Maria's gnarled knuckles beat vigorously upon her young master's
door. When her tattoo failed to bring results, she opened the door
and walked boldly in. Waddling to the floor-length windows, she
flung aside the heavy draperies, drenching the room with sunlight.
With a guttural exclamation that was half disgust and half
tenderness, she turned toward the dark, recumbent form upon the
canopied bed, still undisturbed by her activities. She approached
Rodrigo and shook him.
When at last he blinked up at her, she said sharply, "Get up, lazy
one. Your American has already breakfasted and is downstairs waiting
for you."
Rodrigo's face screwed itself interrogatively, American? Then his
drowsy, somewhat fuddled brain remembered Dorning, of Dorning and
Son. Rodrigo frowned. Bother Americans. So full of restless
energy, such early risers. He looked languidly at the watch upon his
wrist. Eleven o'clock. He sat upright in bed and indulged in a
prodigious yawn. With a grimace at the ample back of Maria, just
disappearing out of the door, he slid out of bed.
Half an hour later, having bathed and breakfasted, Count Rodrigo,
looking as fresh and bright of eye as a trained athlete, walked
briskly downstairs to find that his guest had apparently not missed
him in the least. Dorning was standing in front of the expansive
canvas of an oil painting in the great entrance hall of the
Torrianis. He had just donned a pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses and
was bending over to read the metal plate set in the elaborate frame
of the painting. The plate read: "Francesca Torriani, 1527-1562."
Dorning realized the likeness between the ruffled-collared,
sardonically smiling aristocrat on the canvas and his host, whom he
now turned to greet.
"I see you are making the acquaintance of my ancestors," said
Rodrigo. "This one, like the others, you will observe, led a short
life and, so I understand, a merry one." Rodrigo noted curiously how
glasses added at least five years to the age of John Dorning. Having
at the instant of their first encounter at the Café Del Mare set the
American down as an innocent and probably a prig, Rodrigo had, during
their discourse and drinking of the previous night, changed his mind
and conceived a mild liking for the man. Dorning was honest,
outspoken, and possessed of considerable culture. He was, Rodrigo
vaguely felt, the sort of person whom he should cultivate, the type
that develops into a staunch and worth-while friend.
"Your ancestor has at least had the good fortune to have been
perpetuated by an excellent artist," said Dorning.
"Here is something that will interest you," offered Rodrigo, walking
over to a low, ornately carved cabinet set against an adjacent wall.
"This is the best example of Early Renaissance cabinet work anywhere
around here." Dorning bent a grave, interested head and ran expert
fingers over the carving. His host tugged at the doors of the
cabinet. As he wrenched them apart, a shelf inside, unbalanced by
his effort, slid out upon the floor, spilling its contents as it
came. The two young men looked at each other, and Rodrigo grinned
sheepishly. Two bundles of letters and a feminine lace fan lay at
Dorning's feet.
Rodrigo dropped to his knees and, replacing the souvenirs, closed the
cabinet. He rose, dusted his hands, said suavely, "The cabinet was
made by Beniti, in Genoa, around 1627. The contents are slightly
more modern."
"So I judged," said John Dorning dryly. Then with more enthusiasm,
"I only wish I knew Italian antiques as well as you do, Count
Torriani--and antiques are my business."
Both turned as Maria came toward them in considerable agitation. "A
man named Minardi and a girl are here to see you," she announced in
rapid Italian to Rodrigo. "I do not like his looks. I refused to
admit him, but he has pushed his way into the outer hall." She
indicated the draperies on the other side of the room.
[Illustration: "STOP! DO YOU WANT TO BE ARRESTED? THIS GENTLEMAN IS
AN AMERICAN."]
Rodrigo's face clouded. Damn the fellow's persistence. "Tell him to
go away. I will not see him. Tell him I shall have him arrested if
he continues to bother me," he instructed Maria.
She turned doubtfully. She lacked her usual faith in her sharp
tongue in dealing with a calloused fellow like Minardi. She had
taken but a step when the draperies parted and Minardi, wearing the
same clothes, expression, and carnation as on the previous evening,
bulked before them. He had heard Rodrigo's voice talking with Maria,
and he was taking no chances. His fat, weak face was trying its best
to assume hard, menacing lines. His ill-kept, corpulent body was
drawn up as straight as possible with unrighteous indignation. He
relaxed for an instant to turn around and drag by the wrist from the
other side of the curtain his daughter, Rosa.
