned to the window again. "It's beautiful." She slipped a hand through his arm. "As long as I live I'll never forget those vines with their early Autumn tints—blood red; and the little towns perched on the hills like Robber Castles ... Peter!—what's that?" She broke off excitedly, pointing out.
McTaggart followed the line of her hand.
"Siena, I think—I can't be sure. You know, it was dark when I got here before. Why, Jill!—Whatever's the matter?"
For the girl's face had suddenly changed. Fear and amazement were written there. She could not take her eyes away, as, on the steep hill to the south, a cluster of slender towers rose up, ivory-white, against the sky.
"My dream!" she gasped. The hand on his arm clutched him. "It can't be! ... Yes, itis. The 'dream city' I told you about. Peter! It's all coming true. There—don't you see?Dolook, darling! With one tower taller than the rest ... and a little cap..."
Speech failed her. She leaned out, breathlessly.
A memory returned to McTaggart. "By Jove!—the 'Torre del Mangia.' Is that really your old dream, Jill? And you said it felt like 'coming home!'" He was almost as moved as herself.
Jill drew back with dazzled eyes. Her hair, disordered by the wind, framed her excited, awe-struck face.
"Isn't it wonderful!" she cried—"my dream city ... my very own! D'you think we've lived there before, Peter? You and I—in another life?"
"I hope so. But, anyhow, it can't be half as good as this!"
He drew her gently through the door of their coupé. "There's a tunnel coming. We're nearly there. Sit down a minute. I'll roll up the rugs. You'd better get into your coat, ready."
"I shan't want it. It's so hot." Mechanically, she straightened her hat, her gray eyes still wide with wonder. She caught sight of herself in the glass. "I am untidy! Won't it be nice to have a bath and feel clean again."
A "toob"—Peter smiled to himself as the train bolted into the dark. He reached up for his hat on the peg.
"Now then!—we're coming out. Give me a kiss, quick!—There's a dear."
Sudden dazzling light again; the grind of brakes; the toot of a horn. Then a deep voice, shouting clearly:
"Siena ... Si-e-na!" The train had stopped.
Mario came running up. McTaggart hurried Jill out and into a cab. Purposely, he had "forgotten" to order the carriage.
They wound up the dusty road, glaring white in the morning sun, and through the great frowning wall that clips the city like a girdle.
Jill was too excited to talk, her eyes darting right and left as the high houses closed about them with the menace of their ancient strength.
McTaggart pointed out to her the Grey Wolf on its column, suckling the fabulous Twins.
"Romulus and Remus!" she gasped, with a clutch at Ancient History.
"That's it! The Son of Remus founded the place—so the legend runs—'Senius.' He gave his name to the city—hence 'Siena.'"
Down the one-time "Strada Romana," past the Palezzo Tolomei, they clattered, to the crack of the whip.
"See those lions?" he touched her arm. "Thirteenth Century." She stared—"That's the 'Balzana,' the shield of the Commune, black and white. I'll tell you why. When Senius offered sacrifice to his gods, on his arrival here, from the altar of Diana rose a pure white smoke, and from that of Apollo a dense black one—and ever since it's been on the shields of the city. Makes one think, doesn't it? All those centuries ago."
"It's wonderful!"
On they went, through shadowy streets, the deep blue sky overhead cut by castellated walls and pierced by towers, dark with age.
Then, with a final "Ee ... ah!" from the driver, a last flourish of whip, they swerved aside through the frowning arch of the palace into the vast courtyard.
Here the sun had found its way, bathing one side in golden light. The fountain leaped in a dazzling cloud; the delicate marble stairs curved up, fairy-like, to the gallery; and about them was the beat of wings...
"Lookat the pigeons!"—Jill cried. "Where are we?"
The carriage stopped. He helped her down and hurried her on, up the shining silvery steps.
"Peter! What is this?" Jill asked. But McTaggart only smiled to himself.
"Come along"—he grasped her arm—"this way..." Narrow shafts of light through the twisted columns made a path, like striped satin under their feet.
Dark doors were swung wide, and they stood in the dim tapestried hall, the inquisitive sunshine following them and playing among the crystal lustres.
Jill, dazed, saw servants stand, bowing before her, heard a hum of respectful greetings rise and fall as McTaggart swept her, ever on, down a corridor lined with statues, and into a room, endlessly long, with a painted ceiling and polished floor.
"Now!" said Peter. He laughed aloud, throwing a challenge to the walls, where on every side faces peered, measuring them with liquid eyes.
"Here we are, Jill—at home." He closed the doors as he spoke.
"Home?" Jill stared at him. "Peter—Idon'tunderstand."
A shade of temper was in her voice as she looked up in his laughing eyes.
"It's the Maramonte palace"—he cried—"Mine!—and yours now, my darling. Where my mother lived ... And all these"—he waved his hand—"are my people."
Jill suddenly caught her breath.
"D'you mean to say"—her voice was tense—"Youlivehere?—that it's ... the house?"
