"My heart is dead,And pleasure hath fled,But the rose you gave me blooms fresh and red."
"My heart is dead,And pleasure hath fled,But the rose you gave me blooms fresh and red."
"What nonsense," she said contemptuously, breaking off suddenly. "I daresay the rose was quite withered, only his imagination saw it was blooming."
"Like his love for the girl."
"A bad shot, Mr. Macjean. How could it be so? His heart was dead, his pleasure fled, so under these discouraging circumstances the rose must certainly have been dead also."
"You said Gartney was cynical," said Angus slowly, "what about yourself?"
"What about myself," she repeated with a sigh, turning round and leaning lightly against the balustrade. "I'm sure I don't know. I've never thought about the subject. Very likely it's not worth thinking about."
"Believe me," began the young man earnestly, "you are----"
"Everything that's charming," interrupted Victoria, crossing her hands. "Do spare me any compliments, Mr. Macjean, I'm so tired of them. I wonder if you men think we women believe all the lies you tell us."
"But they're not lies."
"Not, perhaps, for the moment, but afterwards."
"Don't trouble about afterwards, the present is good enough for us."
He was getting on dangerous ground, for his voice was soft, and his young eyes flashed brightly on her face, so as Victoria had only known him twenty-four hours, even with her reckless daring of coquetry this was going too far, and with the utmost dexterity she changed the subject.
"By the way," she said lightly, "do you know I'm a relation of yours?"
"Impossible."
"Well, perhaps it is. Still you can judge for yourself. My mother's maiden name was Macjean."
"The dev--ahem! I mean good gracious. You must certainly belong to the family somehow or other. I dare say--yes--I am sure you must be my cousin."
"Such a strained relationship. In what degree?"
"Oh, never mind. Scotch clan relationships are so difficult to unravel. Besides, we're all brothers and sisters by the Adam and Eve theory, according to Gartney. But fancy you being a Macjean. It gives me a kind of claim on you."
"As the head of the clan, I suppose. Never! I am a free-born Australian, so hurrah for the Southern Cross and the eight hours system of labour!"
"I haven't the least idea of what you're talking about?
"Very likely. Born amid the effete civilization of a worn-out land, you have no knowledge of our glorious institutions, which render Australia the Paradise of Demos."
"Sounds like a Parliamentary speech."
"It is a Parliamentary speech," asserted Victoria, demurely, "an effort of my father's when he was elected for the Wooloomooloo constituency."
"I beg your pardon, would you mind spelling it?"
"No you would be none the wiser if I did."
"As to my obeying you," said Otterburn, reverting to the earlier part of the conversation, "I think the opposite is more likely to happen."
Dangerous ground again.
"Mr. Macjean," said Victoria in a solemn tone, "the night is getting on to morning, the tourists are getting off to bed. You are chattering in a most nonsensical manner and I'm going to retire, so good-night."
He did not make any effort to retain her, although he felt very much inclined to do so, but then their friendship was still in its infancy and the proprieties must be observed.
"Good-night, and happy dreams," he replied, shaking the hand she held out to him.
"Thank you, but I leave that to poets--and lovers," she responded, and thereupon vanished like a fairy vision of eternal youth.
And lovers.
"Now I wonder--oh, nonsense! What rubbish! I've only known her one circle of the clock; Love isn't Jonah's gourd to spring up in a night. Still--well she's a most delightful girl and I--Confound the valse! I do wish they'd stop playing at this hour. It isn't respectable. Awfully pretty!--and she's a Macjean too--ah, if I--bother, it's gone out. I shan't smoke any more. I wonder where Gartney is. Mooning about by himself, I suppose. I'll go and look him up. She's got lovely eyes and such pretty feet. Eh! oh, here's Eustace--I say Gartney, I'm going to bed. Come and have a hock and seltzer before ta-ta."
"'Tis an Italian town,Almost a city yet not metropolitan wholly.Houses red-roofed, white-walled, lofty in height with iron balconies,Narrow and twisted the streets, with rough irregular pavements:Below are the shops with their awnings o'er windows, filled with gaudy wares we see not in England,Amid which stand the shop-keepers, shrill-voiced, thievish, voluble and smiling.'Questo è troopo? 'Non e molto'--question and answer and question once more,While in the burning sunshine, in nooks, in corners, in courts, in door-ways,Lie the dark shadows, fit for the hiding of lovers, of bravos, of damsels and men-at-arms ruffianly."
"'Tis an Italian town,
Almost a city yet not metropolitan wholly.
Houses red-roofed, white-walled, lofty in height with iron balconies,
Narrow and twisted the streets, with rough irregular pavements:
Below are the shops with their awnings o'er windows, filled with gaudy wares we see not in England,
Amid which stand the shop-keepers, shrill-voiced, thievish, voluble and smiling.
'Questo è troopo? 'Non e molto'--question and answer and question once more,
While in the burning sunshine, in nooks, in corners, in courts, in door-ways,
Lie the dark shadows, fit for the hiding of lovers, of bravos, of damsels and men-at-arms ruffianly."
Relations were rather strained between Eustace and his young friend, the reason being as usual to be found in the unconquerable selfishness of the former. With his habitual egotism, Gartney insisted that the lad whom he had chosen for a friend should attend solely to him, watch his every action with dog-like fidelity, and have nothing to do with the rest of the world.
