The day following I was strangely depressed. I had run the gantlet of
hope and doubt. Jacqueline’s various moods had baffled me. And the
duke–frankly, I feared him. Jacqueline had so obviously admired him. He
stood for the very qualities that I lacked. The glamour of his name, the
luxurious environment he scorned so vigorously, his verve, and, above
all, his alliance with Mrs. Gordon, made him a formidable rival. For
that Mrs. Gordon, in some subtle way, had already come to a vague
understanding with him, I did not doubt.
Two letters were on the tray that brought in my morning coffee. One from
Jacqueline; the other from her brother. They called to me in quite
different directions. Jacqueline to her side; the brother to his
assistance in Rome. The young fool was in trouble–trouble serious enough
to demand the assistance of one who had influence with the authorities.
I happened to fill that position. I must go to his aid.
In Jacqueline’s letter I fancied I read a tenderness that was altogether
new and delightful. It was no longer the reserved Jacqueline that spoke.
There was a delightful shyness, but through the shyness spoke the woman
who dared to be bold for the man she loved.
She wished me to call at once. We would discuss the book together. And
she had invited St. Hilary and myself to dinner that evening. After I
had left them yesterday he had hinted at a wonderful story about the old
clock. She would make him talk. I should have copy for one of my legends
at least.
But I could not hesitate as to my destination. For, in assisting her
brother, I would be doing Jacqueline a favor. Unfortunately, I could not
tell her why I had to leave Venice so peremptorily. Neither she nor her
aunt must know that the youngster had made an ass of himself. I wrote
her merely that an affair of importance had called me to Rome. I caught
the first train south.
Ten days passed before I sniffed once more the pungent odor of the
lagoons. There had been complications and delays; and in his remorse the
boy had had a touch of Roman fever. I could not leave him like that.
A letter from Jacqueline awaited me. It had arrived only a day or two
before. Her annoyance at my sudden flight from Venice was obvious.
She regretted my absence at her dinner, but I had not missed much. St.
Hilary had refused to talk. Perhaps there was really no legend, after
all. And, indeed, when one came to think over the matter calmly, was it
worth while attempting to discover one? And was I really interested in
writing the book–that is, for its own sake? I ought to be well assured
of that. She was afraid she would not see me again for the present. They
were to leave almost immediately for Bellagio.
I walked over to my window. I was bitterly hurt and disappointed.
Venice was storm-swept. The Giudecca, deserted, was lashed by wind and
rain. The ships, moored near the Salute, tossed and swayed at their
anchors. The goddess over the customs-house spun about on her golden
ball and vainly tried to shield herself behind her flimsy veil.
The brightness and glory of Venice had vanished as in a dream. The
palaces, ivory and gold in the sunlight, looked sodden and decayed in
the gloom, like an old woman deprived of her rouge-pot and powder.
Venice, in short, was a painting, a masterpiece, if you wish, which the
mischievous fist of some mawkish infant had smeared and smudged. The
pigeons, the cafés, the gondolas–they are the creatures of the sun.
To-day the pigeons were huddled under the Dome of the Salute; the cafés
deserted; the gondolas covered with tarpaulin.
But as I looked, a gondola, rowed by two oarsmen, emerged from the rain
and fog. It was headed directly for the landing outside my windows. It
touched the steps. The old _gransieri_, shivering in an archway,
pattered across the quay with his hook. The passenger leaped ashore. It
was St. Hilary. And in this weather!
I drew the portière. I walked over to the mantel and felt for a match to
light the gas, for it was growing late. As I struck it, half a dozen
visiting-cards caught my eye–eight, to be quite precise. One of the
eight was that of the Duke da Sestos. What humble attraction had I for
the noble gentleman? The seven others bore the name of St. Hilary. Seven
calls in ten days! I looked at them thoughtfully. And then–why, I have
no idea–I thought of the mysterious clock that Mrs. Gordon had entrusted
to my care, and that I had left with a jeweler on the Piazza to see if
it was quite beyond repair. It would be just as well to say nothing of
that to the dealer. I was curious to know precisely the fascination that
the old timepiece had for him.
“I was longing for some one to talk to. Just returned from a little trip
to Rome. What’s the news?”
“Oh, I have just dropped in for a smoke. Where’s your whisky? I am
drenched through. The felsa of that confounded gondola leaked.”
