I saw no reason why I should inform either Mrs. Gordon or Jacqueline of
my little trip to St. Petersburg. I greeted them both as if I had just
come from Venice, and had duly received Mrs. Gordon’s invitation. It may
be readily imagined that I was curious to know why Jacqueline had added
her urgent telegram in addition to her aunt’s note.
But Jacqueline was never a primer to be spelled out with simplicity and
accuracy. She met my anxious and significant glance–and I took care not
to ask questions–with smiling and open-eyed composure. She was evidently
relieved to see me, but she made no effort to see me alone. Rather, she
seemed to avoid me; at least, until my visit drew to a close. That close
was sudden and startling. My departure from the Hotel Grande Bretagne
was nothing less than a dismissal.
It was not until after dinner that Mrs. Gordon gave me any clue as to
why she had asked me to spend a few days with Jacqueline and herself at
Lake Como. Just how long my visit was to last I was in dubious
ignorance. I was smoking my postprandial cigar on the terrace, wondering
how I might tactfully sound the formidable Mrs. Gordon for this
information, when she appeared with her niece. Jacqueline was reading a
letter from home. Mrs. Gordon held up a jeweled hand impressively, and
waved it significantly toward her.
“My dear, will you fetch me my shawl? Pray do not throw away your cigar,
Mr. Hume. Be seated. I am anxious to have a talk with you.”
My heart thumped ridiculously. Had Jacqueline confessed to her aunt her
love for me?
I professed myself properly at her disposal. She cleared her throat and
folded her arms across her ample person. Unconsciously she was assuming
the airs of one of the Council of Ten. But that was Mrs. Gordon’s way,
and I waited expectantly.
“It is a great pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Hume,” she began with
ponderous cordiality.
I hastened to assure her that there was no place more beautiful than
Como in April, and looked wistfully after Jacqueline, who had brought
the shawl, and was now strolling about the shrubbery.
“You are the only person to whom I can turn in perplexity, that is,
while we are here in Italy. It so happens that I am sadly in need of
advice and information.”
I assured her that I would do all in my power to help her.
“It is with regard to Jacqueline.”
I was careful to show nothing more than a friendly interest. One needed
to be wary with the worldly Mrs. Gordon.
“Or, rather, it is with regard to Duke da Sestos.”
“The Duke da Sestos!” I exclaimed, startled. “I can not see, Mrs.
Gordon, how a matter touching the Duke da Sestos can affect your niece,”
I said after a pause.
“No?” She looked after her niece thoughtfully. “But if I tell you that
the duke is in love with her, Mr. Hume?”
“And–and, her feeling toward the duke?”
“I have reason to believe that Jacqueline’s wishes will coincide with
mine,” she answered complacently.
Jacqueline’s wishes would coincide with hers! There was little doubt as
to what her wishes were. So the worst had really come. I looked out
toward the lake, hardly trusting myself to speak. The tender blue of the
still waters; the purple mountains; the song of birds; the cries of
children; the toll of a church-bell; and Jacqueline, in white, slipping
through the green trees–everything had charmed me only a moment ago. But
now I saw only Jacqueline–not the laughing Jacqueline, my Jacqueline,
who waved her hand back at me smiling, but the Duchess da Sestos,
neglected wife, scorning her husband, and hating him, doomed to a slow
and wretched death in life, sacrificed by this miserable old worldling.
“I could imagine nothing more unfortunate than that she should feel any
interest in Duke da Sestos,” I said with feeling.
She looked at me anxiously.
“Do you know anything derogatory to him, Mr. Hume?”
“No,” I answered bluntly, “I know nothing of him.”
She sighed out her relief.
A large person, with an English accent carefully modulated, Mrs. Gordon
was not easily moved to anxiety. Her nerves were padded in leather. One
could not prick them with anything less formidable than a pitchfork. But
my remarks had ruffled her complacency for the moment, that colossal
complacency as immense as her wardrobe, and silly and moveless as her
pride. But even she would hesitate to encourage the duke’s suit if I
could show her it was quite impossible. Could I do that? At least, I
intended to try.
She pondered a moment. “So you know nothing. But it would not be
difficult for you to make inquiries. Understanding Italian life, as you
do, living in Venice so long––”
“Make inquiries, Mrs. Gordon?” I interrupted coldly. I should have
thought my cool stare would have disconcerted her somewhat.
“And,” she continued frostily (evidently the stare had been wholly in
vain, then), “it seems to me that my appeal to you should be received in
the light of a duty. You are one of our oldest friends. You ought to
have Jacqueline’s interests at heart.”
