"Flower o' the quinceI let Lisa go and what good's in life since?"R. BROWNING.
"I dreamed last night," said Jill, "that you and Stephen were having a fencing match. The worst of it was"—she sighed—-"I woke before the end!"
She settled herself back more firmly in her corner as the car swept them down a steep incline between high hedges bared of leaves, gathering impetus for the upward hill beyond. Roddy sat in front, his cap pulled down to his eyes, his back like a ramrod, every muscle braced. He was deeply engrossed in watching Bethune drive, pouring questions into his new friend's ear.
McTaggart pulled the rug higher about the girl as the keen wind smote them with its frosty breath. "You don't feel cold, Jill?" His blue eyes rested affectionately on the glowing face beside him.
"Not a bit! I love it." She returned to her dream. "Wasn't it annoying to wake like that?"
"Which side were you backing?" McTaggart gave a chuckle at her indignant:
"Why—you—of course! Fancy backing Stephen! I forgot to tell you, Peter. We had a real row the other night. And the worst of it is he told Mother something. He's such a sneak!—and now she's cross with me."
"Poor old girl!" McTaggart groped for her hand under the heavy rug; and the girl, contentedly, let it lie in his warm clasp with a child's confidence.
"Dreams are funny things," she went on happily, conscious of his sympathy, her eyes fixed ahead on the long line of trees fringing the country road, gaunt against the sky, warmed by the sunset hour. "D'you ever dream the same one over and over again?"
"I don't think so," said Peter. "I can't remember them—not distinctly, I mean, when I'm awake."
"I do." Jill turned to him with a far-away expression, "and there's one dream returns and seems to haunt me. A cluster of white towers that rise up on a hill against a deep blue sky and glitter in the sunshine. It's allsovivid!—I can see it now. Just that—those high white towers with a darker one among them. It seems to have a little cap—like a chimney pot—snow white ... And, although I've never been there, it's like a memory. I know it sounds absurd, but it feels"—she paused for words—"like coming home ... And then, I wake up."
"How odd! Perhaps it's part of another life. You know"—his face was thoughtful—"I think we've lived before. I can't believe that this is the whole of my existence; that all those centuries back bold no trace of me. Any more than I can think, as lots of fellows do, that we're snuffed out when we die like a row of little candles!"
"Of course not." Jill spoke with the certainty of youth—"though Heaven always sounds such a dreadfully dull place! That 'Heaven' I mean of the 'goody-goody' people, with no work to do but only eternal rest. I don't see the use of all we learn here if spiritual experience dies with the body. It's such a waste of power and so unlike Nature. Why—even the trees, you know, after centuries, turn into coal!" She drew a deep breath. "That's always so comforting! When I get the blues and feel afraid of death I like to look at the fire and believe that nothing's lost ... it all goes on, forward in the Scheme."
"That's true." McTaggart's hand tightened on hers. "Bethune—over there"—he lowered his voice—"was talking the other day—we're great pals, you know—he's a chap youcantalk to, awfully sane—and we'd got on to religion and how it's broken up into rival camps and endless confusion—and he said: 'I haven't any particular creed and I don't go to Church, but ... it's just like this. I've always felt the Almighty's been so awfully good to me—he's cast my lot in very pleasant places, and given me health and strength and a jolly good time. It seems a dirty trick to doubt what He's planned, when He sees fit to shift me from this old Earth.'"
"I like that. How nice!" Jill nodded her head. "It does sound rather like ingratitude; and, now one comes to think of it, it is cheek to question the future after this lovely world. Look at that sky there and those little pink clouds!"
She spoke simply, with no lack of reverence, but rather that deeper one needing no outward show.
Silence fell between the pair as the car scudded on: that truest proof of minds in perfect sympathy.
The distant hills were veiling themselves in a violet haze, and in the high hedgerows the birds were still. Away to the right a deep blue line showed the river flowing along to London and the sea.
Jill broke the spell first, with a little sign to attract his attention.
"I'm sure I hear music—a long way off. There!" She bent her head, straining forward. "It's a band down in the valley. How funny at this hour!—and right away from everywhere!"
"Territorials, perhaps."
McTaggart listened too.
"We're about midway, I should say, between Henley and town."
For Jill's letter with the news of Roddy's return—the school having broken up through a sudden epidemic—had suggested this outing in Bethune's car on one of his rare Saturdays of holiday. They had gone to see the Cambridge crew practice for the boat race and lunched at Henley, a merry quartette.
Jill's letter!—McTaggart's mind swung off at a tangent. He felt a new-born gratitude to his schoolgirl friend. Had it not been for this and Fantine's want of tact—(he could see her now holding the letter to her breast)—he must have stumbled headlong into the trap.
He felt again heart-sore at the betrayal.
"We're getting nearer," said Jill. "I don't think it's a band."
The car swerved round a bend and lights flashed out, pale in the twilight like glow-worms on the green.
"Oh, Peter—look!" Jill clapped her hands. "It's a Village Fair—how lovely!—with merry-go-rounds!"
"So it is." Peter smiled as Roddy twisted round, his boy's face alight, with an eager request.
"Can't we stop, Peter?—and haveoneturn ... My hat! there's a cocoanut shy! Oh,dopull up..."
McTaggart leaned forward and consulted the driver. "Have you time, old man? These kids are awfully keen."
"Rather," Bethune laughed good-naturedly. "We'll run the car first into the Inn yard. Can't leave it here—the road's too narrow."
