SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS
WALDO’S was a business letter; any feelings that might be influencing
the proposed transaction, any sentiment that might be involved—whether
of Nina’s, of his own, of his father’s, or of mine—he appeared to
consider as having been adequately indicated in our talk at Paris, and
accorded them only one passing reference. He assumed that I should be
bearing all that—he had a habit of describing the emotions as “all
that,” I remembered—in mind; what remained was to ask me whether I were
favorably disposed to the arrangement, the value of his remainder—which
must, alas, before many years were out, become an estate in
possession—to be fixed by a firm of land agents selected by himself and
me—“from which price I should suggest deducting twenty-five per cent.
in consideration of what I believe the lawyers call ‘natural love and
affection’; in other words, because I’d much sooner sell to you than
to a stranger—in fact, than to _anybody else_.” The underlining of the
last two words clearly asked me to substitute for them a proper name
with which we were both well acquainted. He added that he thought the
land agents’ valuation would be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty
thousand pounds, timber included—and so, with kindest remembrances
from Nina, who was splendidly fit, _considering_ (another underlining
gave me news of possible importance for the future of the Dundrannan
barony), he remained my affectionate cousin.
Though I suspect that son and father, at the bottom of their hearts,
felt much the same about the matter, Sir Paget’s letter was expressed
in a different vein. Leaving the business to Waldo, he dealt with the
personal aspect:
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I hadn’t always hoped
and expected that the heir of my body and the child of my dear wife
should succeed me here. That’s nature; but _Dis aliter visum_. The
All-Highest herself decides otherwise.” (I saw in my mind the humorous,
rather tired, smile with which he wrote that.) “But I should be an
ungrateful churl indeed if I repined at the prospect of being succeeded
at Cragsfoot by you, who bear the old name (and, I am told, are to get
a handle to it!)—you who are and have been always son of my heart, if
not of my body—a loyal, true son too, if you will let me say it. So, if
it is to be, I receive it with happiness, and the more you come to your
future dominions while I—_brevis dominus_—am still here to welcome you,
the better I shall be pleased. But, prithee, Julius, remember that you
provide, in your own person, only for the next generation. When your
turn comes for the doleful cypresses, what is to happen? You must look
to it, my boy!”
After a touching reference to his old and now lost companion, Aunt
Bertha, and to his own loneliness, he went on more lightly: “But Waldo
comes over every day from Briarmount when they are ‘in residence,’ and
the aforesaid All-Highest herself pays me a state visit once or twice
a week. The Queen-Regent expects an Heir-Apparent. Oh, confidently! I
think she can’t quite make out how fate, or nature, or the other Deity
dared to thwart her, last time! I confess I am hypnotized—I too have
no doubt of the event! So, as to that, all is calm and confidence—the
third peer of the line is on his way! But is there anything wrong
in her outlying dominions? Villa San Carlo, though it sounds like
a charming winter palace, doesn’t seem to have been an unqualified
success. ‘Rather tiresome down there!’ she said. I asked politely after
the cousin. Very well, when she had seen him last, but she really
didn’t know what he was doing; it seemed to her that he was taking
a very long holiday from business—‘Our works down there are of only
secondary importance.’ I remarked that you had written saying how much
you were enjoying yourself at Villa San Carlo, and how you regretted
being detained in Paris. ‘Oh, he meant to leave us anyhow, I think!’
I fancied somehow that both of you gentleman had incurred the royal
displeasure. What have you been up to? Rebellion, _lèse-majesté_,
treason? You are bold men if you defy my Lady Dundrannan! Well, she’s
probably right in thinking that Cragsfoot is too small for her, and not
worth adding to her dominions!”
Though the purchase would need some contriving, the price that Waldo’s
letter indicated was not an insuperable difficulty, thanks to the value
which Sir Ezekiel was now kind enough to put on my services; I could
pay it, and keep up the place on a footing of frugal decency when the
time came. For the rest, the prospect was attractive. Cragsfoot had
always been an integral part of my life; my orphaned childhood had been
spent there. If it passed to a stranger, I should feel as it were dug
up by the roots. If I did not fall in with the arrangement, pass to a
stranger it would; I felt sure of that; the All-Highest had issued her
command. “So be it!” I said to myself—half in pleasure, still half in
resentment at the Dundrannan fiat, which broke the direct line of the
Rillingtons of Cragsfoot. I also made up my mind to obey Sir Paget’s
implied invitation as soon as——
As soon as what? The summons from Cragsfoot—the call back to
home and home life (my appointment to our London office was now
ratified)—brought me up against that question. I could answer it only
by saying—as soon as Lucinda’s affair had somehow settled itself.
