"Alas, yes," said John, "a mere American. And one of the earliest
creations,--by James the First, no less. His patent dates from 1612. But
he doesn't use the title. He regards it, he pretends, as merged in a
higher dignity."
"What higher dignity?" asked the lady, frowning.
"That of an American citizen, he says," chuckled John.
"Brrr!" she breathed, impatient.
"And moreover," John gaily continued, "besides being descended from the
Pilgrim Fathers, he's descended in other lines from half the peerage of
Seventeenth Century England. And to top up with, if you please, he's
descended from Alfred the Great. He's only an American, but he can show
a clear descent bang down from Alfred the Great! I think the most
exquisite, the most subtle and delicate pleasure I have ever experienced
has been to see English people, people of yesterday, cheerfully
patronizing him."
"You've enlarged my sphere of knowledge," said Lady Blanchemain, grimly.
"I had never known that there was blood in America. Does this prodigious
personage talk through his nose?"
"Worse luck, no," said John. "I wish he did--a little--just enough to
smack of his soil, to possess local colour. No, he talks for all the
world like you or me,--which exposes him to compliments in England. 'An
American? Really?' our tactful people cry, when he avows his nationality
'Upon my word, I should never have suspected it.'"
"I suppose, with all the rest, he's rich?" asked Lady Blanchemain.
"Immensely," assented John. "Speaking of Fortune and her favours, she's
withheld none from him."
"Then he's good-looking, too?"
"He looks like a Man," said John.
"Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain, moving. "If _I_ had received a wire from a
creature of such proportions, I've a feeling I'd answer it."
"I've a very similar feeling myself," laughed John. "When we turn back,
if you think your coachman can be persuaded to stop at the telegraph
office in the village, I'll give my feeling effect."
"I think we might turn back now," said Lady Blanchemain. "It's getting
rather gloomy here." She looked round, with a little shudder, and then
gave the necessary order. The valley had narrowed to what was scarcely
more than a defile between two dark and rugged hillsides,
--pine-covered hillsides that shut out the sun, smiting the air with
chill and shadow, and turning the Rampio, whose brawl seemed somehow to
increase the chill, turning the sparkling, sportive Rampio to the colour
of slate. "It puts one in mind of brigands," she said, with another
little shudder. But though the air was chilly, it was wonderfully,
keenly fragrant with the incense of the pines.
"Well," she asked, when they were facing homewards, "and your woman?
What of her?"
"Nothing," said John. "Or, anyhow, very little." (It would be extremely
pleasant, he felt suddenly, to talk of her; but at the same time he felt
an extreme reluctance to let his pleasure be seen.)
"But your private detective?" said Lady Blanchemain. "Weren't her
investigations fruitful?"
"Not very," said he. "She learnt little beyond her name and age."
"And what _is_ her name?" asked the lady.
"Her name is Maria Dolores," answered John, (and he experienced a secret
joy, strange to him, in pronouncing it).
"Maria Dolores?" said Lady Blanchemain, (and he experienced a secret joy
in hearing it). "Maria Dolores--what?"
"My detective didn't discover her Pagan name," said John.
"So that you are still in doubt whether she's the daughter of a miller?"
Lady Blanchemain raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, no: I think she's a miller's daughter safely enough," said he. "But
she's an elaborately chiselled and highly polished one. Her voice is
like ivory and white velvet; and to hear her speak English is a
revelation of the hidden beauties of that language."
"Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain, eyeing him. "So you've advanced to the
point of talking with her?"
"Well," answered John, weighing his words, "I don't know whether I can
quite say that. But accident threw us together for a minute or two this
afternoon, and we could scarcely do less, in civility, than exchange the
time of day."
"And are you in love with her?" asked Lady Blanchemain.
"I wonder," said he. "What do _you_ think? Is it possible for a man to
be in love with a woman he's seen only half a dozen times all told, and
spoken with never longer than a minute or two at a stretch?"
"_Was_ it only a minute or two--_really_?" asked Lady Blanchemain,
wooing his confidence with a glance.
"No," said John. "It was probably ten minutes, possibly fifteen. But
they passed so quickly, it's really nearer the truth to describe them as
one or two."
Lady Blanchemain shifted her sunshade, and screwed herself half round,
so as to face him, her soft old eyes full of smiling scrutiny and
suspicion.
"I never can tell whether or not you're serious," she complained. "If
you _are_ serious,--well, _à quand le mariage_?"
"The marriage?" cried John. "How could I marry her? Such a thing's out
of all question.
"Why?" asked she.
"A miller's daughter!" said John. "Would you have me marry the daughter
of a miller?"
"You said yourself yesterday--" the lady reminded him.
"Ah, yes," said he. "But night brings counsel."
"If she's well educated," said Lady Blanchemain, "if she's well-bred,
what does it matter about her father? Though a nobody in Austria, where
nothing counts but quarterings, he's probably what we'd call a gentleman
in England. Suppose he's a barrister? Or the editor of a newspaper?
Or--"
She paused, thoughtful-eyed, to think of respectable professions. At
last she gave up the effort.
"Well, anything decent," she concluded, "so long as he had plenty of
money."
"Ah," said John, sadly, and with perhaps mock humility. "If he had
plenty of money, he'd never consent to his daughter marrying a son of
poverty like me."
"Pooh! For a title?" cried Lady Blanchemain. "Besides, you have
prospects. Isn't your name Prospero?"
"I have precious little faith in oracles," said John.
"I advise you to have more," said Lady Blanchemain, with a smile that
seemed occult.
And now her carriage entered the village, and she put him down at the
telegraph office.
"Don't wait," said John. "The walk from here to the Castle is nothing,
and it would take you out of your way."
"Well, good-bye, then," said she. "And cultivate more faith in
oracles--when they're auspicious."
Alone, she drew from some recondite fold of her many draperies a letter,
an unsealed letter, which she opened, spread out, and proceeded to read.
It was a long letter in her ladyship's own handsome, high-bred,
old-fashioned handwriting; and it was addressed to Messrs. Farrow,
Bernscot, and Tisdale, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. She
read it twice through, and at last (with a smile that seemed occult)
restored it to its envelope. "Stop at the Post Office," she said to her
coachman, as they entered Roccadoro; and to her footman, giving him the
letter, "Have that registered, please."
Annunziata lay in wait for John in the garden. She ran up, and seized
him by the arm. Then, skipping beside him, as he walked on, "Who was
she? Where did she come from? Where did she take you? Whom was the
telegram from?" she demanded in a breath, nestling her curls against his
coat-sleeve.
"_Piano, piano_," remonstrated John. "One question at a time. Now, begin
again."
"Whom was the telegram from?" she obeyed, beginning at the end.
"Ah," said he, "the telegram was from _my_ friend Prospero. He's coming
here to-morrow. We must ask your uncle whether he can give him a bed."
"And the old lady?" pursued Annunziata. "Who was she?"
"The old lady was my fairy godmother," said John, building better than
he knew.