This Otterburn, high-spirited and wilful, naturally enough refused to do, though he had hitherto been obedient to Gartney's whims and fancies in every way. Not having heretofore had anything to attract his attention in any great degree, and being fascinated by the strange nature of his poet-friend, Angus had duly given him unlimited measure of the admiring adulation he so much desired. He had listened patiently to Gartney's brilliant though somewhat egotistical discourses, but now, with the irrepressible nature of youth, having fallen in love with Victoria Sheldon he began to grow tired of his friend's dour nature and pessimistic railings against the artfulness of womankind.
They had now been nearly a week at the Italian lakes, and from being her boyish admirer, Otterburn had become the faithful slave of Victoria, and finding that he could not serve both master and mistress in a strictly impartial manner, he renounced his fidelity to Eustace. Of course he was still very friendly with him and liked to listen to his epigrammatic conversation--on occasions, but showed plainly that he much preferred Miss Sheldon's society, a discovery which vexed his quondam friend mightily, the more so as he saw in such preference a distinct triumph for Victoria.
That young lady had early announced her dislike to Eustace, deeming him cold, vain, proud and an enemy to her sex; so, seeing Otterburn was to a certain extent indispensable to him, she tried her hardest to bring about a separation between these two close friends--and succeeded.
Not that she cared over much for Angus. He was certainly a very nice boy, and wonderfully useful as a carry-and-fetch poodle--but the possibility of Otterburn taking jest for earnest never occurred to her, and, ignoring with the calm egotism of a woman the chance that he might break his heart for her sake, she gave him sweet looks, undeserved frowns, was hot and cold, kind and cruel, doleful and capricious, just as the humour took her, and by a dexterous use of the whole armament of female wiles successfully accomplished the task she had set herself.
So Otterburn having surrendered at discretion, which was hardly to be wondered at against such a crafty enemy, was now devoted to his conqueror and saw comparatively little of Eustace, who though distinctly annoyed at his defeat cloaked his real feelings caused by Otterburn's desertion under the guise of careless indifference, and either mooned dismally about alone or sought solace in the society of the Erringtons, who were now making preparations for their departure to England.
Before leaving, however, Lady Errington with characteristic good nature had thrown aside all formality and called upon Mrs. Trubbles and Miss Sheldon at the Villa Medici. She took a great fancy to Victoria, both on account of her beauty and her generous straightforward nature, while Mrs. Trubbles amused her mightily with the eccentricities of her character, so she asked them to a dinner at the Villa Tagni, thereby earning the eternal gratitude of Angus, who foresaw a chance of obtaining Victoria all to himself for one whole evening.
Of course she also invited Eustace, whom she pitied for his evident unhappiness, thinking, with the natural fondness of a woman for romance, that it sprang from some unrequited love affair and not, as was actually the case, from satiety and cynicism. Eustace graciously accepted the invitation, and for once in his life looked forward to such entertainment with some pleasure, as the cold, irresponsive nature of Lady Errington roused his curiosity and made him anxious to learn more of her inner life.
A few days before the Errington dinner-party, Mrs. Trubbles so far overcame her disposition to sleep as to propose a day's shopping in Como to which Victoria eagerly agreed, being anxious to see as much local Lombardian colour as possible. On the morning of their proposed outing, however, Eustace, not being able to endure with equanimity the prospect of a whole afternoon in the company of Mrs. Trubbles, craftily betook himself on a boating excursion to the Villa Pliniana, so Otterburn nothing loth formed the sole escort of the two ladies, and this party of three were now standing in the Piazza awaiting the arrival of the steamer.
A large, fat, good-natured woman was Mrs. Trubbles, with a broad red face ever wearing a sleepy smile and a portly body arrayed in rainbow colours with plenty of jewellery. Everybody in town knew the birth, parentage, and bringing up of Mrs. Trubbles as her history had long ago passed the nine days' wonder of scandal, and was already somewhat stale and forgotten by all except her most intimate friends, who never forgot to remind the good-natured lady that she was noble only by the accident of marriage.
The Honourable Henry Trubbles was a detestable little man with a bass voice and an overweening vanity concerning his political capabilities, though he had long ago failed in diplomatic circles. A perusal of Beaconsfield's novels in his youth had fired his ambition to emulate their hero, and like a very second-rate Numa Pompilius he went to seek an Egeria who would inspire him with great ideas. The Hon. Henry, however, was so singularly plain in person and disagreeable in manner that no lady in his own rank of life would agree to help him to attain to the Cabinet, so not being able to secure rank he married money in the person of Miss Matilda Barsip, whose papa had made a fortune in army-contracting during the Crimean War. The noble house of which Trubbles was a cadet offered no opposition to the match, being rather glad to get the budding diplomatist settled and done for, so Miss Barsip was duly married with great pomp to her withered little stick of a lover, and six months after the army contractor had the good taste to die, leaving them all his money.