"Yes..." he caught her in his arms. "Aren't you pleased?—It's my 'surprise!'"
But she pushed him away nervously. Wide-eyed she gazed around her. Then, still silent, she crossed the floor, and gazed out of the nearest window.
He followed her, a shade anxious. Surely, she could not be upset?
"Forgive me, Jill ... I ought to have thought..."
But suddenly her face changed.
"The tower"—she whispered—"the tower of my dream ... Peter, tell me—itistrue? It won't go ... fade away..." She clung to him like a frightened child.
"No—I swear it." A swift remorse moved him as he saw the tears well up in the eyes he loved. "Jill!—don't cry—for Heaven's sake. I meant it to be such a lovely surprise!—Why, my darling..."
She buried her face in his coat, struggling for control.
"It is!"—she sobbed—"it'stoolovely! What a baby I am...!" she broke away—"It's ... thebeauty—can't you understand?" She wiped her eyes defiantly.
"But—who areyou?" she added slowly—"I don't see yet why it's yours."
"I'm the Marquis Maramonte," he said, "and you are my very dear liege lady."
For a moment she stared at him, amazed. Then, like a sunlit April shower, laughter stole into her eyes, still shining with her tears.
She clapped her hands. She danced for joy.
"Oh! what a gorgeous sell for Stephen!"
McTaggart caught her outstretched hands, laughing aloud.
"Isn't it?" Relief at her change of mood, delight at the way she took her new honours: her simple child-like fearlessness, made him exult in his bride.
"He'll have to 'kow-tow' to you now, old lady. He won't like that—Master Stephen!—I expect he will, though"—he veered round—"he'll be trying to borrow no end of money!"
"He won't get it," Jill cried gayly. "He can come and smash my windows first." She hardly knew what she was saying, for the reaction had set in, the excitement of this great adventure.
"He'd find it hard..." said McTaggart grimly. "This place has stood many a siege. They had a playful way, you know, of slinging donkeys in by catapults!"
"Well"—Jill giggled—"why not Stephen?" Then her face grew thoughtful again. "It's wonderful!..." She glanced down the long walls hung with pictures. Men in armour, half concealed by sumptuous cloaks; red-robed prelates; court beauties, smiling proudly; stern old age, reckless youth!
"These made history," said Jill and paused, sobered by the thought...
"Yourpeople." She looked at her husband, full of honest pride for him.
"Yes." McTaggart smiled back. "Splendid chaps, some of them. That's the hero of Montaperti, Giordano Maramonte. And that frivolous-looking boy charged through and broke the Standard—the great white lilies of Florence—off from the famous 'Carroccio.'
"I don't fancy any of these won their honours our way—the modern way in old England—a fat subscription to 'Secret Funds'! They were rather a bad lot, all the same..."
"I don't doubt it," Jill laughed, mischief in her mocking glance. "Perhaps they all had 'double hearts'—it seems to lead to a lot of trouble! Look at those lovely pearls there—on the lady in the satin gown—and the single drop on her forehead! You could pick it up—it looks so real."
"So you shall. We've got it still. Safe in my Roman bank—foryou!—And all sorts of other jewels—an emerald ring that belonged to a Pope. You're going to be a little queen!—have every mortal thing you want. And you're worth it, you dearest child. You're the loveliest woman in the world!"
"Hush!" she smiled—"I want to think..."
But a new idea had struck McTaggart.
Absently she let him lead her to where two great gilded chairs stood on a daïs, under a canopy.
"Sit there," he commanded.
She settled herself easily, her slim shape swallowed up between the great carved arms, beneath the shield of the Maramonte. He stood back to look at her, as she went on, thoughtfully:
"We're rich, then, Peter?—ever so rich."
"Yes," he nodded his head gravely. "What are you puzzling out now?"
"I was thinking of Roddy," she confessed—"Of all that this may mean—to him."
"He's to be your Court Painter, my queen"—McTaggart's eyes never left her—"Won't he love Italy? And Aunt Elizabeth?—She knows!—I told her the whole story, Jill. She's been a brick to keep the secret."
Then he mounted the daïs—impatiently—as she still dreamed on.
"I say, Jill. You've never thanked me! This is my wedding present, you see."
Jill gave a little start. Impulsively she opened her arms.
"Oh, Peter!—do forgive me." But he slipped down at her feet.
For a moment he knelt there, arms about her, his face pressed against her knees.
She could feel, through her dress, his burning cheeks, the wave of longing that swept across him ... Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, blue as the heavens beyond, drank their fill. He whispered her name.
"Jill ... my darling little wife!"
THE END
"As delightful a love-story as summer readers can pray for."—New York World.
"An excellent novel with a delightful atmosphere and a plot that the reader will follow with interest."—New York Herald.
"A sincere and clever piece of work that should find an appreciative public."—Westminster Gazette.
"An admirably written story which will take high rank in contemporary fiction."—Rochester Post-Express.
"The author knows and sees much and can write it both intelligently and pleasantly."—Sketch(London).
"A well-built, well-written tale."—Washington Evening Star.