They skirted the crowd slowly at the end of the village street, the horn (worked by Roddy) vying with the strains of the cracked "Steam Band," and, handing over the rugs to the care of the ostler, proceeded on foot to the scene of the fun.
It was hardly a fair, but one of those travelling shows that wander across the country with a handful of caravans.
Dark gypsy faces, the hoarse cry of the showmen, the flaring petroleum jets and the noisy metallic music were blent in a scene garish and crude but strangely exciting after the lonely roads.
"The merry-go-rounds first," Jill declared. "I choose the piebald horse—you take the black!" McTaggart swarmed up, infected by her mood, Roddy in front of them, with a roar of delight as Bethune settled his bulky form on a wooden donkey.
"Off we go!—Houp-là! ..." They whirled round and round.
"Two to one on the rat-tailed mare!" McTaggart's voice rang out.
Jill, clinging to the piebald's neck, with a fine show of ankles, her dark hair streaming back, looked like a Bacchante.
"Isn't it ripping?" Her motor veil swung loose, her fur cap slid back, and about her glowing face the straying curls blew. Her gray eyes like stars met McTaggart's open smile. Joy was in her heart.
The machine ran down. Panting, they descended.
"Now—the cocoanuts!" Roddy led the way to where a narrow screen of sacking protected the crowd of village folks from too violent an onslaught.
A hoarse voice greeted them:
"This way—guv'nor! Six sticks a penny!All-the-fun-o'-the-fair! Now then—young sir—move on ... Hi!—Don't shove the lidy!—Six sticks a penny!" They found themselves in the centre of the firing line.
"Got 'im!" Bethune shouted his approval. "Bravo, Miss Uniacke!" as Roddy with a yell captured the cocoanut his sister had dislodged.
The crowd pressed round them, and McTaggart found himself suddenly isolated from his own party.
"Cross the gypsy's 'and, my fine gentleman..." A coaxing voice chanted in his ear.
"There's fortune for you, dearie; I see it in your face—it's coming over the seas—with a golden crown..."
Peter turned quickly. In the dim half light he looked back into a pair of glowing dark eyes: a gypsy woman's face with glossy black hair and long coral earrings hanging on each side.
He was going to draw back when he felt his hand caught; held by dark fingers, supple and strong, the palm turned upward as the husky voice went on with its curious crooning lilt, its patter of words.
"It's under the cloud you stand, my fine gentleman; the cloud of a lie ... but it clears ... it clears.... There's a far-off journey and castle walls ... and love all the time—hidden—by your side...."
She bent her head lower, tracing the lines with a forefinger stiff with a broad gold ring. The light of the flares fell on her bare neck and the bright Paisley shawl, crossed on her full bosom.
"Beware of a dark woman!—she's playing you false. Between two fires you will burn and burn ... And then, when the light fades ... on the turn of the tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!"
Her voice sank away. She straightened herself, with a clink of silver bangles, and let his hand fall. Her lips were still muttering and her eyes, opened wide, were like pools of ink as McTaggart stared at her.
"And what about the golden crown?" He felt in his pocket. With an effort he spoke lightly to break the uncanny charm.
"It will come, my fine gentleman—before the year is dead."
"Peter!" He heard Jill calling to him. "Peter! whereareyou?" The coin changed hands.
"A blessing on your head—the gypsy's blessing, sir. The eyes that see and the ears that hear ... And through the dark clouds the sun shining bright—with love coming swiftly ... love by your side..."
"Peter!" Impatiently Jill caught his arm—"we thought we had lost you."
He turned with a start.
"Hullo, Jill!" He felt a trifle dazed. "I've been listening to a gypsy—having my fortune told."
"No?—what fun! What did she tell you?"
He glanced behind him, but the woman had gone.
"All sorts of things. I'm to have a golden crown—and a castle somewhere. In Spain, I should think!"
"Well, come along now—they've gone to the swings."
He slipped a hand through his little friend's arm. "Let me carry that cocoanut. Did you win it, Jill?" But the girl refused, guarding her treasure.
They crossed the trodden grass, damp with the dew, to where a row of booths with poisonous-looking sweets, cheap ribands and laces and ginger-bread "snaps" had attracted the usual pairs of village lovers.
"Buy yer lidy a fairing!" A shrill voice hailed them—"a pretty brooch now—a bracelet?—a ring? Come now, young sir—yer 'and in yer pocket!—there's yer sweet'art waitin' ... the price of a kiss!"
McTaggart laughed back with a side glance at Jill.
"Would you like a fairing?" His eyes ran over the stall.
"Have a ring with 'Mizpah'?—Let's buy one for Stephen."
But the girl shook her head, with a gesture of annoyance.
"Come now, dearie"—the woman entreated—"choose a pretty keepsake—the gen'leman 'ull pay."
McTaggart bent forward, searching for a gift, suddenly obstinate.
"You'llhaveto have something!"
"Hullo! what's this?" From the tray of tawdry jewellery, he picked up a locket with a smile to himself.
Two little hearts in bright red glass, with a true lover's knot joining them together.
Cheap and meretricious, the toy was saved from vulgarity by the colour which glowed like a pigeon-blood ruby.
It reminded McTaggart of his own curious case—the Double Heart—surely a symbol!
"There, Jill! Never say I'm not a generous man."
He tossed a shilling across to the woman—and with due solemnity made his offering.
