"If that is how you regard your forthcoming nuptials," I said stiffly,
"you ought to dissolve your betrothal. One should marry only for
love--for love alone!"
"Oh, should they?" said Peaches. "That's all you know about it. I'm very
fond of Mr. Mark--of Sebastian, and he is the typical good husband."
"But you don't love him!" I protested firmly.
"I love him as much as I am likely to love anyone," responded
Peaches--like a young Portia, so stately and serious. "And even if he is
half a head shorter than I am he has a kind heart and he's a gentleman."
"And not over sixty years old!" I retorted. "Oh, Peaches, do you really
want to do it?"
Suddenly she was serious. The defensively bantering light went out of
her changeful eyes.
"Don't, Free!" she pleaded. "Yes, I do want to. I want to be a
reasonable being--to make the best life I can for myself since I must go
on living. I don't want to be a coward. I am still young and I haven't
seen much of the world. Riches, art treasures, cultured people, and
things--social position--there must be joy in these things or folks
would not struggle for them so! And since they must be filling up the
emptiness in a whole lot of lives I'm going to have a try at them too.
Don't be afraid for me. I know just what I am doing. I know that I shall
never care again. But I can like. And I can live, and I'm going to use
my old beau to help me get the most out of life that I can
when--when--well, you know, only don't say it, please!"
She was wonderful. So big and beautiful and full of health and common
sense. I could not but admire her, though, of course, a few maidenly
tears and vows of lifelong fidelity to the heroic dead would have been
more suitable. But things had already gone too far for that. At the time
the above-recorded conversation took place we were standing upon the
steps of the Ritz in New York, waiting for the car which was to convey
us up the river. Mr. Markheim had not expected us for another week and
so hadn't been at the hotel to meet us, but was sending his chauffeur.
And in a way Peaches' words reassured me. After all one must eventually
resign oneself to fate, and if one had the good sense to take fate by
the horns and as Peaches would say "beat him to it"--why, so much the
better. We could all settle down to watch her live happily enough ever
after if her program worked out.
But would it? Despite her assurance I felt a faint misgiving. My dear
father used always to say: "Never you girls marry until Mister Right
comes along." And we were brought up to honor and obey our
parents--with the result that at the respective ages of fifty and sixty
we girls were still single. However, I digress.
In my youth, following the precepts of my father and seeking knowledge
of the world through the medium of literature, I came upon the works of
a lady of rank whose writings had for me the greatest fascination. As to
what her actual name was I have to this day remained in ignorance, and
her title, The Duchess, is all that I identify her by. But this
estimable lady, while somewhat given to the recounting of scandalous
episodes and the misfortunes peculiar to innocent maidens, had a wealth
of descriptive power when she undertook the description of rich and
aristocratic mansions or the interiors of castles of the less modest
variety. But nothing ever recorded by her, not set forth for public
inspection in the Boston Museum, could compare with the sumptuousness of
Mr. Markheim's establishment.
I had been prepared for something very fine, but this gorgeous replica
of a famous Italian villa built upon terraces, its lovely low white
façades rising in a symmetrical group one above the other, the whole
nestling into the budding verdure of the hillside, its formal gardens
descending step by step almost to the broad sweep of the Hudson below,
was a veritable dream-palace.
And the interior! Words almost fail me when I seek to describe it.
Perhaps the most fitting thing I can say of it is that it was a home
good enough for Peaches. Her great height, her gold-and-marble beauty,
here found at last a fitting habitat. And then when I saw that little,
comparatively speaking, Markheim man trotting about in front of her and
giving her the place with a gesture as he displayed each treasure in
turn, I felt sick and faint in my mind. And yet he was most kind and had
never given me the least cause to criticize him, and certainly the house
was enough to tempt any girl. I sighed, however, to think of the day
when she would be married and living there.
"Mr. Markheim--Sebastian, I mean," I said--Mr. Pegg and I followed in
the wake of the happy couple as they made the tour of the
house--"Sebastian, this place looks as if you had dug up the rich heart
of Italy and transplanted it to America!"
Sebastian laughed.
"You have the right idea, Miss Freedom! The right idea--yes!" he
exclaimed with pride. "More than half my collection is Italian--and if I
do so say myself, it has taken a lot of patience and trouble to gather
it--not to speak of the cost in money. They have a strict law against
taking objects of art out of their country, you know, and it's been nip
and tuck getting hold of a lot of this stuff--smuggled of course. Oh,
don't look so shocked! If it's genuine it's smuggled--at the Italian
end. But one doesn't call attention to the fact except in the privacy of
one's own family!"