The Family, to whom Mrs. Trubbles always alluded in a tone of awe as to some unseen divinities, took the young couple up, and having floated them both into smooth social waters left them to carry on their lives in their own way, which they did. The Hon. Henry, now being in command of plenty of money, spent his life in hanging on to the outside fringe of politics and pretended to know all the secrets of the Cabinet, though as a matter of fact he was acquainted with nothing but what he learned through the medium of the papers. He tried to get into Parliament several times but was such a palpable idiot that no constituency would elect him, so Mr. Trubbles not being able to serve his country, which did not want him, fluttered round St. Stephen's, worried the ministers and bored the members so much that if they could have given him the Governorship of a nice yellow-fever island they certainly would have done so in order to get rid of him. All the Colonial Governors, however, were healthy at present, so the Honourable Henry stayed in town and exasperated everyone with his tea-cup statesmanship.
Mrs. Henry on her side had no ambition whatsoever, but drifted leisurely through life, spending her money in a comfortable homely kind of fashion. She was presented at Court on her marriage by the Dowager Duchess of Margate, but did not appreciate the honour, so never went near St. James' again in spite of the orders of Henry, who thought the appearance of his rich wife might improve his diplomatic prospects.
Notwithstanding the efforts of the Misses Wilkers, whose academy she had attended at Hampstead, English was not Mrs. Trubbles' strong point, and being a good-natured old soul, who never pretended to be anything else but what she was, the worthy Matilda was a great favourite with her social circle. Her dinners were always excellent, her dances pleasant and fashionable, and her portly person decked out in gay colours was to be seen at many places, though for the most part she preferred to rest in her own house whenever she got a chance.
"I'm too stout to be skipping about," she said candidly; "that worriting husband of mine is always hopping round like a cat on hot bricks, but for my part I like peace and quietness."
She was certainly a most popular lady, such as the men about Town called a "jolly good sort" and the ladies in Society approved of greatly, because she did not give herself airs above her position; so in spite of her defective English, her loud taste in dress, and the lowliness of her birth, the Hon. Mrs. Trubbles got on very well indeed, and had a good number of friends and no enemies, which says a good deal for her kindly disposition.
The trip to Italy had been undertaken at the suggestion of the Honourable Henry, who wanted to study some political question concerning the Great Powers, of which he knew absolutely nothing; so Matilda had also come with him to have a look at foreign parts, and had taken Victoria with her, by permission of Aunt Jelly.
"Where's Mr. Trubbles to-day?" asked Otterburn, digging his stick into the gravel.
"Oh, Henry," said Mrs. Trubbles placidly, looking at the water in a somnolent manner, "he's gone to Bell-baggio, I think."
"Bellaggio," corrected Victoria.
"Something like that," replied Mrs. Trubbles complacently. "Dear! dear! how curious these foreigners do talk!--they call a steamer a vapour-bottle, which is a curious name. Dear me, Mr. Macjean, what are you laughing at?"
Otterburn pulled himself up promptly, and had the grace to blush under the severe eye of Victoria.
"It'sbattello di vapore," he said lightly, "but indeed, Mrs. Trubbles, I'm as much at sea as you are about Italian. I prefer our gude Scottish tongue."
"Glesgay," suggested Victoria, whereat Angus made a gesture of horror.
"No! no I mean the language of Jeannie Deans, of Highland Mary, and of those Jacobite songs that sprang from the leal hearts of the people."
"I once sawRob Roy," observed Mrs. Trubbles heavily; "they were all dressed in tartans. I don't think the dress is very respectable myself."
"Then I'll never come before you in the garb of old Gaul," said Angus gaily.
"I should think it would suit you splendidly," said Miss Sheldon approvingly, glancing at his stalwart figure; "if you go to a fancy dress ball you must wear it."
Otterburn laughed, and promised to obey her commands, but at this moment the steamer drew in to the pier, and they were soon on board, steaming up to Como.
It was a beautiful morning, and as yet not too warm, the heat of the sun being tempered by the cool breeze, which, blowing from the shore, brought with it the resinous odours of fir and pine. On either side precipitous mountains towered up into the intense blue of the summer sky, the innumerable villas made pleasant spots of colour here and there, while the bosom of the lake, placidly treacherous, was of changeful hues, like the varying colours of a peacock's neck.
Plenty of tourists, in all sorts of extraordinary garbs, were on the deck of the steamer, chattering Italian, German, English, and French, according to their different nationalities, all laden with umbrellas, alpenstocks, Baedekers, luncheon-bags, marine glasses, and such-like evidences of travel. Mrs. Trubbles, having established herself in a comfortable corner, was trying to get a short sleep prior to facing the fatigues of Como, so Victoria and her attentive cavalier, being left to their own devices, began to talk about everyone and everything.
"How these tourists do hold on to their guide-books," said Victoria disdainfully, "one would think they'd be quite lost without them."
"Very likely they would," replied Otterburn, pulling his straw hat over his eyes with a yawn, "they have a prejudice against looking at any place without knowing all about it."
"It's such a trouble reading up all about cathedrals and pictures--I like to ask questions."
"Oh! guides!"
"No! no I--they're worse than Baedeker. They never stop talking, and their information is so scrappy."
"Extensive but not accurate," suggested Macjean with a laugh.
"I'm not sure even about the extensive part," observed Victoria gaily; "when I was in England I went to a cathedral--I won't mention names--and the verger had a cut-and-dried story about the place. When he finished his little narrative I began to ask him questions. You've no idea how exasperated he became, because he knew absolutely nothing, and at last said, in despair, 'Why, Miss, you must be an American.' I told him I was an Australian, so he promptly replied, 'Well, Miss, that's quite as bad--for questions.'"