"Thanks awfully." Jill's grey eyes were hidden by the dark fringe of lashes, sweeping down on to her cheeks. "I'll keep it for Court ... or wear it on my sleeve. Thank you, Peter."
She slipped it in her pocket.
"Hi! McTaggart!" Bethune from afar was waving to them. "Time we were off!" He shouted the warning as they hastened toward him where he stood with Roddy, still breathless from the swings.
"It's awfully late..." he added apologetically. "I'm sorry to rush you—but I think we'd better start."
They made for the Inn, Bethune by his friend, Roddy hanging onto his sister's arm.
"We'll have to go slow when we get to Hounslow—those beastly trams spoil the run. Here we are!" He babbled on—"now, bundle in..."
But Jill checked her brother, with one foot on the step. "I think I'd rather like to ride in front. D'you mind, Mr. Bethune?" She smiled up at him.
"Mind? I should think not." The man looked pleased, but McTaggart's face fell at the words.
"Going to desert me? You little turn-coat!—After that lovely fairing too."
But Jill was settling herself beside the driver.
"Rather rough on Roddy!" was all she said.
The schoolboy laughed. He produced a bag, brimming over with highly coloured sweets.
"Have a suck?" he said, and diving into it drew out a sugar stick, striped pink and yellow.
"Thanks—no. Not just now." McTaggart's face was eloquent.
"All right," said Roddy with happy unconcern. "You just tell me when you feel like it."
The car trundled out between the narrow posts, and, avoiding the crowd, turned to the right; then, as the road, devoid of life, stretched straight ahead, took on speed.
The noisy music faded away into darkness and silence and the rustling breeze. McTaggart drowsily closed his eyes, as the stars began to peer out of the heavens. His head sank lower, his thoughts became involved ... Then with a flash he came back to life. Awoke to find the lamps glowing about him, the hum of the traffic, the busy London streets, and, against the light, Bethune's broad back and the girl's clear profile like a silhouette.
Jill was chattering, plainly absorbed.
Every now and then, her companion would lean to catch a sentence broken by the wind, and a laugh would float back with the hearty ring that seemed a part of the man's honest nature.
McTaggart watched them in a moody silence, still slightly piqued by Jill's desertion.
Roddy, surfeited, with a nearly empty bag, was rolled up in the corner like a happy dormouse.
They turned more slowly into dimly lighted roads, and the trees of Regent's Park came into sight.
Jill was giving directions now to Bethune. "It's the turning before Primrose Hill," McTaggart heard her say.
Then the car slackened, mounted the slight hill and they were in front of the terrace of gloomy little houses.
Stiff and pleasantly tired, they stepped down on the pavement, Bethune's strong arm for a moment supporting Jill.
Hurried adieux and thanks and the pair were off again, McTaggart now in the corner, still warm, where the girl had sat beside the driver on the long ride home.
A sudden silence had fallen between them, each engrossed in his own train of thought.
Bethune broke it first.
"Shall I drop you at the Club? I've got to take the car home—it's on our way."
"Thanks." McTaggart roused himself. "Can't you come back and dine with me?—or we'll have a grill somewhere—if you prefer it?"
"Sorry—I can't. I've promised to meet a man—it's a business matter. Otherwise I would."
"Well—some other night." He felt a shade relieved. "It's very good of you to have given us this run. Those kids will talk of it till Kingdom Come—it's a great treat for them."
Bethune grunted.
"Oh—as to that—I enjoyed it myself. That's a nice boy..." there came a little pause—"and Miss Uniacke's ... perfectly ripping!—pretty too." He nodded his head.
"Think so?" McTaggart's voice was coolly indifferent.
"Of course," he added, "she's only a child."
It was the night of Cydonia's dance.
Although the band had been playing since the stroke of ten, guests were still arriving at the Cadells' door; in parties "personally conducted" by the hostess with whom they had dined, their cards already filled and flirtations well started, wearing an air of frozen indifference toward the rest of the gay crowd; in knots of twos and threes hastening from the play; and in stray units, chiefly men, cheered by the thought of approaching supper.
The morning room had been arranged to hold the coats and hats, and for the moment the hall was free from guests. A young man with straight, red hair brushed back from his forehead, and a discontented expression about his tired eyes, emerged from the cloak-room buttoning his gloves and, with a faint start of pleased surprise, nodded to a friend who stood above him on the stairs.
"Hullo, Merivale!—fancy meeting you!"
"Thesiger—by all that's strange!—Thought you barred dances?"
"So I do—loathe 'em. But Susan dragged me here. Wait a second, will you?—This confounded glove..."
His friend nodded, leaning against the banisters: a short dark youth with a tiny moustache, that hovered like a butterfly about to take wing under his finely cut aquiline nose.
"What's the name of the people here? I've clean forgotten."
"Cadell," answered Merivale as Thesiger joined him.
"D'you know the hostess by sight?—I promised to meet Susan, but cut it rather fine. Point her out, will you? or give me a description."
"Tall bony woman—face like the Sphinx—and big black pearls, suggesting the prize product of a poultry farm."
"Sounds opulent. What time's supper? I say—there's Kilmarny! Now, who could have brought him?"
"So it is." Merivale waved his hand. "Pity he's getting fat. I suppose Letty Urquhart. Have you heard of that smash?"
