What happened at this moment in Anthony's head and heart? Many things
must have become rather violently and painfully clear to him; many
things must have changed their aspect, and adjusted themselves in new
combinations. Many things that had seemed trifling or meaningless must
have assumed significance and importance. No doubt he was shaken by
many tumultuous thoughts and feelings. But outwardly he appeared
almost unmoved. He returned the book to the table, and began to walk
backwards and forwards, his head bowed a little, as one considering.
Sometimes he would give a brief low laugh. Sometimes he would look up,
frown, and vaguely shake his fist. Once, shaking his fist, he
muttered, "Oh, that Adrian!" And once, with a delighted chuckle, "By
Jove, how awfully she 'll be dished!"
Then Father Angelo came back.
"The Countess is in the garden. May I show you the way?" he said.
But when they had reached the marble bridge that connects the garden
with the Palace, "I think it will be best if you see her alone," the
Father said. "Cross this bridge, and keep straight up the path beyond,
and you will come to her."
"Thank you, Father," said Anthony, and crossed the bridge.
He crossed the marble bridge, and kept straight up the path beyond.
And there, at the end of the path, in the shade of an oleander-tree,
with her back towards him, stood a young woman--a young woman in a
pearl-grey frock, and a garden-hat, beneath which one could see that
her hair was dark. Young women's backs, however, in this world, to the
undiscerning eyes of men, are apt to present no immediately
recognizable characteristic features; and so if it had n't been for
Ronsard, I don't know what would have happened.
It was very still in the garden. The birds were taking their afternoon
siesta. The breeze faintly lisped in the tree-tops. Even the
sunshine, as if it were not always still, seemed stiller than its wont.
"Oh, what--what--what will he think, what will he say, what will he do,
when I turn round, and he sees who I am?" The question repeated and
repeated itself in Susanna's mind, rhythmically, to the tremulous
beating of her heart, as she heard Anthony's footsteps coming near.
He walked quickly, but a few paces short of where she stood he halted,
and for a breathing-space or two there was silence.
Then at last, in English, in his smoothest, his most detached, his most
languid manner, but with an overtone of exultancy that could not be
subdued, he said--
"These ingenuous attempts at mystification are immensely entertaining;
but are there to be many more of them, before you can permit our little
comedy to reach its happy dénouement?"
"Good heavens!" thought Susanna, wildly.
She did n't turn round, but presently her shoulders began to shake.
She could n't help it. The discomfiture was hers; she had been
"awfully dished" indeed. But her shoulders shook and shook with silent
laughter.
In the end, of course, she turned.
In her dark eyes disappointment, satisfaction, amazement, and amusement
shone together.
"How in the world did you find out?" she asked. "How _could_ you have
found out? When did you find out? How long have you known? And if
you knew, why did you pretend not to know?"
But Anthony, at the sight of her face, forgot everything.
"Oh, never mind," he cried, and advanced upon her with swift strides.
By-and-by, "Let me look at your right hand," said Susanna. "I want to
see whether you have the Valdeschi pit."
"The Valdeschi what?" said Anthony.
"The Valdeschi pit," said she.
"What is that?" he asked.
"The Valdeschi pit!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you, the
head of the family, don't know?"
"What is it?" he asked.
"Every true-born son or daughter of San Guido," she explained, "bears
in the palm of the hand a little pit or dint, which is the survival in
his descendants of the scar made by the thorn in the hand of San Guido
himself. See--I have it."
She held out her hand.
Anthony took it, bent ever it, kissed it, studied it.
"It is a delicious hand--but I see no pit," he said.
"_There_," said she, placing the tip of her finger upon a tiny
concavity in the rose-white flesh.
"That?" laughed Anthony. "That is nothing but a pretty little dimple."
"Oh, no," said she, seriously. "That is the mark of the Valdeschi. I
'm sure you have it too--we all have it. Let me see."
She took his lean brown hand, and examined it carefully, eagerly.
"There! I was sure!" she cried.
She pointed to where, in a position corresponding to that of the "mark
of the Valdeschi" in her own hand, there was an indentation that looked
like a half-obliterated scar.
Presently, in the direction of the Palace, a bell began to ring, rather
a deep-toned bell, like a church-bell.
Susanna rose.
"When you were here the other day as a mere visitor," she said, "I
suppose they did n't show you the chapel, did they?"
"No," said Anthony.
"They don't show it to mere visitors," she went on. "But come with me
now, and you shall see it. Father Angelo is going to give Benediction.
That is what the bell is ringing for."
She led the way towards the Palace. As they were crossing the bridge,
"Look," she said, and pointed to a flagstaff that sprang from the
highest pinnacle of the building. A flag was being hoisted there; and
now it fluttered forth and flew in the breeze, a red flag with a design
in gold upon it.
"The flag of the Count of Sampaolo: gules, a spine or," said Susanna.
"Of course you know why they are flying it now?"
"No--?" wondered Anthony.
"Because the Count of Sampaolo is at home," she said.
Then they went in to Benediction.