She could not be left where she was; as a permanency, the present
situation was intolerable. She must yield or she must go; Valdez would
never let her alone, short of her adopting one of those alternatives;
he would keep on at his pestering and posturing. She had no money; her
mother had lived on an annuity, or an allowance, or something of that
kind, which expired with the good lady herself. Clearly, however, she
was able to support herself. She must not sell flowers on the Piazza
all her life; I thought that she would consent to borrow enough money
from me to set herself up in a modest way in business, and I determined
to make that proposal to her on the morrow—as soon as we had got
through the ordeal of this evening’s dinner. I fervently hoped that we
might get through it without a flare-up between Arsenio and his honored
guest Godfrey Frost. Out of favor at Briarmount was he, that young man?
I could easily have told Sir Paget the reason for that!
The only one of the prospective party whom I encountered in the course
of the afternoon—though I admit that I haunted the Piazza in the hope
of seeing Lucinda—was the host himself. I met him in company with
a tall, lean visaged, eminently respectable person, wearing a tall
hat and a black frock coat. Arsenio stopped me, and introduced me to
his companion. He said that Signor Alessandro Panizzi and I ought to
know one another; I didn’t see why, and merely supposed that he was
exhibiting his respectable friend, who was, it appeared, one of the
leading lawyers in Venice and, indeed, an ex-Syndic of the city. Signor
Panizzi, on his part, treated Arsenio with the greatest deference;
he referred to him, in the course of our brief conversation, as “our
noble friend,” and was apparently hugely gratified by the familiar, if
somewhat lordly, bearing which Arsenio adopted towards him. But, after
all, Arsenio was now rich—notoriously so, thanks to the way in which
wealth had come to him; one could understand that he might be regarded
as a highly-to-be-valued citizen of Venice. Perhaps he was going to run
for Mayor himself—one more brilliant device to dazzle Lucinda!
There it was—in thinking of him one always expected, one always came
back to, the bizarre, the incongruous and ridiculous. It was the
overpowering instinct for the dramatic, the theatrical, in him, without
any taste to guide or to limit it. That was what made it impossible to
take him, or his emotions and attitudes, seriously; Waldo’s “all that”
seemed just the applicable description. I walked away wondering just
what particular line his bamboozlement of Signor Alessandro Panizzi
might be taking. Moreover, that he could find leisure in his thoughts
to posture to somebody else—besides Lucinda and myself—was reassuring.
It made his hints of the night before seem even more unreal and
fantastic.
That same last word was the only one appropriate to describe what I
found happening to my unfortunate _salon_, when I got back early in
the evening. Half a dozen men, under the superintendence of Louis and
the fat old _portière_ who lived in a sort of cupboard on the ground
floor, opening off the hall, were engaged in transforming it into what
they obviously considered to be a scene of splendor. The old _portière_
was rubbing his plump hands in delight; at last Don Arsenio was
launching out, spending his money handsomely, doing justice to Palazzo
Valdez; the rich English nobleman (this was Godfrey Frost—probably
after Arsenio’s own description) would undoubtedly be much impressed.
Very possibly—but possibly not quite as old Amedeo expected! The
table groaned—or at all events I groaned for it—under silver plate
and silver candlesticks. The latter were also stuck galore in sconces
on the walls. Table and walls were festooned with chains of white
flowers; the like bedecked the one handsome thing that really belonged
to the room—the antique chandelier in the middle of the ceiling; I
had never put lights in it, but they were there now. And the banquet
was to be on a scale commensurate with these trappings. “Prodigious!
Considering the times, absolutely prodigious!” Amedeo assured me; he,
for his part, could not conceive how Don Arsenio and Signor Louis had
contrived to obtain the materials for such a feast. Signor Louis smiled
mysteriously; tricks of the trade were insinuated.
It seemed to me that Arsenio had gone stark mad. What were we in for
this evening?
Just as this thought once again seized on my mind, I saw something that
gave me a little start. The butt of a revolver or pistol protruded from
the side-pocket of Louis’s jacket, and the pocket bulged with the rest
of the weapon.
“What in the world are you carrying that thing about for?” I exclaimed.
“Monsieur Valdez told me to clean it,” he answered quietly. “He gave it
to me for that purpose—out of his bureau.”
“He didn’t tell you to carry it about with you while you did your work,
did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Arsenio’s voice just behind me. The door stood
open for the workers, and he had come in, in his usual quiet fashion.
I turned round, to find him grinning at me. “Give it here, Louis,” he
ordered, and slipped the thing into his own pocket. “The room looks
fine now, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“What do you want with your revolver to-day?” I asked.
He looked at me with malicious glee. “Aha, Julius, I did frighten you
last night then, after all! You pretended to be very scornful, but
I did make an impression! Or else why do you question me about my
revolver?”