"Yes." Thesiger nodded. "Bound to come to it—the pace he was goin'. Good old Urquhart! But I'm sorry for her—a nice little woman. What's she doing here, 'dans cette galère'?"
"Well, Ithink..." he lowered his voice, "she's going to present the Cadell girl next season. Lady Leason's fixed it up—she's trying to help Letty. There's precious little left, you know, for her and the kids."
"I don't blame her. Look at Kilmarny trying to dance the Tango! Let's stand here and watch. Oh—by the way, I heard rather a funny yarn about one of these new steps—'Bunny Hug' or something. Man was watching a girl in a sort of knot with her partner, and some one else objected on the score of Mother Grundy. 'Oh,' said the man—'I'm sorry for the girl. More danced against than dancing'—eh?—what!'"
Merivale laughed, as they stood on the landing outside the ballroom watching the scene within.
"Miss Cadell," said he, "is by way of being a beauty. Rather statuesque, with pale gold hair. Jinks knows her—you remember Jinks of Trinity—calls her 'The Heavy Angel!'—Rather a good name."
He leaned a little forward.
"There she goes,now... dancing with McTaggart—and not for the first time! He's in the running to-night. Pots of money, you know. Poppa was in biscuits—or beer—no! Cheese..."
He broke off suddenly as a short red-faced man turned the corner abruptly and cannoned into them.
He seemed all shirt front, a starched battering-ram, painfully hot and labouring for breath.
"Sorry, sorry!" He stopped to apologize, puffing out the words with a forced cordiality.
"Why aren't you dancing, you young men?—Want some partners? Let's see your cards."
Thesiger stared at him with open disgust.
"No—er—thanks." He turned to his friend as the thick-set man bustled away downstairs, mopping his brow with a large silk handkerchief.
"Who's that bounder?"
"Sh ... I—it's the host."
"Good Lord!—that?" he frowned impatiently—"I can't see Susan—I've a great mind to cut it!"
"Better wait for supper," Merivale suggested. "Look here"—he added—"if you're not already booked we'll have it together."
"Righto!—and then you come on with me—for a game of 'Chemmy,' eh?—I feel in luck to-night."
"Well ... we'll see. How's Mrs. Merrod?" His dark eyes twinkled as he watched Thesiger's face.
"The fair Fantine?—oh—goin' pretty strong ... How are you, McTaggart——?" He broke off to greet a couple approaching.
The man nodded back.
"Hullo, Archie?—d'you know Miss Cadell?"
Cydonia was introduced, dazzling in white, her brown eyes glowing with suppressed excitement.
"Can't you spare him a dance? He's an old pal of mine?" McTaggart asked the girl with a subtle air of possession.
Cydonia smiled mischievously.
"Imightgive him that extra I half promised you..."
"I'll see that you don't!" said her partner aggressively.
"Rather!" said Thesiger, entering into the sport. "Which is it, Miss Cadell?—the first, I hope?"
Cydonia glanced from one man's face to the other, unusually animated, conscious of her power.
"If Peter lets me off—it's the second supper dance."
"That's all right." McTaggart laughed—"You're supping with me—you seem to forget that!"
"Greedy brute!" Thesiger wrote it down with ostentatious care. "I'll come and look for you. In the supper-room!"
The music ceased and a gay crowd passed through the narrow opening dividing the trio.
"Upstairs, Cydonia." McTaggart lowered his voice—"and I'm not going to be cheated—even by Archie. Here—I'll lead the way——" he forged ahead, passing the couples preceding them. They reached the second landing, then up the third flight. Here seats were arranged in isolated pairs.
"Where does that lead to?" McTaggart, as he spoke, pointed to a narrow passage blocked by palms.
"The servants' staircase." Cydonia paused, but her companion deliberately drew the plants aside, holding back the leaves for her to pass.
"Come along, quick!" She gave him a glance, then obeyed with a sudden giggle.
"I say—this is fine!" He continued to explore, mounting the twisted dingy stairs.
"Let's go up and sit on the top." A faint glimmering light showed him the way. "Now—here we are—all to ourselves!"
Cydonia, a little scared by her own sense of daring, settled herself, her dress drawn about her, her little feet in their silver shoes shimmering beyond the dead-white brocade.
"It's rather narrow..." she suggested; then blushed as McTaggart, unabashed, took the step below.
He looked up into the beautiful face, still faintly flushed, transparent as a shell: into brown eyes like some clear woodland pool, where the sunshine through the trees cast golden gleams. His hand stole across and captured the girl's with the pretence of playing with her fan.
"Cydonia...!" The word was music in his ears. "How the name suits you—you lovely child!"
She drew back a little against the further wall.
"No—don't move—Cydonia—are you happy?" He slipped his right arm between her shoulders and the stairs. "There's a cushion for you—isn't that better?"
But Cydonia protested, sitting bolt upright. "No—Peter—don't. I'd really ... rather ... not."
"Why?—there's no one here. Can't you trust me, sweet?"
For McTaggart was drifting on the tide of his desire. He knew, too, it was part of his own fixed plan; no mere folly due to the place and hour.
Fantine's treachery had served to accentuate, by contrast, the value of his other love. Her girlhood, her purity, her quiescent charm stood out like snow against that dark background.
This night should decide it. No more would he stand, tossed by every impulse, with every change of mood. He would anchor in the haven of Cydonia's love, safe from the storms of life without.