As in duty bound, Angus laughed at this story, which was simple enough in itself, but the telling of it seemed to establish a more friendly feeling between them, of which this artful young man took full advantage, and began to point out the various objects of interest on the lake.
"You see that villa over there," he said in an official tone, "it belongs to the Visconti lot. They used to be Dukes of Milan, you know."
"Dear me! and why aren't they Dukes of Milan now?"
"Haven't the least idea," replied Angus, whose historical knowledge was of the vaguest description. "Napoleon, you know, I think he upset the apple-cart--turned them out, I mean. You see, Miss Sheldon, I'm like your verger--I know a stereotyped story, but if you ask me anything beyond I'm up a tree."
"You're a very honest guide, at all events," said Victoria with a smile. "What is that tower on the hill?"
"Oh, the castle of Baradello."
"And who was he?"
"Some ancient Johnnie, I believe," returned the young man carelessly, "a duke or a pirate, or a picture gallery, I forget which."
"Your information is most accurate," said Miss Sheldon gravely, putting up a large red sunshade, which cast a rosy reflection on her piquant face, "you must study Baedeker very closely."
Macjean laughed.
"How severe you are," he replied lightly, "but I've got such a beastly memory. It's like a sieve--but, I say, hadn't we better wake up Mrs. Trubbles? Here's Como--dirty place, isn't it?"
"Rather dingy," assented Victoria, surveying the untidy-looking town with its picturesque red roofs, above which arose the great Duomo like a great bubble. "What do you think, Mrs. Trubbles?"
"Eh? what, my dear?" said that lady, whom the stoppage of the steamer had aroused from a very comfortable slumber. "Very nice indeed. Like a picture I've got over the sideboard in the dining-room--but, dear me, how dirty the streets are! I'm afraid they haven't got a Board of Works. What does this man say?--Bill something--who is he talking to?"
"Biglietti," explained Victoria, as they paused at the gangway. "Tickets--you've got them, Mr. Macjean."
"Yes, here they are," said Angus, and, handing them to the officer in charge, they went ashore.
"What little men," said Victoria, catching sight of some of the military, "they look like tin soldiers."
"They don't seem very well fed," observed Mrs. Trubbles meditatively; "I don't think the food is good--very bad quality, I'm afraid. Dear me, there's a fountain."
"It's more like a squirt," said Otterburn laughing.
"Plenty of water about this place," pursued Mrs. Trubbles, putting up her eyeglass, "but I don't think these foreigners make enough use of it. Oh, dear! dear! what a dreadful smell, they really ought to look after the drains better. I'm so afraid of typhoid. Mr. Macjean, would you mind smoking?--it's safer."
Mr. Macjean was only too delighted, and having lighted a cigarette, was soon blowing wreaths of smoke as they all walked up one of the narrow streets, on their way to the Duomo.
"We must do the church, you know," remarked Angus with great gravity, "it's the big lion of Como--built by some one called Roderer or Rodari--I'm not certain about the name. Sounds like a champagne brand, doesn't it? It was built somewhere about the thirteenth or fourteenth century--I'm not sure which."
"You don't seem very sure of anything beyond the fact that there is a church," said Miss Sheldon disparagingly, "and as it's straight before you, we can be certain it exists. They say it's all built of white marble."
"It doesn't look like it then," remarked Mrs. Trubbles emphatically, "a good coat of paint wouldn't hurt it."
"Oh, that would spoil it," chorused both the young people, whereupon Mrs. Trubbles shook her head, and held firmly to her original suggestion.
Having admired the ornate front, with its delicate Renaissance carvings they went out of the burning sunshine into the cool twilight of the cathedral.
Some service was going on as they entered, and in the dim distance they saw the high altar glittering with gold and silver ornaments, beneath gorgeous draperies of yellow damask depending from the ceiling, and innumerable tapers flared like beautiful glittering stars against the brilliant background.
Numbers of worshippers, with bent heads, were kneeling on the chill marble pavement, telling their beads, or silently moving their lips in prayer, while a priest in splendid vestments, attended by a long train of white-robed acolytes, officiated at the altar, and at intervals the melodious thunder of the organ broke through the monotonous voices of the choir. Placid-looking images of saints, dusky pictures of the Virgin throned amid the hierarchy of heaven, before which burned the lambent flames of slender white candles, many-coloured tapestries representing biblical scenes, heavy gold brocaded hangings, elaborately-carved shrines and the sudden flash of precious metals and strangely-set jewels appeared in every nook and corner of the immense building, while from the silver censers of the acolytes arose the drowsy incense, in white clouds of sensuous perfume, towards the gilded splendour of the huge dome. Here, from the lofty roof, the rapt faces of Evangelists, saints, angels and virgins, looked gravely downward; there, slender shafts of sunlight, streaming in through the painted windows, tinted the white monuments of the dead with rainbow hues, and under all this subdued splendour of colour and beauty, softened by the dusky twilight, knelt a mixed congregation. Bare-footedcontadinifrom distant hill villages, devoutly told their beads next to some dark-visaged soldier in all the bravery of military trappings, and delicately beautiful ladies, arrayed in the latest Milanese fashion, knelt beside bare-breasted peasants with sinewy figures full of the lithe grace and suppressed fierceness of Italian manhood.
