For a minute she stood with the sealed envelope in her hand, looking
down at her name in Hannaford's clearly formed, thick, and very black
handwriting. She had received two or three notes from him, and in spite
of their friendship had tossed them indifferently away as soon as read.
But that was before their luncheon together at the Rochers Rouges. Since
then he had not written. Mary wished now that she had kept his letters,
and her heart was heavy with remorse because she had thought very seldom
about him since her need of his sympathy no longer existed. How selfish
and cruel she had been!
The girl made a sudden movement as if to break the seal pressed by
Hannaford's ring, but paused, and taking a hatpin from her hat carefully
cut the envelope across the top. Pulling out the folded sheet of paper
she turned away even from Vanno, making an excuse that she must have
more light.
My One Friend [Hannaford's letter began]: You have many friends,
and that is as it should be, but I have only one human being dear
enough to be called by the good name of "friend": _You._ And that's
why I am writing you now. There's nobody else I care to write to;
but somehow I want you to know that I haven't got a very long lease
of life. Doctors tell me this. My heart isn't much good for the
ordinary everyday uses a man wants to put his heart to, and soon it
may decide to strike work. I feel sure this verdict is a true one,
but I wouldn't bother you with my presentiments if it weren't for a
certain thing which concerns your future. I may wake up dead--as
the Irishman remarked--any morning, and I want you to have whatever
is mine to leave behind me. You mustn't object to this, for it's
the one thought that gives me pleasure; and honestly there's no one
else to whom I can bequeath my worldly goods. All I have worth
giving is the Château Lontana and just enough money to make it
habitable. I am writing this letter there, on the loggia I told you
about. I used to wish it could be arranged for you to come and see
my big new toy. I was pretty sure you would like it, for I
felt--though you never told me so--that you cared a great deal for
beautiful and romantic things.
The Château Lontana in its poetic wilderness of garden is both
romantic and beautiful. You could never manage to come; but that
doesn't matter now, if I may think of you there when the place is
yours. Of course I may hang on in this weary vale for years, but I
hope not, because (as I've mentioned more than once) even if I
haven't outstayed my welcome, I'm getting more than a little tired
of the entertainment provided by that "host who murders all his
guests"--the World.
If I should drop off suddenly, you will find my will in the hands
of Signor Antonio Nicolini, via Roma, Ventimiglia. He's a nice
little Italian lawyer whom I've made my man of business lately. He
has all my affairs in charge. It will be the greatest favour and
kindness you can do me, if you will take this house I loved but
never lived in. This I hope you will do for my sake--the sake of a
friend. You know you promised that day at the Rochers Rouges to
grant me a favour, and I hold you to your word. Another request I
venture to make, you must grant only if you don't find the idea
repugnant. It oughtn't to matter much to me one way or the other,
and it shall be as you choose, but I should like when my body's
cremated (that is to be done in any case) to have my ashes lie at
the south end of the garden, where some steps are cut in the rock
coming out at a wonderful viewpoint. If after death one can see
what goes on in this world, it would console me for much to know of
your coming sometimes to the Château Lontana, and perhaps sitting
on that old stone seat on the rock-platform at the bottom of those
steps. There is a wall of rock above the seat, and if a small niche
could be cut there for an urn, with a tablet of marble to mark the
spot, it would please my fancy. Should you decide to gratify the
whim, please have no name carved on the marble, but only a verse
you quoted that day at the Rochers Rouges. I think you told me it
was by a Scottish poet, whom you liked; and I said the words had in
them a strange undertone of music like a lullaby: the sound of the
sea, and the sadness and mystery of the sea. You will remember. It
was after luncheon was over, but we were still at the table, and
you sat with your elbow on the low wall, looking down into the
water.
You are not to suppose, though, that because I speak of the sadness
of the sea, I am sad in the thought that soon I may be gone where I
can no longer hear its voice. I am not sad, and you must not be sad
either at my talk of dying, or at my death when it comes. Think of
me, but not with sadness. Do not come to see my body before it's
given to the burning: do not come to my funeral. I don't want a
funeral, for though I am not without a religion of my own, it's one
that does not lend itself to ceremonies. As for the mystery of the
sea, it and all other mysteries which are hidden from us now will
soon, I trust, be clear to
Your ever loyal, faithful friend,
JOHN HANNAFORD.