Marriage, he thought, with a young man's confidence, would be the "settling down" of body and mind. He held that curious faith in established institutions which is the mainspring of British orthodoxy.
A duet of words intoned in a Church was to conquer his temperament from that moment until death. Faithful, he swore, he would be to her, by these holy vows, publicly pledged; and, the miracle accomplished, his hot blood should turn into the quiet circulation of a saint.
Love should work the charm and passion complete it. He thrust far from him its shadow, satiety; and that still greater pitfall for those who wed in haste, a dissimilarity in habit and thought.
So now as he lay, stretched on the stairs, so near to the fragrance of the girl's golden youth, drinking in the beauty of rounded arms and neck, and the shy, tender curve of her childish mouth, he felt that life held no deeper desire than to know her his until Death should part.
"Peter ... I don't think we ought to be here." This wise remark came a trifle late. For the faint smile with which she mitigated her sentence revealed for a second her white even teeth, and the parted lips and famous dimple completed the strain on McTaggart's control.
"Don't you, my darling?" His face was close to hers, his blue eyes, dilated, pleaded for him.
"Peter ... no!" She stiffened in his arms—then, with a little sigh, her lips met his, and clung...
"Well!—I'll be damned!" A harsh angry voice tore them apart, startled and bewildered.
Ebenezer Cadell, with apoplectic face, was glaring from below at the absorbed pair. The next moment heavy feet shook the stairs; the old man was on them—a fiery retribution.
He caught McTaggart roughly by the shoulder. "What the devil..." he stuttered—"is the meaning of this?"
Cydonia scrambled up with more speed than grace, retreating to the landing with a shamed cry:
"Father!"
McTaggart, honestly taken aback, sat there, dazed, finding no reply.
For Cadell was almost beside himself.
Cydonia to him was more than a daughter; she was the ideal of his work-a-day life: the crowning proof of his money's worth.
In the depths of his parental heart love was tinged with awe—the emotion he felt before a masterpiece.
That a man shoulddare... under his own roof ... to hold her in his arms—to kiss her untouched mouth! Here was sacrilege. He shook McTaggart, his social veneer cracking apart.
"Now, then, sir—haven't you a tongue? How dare you come here—into my house—and treat my girl like a...?"
"Silence!"
The young man was on his feet, his face very white, his blue eyes aflame.
"If you'd give me time to speak——" each word was measured—"you'd find there's no need to insult your daughter!"
"Shall I—you puppy—you!" for the shaft had sped. "You leave my house first—This minute—see?"
He pointed down the stairs with a hand that shook.
"You git—now!—I'll have no truck with you!" He was back once more in his master grocer days.
"With pleasure"—McTaggart stood his ground—"whenyou have listened to what I have to say. I shall call on you at twelve to-morrow, Mr. Cadell—to ask you for the honour of your daughter's hand."
Melodramatic?—with a touch of the South, but not without a certain youthful dignity.
The very fact of this, of the young man's breeding, served but to remind Cadell of his own.
"I tell you," he boiled, "I'll have no words about it. Marry Cydonia——? a pauper like you!" He fought for his breath as McTaggart smiled. "You can call if you choose and be damned to you!"
Peter bowed, outwardly calm. He turned his head once. Cydonia had vanished, safely sheltered in the house-maid's bedroom.
Then, leisurely, he walked downstairs, conscious that the moral victory was his.
But the flights seemed endless. He passed the ball-room door and joined in the steady stream pouring down to supper.
The thought stung him suddenly as he drew on his coat and tipped the man who handed him his hat.
"Hardly hospitable!"
But his smile twisted. He refused, as he passed out, the appeal of loitering taxis, and with long angry strides he forged ahead down the empty pavements in a bee line for his club.
The night was still young. The stars above shone down through the glow that London spreads upon the domed sky: orange-colored smoke, incense offered up from the fires of her pleasure and burnt sacrifice.
In Piccadilly a woman accosted him, with painted lips that brought to mind Fantine.
He hurried on, restless, with a feeling in his heart that all was crooked in this maddening world. Love bartered—love profaned ... His eyes still filled with Cydonia's light shrank from that ghastly pageant of lust which decorous London openly allows.
In the hall of his club a page ran after him, a pile of letters outstretched on a tray.
He took them absently and turned into the smoking-room, with a breath of relief at finding it empty, save for a solitary form, half-buried in a chair, feet outstretched toward the fire.
"Hullo!—Bethune." The man reading turned. "Luck, finding you here."
For he felt a real pleasure at the sight of the burly figure of his friend and a sudden, uncontrollable longing for sympathy.
They drew their chairs together before the cheerful blaze and exchanged commonplaces as the waiter brought drinks.
Then, as the door closed, Bethune's voice changed. "What's up, Peter?—got the flu?"
"No—the sack!" He laughed as he spoke, amused at the other's perspicacity.
For Bethune was a man to whom his friends turned instinctively in trouble, with—perhaps?—no memory that, on other occasions more hilarious, they voted this "quiet chap" a trifle "slow."
"Turned you down—eh? Not that Merrod woman?"
"Good Lord, no! I've done with her. It's a girl ... a young girl. Or rather her father! I'm feeling a bit hipped over it all."
He told the story from beginning to end, Bethune listening with an occasional grunt.
"Nice sort of man for a father-in-law! Seems to me you're well out of it."
"But I don't want to be! Never mind Cadell! I'm not marrying the family." Bethune smiled. "I'm hard hit this time—and I'll see it through—if it comes to a good old Gretna Green bolt!"
