"Lord of thy presence, and no land besi-i-ide . . ."
And he was still softly carolling that refrain, when the door of the
sitting-room was opened.
"Marchese del Ponte, Marchese Baldo del Ponte," announced the waiter,
with sympathetic exhilaration, flourishing his inseparable napkin.
The two huge young men entered. The room seemed all at once to contract,
and become half its former size.
"Ah, Count," said one of them, advancing, and getting hold of Adrian's
hand. "How do you do? I am the Marchese del Ponte; this is my brother,
the Marchese Baldo. Welcome to Sampaolo. We are your connections, you
know. Our ancestors have intermarried any time these thousand years."
Adrian's rosy face was wreathed in his most amiable smiles.
"How do you do? I 'm very glad to see you. Won't you take chairs?" he
responded, and hospitably pushed chairs forward. "But I 'm afraid," he
added, shaking his head, still smiling, "I 'm afraid I 'm not a count."
"Ah, yes," said Baldo, "we know you don't use your title."
"You 're a count all right, whether you use your title or not," said
Franco. "Noblesse is in the bone. You can't get rid of it."
"Your great-grandmother was a Ponte," said Baldo, "and our own
grandmother was a Valdeschi, your grandfather's cousin."
"Really?" said Adrian, pleasantly. "But I 'm afraid," he explained to
Franco, "that there is n't any noblesse in _my_ bones. I 'm afraid I 'm
just a plain commoner."
"Oh, you refer to the Act of Proscription--I understand," said Franco.
"But that was utterly invalid--a mere piece of political stage-play. The
Italian government had no more power to proscribe your title than it
would have to proscribe an English peerage,--no jurisdiction. It could
create a new Count of Sampaolo, which it did; but it could n't abolish
the dignity of the existing Count--a dignity that was ancient centuries
before the Italian government was dreamed of. You 're a count all right."
"I see," said Adrian. "And are you, then," he inferred, with sprightly
interest, "agin the government?"
The familiar formula appeared to tickle the two young Anglophiles
inordinately. They greeted it with deep-chested laughter.
"We 're not exactly _agin_ the government," Baldo answered, "but we
believe in remodelling it. What Italy needs"--he looked a very Solon;
and his brother nodded concurrence in his opinion---"is a House of Lords."
"I see--I see," said Adrian.
"We want you to come and stay with us," said Franco. "We 've a villa
half a mile up the Riva. You 'd be more comfortable there than here, and
it would give us the greatest pleasure to have you."
"The greatest possible pleasure," cordially echoed Baldo.
"You 're exceedingly good," said Adrian. "And I should be most happy.
But I 'm afraid--"
"Not another word," protested Franco. "You 'll come. That' s settled."
"That's settled," echoed Baldo.
"We 'll send down for your traps this afternoon," said Franco. "Have you
a man with you? No? Then we 'll send Grimes. He 'll pack for you, and
bring up your traps. But we hope to carry you off with us now--in time
for luncheon."
"I don't know how to thank you," said Adrian. "But I 'm afraid--I hate
to destroy an illusion, yet in honesty I must--I 'm afraid I 'm not the
person you take me for. I 'm afraid there's a misapprehension. I--"
"Oh, we 'll respect your incog all right, if that's what's troubling
you," promised Baldo. "You shall be Mr. Anthony Craford."
"Craford _of_ Craford," Franco corrected him.
"But there it is," said Adrian. "Now see how I 'm forced to disappoint
you. I 'm awfully sorry, but I 'm _not_ Mr. Anthony Craford--no, nor
Craford _of_ Craford, either."
"What?" puzzled Franco.
"Not Craford?" puzzled Baldo.
"No," said Adrian, sadly. "I 'm awfully sorry, but my name is Willes."
"Willes?" said Franco. "But it was Craford in the visitors' book at the
Palazzo Rosso. That's how we knew you were here."
"My brother is the Hereditary Constable of the Palace," said Baldo. "It
is now merely an honorary office. But the visitors' book is brought to
him whenever there have been any visitors."
"And we inquired for Craford downstairs," supplemented Franco. "And they
said you were at home, and showed us up."
"I 'm awfully sorry," repeated Adrian. "But Craford and I are as
distinct as night and morning. Craford has gone out for a solitary walk.
My name is Willes. Craford and I are travelling together."
"Oh, I see," cried Franco; and slapping his thigh, "Ho, ho, ho," he
laughed.
"Ho, ho, ho," laughed Baldo. "We were jolly well sold."
"We--ho, ho--we got the wrong sow by the ear," laughed Franco.
"We put the saddle on the wrong horse--ho, ho," laughed Baldo.
"We 're delighted to make your acquaintance, all the same," said Franco.