I caught the swift glance that took in every detail of my room. I waved
my hand to the side-board.
“Help yourself. I’ll join you presently, when I have slipped into a
bath-robe. You’ll find the cigarettes by the whisky.”
I stepped into my room. I heard the fizz of the siphon. I caught the
fumes of his cigarette. I heard the creak of a wicker-chair as he threw
himself into it. Then there was silence. I was about to rejoin him, when
I happened to look into my mirror. St. Hilary was reflected in it, and
he was opening a coat-closet.
I whistled noisily, and put my eye to a crack in the door. He was
looking into a cabinet. Then he pulled aside the portière that hid the
deep recess of the window. Another puzzled glance about the room, and he
sank noiselessly into the chair. It was not difficult to put two and two
together. He was looking for Mrs. Gordon’s clock. Well, he should
satisfy himself thoroughly that it was not on my premises. Then I would
wait for his next move. I entered my sitting-room, still whistling.
“Just a word to my man, and I’m ready for our smoke,” I said, and went
into the sala. I banged the door after me, but took pains to leave it
carefully ajar.
It was as I thought. He promptly slipped into my bedroom. I waited
considerately for him to resume his seat before joining him.
“Well, indefatigable peerer and pryer for the rare and odd, what is the
news of the past ten days?” I asked, reaching for the Scotch.
I knew he was watching me closely. The nouns were a trifle suggestive.
“No news so far as I know. I have been buried in the palazzo of the
duke, making an inventory of things. Interesting old palace, eh?”
I nodded, and blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke into the air.
“Nice chap, the duke.”
I nodded again.
“Extremely gallant to the ladies.”
Again I nodded, but without much enthusiasm.
“Rather pretty compliment, his giving them those souvenirs.”
“No one but an Italian would have thought of it.”
“But I must say I was disgusted at the poor taste of the ladies.”
“Why so?”
“My dear fellow, did you observe that bowl of majolica? Or that superb
cloisonné Kioto vase? With carved ivories galore and a plaque of della
Robbia to choose from, and to pick out a silly timepiece.”
“Ah, yes,” I remarked dryly, “you had an eye on that clock yourself,
hadn’t you?”
“Tut, tut, I have an eye on everything that is useless and odd. By the
way, she asked you to keep it for her. I should like to have a look at
it. Trot it out, my boy.”
I gazed into St. Hilary’s innocent blue eyes, and laughed quietly. “The
other day, in Rome,” I said slowly, “I met on the street a certain
Captain Villari. He’s as poor as the proverbial mouse, and an
acquaintance. He asked me to go to the opera with him, I did not refuse,
though the invitation, coming from him, surprised me. And the inevitable
happened, of course. At the very box-office, he discovered with cries of
consternation that he had left all his money in his other uniform. Might
he dare, would I think it too presuming, if he asked me for the loan of
ten lire until to-morrow?
“I assured him with all the warmth in the world that it would be a
privilege, I put my hand in my pocket to oblige him. _Accidenti!_ Was
there ever such devilish luck! I had left my money in my morning
clothes!
“We looked at each other half a minute; then we embraced with laughter.
It was such an odd coincidence. And so we went our separate ways, quite
good-naturedly. He knew I was lying. I knew he had been lying. What do
you think of my story?”
“What has that story to do with an old timepiece?” he blustered.
I leaned forward and tapped him on the knee.
“Only this, my crafty dealer in antiquities. You, as well as my captain,
are too crafty by half. You know the timepiece is not in these rooms,
just as well as I do myself.”
“I don’t understand you,” he fumed.
“No? Then what were you looking for a minute or two ago? In that
cabinet, behind the portière there? By Jove, you had the impertinence to
lift the cover of my trunk in the bedroom.”
If I had expected him to show shame or confusion, I was much mistaken.
He stared at me a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“It wasn’t nice of me, I confess,” he said coolly. “I should have acted
with my customary frankness, and have asked to see it first.”
“I think it would have been the better way. As to this customary
frankness of yours, you guard that virtue so closely that I am a
stranger to it.”
“Very well, I’ll give you an instance of it. Now that my cards are on
the table, what have you done with the clock?”
“Is that what you call being frank? I fail to see those cards of yours
on the table even now. Play fair, St. Hilary.”