"I wonder what Mactab would say to all this?" muttered Otterburn involuntarily, as he thought of the severe humility and bareness of the Kirk o' Tabbylugs.
"Who is Mactab?" asked Victoria in a subdued whisper. Angus chuckled quietly.
"Did I never tell you of Mactab?" he whispered--"oh! I must. He's a prominent minister of the Free Kirk, of the severest principles."
"What are his principles?"
"Eh! what? Oh, he hasn't got any principals! He's a Free Kirk, I tell you. All this heathenish worship would make him take a fit. He believes in nothing, not even an organ, so the Mactab congregation sing dreadfully out of tune, but they make up for this by strength of lungs. They could give that wheezy old 'kist o' whustles' fits in psalmody."
At this moment Mrs. Trubbles, who had been gazing complacently about her with the same sort of interest as she would have taken in a theatre, intimated that she had seen enough, and led the way out into the hot sunshine.
"I'm rather tired of churches," said the matron in her deep voice "we've seen such a lot of them in France."
"Oh, France isn't in it with Italy in that line," observed Angus, in his slangy way. "There are more churches than public-houses here."
"Well, that's a very good thing," replied Victoria.
"I should think so, considering how thin the wines are," retorted Macjean, pausing before a variegated kind of arcade; "but look here--this is the market."
"Oh, how pretty!" cried Victoria, noting the picturesque colouring of the different piles of fruit--"just like a scene out of Romeo and Juliet."
"And there is Juliet said the Master wickedly, waving his stick in the direction of a ponderous female who was leaning from a projecting iron balcony chattering to a lady below with shrill volubility over some skinny-looking poultry.
"Juliet in her old age buying Romeo's dinner," replied Victoria, serenely. "Don't, please, take the romance out of everything."
"No; I leave that to Gartney."
"Horrid man!" said the girl, viciously; "he would disillusionise an angel."
"There are one or two things, my dear Victoria," observed Mrs. Trubbles at this moment--"there are one or two things I should like to take home with me as a kind of mementum of Italy. A fan or a shell-box--you know, dear; a box with 'A Present from Como' on it. Now, what is the Italian for 'A Present from Como'?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Sheldon, suppressing a smile. "However, here's an old curiosity shop. Let us go in and spy out the land."
"I can't talk the language myself," said Mrs. Trubbles, doubtfully, as her bulky figure filled up the door, "but Victoria----"
"Is much worse," interrupted that young lady, quickly. "I know French, but not Italian, except parrot-like in singing. Now Mr. Macjean----"
"I'm worst of all," explained Otterburn, in the most brazen manner. "'Questo e troppo' is all I know."
"Translate, please."
"It means 'That is too much."
"A very good sentence to know," said the matron, decidedly. "I believe these foreign people are rarely honest. I shall learn it--'Question he troppus.' Is that right?"
"Not quite; only three words wrong. 'Questo e troppo.'"
"'Questo e troppo,'" repeated Mrs. Trubbles, carefully. "What a pity these foreigners don't learn English. It's so much better than their own gibberish."
"I'm afraid we'll have to go in for the primitive language of signs," cried Victoria gaily, as they stood in front of the diminutive counter behind which a smiling Italian was gesticulating politely.
It would take a long time to describe the difficulties of that shopping. How the shopkeeper, assisted by his tragic-looking wife, raved wildly in Italian, and his three customers endeavoured vainly to find out what they both meant. Sometimes one person would speak, then the other four would join in, the most powerful voice taking the lead. What with "Gran' Dio's" and "Per Bacco's" from the sellers, and "Basta, basta," "Questo e troppo," and "Si, si" from the buyers, the whole transaction was quite operatic in character.
Mrs. Trubbles' system of shopping was very simple.
When the shopkeeper said two lire, she replied one; if he requested five, she offered four, always keeping the price down, being convinced in her own mind that these foreigners were trying to swindle her, an idea abhorrent to her sturdy British spirit.
"I've got a conversation book somewhere," she said at last, fishing in a capacious pocket; "it's got questions in three languages."
"And the truth in none," observed Angus,sotto voce.
"Oh, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Trubbles, producing a kind of pamphlet. "Here, Mister Signor," holding up an olive-wood paper-cutter, "Wie viel."
A shrug of the shoulders and a gesture of dismay from the shopkeeper, who did not understand German.
"Why, he doesn't know his own language!" said Mrs. Trubbles, with great contempt. "They need a School Board here."
"I think," suggested Victoria, who was suffocating with laughter, "I think you are talking German."
"Dear! dear! you don't say so?" said the lady meekly, somewhat after the fashion of M. Jourdain, who had talked prose for years and did not know it. "Yes, quite right. These books are so muddling. Where's the Italian? Oh, here; 'Quanto, quanto?'" shaking the paper-cutter frantically. "Quanto, signor?"
"Tre lire."
"Bother the man! I'm not talking about a tray!" cried Mrs. Trubbles, in an exasperated tone. "Here!--this! Use your eyes. Paper-cutter. 'Papero cuttero. Quanto?'"
"Tre lire, signora."
"He means three francs," explained Victoria.
"Oh, does he. I'll give him two."
"Questo e troppo," said Otterburn, bringing forward his only bit of Italian with great ostentation. "Two--due--lire, signor. Ah, che la morte."
"No, no," from the shopkeeper, "non e molto."