“I didn’t believe a word of that nonsense you hinted at last night,” I
protested. “But what do you want with your revolver?”
“My dear fellow, I don’t want to boast of my wealth, but there’s a
considerable sum of money in my bureau—very considerable. No harm in
being on the safe side, is there?”
That seemed reasonable: his manner too changed suddenly from derision
to a plausible common sense. “Possessing a revolver—as most of us who
served do—doesn’t mean that one intends to use it—on oneself or on
anybody else, does it?”
I felt at a loss. When he wanted me to believe, I didn’t. When he
wanted me not to believe, I did—or, at all events, half did. With
Arsenio the plausible sensible explanation was always suspect; to be
merely sensible was so contrary to his nature.
The busy men had apparently finished their ridiculous work. Louis came
in and looked round with a satisfied air.
“Splendid, Louis!” said Arsenio. “Here, take this thing and put it on
the bureau in my room.” As Louis obediently took the revolver and left
us alone together, Arsenio added to me: “Don’t spoil your dinner—a good
one, I hope, for these hungry days—by taking seriously anything I said
last night. Perhaps in the end I did mean—No, I didn’t really. I was
wrought up. My friend, wasn’t it natural?”
Well, it was natural, of course. On a man prone to what Lucinda had
called “heroics” the hour in which she had given him that kiss—the kiss
of farewell, as we had both interpreted it to be—would naturally induce
them. I should have been disposed to accept his disclaimer of any
desperate intentions, except for the fact that somehow he still seemed
to be watching me, watching what effect his words had on me, and rather
curiously anxious to efface the impression which the sudden appearance
of the revolver had made upon me.
“Last night—yes!” He dropped into a chair. “Her action affected me
strangely. It is long since she kissed me. And then to kiss me like
that! Can you wonder that I gave way?” He smiled up at me. “One
doesn’t easily part from Lucinda. Why, you told me that Waldo—our old
Waldo—went nearly mad with rage when I took her from him.” His brows
went up and he smiled. “It needed a European War to save me, you said!
Well, if my excitements are not as tremendous as Waldo’s, I must admit
that they are more frequent. But to-day I’ve come to my senses. Pray
believe me, my dear Julius—and don’t let any absurd notion spoil your
dinner.”
He was very anxious to convince me. My mind obstinately urged the
question: Was he afraid that I might watch him, that I might interfere
with his plan? I tried to shake off the notion—not quite successfully.
I had a feeling that “heroics” might be like strong drink; a man could
indulge in a lot of them, and yet be master of them—and of himself.
But there might come a point where they would gain the mastery, and he
would be a slave. In which case——
“You think this dinner of mine a mad affair?” I found Arsenio saying.
“Well, think so, in your stolid English fashion!” He shrugged his
shoulders scornfully. “You don’t see what it means? Oh, of course you
don’t! I suppose you love Lucinda as well—I said, Julius, that you
loved Lucinda as well—and the one merit of the English language is,
that ‘love’ is a tolerably distinctive word when applied to a woman—in
that damned black frock as if she were dressed as her beauty deserves?
Well, I don’t; I know—we know, we Southerners—how the setting enhances
the jewel. By my cunning incitements—you heard, but you had no ears—she
will dress herself to-night; you’ll see!” He waved his hands to embrace
the room. “And I have given her suitable surroundings!”
“I suppose it’s about time that we bedecked ourselves,” I suggested,
rather wearily.
“Yes—but one moment!” He leant forward in his chair. “What’s to become
of her, Julius?”
I answered him rather fiercely, brutally perhaps. “I think you’ve lost
the right to concern yourself with that.”
“I have, I know. Hence the occasion of this evening. But you, Julius?”
“I shall always be at her service, if she needs help. As you know,
she’s very independent.”
He nodded his head. Then he smiled his monkey smile. “And there’s
Godfrey Frost, of course. Entirely in a position to assist her! A sound
head! A good business man! Wants his price, but——!”
“Oh, damn you, go and dress for your infernal dinner!”
The devil was in him. He got up with a grin. “I doubt whether you’ll
be very good company! Oh, let’s see, where’s that revolver? Oh, I gave
it back to Louis, so I did! Our esteemed friend ought to be here in
half an hour. Do you happen to know that he and Lucinda have been to
the Lido together this afternoon? No, you don’t? Oh, yes! My friend
Alessandro and I saw them embarking. Doesn’t that fact add a further
interest to this evening? But look at the room—the table! Shall we not
outshine the Frost millions to-night—you and I, Julius?”
“It isn’t my affair, thank God!”
“Oh, that’s as it may turn out! _Au revoir_, then, in half an hour!”
He succeeded in leaving me in about as bewildered a state of mind as
I have ever been in in all my life; I, who have often had to decide
whether a politician was an honest man or not!——