“I don’t understand you,” he said, and his neck took on a purple tinge.
“You understand me perfectly. Just as my captain did. And I have both
eyes and ears. Let me remind you, in the first place, you were perfectly
well aware that the clock was in the palace. You looked for it
deliberately, but slyly. When I was curious in my turn, you were hardly
pleased. You pooh-poohed the chamber. You made fun of the clock. You
blew out the candle promptly that no one might examine it. When Mrs.
Gordon insisted on doing so, you vainly attempted to divert her
interest. As a last resort, you tried to make it impossible for her to
accept it by asserting that it was an antique of great value. Don’t you
think that was in extremely bad taste?”
“My dear fellow, desperate cases require desperate remedies.”
“Ah, then you confess that you were even desperately anxious to have the
clock? Why should you deny it? There is nothing to be ashamed of. Your
eight calls have made me quite certain of that, and the fact that you
played the spy, looking into my trunk just now.”
St. Hilary laughed, a little too boisterously.
“Good, good!” he cried. “I confess I didn’t credit my dear dilettante
with quite so observing an eye. And if I were to confess that this old
clock interests me beyond belief, why should you not satisfy my
curiosity? Have you any interest in it? An interest that conflicts with
mine, for instance?” and he looked at me curiously.
“It is quite possible,” I answered calmly.
“And this interest really conflicts with mine?”
“Why not?” I answered, smiling at him.
“Then I see no reason why I should not go my way and you yours.” He
picked up his hat in high dudgeon and walked toward the door.
“Nor do I,” I answered, reaching for a cigar. “However, let me remind
you that I still have the clock.”
It may seem strange and unreasonable that I should have assumed so
cautious a tone with the dealer. My interest in the clock was simply
that I wished to write up the legend connected with it, if legend there
was. But I browbeat him to punish him. He had not come to me frankly and
openly. He had spied on me and he had lied to me. The penalty for that
must be a full confession as to why he attached such tremendous
importance to this clock.
He stood at the door. His eyes devoured my face with that same searching
glance that had so startled me on the Piazza a few days before.
“Trust me, St. Hilary,” I said very quietly. “I am not a man to betray a
confidence–certainly not the confidence of a friend like you. And it is
barely possible I may help you.”
“I have thought that, too,” he said, and hesitated.
“Then why not?”
“Because you are too much of the dilettante, the dreamer,” he said
angrily. “Bah, I need a man like the Duke da Sestos–a man that has grit
and resource–who can even be unscrupulous on occasion–yes, look into a
friend’s trunk and not feel too squeamish. I do need help; but could you
go to extreme ends with me patiently and relentlessly? You hardly fill
the bill, Hume.”
He had quoted almost Jacqueline’s words. He could have said nothing that
would have touched me so deeply. I answered him impetuously:
“St. Hilary, do you forget that it was you who made me a dreamer? It is
you who first preached to me impossible ideals of beauty and art. And
when I failed to reach those ideals, you laughed at me; you consoled me
with sneers. If I had not a soul to appreciate art and beauty, there was
still the sensuous Venice for me to enjoy. And so, month by month, I
have sunk into the slough of materialism, until, at last, it is almost
too late for me to shake myself free. First, the woman I love flaunts at
the dilettante, and then it is my friend.”
He stared at me; then, rising, he walked over to where I sat and put his
hand on my shoulder.
“What do you mean–that the woman you love has flaunted you?”
I told him quite simply. He passed his hand across his forehead.
“My dear, dear Hume,” he said affectionately, “forgive me. Love is a
thing dead and past for me. I am in the sere leaf and brown. I had
forgotten that love might come into your life. So your interest in the
clock, after all, is simply that you wish to write a legend about it?”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me. Hume. I have a quest that demands patience, courage,
faith, a will that is relentless. If I shared it with you, could you
bring to it these qualities?”
“Try me,” I said firmly. “If it is a task that demands action, and if it
concerns this clock, I am with you heart and soul.”
“It does concern the clock. But it is a hundred-to-one shot, with the
odds all against us. If you fail, at least you will have your legend. If
you succeed, you will share equally with myself. I have needed one for
this quest in whose honesty I could have absolute faith. I have thought
of you, but only to mistrust you. If I trust you now, will you follow
where I shall lead?”
“Try me,” I said again.