"It sure is swell!" said Mr. Pegg.
Sebastian laughed again--a sound which never got him favor with me--and
opened the door into the newest addition to the house--the library wing,
which he had remodeled for the especial purpose of housing the Madonna
of the Lamp.
When I entered I could not refrain from an exclamation of delight, nor
can I forbear to describe the place in some detail. To begin with it was
almost round and very large, the ceiling being domed and the books
being carried in long narrow stacks sunk into the paneling between the
French windows as high as the carved molding. Above this an exquisite
tone of blue with a few cleverly distributed stars gave a sense of
infinite space, and despite the cumbersome old Florentine furniture the
room was neither heavy nor dull. There was just enough gold to furnish
flashes of light, and the warm old amber brocade on the chairs seemed to
catch and hold the sunlight which poured through the long narrow windows
at the west, all of which opened directly upon the first terrace of the
rose garden. But the real triumph in lighting was the rose window of
plain leaded glass on the north side of the room--the wall of which had
been reconstructed to accommodate it in order that the Madonna might be
properly illuminated by day. We gasped our admiration of its perfect
lacery, and then turned about and faced the picture itself in reverent
silence.
Of course it is ridiculous to suppose there is anyone to whom the
Madonna of the Lamp is not perfectly familiar, being, as she is, one of
those paintings which are impressed upon the popular mind in spite of
itself through endless repetition upon postal and Christmas cards,
engravers' windows, magazine covers and Sunday-school prizes, to say
nothing of Little Collections of Great Masters, gift photographs,
furnishings for college rooms and appeals for public charities.
Nevertheless, I will describe it, because as my dear father used to say,
the collective mind of the public is not the public mind of the
collector. It has to be told, in other words, when it can't be shown;
whereas, of course, you can tell a collector nothing--and get him to
admit it.
Well, at any rate, in case you do not recall it, the Madonna of the
Lamp is a round canvas, not more than two and a half feet in diameter,
and represents the Virgin with the Child curled up in a robe of sapphire
blue which falls from her head in thick sweeping folds and crosses her
knee in such a way as to give the appearance of being blown from behind
by a wind and aiding in the circular effect. She is seated and bending
over the Infant, protecting both him and the flickering lamp from the
wind. Above her head is a single star visible through a patch of leaded
window.
Now you recall it, I am sure. It was painted in Florence by Raphael
about the year 1506 and is one of the most famous monuments to his
genius.
And Markheim had provided a most wonderful setting for this jewel. The
great window was of a design made from that behind the Virgin's head,
and the carved panel upon which the painting hung was a skillful
variation of the beautiful old carved frame about the canvas--the
original frame, it was believed to be, and the motif of the design was
carried out in a molding which diminished into a faint bas-relief at the
outer edges of the large wall space above the mantel where it hung. Nor
was the picture hung too high. Even I could have touched the bottom of
the carvings; and the mantelpiece had no other ornament except two
gigantic polychrome candlesticks of the same period. Truly it was a
wonderfully successful arrangement and reflected great credit on the
owner who had conceived it.
"Do you like it?" was all he said, looking not at the Madonna but at
Alicia. "Do you like it, eh?"
Mr. Pegg took the question to himself.
"And you paid five hundred thousand dollars for that little picture?"
he asked incredulously. "Why, from the price I expected something as big
as a barn door!"
"Pa--don't be a boob--it's a diamond without a flaw," said Peaches,
going closer, her face alight with pleasure. "It's a real mother and
child," she added. "How big would you want them to be? They are
immortal--isn't that big enough?"
Through the crudity of her rebuke I got one of those rare glimpses of
her golden heart.
Her crude parent, however, was unimpressed.
"Of course it's real pretty," he said. "Which is more than can be said
for most antiques. But five hundred thousand! My Lord, look at the
profit? There can't be over ten dollars' worth of paint in it! Where is
this feller, Raphael?"
"Where the profit is doing him precious little good," chuckled
Sebastian.
"Must be hell!" commented Pinto.
"Very possibly, in spite of his choice of subjects!" replied Markheim.
Whereat he and I exchanged our first glance of thoroughly sympathetic
understanding. I, of course, at once lowered my eyes, a burning sense of
shame at my implied disloyalty struggling with my desire to spare Mr.