"Better take my car," Bethune was amused—"You're a Scotchman, aren't you? Once across the border you've only got to say you're husband and wife and the thing's fair and square, I understand."
"Jove! I never thought of it." McTaggart looked up. "She's the prettiest thing you ever set eyes on."
"Anything like Jill?"
"Not a scrap!" The sudden contrast checked his flow of words on the crest of a lover-like flood of description. Then followed one of those swift afterthoughts peculiar to his analytical brain. The difference was not all to Cydonia's advantage; she lacked the mentality of the other girl.
Angrily he thrust aside the fleeting disloyalty as Bethune went on in his calm voice.
"I don't see why the old man was so riled? ... You're quite decent to look at——" his honest eyes twinkled—"and you've got a steady income, rare in these days. What does he want? A title, I suppose. Some young ass with debts who'll make her 'milady.'"
"That's about it." McTaggart scowled.
"D'you think she'll stand by you?"
"Of course," said the lover.
"Then—that's all serene. I don't suppose you hanker for fatherly attention and the family circle?"
"Well, not much!" McTaggart shuddered. "He's utterly impossible. The mother's not so bad—too stiff, you know, and conscious of her 'dignity,' but quite presentable—pass in a crowd."
"Then go in and win, my son."
Silence fell between them and at last McTaggart rose to his feet.
"I'm going to have some nourishment—I missed supper, you know."
Bethune grinned. "That's a nasty jar! He might have stood you a parting drink."
"I'll come back presently——" but still he lingered. His whiskey and soda had quenched his thirst and he found he had but little taste for food.
Mechanically he gathered up his letters; then sat down again in his chair.
"I'll read these first—it isn't late."
"Lost your appetite?" Bethune rubbed it in.
His friend, ignoring this ignoble sally, began to tear open the envelopes.
At the bottom of the pile was a large square letter which he recognized as bearing his lawyer's writing.
He frowned a little at the sight, in no mood for business, then settled down grudgingly to study the contents. Inside was an envelope with a deep black edge sealed with an elaborate coat-of-arms.
Bethune was staring into the fire, his mind still full of his friend's adventure. He felt that deep, rather wistful, admiration which a man of his type extends to those more brilliant.
A quick exclamation made him turn his head. McTaggart was plainly startled by his news.
"I say—Bethune—Good Lord—it's impossible!"
He re-read the document in his hand.
"My Uncle's dead!—and both my cousins! A motor-smash outside Rome. What an awful thing!—the car overturned..." He skimmed on, breathless—"the old man was killed ... on the spot—the eldest son, too ... the other lingered ... died on Tuesday..."
He turned the letter over. "Why, it's nearly a week old. Oh, I see!—it went to Scotland and then to my lawyers, who sent it here. They want me to go to Siena at once."
Bethune began to voice condolences.
"Oh! I never knew them. But, of course, I'm sorry. He was my mother's brother. (Just touch that bell.) They quarrelled when she married ... I shall have to go."
He turned to the waiter answering the summons.
"Bring me a Continental Bradshaw."
"Do you come in for anything?" asked the practical Bethune.
"Anything?"—the young man laughed with a touch of excitement. "I'm the only one left. There's a palace in Siena ... and a flat in Rome ... and a villa somewhere. And a lot of land, vines and olive groves and a nice fat income ... and—Bethune—don't roar!—I'm the present Marquis. They actually address me..." he choked with mirth—"as the Illustrious Marquis Maramonte!"
"Good for you." Bethune leaned across and the two shook hands. "I'm jolly glad. It'll make old Cadell sit up a bit—you've a dead cert there." He chuckled with glee.
"Splendid—I forgot that." His face sobered suddenly. "Although I've half a mind ... yes!—Look here, Bethune—keep this between ourselves—it's not likely to leak out—and I'd rather win Cydonia as plain Peter McTaggart."
His voice softened on the girl's name. What a setting for her—this palace in Siena!
"All right, old man. I quite understand. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut."
The waiter returned and they fell to ways and means, wrestling with the Bradshaw, discussing the route.
"I'll come back and give you a hand with your packing. You'll be wanting a car now, Monsieur le Marquis?"
McTaggart chuckled.
"Good old Bethune! always an eye to business, what? You can take the order—and spare no cost. Line it with white. It'll do for the wedding."
Then a sudden memory clouded his mirth as his thoughts reverted to the tragedy at Rome.
"I'm glad all the same I'm too late for the funeral..."
Early next morning he started for Siena.
At Dover he remembered Mr. Cadell.
With a sense of guilt he sent the following wire:
"Cannot call to-day. Obliged to go abroad on important business. Will write.
"McTAGGART."
Once on board the boat he began a letter to Cydonia; but the passage was rough and he abandoned the attempt, returning to the deck to enjoy the sight of the great rollers slapping up against the sides of the steamer and breaking into high columns of spray, glittering like mica in the wintry sunshine.
He consoled himself with the thought that Mr. Cadell would undoubtedly keep a stern eye on the post, and that his missive was unlikely to reach the lady of his heart.
His luggage was registered through to Siena, and, when he arrived at the Gare du Nord, he took an "auto," directing the man to drive him down the Boulevards. After the damp of London, the air, light and exciting, went to his head. He drew it in, in deep breaths, with its sharp familiar scent of roasting coffee-berries, of waxed floors and of wine, that the crowded cafés wafted toward him as he passed: that typical smell of Paris, pungent, unforgettable, which welcomes the votaries of the City of Light.