“God knows I have her interests at heart,” I cried bitterly. “But I fail
to see––”
“Of his rank and station,” she continued, waving my protest aside, “I
can judge for myself. I am told he is a personal friend of the king. His
family antedates the very founding of Venice. I know not how many
quarterings his coat of arms may boast. As to his finances, that,
naturally, is a serious question. I could not, as a matter of duty,
permit myself to ignore that important phase of the case. Still,
Jacqueline’s _dot_, if she has due regard to my wishes, will not make
his lack of means an insurmountable obstacle. But, Mr. Hume, his
character, that is of importance.”
“Yes,” I said significantly, “it is.”
“I do not mean,” she hastened to add, “that–er–he–er–may not have been
guilty of some of the indiscretions of youth. That is to be expected of
a nobleman of his rank.”
“Then, Mrs. Gordon, may I ask just what you do mean?” I inquired
suavely.
“That at least there must have been no scandal, Mr. Hume, no open
scandal. I could not permit dear Jacqueline’s position to be in any way
equivocal.”
“Your concern as to that is most sensible,” I said sarcastically.
“Still, I am in ignorance as to just how I may help you.”
“Really, Mr. Hume, you are strangely heedless of my words. Did I not say
a moment ago that I looked to you to make certain inquiries for me?”
“In other words, Mrs. Gordon,” I said coldly, “you are asking me to be
your private detective, are you not?”
She held up her hands in horror.
“An office that I can not undertake, even for you or your niece. I can
think of no marriage for Jacqueline that could possibly be more
distasteful or more disastrous.”
“If you know nothing about Duke da Sestos, how can you say that his
possible marriage with my niece could be a misfortune? I may be very
dense, but I fail to follow your reasoning, Mr. Hume.”
“But, Mrs. Gordon,” I said earnestly, “can you not guess something of a
man’s character without knowing all about him?”
“If I could,” she answered slowly, “I should say that you do not appear
to me to be quite disinterested in your statements.”
“And if that is true, Mrs. Gordon?” I flung away my cigar and my
caution. “If I confess that I am not disinterested, as you call it? What
then? Say that I love your niece, and I suppose it is right that you
should know that. My love for Jacqueline is great enough not to grudge
her happiness, even if that happiness is to be with another man. But to
see her persuaded into a marriage that every instinct tells me is wrong,
that I know must prove unhappy–I can not allow that to be done without a
protest, though in making that protest I have betrayed my own love for
her. Mrs. Gordon, if I know nothing of Duke da Sestos, I do know
something of his class. Can I say nothing that will influence you?”
She gathered her shawl about her, and looked at me with stony
indifference. I might as well have appealed to the little waves that
lapped the shore. But I continued desperately:
“I can not help it that you misjudge me. I must speak. I must plead
Jacqueline’s cause for her, even though she should resent my doing that,
for I am pleading for her happiness. You lay emphasis on the rank of
this Duke da Sestos. He is a duke. But, Mrs. Gordon, there are seventy
ducal houses in Sicily alone. There is no law of primogeniture in Italy.
Titles carry no distinction with them. Princes, dukes, marquises,
counts, they are infinitely more numerous in Italy than decent men.
“As to the character of this aristocracy–you ask me of the duke’s, I
will tell you the characteristics of most. He is an officer in the
cavalry, therefore he lives beyond his pay. He is a gambler, a
spendthrift. His property is mortgaged to the hilt. A rich marriage is
his only hope. He hunts, shoots, wears English clothes, and that is as
far as he approximates the manly habits of the Englishman. The Italian’s
idea of a sportsman is to ride to the meet in a dog-cart with a fat
poodle at his side. The smaller the pony, the fatter the poodle, the
more of a sportsman he is. Cards, gossip, his mistress–they make up his
life, his real life.”
“And supposing that all this is true, I do not forget that you are
speaking of a class and not of an individual, Mr. Hume.”
“I am only imploring you to be very careful.”
“After you have refused to make inquiries? You are inconsistent.”
She rose and confronted me with a placidity as obstinate as if I had not
spoken.
“All that you have said I will try to put to the best of motives, but
you have not shown a generous spirit. In my turn I must appear
ungenerous, I fear. I must protect Jacqueline, and unfortunately, in my
opinion, her marriage with you would be quite as disastrous as you
pretend hers would be with the duke.”
“I did not mean to speak ungenerously, Mrs. Gordon,” I said humbly.
“And, as I was about to say, though it may appear ungracious, I am
compelled to withdraw my invitation that you remain our guest here.
Unless, of course, you will give me your promise that in no way––”
“I understand,” I said stiffly. “I should not feel happy to stay under
those circumstances. I shall leave to-night.”
I bowed. Then I turned to her for a last appeal.
“Mrs. Gordon, it is natural that you should listen to me with suspicion,
but try to believe that I speak disinterestedly. Do all you can to
discourage Jacqueline. She is very young. She is romantic, like so many
girls. It is so easy for her to make a mistake, if there is no one to
guide, to advise. Take her away from Italy, at least for the present.