Long before she reached the end tears were raining down Mary's face. She
could not read the letter aloud, yet she wanted the others to know what
Hannaford had said. On an impulse she handed the closely covered sheet
to Mrs. Winter.
Rose took the letter, and read it out, not quite steadily. For a few
seconds no one spoke, when she had finished. But at last she asked in a
veiled voice what was the verse Hannaford wished to have on the tablet.
The question seemed to Mary the only one she could have answered at that
moment.
Almost in a whisper she began to repeat the verse of Fiona Macleod, for
which, she remembered, Hannaford had begged twice over, as they two sat
on the palm-roofed terrace built over the sea:
"'Play me a lulling chant, O Anthem-Maker,
Out of the fall of lonely seas and the wind's sorrow.
Behind are the burning glens of the sunset sky
Where, like blown ghosts, the seamews
Wail their desolate sea dirges.
Make now of these a lulling chant,
O Anthem-Maker.'"
"That is all?" asked George Winter.
"That is all," Mary echoed.
"I think I understand why a man might want just those words for a last
lullaby," Vanno said. "You'll do as he asks, I know, Mary, about the urn
and the tablet with the verse, and going there to sit and think of him
sometimes."
"Oh, yes, I will do that," she replied quickly. "But--I don't think I
can do the other thing. I _can't_ live in his house. Anyway, I can't
live in it with you, Vanno. It would be----" She did not finish. To have
ended the sentence would have been the same as telling Hannaford's
secret.
"I understand," Vanno said. But it was in Mary's mind that he did not
and could not wholly understand. She did not even want him to
understand. "You needn't live there," he went on. "Yet you can visit the
place sometimes, from our 'castle in the air'; and maybe we can think of
a way to use the house, if you accept it, which Hannaford would
approve."
"You can hardly refuse to accept it now Captain Hannaford is dead," said
Rose. "Not to do what he so much hoped you would do for his sake would
be--almost treacherous."
"Yes, it seems to me you're bound to take his gift," George Winter
added. "If you don't want to live in the house, why not make it a home
of rest for women workers who are tired or ill, and need a few weeks of
warmth and sunshine, but can't afford even cheap pension prices?"
"Next season we might get up a bazaar to support such a home," Rose
suggested, warming to the scheme.
"Perhaps I could support it myself," Mary said, "if Vanno would consent.
I haven't lost much more than my Casino winnings, and I should like to
do some one good. I've ever so much money of my own. I know very little
about such things, but I believe I must be quite rich. And then there's
the jewellery I've bought since I came here. I've lost interest in it
already. I could sell some to help the Home, couldn't I? The only things
I really care for are the pearls, which I have on now under my dress;
and the rest I mean to leave with you, Mrs. Winter, if you don't mind,
instead of troubling to take the jewel-case over to the Villa Mirasole."
"Of course I don't mind," Rose said, "except that it's a responsibility.
However, thieves aren't looking for 'big hauls' in parsons' houses. I'll
store the jewel-case with pleasure; but you must keep the key of the
cabinet, lest you should want to open it some day when I am out."
Then they went back to the subject of the Château Lontana, planning how
to carry out Hannaford's wishes, even though Mary felt it would be
impossible to live in the house. George Winter volunteered to arrange
all details concerning the funeral urn and the placing of the tablet,
because he had learned to feel an affection for Mary Grant which was
almost that of a brother for a very young and beautiful sister. He
wanted her, in spite of all, to be happy in her visit to Princess Della
Robbia, happy as she could not be if constantly reminded of Hannaford
and his tragedy. He offered also to see the lawyer at Ventimiglia, so
that Vanno, who proposed soon to go to Rome, might spend his time
meanwhile at the Villa Mirasole.
"Don't thank me," the chaplain said at last. "It is but little I'm
engaging myself to do. And it's as much for Hannaford's sake as yours.
Poor Hannaford! I didn't do half enough for him when he was alive. I
feel as if I owed him something now."
Mary did not speak, but she shivered and very gently drew her hand away
from Vanno's. She too felt that she owed Hannaford reparation, not for
what she had left undone during his life, but rather for what she had
done. She had taken his friendship, his kindness, his sympathy, and
given him nothing in return except a little pity following upon
repulsion. And she dared not ask herself how far her thoughtlessness was
answerable for his death.