"And we hold you to your promise--you 're to come and stay with us--you
and Craford both," said Baldo.
"Yes--there 's no getting out of that. We count upon you," said Franco.
"So far as I 'm concerned, I should be charmed," said Adrian. "But I
can't speak for Craford. He 's a bit run down and out of sorts. I 'm
not sure whether he 'll feel that he 's in a proper state for paying
visits. But here he comes."
He inclined his head towards a window, through which Anthony could be
seen crossing the Piazza.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Franco. "I should have known him for a Valdeschi
anywhere. He 's exactly like a portrait of his grandfather in the
Palazzo Rosso."
"By Jove, so he is," exclaimed Baldo.
And, to Adrian's surprise, when the introductions were accomplished, and
the invitation was repeated to him, Anthony at once accepted.
"I 've given orders for my four-in-hand to come round here and pick us
up," said Franco. "Shall we all go for a spin, and get an appetite for
luncheon?"
"In the afternoon, if there 's a breeze, I propose a sail," said Baldo.
"I 've just got a new boat out from England, schooner-rigged, the
_Spindrift_. I 've not yet really had a fair chance to try her."
"Do you go in for tennis?" asked Franco. "We 've got a court at the
villa."
"I don't know whether you care for swimming," said Baldo. "You get a
fairly decent dive-off from the landing-stage at the end of our garden.
The water here is pooty good. My brother and I generally go for a swim
before dinner."
"Ah, here 's Tom with the four-in-hand," said Franco. And then, with a
readiness for self-effacement that was surely less British than the
language in which it found expression, "Would you care to take the
ribbons, Count?" he asked. And when Anthony had declined, "Would you,
Willes?" he proceeded.
"Not just at the start, thanks," said Adrian. "I should like to watch
'em step a bit first."
The hypocrite. As if he would have known what to do with the ribbons,
had they been given to him.
So Franco took them himself, while Baldo blew the horn.
"Have you visited Castel San Guido yet?" Franco questioned. "Shall we
make that our objective?"
They drove up and up, round and round the winding road that leads to
Castel San Guido, where it clings to the almost vertical mountainside.
For the greater part the road was bordered by olive orchards, but
sometimes there were vineyards, sometimes groves of walnut-trees, clumps
of stone-pines, or fields of yellowing maize, and everywhere there were
oleanders growing wild, and always there was the view.
Castel San Guido is very like a hundred other mediaeval castles, a grim
old fortress, with walls of I forget what prodigious thickness, with
round towers pierced by sinister-looking meutrières, and crowned by
battlements, with bare stone courts, stone halls, cold and dimly lighted,
and a dismantled stone chapel. But I dare say the descendant of San
Guido (not being made of wood) had his emotions. And the view was
magnificent--Vallanza below, its red roofs burning in the sun, the purple
bay, the olive-mantled hills, with a haze of gold-dust and pearl-dust
brooding over them, and white-walled villages shining in twenty
improbable situations, with their dark cypresses and slender campanili.
They had toiled up slowly, but they came spinning back at a tremendous
pace, down the steep gradients, round the perilous curves, while Franco,
his jaws shut tight, his brows drawn together, gave all his attention to
his horses, Baldo merrily wound his horn, Anthony smoked cigarettes, and
Adrian, for dear life, with his heart in his mouth, held hard to the
seat-rail at his side. I think he pushed a very genuine _ouf_, when,
without accident, they had regained the level ground.
The Villa del Ponte is a long grey rectangular building, as severe in
outward aspect as a barrack or a prison, in a garden that stretches right
away to the sea-wall, a garden full of palms, oranges, tall, feathery
eucalyptus-trees, and lizards, perfectly Italian. But no sooner do you
pass the portal of the house, than you leave Italy, as on a magic-carpet,
and find yourself in the seventh circle of England, amid English
furniture, English books, English periodicals, daily, weekly, monthly,
(the _Pink 'un_ perhaps the most conspicuous), and between walls
embellished by English sporting-pictures and the masks and brushes of
English foxes. "We hunt a good bit, you know," said Franco. "We've a
little box in Northamptonshire, and hunt with the Pytchley. We both have
the button." One was n't in the least surprised when an English voice,
proceeding from the smuggest of smooth-shaven English countenances,
informed my lord that luncheon was served.
After luncheon they sailed in the _Spindrift_. After that, (to Adrian's
delight, I hope) they had tea, with plenty of buttered toast. Then they
played tennis. Then they went for a breathless whirl along the Riva in a
motor-car. Then they swam. And after dinner they played billiards,
while Franco and Baldo smoked short pipes, and sipped whiskey and
soda--but a half-pennyworth of whiskey, as Adrian noticed, to an
intolerable deal of soda. Blood will tell, and theirs, in spite of
everything, was abstemious Italian blood.