He dined at Noël Peter's and felt absurdly pleased when the gérant recognized him as one of a quartette who more than a year since had frequented the restaurant on an Easter holiday visit.
Then, turning up the Passage des Princes, he strolled along happily, glad to stretch his legs before his long night journey.
The flower shops were fairy-like; the jewellers' ablaze. Slim forms, muffled in furs, slipped past with that subtle air of conscious power, of sure and sensuous appeal which marks the Parisienne in every grade of life. Clubmen were strolling toward their 'aperitifs,' husbands with wives, sedately arm in arm, trim 'midinettes' and bare-headed 'bonnes'; all combined to give the crowded pavements the sense of a meeting place, an outdoor haunt of pleasure spiced with intrigue instead of a mere channel for the traffic.
McTaggart reached the Madeleine, glanced down the Rue Royale and, with a sigh of regret, hailed a passing auto. He was jarred and rattled over the stones of that aggressive road which ends at the Gare de Lyon.
Bethune had wired that morning for a wagon-lit, a wise precaution as the train was packed. The conductor, in reply to his stilted French, led McTaggart down the long corridor.
"A telegram without name? From London, Monsieur?" He produced it and McTaggart smiled. In the hurry of departure his careful friend had omitted this essential.
"Voici, Monsieur."
The young man peeped past him into the narrow coupé. The beds were already arranged for the night and on the lower berth, impassive, there sat a very fat priest, absorbed in his breviary. The windows were shut, the heat turned on full.
McTaggart drew back with a gesture of disgust.
"This won't do." Unconsciously his voice took on that arrogant note which the travelling Englishman employs for the benefit of foreign servants.
"What name did you say, Monsieur?" The shrewd French face was studying him, gauging the value of his tip.
A sudden idea flashed into McTaggart's brain. He would test here and now the value of his title.
"I'm the Marquis Maramonte," he answered, steadily watching the black eyes fixed on his.
"Pardon, Monsieur?" The man looked puzzled. Then a ray of light illumined his face.
"It is ... the English milord? who inherits ... Mon Dieu! what a sad affair! ..." he became voluble—"the papers were full of it ... and Monsieur le feu Marquis has often travelled by this train. He loved well Paris. If Monsieur le Marquis had but given his name..." He backed ceremoniously and threw open the door of an empty compartment. "I will see that Monsieur is not disturbed. He has only to ring. I am here all night. And at Modane I will warn the Customs. Monsieur would like an extra 'couverture'?"
McTaggart was smiling in his sleeve.
"C'est bien." He tipped the man generously, delighted at the result of his tactics.
"Monsieur, sans doute, travels to Siena?—a cold journey ... the passes are full of snow. But Monsieur will be quite undisturbed"—a gleam of mischief came into the dark shrewd face—"one understands Monsieur could not travel with the Church!"
This puzzled Peter. He had yet to learn that his Uncle had been a member of the Anti-clerical party. Like most Protestants, he lived in the error that the nearer one approached to Rome the more fervent the Catholicism. He had heard of the two great factions in that city, the "Black" and the "White," without measuring their importance. Moreover, he did not realize the curious apathy of the lower classes in the land of the Saints and that deep-rooted hatred of the Socialist and "Patriot" for monastic institutions and temporal power.
But he smiled at the sally, conscious of hidden meaning, and the man, encouraged, lowered his voice.
"This berth, milord, was reserved for a German—un banquier Juif—qui vient de Hambourg..." he reached up and removed the ticket from its slot—"we will place him to-night on the road to salvation!"
"With the priest?"—McTaggart laughed until he cried as the door closed on his new friend's parting grin. He tried to picture the same scene in England with the typical conductor of a Pullman Car.
What a nation it was! Light and witty, with under the froth a curious depth. He thought of its paralyzing series of defeats in the Franco-Prussian war, its mad Revolutions and that marvellous recuperative force which had brought France back to her present era of prosperity. Then he began to dream of Italy; to picture Siena and, in the far distance, Cydonia beside him there ... Cydonia in his arms.
With her name on his lips he fell asleep.
He woke, refreshed, made a leisurely toilette and wandered forth in search of breakfast. In the Restaurant Car he announced his nationality by demanding eggs with his café au lait; then settled down to the long day's journey, thankful now for the full steam heat as they mounted steadily toward the Alps and plunged with a shrill whistle into the tunnel.
On and on, with tantalizing peeps of the Mont Cenis Pass. The hoar frost without traced fairy patterns on the window-pane. The wind roared past them but the sun shone bright on snow-clad peaks and valleys dazzling white. Through Turin, with its broad blue river twisting like a serpent round her ancient walls, on and on, now heading South, as the snow vanished swiftly and the plains spread about them.
McTaggart grew restless. He paced up and down the narrow corridor, smoking innumerable cigarettes as the light slowly faded away from the sky.
Genoa! He drew a breath of relief and barricaded himself again in his coupé. A swarm of passengers besieged the train and he let the window down, amused at the sight. Boys were selling oranges and glasses of "sirops," Bologna sausages and lurid papers.
Then the train moved out and the salt smell of the sea tempted him to search in vain through the dark. The Mediterranean. He remembered, with a smile, it had stood for a test of spelling at school! Once he thought he saw a faint dark line; then it vanished into the night.