"Now what does that mean?" cried the matron, referring to her text-book. "Here it is: 'not much,'--si, si; far too much, too molto, due--due lire," producing them triumphantly from her purse.
With many deprecating shrugs and asseverations in fluent Italian that such a sale would ruin him, the shopkeeper at last accepted the two lire, and Mrs. Trubbles with great satisfaction secured what she wanted. They then bought a few more things by pursuing the same system of beating down the prices, and all three ultimately left the shop with the firm conviction that they had secured bargains, which they decidedly had not.
"These pigs of English," observed the astute shopkeeper to his wife, "always talk a lot, but they pay in the end."
Then the three innocents abroad wandered aimlessly through the narrow streets, saw the statue of the great electrician, Volta, the ruined battlements, the church of St. Abbondio, and other objects of interest. Afterwards they had some refreshment at a café, the proprietors of which Mrs. Trubbles, who was a spendthrift in London but a miser abroad, denounced as robbers, and then were fortunate enough to catch a steamer just starting for Cernobbio.
"Oh dear! dear!" moaned Mrs. Trubbles, with a weary sigh, as she sat down in a comfortable seat--"what with their language, their lies, and their nobby-stone streets, I'm quite worn out."
"I think one visit is quite enough for Como," said Victoria, as the town receded into the far distance. "When do we leave this place, Mrs. Trubbles?"
"In a week, dear," murmured the lady in a sleepy tone. "My husband will get all his politics settled by that time, I hope."
"I hope so, too. I'm tired of the lakes."
"Don't say that," said Otterburn, reproachfully; "I'll be sorry to leave the Villa Medici."
"You needn't. We can go; you can stay."
"I don't want to stay if you go."
Clearly this obtuse young man was irrepressible, and as he was now getting on dangerous ground again, Victoria deftly turned the conversation.
"I suppose we'll see you and Mr. Gartney at Rome?"
"Oh, yes. Will you be glad to see us?"
"Perhaps. I don't like Mr. Gartney; I've told you so a dozen times."
"Then will you be glad to see me?" demanded Otterburn, boldly.
Victoria looked at him mischievously, with a dangerous gleam in her dark eyes, then lowering her sunshade with a laugh, she turned abruptly away.
"I shall be glad when we arrive at the Villa Medici," she said, lightly; "I'm so hungry."
How on earth was a young man to make love to such a capricious girl?
"An alien race beneath an alien sky,Amid strange tongues, and faces strange alone,Stout English hearts who for the moment tryTo form a little England of their own."
"An alien race beneath an alien sky,Amid strange tongues, and faces strange alone,Stout English hearts who for the moment tryTo form a little England of their own."
After the constant sight of dark Italian faces, and the everlasting clatter of restless Italian tongues, the guests at the Villa Tagni found it pleasant to form part of an English circle once more, to eat an English dinner, to discuss English subjects and compare everything British to the disadvantage of all things Continental. So great a delight did these six people take in meeting one another at a hospitable dinner-table that one would have thought they had been for years exiled in the centre of Africa, and far removed from all civilizing influences. Heaven only knows there is no lack of English tourists on the Continent, but then to a great extent they preserve their insular stiffness towards one another; consequently when people meet in foreign parts, who have a slight acquaintance at home, they rush into one another's arms with tender affection, though they would mutually consider one another insufferable bores during the London season.
This, however, was not the case with Lady Errington's guests, who were all genuinely delighted with one another, and chatted gaily on different kinds of subjects as if they had been bosom friends all their lives. The Hon. Henry had been invited on account of his wife, who in her turn had been invited on account of Victoria, but having gone to Milan to see an Italian Count who had all the complications of European politics at his fingers' ends, he telegraphed the sad news that he would not be able to be present, at which Lady Errington was secretly very glad, as an extra man would have quite upset the balance of the party.
As it was, Sir Guy took in the portly Mrs. Trubbles to dinner, his wife was escorted by Eustace, and the Master of Otterburn realised the wish of his heart by acting as cavalier to Miss Sheldon. So things being thus pleasantly arranged, they all sat round the well spread table as merry a party as it would be possible to find.
In some mysterious manner Lady Errington had managed to provide a series of English dishes, to which all present did ample justice, not that anyone was particularly a gourmand, but Italian cookery is a trifle monotonous and a real English dinner in Italy is something to be appreciated. At all events, what with the food, the wine, and the continuous strain of light badinage, all the guests were in a state of the highest good humour, and even the pessimistic Gartney deigned to take a moderately charitable view of things.
"This is jolly and no mistake," said Otterburn, as the servant filled his glass with champagne, "you need to go abroad to appreciate home comforts."
"I think you would appreciate them anywhere," remarked Eustace the cynic.
"And quite right too," chimed in Miss Sheldon, with a gay laugh, "everybody does, only they don't like to confess it."
"Why not?" demanded Sir Guy.
Victoria looked rather nonplussed for the moment, having made an idle statement without thinking she would be called upon to give her reasons.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, after some hesitation. "I suppose people like to be thought romantic, and thinking about what you eat and drink isn't romantic."
"It's very sensible at all events," said Lady Errington; "do you not agree with me Mrs. Trubbles?"
"I do," replied the matron ponderously, nodding her head, upon which was perched a cheerful-looking cap of black lace and glittering bugles, "people should always eat and drink well at meal times, but no nibblin's in between. It isn't nature to despise good food well-cooked. I've no patience with those gells who starve themselves and pinch their waists to look pretty. Wasps I call them."