Rosa had been brought to the scene with some difficulty. She flashed
indignation at her father through swollen eyes. Actually propelled
now into the presence of Rodrigo, she glanced half defiantly, half
shamefacedly at him, then stood regarding the floor.
Victor Minardi started at once toward Dorning, taking up again with
undiminished vigor the torrent of abuse and threat which he had
hurled at the American at the Café Del Mare. He was persisting in
his belief that Dorning was Count Torriani, the man who was to pay.
Rodrigo stepped between the gesticulating Italian and the uncertain
Dorning. "I am Count Torriani. Now, what is it you want?"
Minardi wheeled upon Rodrigo. "So--it was you! Ah. Why did you not
say so before, eh?" And he launched into a fresh flood of
indignation.
Rodrigo raised a hand to stop him. He perceived that this fellow
could not be easily overawed. Minardi wanted money and would
probably continue to be a howling nuisance until he got it. Rosa,
Rodrigo suspected shrewdly, was in the plot with her father.
Certainly she would not otherwise have revealed her love affair with
Rodrigo to Minardi and, instead of keeping her rendezvous at the Café
Del Mare, allowed the noisy old man to come on a blackmailing
expedition in her place. Any tenderness Rodrigo had previously felt
for Rose Minardi disappeared. His lips curled as he looked at her
dark head, cast down in assumed modesty.
When Minardi had calmed down, Rodrigo snapped, "How much do you want?"
Minardi's anger faded. His eyes lighted up with greed. "Five
thousand lira," he replied in a business-like tone.
"You come high," said Rodrigo.
Minardi's hand went to his greasy inside coat pocket, "I have here
letters that are worth more than that," he said. "Letters you have
written to my Rosa. There are such things as breach of promise
suits. The newspapers would like them, eh? The Torrianis are not
popular at Naples, eh?"
In spite of himself, Rodrigo winced a little. This fat, futile old
reprobate began to assume the proportions of a real danger. Rodrigo
essayed frankness. "You know so much about the Torrianis," suggested
he, "you perhaps know that I have not five thousand liras at the
moment."
Minardi shrugged his stooped shoulders. "Even if that is true, you
can get them," he said. And he looked significantly at John Dorning,
an interested and somewhat disgusted spectator at the scene.
Rodrigo's slim fingers were drumming nervously upon the Beniti
cabinet which he had just been displaying to his guest. In their
nervous course over the top of the cabinet the finger points met the
smooth surface of an elaborately wrought silver vase standing there.
Rodrigo looked down. He hesitated an instant, then caught up the
vase in his hand.
"This was made by the great Cellini himself," he remarked to Minardi.
"It is worth at least twice the amount you are blackmailing me for.
You can easily dispose of it in Naples. I do not, of course, admit
any of your silly accusations. However, take this vase--and go at
once."
He held the exquisitely formed metal toward Minardi. John Dorning's
eyes made a hasty appraisal of it. He half opened his lips to
protest against this careless disposal of the little silver
masterpiece. But Minardi, hardly looking at it, snarled, "No. I
want money."
Dorning said at once to Rodrigo, "Give him money then. I will buy
the vase. I'll give you twice what he wants--ten thousand liras--and
make a handsome profit if I ever want to dispose of it." He took out
his purse.
Rodrigo regarded his guest with puzzled surprise. "I don't want you
to do this for me, Dorning. I----"
"Please believe me, it is merely a matter of business," Dorning cut
in quietly. "I am in Italy for the purpose of picking up just such
bargains." He counted out the money and offered it to Rodrigo. The
young Italian hesitated an instant, then took the proffered notes,
counted them and started to hand half to Minardi.
"You want something for your money, don't you?" Dorning interjected.
"Your letters?"
"Naturally," replied Rodrigo, flushing a little. He was not used to
being prompted. As he took the packet of note-paper from Minardi's
greasy hands he now made an over-elaborate show of checking them up.
"They are all here," he decided, speaking curtly and more to Dorning
than to Rosa's papa. To the latter he continued even more curtly,
"Now get out. If I see you about here again I will turn you over to
the police."
Minardi bowed impudently. He made a move to seize the silent Rosa's
hand, but she eluded him. Suddenly she opened shrill soprano abuse
of her father. "I hope you're satisfied now!" she cried. "You have
humiliated me, your daughter. You've sold my honest love for money,
made me appear a low, scheming woman. I hate you." With a swift
movement she slipped over to Rodrigo, who stood with arms folded,
regarding her with a wry smile.