He began to feel drowsy after his dinner. This would never do! He marched up and down, conscious he had to change at Pisa—then at Empoli. He yawned, stiff and tired.
After what seemed an interminable spell, with a grisly noise of brakes, they slackened speed. "Pisa ... Pi-sa ...!" He gathered up his rug and descended the steep step on to the platform.
His train puffed out. He felt, suddenly, as if he had parted with his only friend, as he stood there waiting for the Florence express, stamping his feet, in the bitter cold.
"If this is the South..." he said to himself—"Give me London!" He turned up his collar, straining his eyes through the vaulted tunnel of the long station into the dark.
Great lamps flaring like hungry eyes and in she roared with her high-built engine, spiteful, frost-rimmed, spitting steam ...
McTaggart found a seat in a crowded carriage.
Then on again through this endless night and Empoli, a God-forsaken spot, quite unscreened from the icy blast, with twenty frozen minutes to wait.
At last a faint streak of golden smoke rewarded his patience. "Siena—Siena," a hoarse voice shouted. He made for the nearest door labelled First Class and clambered in, finding a single occupant.
An old man with a white imperial, the soft black felt beloved of Italy, a thick coat with a wolf-skin collar and a lawyer's portfolio across his knees.
He raised the aforementioned hat courteously.
"Fa freddo," he said in a musical voice.
McTaggart lifted his cap, with pleased surprise, his loneliness fading before the stranger's smile.
"Do you speak French?" He asked in that language. "I'm afraid my Italian's somewhat scanty."
"Si, si, Monsieur." Again he raised his hat.
Again McTaggart clutched at his cap.
"I hope it isn't necessary with every word!" he thought with an Englishman's distaste for ceremony.
"A cold night for travelling," the stranger suggested. "Monsieur has come far?" His keen black eyes shone like bright coal in their wrinkled sockets.
"From London," said McTaggart with the conscious pride of a tired man at the end of his journey. "I'm bound for Siena," he volunteered. "Is it generally as cold as this in Italy?"
The old man smiled.
"It is Winter still, Monsieur. What would you have?"
He spread out his hands. "In Siena we are high ... altis ... simo! But healthy—one gets few fevers there. Monsieur is 'en touriste'?" His gentle curiosity was freed from all impertinence by his charming manner.
"No—not exactly. I'm going there on business."
McTaggart paused a moment, then made up his mind.
"I've inherited a property from my mother's brother. He was killed in an accident, near Rome, with his sons."
The effect on his audience was electrical.
"But, Monsieur!" ... he stuttered—"è impossibile!—Monsieur is not the English Milord?—the new Marchese Maramonte?"
For the third time off came his hat.
"I'm afraid so." Peter laughed outright. For the old man, wiry and light, was on his feet, bowing before him with a deferential air.
"My humble 'félicitations' to Monsieur le Marquis. His lawyer, Jacopo Vanni—at his service."
"No!—really?" McTaggart held out his hand and shook the other's heartily; and by that simple act, unknown to himself, he secured a life-long friend.
"You're just the very man I wanted to meet."
"We were in despair," Vanni continued, "no news from England when I left yesterday! I have been in Florence on business for the Marchesa, and, I suppose, the message arrived later."
"I only wired early this morning. The letter had miscarried and reached me last night. As you see, I have wasted no time in coming!" McTaggart smiled back at the eager old face.
"And now, can you tell me some of my new duties? I am anxious to learn the extent of my inheritance and I feel rather like a duck out of water! Not speaking Italian makes it worse. I should really be grateful for any advice."
"Monsieur le Marquis does me honour." The bright eyes devoured him, approving his handsome face. "Every inch a Maramonte!" Unconsciously, he spoke aloud.
"Really?" McTaggart was interested. "I was always told I resembled my mother."
"Sicuro!" Vanni's voice was stirred. "All save the eyes—of the English blue. And when Monsieur sees his gallery of portraits, he will feel at home! Monsieur le Marquis is like his famous ancestor—that Giordano Maramonte, the hero of Montaperti, who led in the capture of the Carroccio of Firenze ... And there is a look of the Marchese Cesare—who went down to fame for his attack on the Citadel. He drove the Spaniards out of Siena—that was before the last great siege..."
His words poured on. He was plainly lost in the history of the house he served, back in those war-like days of the past when great names testified to greater deeds.
McTaggart realized he had touched on a hobby. "Tell me all about my family." He leaned back, happy, and lit a cigarette while the old man drew with lightning gestures on his absorbing hoard of knowledge.
Of Guelph and Ghibeline intrigue, of wars with Spain and Florentine raids; of Popes and Emperors, Patriots, Tyrants; of the endless strife between the nobles and people; of the "Sacrifice of the Useless Mouths" and the Plague that ran like a burning flame.
So enthralled was McTaggart that the time passed on flying wings until, at length, the train swept into the last noisy tunnel.
Vanni started. He glanced at his watch.
"Ecco Siena!"—and, at the words, a curious thrill ran through his listener of excitement tinged with awakened pride.
For the vast part his house had played in the wars and government of the city, their reckless heroism and careless prodigality had thrown a new light of fiery romance on this inheritance of his.
With it was blent an odd shrinking, the nervousness of the Englishman before the customs and conventions alien to his normal life.
The train emerged, lights twinkled. The long journey was accomplished.