"Without the sting," suggested Sir Guy.
"That depends on their tempers, and their tempers," continued Mrs. Trubbles impressively, "depend on their eating. Give them good meals and plenty of exercise, and there's the makin' of good wives about them. Let them starve themselves and lace tight, and it makes their noses red and their tempers cross."
"The whole duty of woman then," murmured Eustace demurely, "is to appreciate her cook and disobey her dressmaker. They might do the first, but never the second."
Mrs. Trubbles, not understanding irony, looked doubtfully at Eustace to see if he was smiling, but so grave was the expression of his face that she did not know whether he spoke in jest or earnest, so without making any reply, she continued her meal while the conversation became frivolous and general.
"I think Italy a very over-rated place."
"Really! In what respect--morals, scenery, manners?"
"No, as regards music. It's a very barrel-organy country."
"Not more so than the London streets. And after all, `Ah che la Morte,' is more musical than 'Tommy make room for your uncle."
"Both out of date."
"Well, say Gounod's 'Romeo and Juliet' and the 'Boulanger March."
"Yes, it's much jollier than the Op. 42andante adagio con fuoco prestissimosort of things they give you at the Richter Concerts."
"Maclean," observed Eustace, gravely regarding his glass, "you are a Philistine, and classical music of the advanced school is thrown away on your uncultivated ear."
"No doubt! I prefer 'Auld Lang Syne' to Beethoven."
"Naturally, being a Scotchman. You're like the man who knew two tunes. One was 'God save the Queen,' the other--wasn't."
"I remember," observed Mrs. Trubbles, whose ideas of music were primitive in the extreme, "that I went to a concert at St. James' Hall, where they played something called a fuggy."
"A fugue," translated Victoria for the benefit of the company. "I know! One tune starts, a second catches it up. Then a third joins in, and just as it successfully muddles up the other two, a fourth and a fifth have their say in the matter."
"Sounds dreadfully mixed."
"Then it sounds exactly what it is," said Miss Sheldon promptly. "But what about this particular fugue, Mrs. Trubbles?"
"The fugue, dear--yes, of course. There was a young man in front of me wriggled dreadfully. I thought he was uneasy about a pin, but he was only showing how pleased he was with the music, and kept calling out 'Oh this is food!'"
"Wanted the bottle, I expect," said Eustace sweetly, "such musical babies shouldn't be allowed to go to classical concerts. It's too much for their nerves."
"It's too much for mine," remarked Otterburn grimly. "After dinner," said Gartney, looking thoughtfully at him, "I shall play the 'Moonlight Sonata.'"
"In that case, Lady Errington, may I stay out on the terrace? Such a suggestion is inhuman."
Lady Errington laughed and gave the signal to the ladies, whereupon they all arose to their feet.
"I'm afraid you're talking dreadful nonsense," she said, shaking her head.
"It's a poor heart that never rejoiceth," replied Otterburn impudently, as he opened the door for the ladies to depart.
Following the Continental fashion, Sir Guy and his guests did not linger long over their wine, but, after a few minutes, went into the drawing-room, whence they strolled on to the terrace for cigarettes and coffee.
Mrs. Trubbles, feeling sleepy after her dinner, found a comfortable chair in a distant corner of the room, and went placidly to sleep, while the remaining guests established themselves on the terrace, the gentlemen with cigarettes and the ladies with coffee.
Such a perfect night as it was. Away in the distance, dense and black against the cold, clear sky, frowned the sombre masses of mountains, above which hung in a cloudless firmament the silver shield of the moon. Here and there a liquid star throbbed in the deep heart of the heavens, and overhead shone the misty splendour of the Milky Way; not a breath of wind ruffled the still surface of the lake, which reflected the serene beauty of the sky, but at intervals across the star-smitten surface would move the dark, slim form of a boat, the oars breaking the water into thousands of flashing diamonds.
Far beyond glimmered the orange-coloured lights of Blevio, and the sudden whiteness of some tall campanile shooting up in slender beauty from amid its dark mass of surrounding houses. A sense of perfect fragrance in the still air, a charmed silence all around, and a wondrous restful feeling under the cool magic of the night. Then, mellowed by distance, faint and far like aerial music, the silver tones of a peal of bells sounded at intervals through the clear atmosphere, until the whole night seemed full of sweet sounds.
"This is the night when Diana kisses Endymion," said Eustace dreamily, "the antique deities which we all deny are still on earth in Italy. They are not visible, nor will they ever be so save to the eye of faith alone. Even then they are doubtful of revealing themselves to a generation who would put them under the microscope and on the dissecting table. But although we try hard to disbelieve in their existence, the spell of their beauty is sometimes too strong, and I never go anywhere among these hills without a secret hope of finding Pan asleep at noontide in the ilex shade, or of seeing the laughing face of a Dryad framed in tamarisk leaves."
"And your hope is never realised," said Lady Errington sadly; "that is so true of our modern desires."
"Because we always desire the impossible," replied Eustace, clasping his hands over his knees while the chill moonlight fell on his massive face, "and expect to find it in crowded cities under the glare of gaslight, instead of in these magic solitudes where the moon shines on haunted ground."