Will you?” I held out my hand.
“Mr. Hume,” she retorted spitefully, “in these affairs of the heart each
must decide for oneself.”
“Yes, yes,” I cried eagerly. Then something in her strange smile made
the words die on my lips, and I faltered, “Jacqueline has already
decided that–that she loves the duke?”
“I have reason to believe so. The duke himself assures me that she has
given him encouragement. More than that, Jacqueline herself does not
deny it.”
“Thank you,” I said miserably, and went into the hotel to pack my
things. The worst had come, then, for, much as I disliked Mrs. Gordon, I
did not do her the injustice to suppose that she was lying.
Perhaps I ought to have trusted Jacqueline more. I should have known
that no good woman listens lightly to a man’s declaration of love; and
she had listened to mine. But, again, Jacqueline had given me no
assurance whatever that she returned my love. She had found it difficult
to make up her mind, not only as to whether she really loved me, but
whether I were really in earnest in declaring my love for her. And so
that evening I walked very soberly toward the steamboat-landing,
followed by the porter with my bag.
The little steamer had given its warning toot, my bag was aboard, I was
about to follow, when I turned, hoping for one last glimpse of
Jacqueline. To my surprise, she was running toward me. She was in
distress. In an instant I was at her side.
“What, what does it mean, you going away like this?” she panted.
“I am going back to Venice, Jacqueline,” I answered her gravely.
“To Venice!” she cried, dismayed. “To Venice this evening, and without
saying good-by to me? Why?”
“I have had a tiff, dear Jacqueline, with your aunt, and she has ordered
me off. I leave the field,” I added a little bitterly, “to a handsomer,
and I wish I could say to a better, man.”
She withdrew the hand she had given me, and flushed angrily. Then her
face became very pale.
“Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not mean to hurt you.”
“And what has my aunt told you?” she almost whispered.
“She has told me, Jacqueline, that Duke da Sestos has asked you to be
his wife. She wishes you to consent. She believes that you have not
refused him.”
Her color came and went. She drew in a little breath, and her brown eyes
looked over at the mountains beyond Cadenabbia. Tears gathered in them
and began to fall slowly down her cheeks.
“But it is not true,” I cried, and seized her hand. “It is impossible
that you should have done that.”
“It is quite true,” she said almost impassively. “He has asked me to be
his wife. I have encouraged him.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. Good-by, dear Jacqueline.”
She caught my coat in her eagerness.
“Listen, Dick. It is because of that I telegraphed you. You must help
me. I need you. Would you do something for me that was quite
useless–that would give you infinite trouble–that would bring you no
reward except my thanks?”
“I think it quite possible,” I said, smiling. “What is it?”
“It is so difficult to make you understand,” she cried, distressed.
“I will wait till to-morrow.”
“No, no; if you are to help me in this, you can not do it too quickly.”
We began to walk toward the boat, which had emitted another piercing
wail.
“I told you that Duke da Sestos has asked me to marry him, and that I
encouraged him. I did. But, oh, so unconsciously.”
“You encouraged him unconsciously? Impossible!”
“It is true, Dick,” she insisted tearfully. “I wished to show him how
impossible it was that I could ever care for him–that nothing but a
miracle could make me love him. It happened that the steel chest he gave
me from the Palazzo stood on the drawing-room table. Quite impulsively I
said: ‘When you bring me the casket that fitted into that steel box, I
will listen to you.’ I said it lightly, Dick, as a bitter jest. I
thought I was asking him to do something quite impossible. To my
surprise, to my dismay, instead of being indignant or angry, he took my
words quite seriously. He refused to see that I had asked him to
accomplish an impossibility. In that intense foreign way of his, he
kissed my hand, bidding me good-by for the present, but he promised me
that, sooner or later, he would return with the casket. I was so
astonished I could say nothing. Before I could recover myself he had
gone. And if he should find it! Oh, Dick, if he should!”
I laughed joyously–happily. “He shall not,” I cried, “because I am going
to find it myself. And if I do find it, Jacqueline?”
“I shall be so glad,” she said shyly.
“But my book of legends,” I said with affected seriousness. “Am I to
give up writing the legend of the clock? I thought I was to persist in
my task. Nothing was to turn me from it.”
“But I am giving you this new task, Dick,” she said, laughing happily.
“Yes, yes,” I said, as I leapt aboard at the last moment. “I think I may
find time to do this new task for you, and my legend of the clock as
well.”
Not until the boat touched the farther shores of Lake Como did it occur
to me that Jacqueline would think this promise but a half-hearted one.
That there was any connection between the clock and the casket she had,
of course, no idea.