Pegg the mortification of instruction. I had not forgotten and shall
never forget how gently he led me to see the error of my ways when I
first hit the ranch--as, for example, when I unknowingly made culls of
his best tree of home fruit and he urged me to make marmalade of them
and never told me until afterward that the way I had picked them by
pulling them off the tree instead of clipping the stem made it
impossible to use them for anything else. So now in my own realm I
wished to lead him gradually into the paths of erudition and allow him
to learn by inference whenever possible.
Well, the rest of the house was beautiful as could be, and after we had
finished inspecting it we had tea in a wonderful glass room filled with
gay cretonnes and flowering plants, wicker chairs and caged canaries.
Two menservants served the refection. Mr. Sebastian Markheim had a
considerable household, that was plain, and I began to regret that I had
steadfastly stood with Peaches on refusing her father's suggestion of a
personal maid.
"There's something too public about it," had been her objection, which I
had sustained.
But here amid all these servitors I felt differently. Not that I felt
any indignity attached to our maidless condition, being, as I was, a
self-supporting female well able to afford one if I desired such a
thing. I could now live as I chose instead of as I aught, if you
understand me. But I knew that Peaches would have to get a female
attendant after she was married. Markheim was not the man to allow his
wife to live in comfort when he could provide her with luxury. And at
this juncture of my thought I stopped halfway through the sugared tea
biscuit, a terrible realization overwhelming me for the first time.
When Peaches was married she would no longer need me. Who then would
need me? Nobody? Not Euphemia, who never answered my letters, though she
always mutely cashed the inclosed checks. And would there be any checks
to send her? Where would they come from? It was a chilling thought, as
will readily be admitted. Why I had not thought of it sooner I cannot
say. It must have been evident from the moment of Peaches' engagement
that when the affair reached its consummation I would be, to put it
vulgarly, out of a job.
Of course I did not so greatly care for myself, but there was Euphemia,
the dependent, to consider, whose tradition of useless gentility must
not be disturbed in her declining years. True, I had saved a very
considerable portion of my salary and had almost twenty thousand dollars
distributed among six savings banks. That might conceivably tide us over
for the remainder of our lives. But I had acquired the habit of
remunerative occupation and close companionship with dear friends; also
a taste for French heels and facial massage whenever practical. And the
thought of the Chestnut Street house was, the more shame upon me for
saying it of my father's home, almost intolerable. And Mr. Pegg--dear
Pinto, how I should miss him! in a purely friendly way of course.
Fully realizing for the first time the bitterness of my situation I
refused a second sugared bun and rising remarked that as Sebastian
expected dinner guests we had best retire and obtain a little rest
before it was time to dress.
Of course my intention was in part to leave the lovers together for a
properly brief interval, but somewhat to my surprise Peaches rose also
and said she would accompany me. My heart was heavy, and for once I
would have preferred to be alone. But she slipped her arm about my neck,
and we started for our rooms, chatting amiably while the men settled
down for a cigar.
Now one of the peculiarities of the Markheim palace was that it gave no
appearance of modernity. Though it was in point of fact less than ten
years built, it was so cunningly designed, so convincingly arranged,
with such perfection of detail that it possessed an air of old mystery
difficult to define, and under ordinary circumstances most
fascinating--a real achievement on the part of architect and decorator
alike. The ancient furniture stood so easily in the background provided
for it that one could have sworn the walls had been made before it; the
modern lighting was so well handled as to be absolutely unobtrusive.
Slowly, affectionately, we crossed the main hall, pausing to look at the
chased armor on the two silent figures at the foot of the beautiful
winding stairs. A Gobelin tapestry fluttered faintly on the wall above
us, stirred by the gentle sunset wind from the spring-scented river
below, and the lingering twilight filled the great hall with mysterious
shadows. There was not another soul in sight and not a sound to be heard
except the distant murmur of the men's talk and the voice of a pleasure
boat distantly upon the water. I accompanied Alicia up the stairs,
feeling as if I were in some enchanted palace of medieval days, and
above, the long dim corridor in which the lamps had not yet been lit was
ghostly in the pale glimmer from its high mullioned windows.
"Isn't it spooky?" said Peaches in a low tone.
"Yes!" I replied, whispering involuntarily. "One might almost expect to
see a ghost!"
And scarcely had I spoken the words when Peaches, the supernormal, who
was a trifle ahead of me by now, uttered a shriek and leaned trembling
against the stone wall of the passageway. But for a moment I could not
come to her aid. My limbs seemed frozen, paralyzed. For there suddenly
and soundlessly a form was towering vaguely before us, its white face
luminous in a shaft of uncanny light.
It was the Duke di Monteventi!