"But is it possible to reconcile man and Nature?"
"According to Matthew Arnold, yes."
"What a romantic way you have of looking at things, Mr. Gartney," remarked Victoria with some impatience. "If everyone took your view of life, I'm afraid the world would not get on."
"It's all humbug," cried Otterburn, who agreed in every way with Miss Sheldon, "that is, you know, not quite sensible."
"I daresay it is not--in a worldly sense," said Eustace bitterly, "but then you see I don't look at everything from a purely utilitarian point of view."
"I do" interposed Guy in his hearty British voice, "it's the only way to get one's comforts in life. And one's comforts suggest smoking."
Otterburn assented with avidity, for they had been sitting with cigarettes for some time, but never lighted up, and even Eustace departed so much from his poetic dreamings as to accept the soothing weed.
"You don't practise what you preach, Mr. Gurney," said Lady Errington, smiling.
"How many of us do?" asked Gartney complacently. "I'm afraid we talk a lot and do nothing, now-a-days. It's the disease of the latter end of the nineteenth century."
"Oh, everything's very jolly," said Otterburn, who resembled Mark Tapley in his disposition. "Who was it said that this was the best of all possible worlds?"
"Voltaire! But by that it was not his intention to infer he didn't yearn after some better world."
"Heaven!"
"I don't think that was in M. Arouet's line."
"I'm afraid it isn't in any of our lines."
"What a rude remark," said Lady Errington severely. "This conversation is becoming so atheistical that I must ask Mr. Gartney to carry out his promise and play the Moonlight Sonata. It may inspire us with higher thoughts."
"The Como Moonlight Sonata--it will be a local hit."
"What nonsense you do talk, Macjean," said Eustace rising to his feet and throwing his cigarette into the water, "you're like that man in the Merchant of Venice."
"What man in the Merchant of Venice?"
"Oh, if you don't know your Shakespeare, I'm afraid I can't teach it to you," retorted Eustace, and stepping lightly across the terrace, he sat down at the piano, which was placed near the window of the drawing-room, and ran his fingers lightly over the ivory keys. Within the party on the terrace could see the gleam of the marble floor, the dull glitter of heavily embroidered curtains, the faint reflection of a mirror, and over all the rosy light of a red-shaded lamp the glare of which streamed out into the pale moonlight.
Everyone sat silently in the wonderful mystic world created by the magic of the moon, and from the piano a stream of melody, sad and melancholy, in a minor key, broke forth on the still night. The spell of the shadows, the weirdness of the hour, and the presence of Lady Errington, to whom he felt strangely drawn, all had their influence on Gartney's wonderfully impressionable nature, and he began to improvise delicate melodies on a story suggested to him by the calm lake gleaming without.
"In the crystal depths of the blue lake," he chanted in a dreamy monotone, while the subtle harmonies wove themselves under his long lithe fingers, "there dwells a beautiful fairy, in a wondrous palace. She is in love with the nightingale who sings so sweetly from the laurels that hang their green leaves over the still waters. The voice of the hidden singer has strange power and tells her of the cool green depths of the forest; of the rich perfumes shaken from the flowers by the gentle night-wind, and of the ruined shrines from whence the gods have fled. As the passionate notes well forth from amid the dusky shadows the eyes of the beautiful fairy fill with hot tears, for she knows that the bird sings of a long dead love, of a long dead sorrow. But she has no soul, the beautiful fairy, and cannot feel the rapture, the passion, the sadness of love. She rises to the glittering surface of the lake, and waves her slender white arms to the nightingale that sings so sweetly in the moonlight. But the dawn breaks rosy in the eastern skies, the rough wind of the morning whitens the lake, and the nightingale sings no more. Then the beautiful fairy, broken-hearted, sinks far down into the placid waters, to where there blooms strange flowers of wondrous hues, and weeps, and weeps, and weeps for the love which she can never feel without a soul."
A chord, and the player let his hands fall from the keyboard.
"That is a beautiful story, such as Heine might have told," said Lady Errington softly.
"The inspiration is Heine," replied Eustace dreamily, and relapsed into silence.
Victoria, eminently a woman of the world, grew weary of this poetical talk and made a sign to Otterburn, who, understanding her meaning, arose to his feet as she left her chair, and they strolled along the terrace laughing gaily. A sound from within showed that Mrs. Trubbles was once more awake, so Guy in his capacity of host went inside to attend to her, and Eustace, sitting at the piano, was left alone with Lady Errington.
So frail, so pale, so ethereal she looked in the thin cold beams of the moon, lying back, still and listless, in her wicker chair, with her hands crossed idly on her white dress. The man at the piano was in the radiance of the rosy lamplight, but the woman, dreaming in the silence, looked a fitter inhabitant for this weird, white world of mystery and chilly splendour. Watching her closely, even in the distance, Eustace caught a glimpse of her eyes for the moment, and fancied, with the vivid imagination of a poet, that he saw in their depths that undefinable look of unfulfilled motherhood which had led him to call her an "incomplete Madonna."
Filled with this idea, a sudden inspiration of ascertaining the truth seized him, and without changing his position, he replaced his fingers on the ivory keys and broke into the steady rhythmical swing of a cradle song.
His voice was a small sweet tenor, not very loud, but wonderfully soft and sympathetic, so that he rendered the song he now sang with rare delicacy and tenderness.