"Please tell me you do not think I plotted this with him," she
pleaded, her dark, warm face quite near to his. "It is not for money
I love you. I did not come to the café last night, because I was
angry with you for telling me I am bad tempered. I cried all last
night over that, Rodrigo. But I am not angry at you now. I am angry
only at Papa." Her soft arms attempted to steal around Rodrigo's
neck. "Tell me that you still love me," she begged in a low, husky
voice.
Still he stood rigid. He shot an apologetic smile at Dorning. Even
now he felt the attraction of this creature of primitive emotions,
though he suspected she was acting.
"But you are bad tempered, Rosa," he jibed, disengaging her arms.
"And I think you are somewhat of a liar besides."
She fairly flung herself away from him at that, standing with heaving
bosom and flashing eyes. She was still cursing him when her father
laid violent hands upon her and led her out of the house.
Rodrigo shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. "A charming
creature," he remarked flippantly to Dorning. Nevertheless Rodrigo
was rather ashamed of the scene the two Minardis had made in front of
the American. Somehow Dorning had already assumed an importance to
him much more than that of a casual and congenial guest. It was not
that Dorning had stepped into an embarrassing situation with ten
thousand liras. It was the spirit that had prompted the American's
action. Rodrigo sensed a quiet strength in the man that he himself
somehow lacked, a strength that in the troublous future confronting
him he would like to have near him.
"The trouble with women," Rodrigo remarked, "is that they cannot keep
love in its proper place. It soon ceases to be a game with them and
becomes a mad scramble to possess a man. Then comes jealousy, bad
temper, remorse, and complications such as you have just seen."
"'Love is to man a thing apart; to woman their whole being,'" Dorning
quoted. He did not think his host had acquitted himself with
especial credit in the "complications." There was a tawdriness about
the Minardis and the scene they had created unbecoming to a man who
owned original Cellinis and other treasures. Art, to Dorning, was
about all there was in life. The Rosas were superficial annoyances
that had never yet entered into his own career, though he was quite
aware that they existed in the careers of most other men. He had
been immediately attracted to his host by their mutual interest in
art. The charm of the man, his good looks, his facile tongue, his
wit and deftness in conversation had added to the attraction. Why
should such a man love such a common creature as Rosa Minardi and
consent to be blackmailed by her father? Dorning resolved to forget
Rosa and turned the conversation to tapestries.
But Rodrigo's thoughts were not entirely diverted from
"complications." "There is an amusing tradition about those
tapestries," he said. "You will observe that the ones near the
window seat are identical with those at the door leading into the
outer hall. Well, my worthy ancestor whose portrait you have
praised, Francesca Torriani, once found their similarity his undoing.
It seems that he was entertaining a very lovely married lady in this
room, a Countess. Her husband, the Count, followed her to the
rendezvous. Suddenly in the middle of my ancestor's love-making, the
Countess caught sight of her husband outside. 'Quick,' she cried,
'where can I hide?' Francesca thrust her behind the tapestry by the
door.
"The Count entered, very angry and his hand upon his sword hilt.
'Where is my wife? I saw her come here,' he bellowed. Francesca
swore like a gentleman that the lady was not present. The Count
insisted and started searching. His eye caught the outline of a
lady's foot showing beneath the tapestry. With a loud cry of rage he
tore the tapestry to one side and revealed not his Countess but quite
another lady! Another of Francesca's lady friends had sought shelter
when the Countess entered, behind the tapestries by the window seat.
All might have been well had not the Countess, hearing from her
hiding-place a woman's voice, been assailed by jealousy and, casting
discretion to the winds, come forth breathing fire and brimstone."
"What happened then?" asked Dorning smiling, amused in spite of
himself.
"There was a terrific four-handed clash. Poor Francesca was half mad
with anxiety. The Count challenged him to a duel. In the fight,
Francesca, who, unlike the rest of the Torrianis, was no swordsman,
was killed."
"And quite a proper climax to the adventure it was," John Dorning
declared soberly.
"Proper--why!" Rodrigo asked. "Because Francesca had been too stupid
to learn swordsmanship?"
"No--because of his interest in a lady who belonged to another."
"The lady should not have taken Francesca's love so seriously as to
have become jealous. When will women understand that when they take
our admiration seriously they kill it?"
"Not at all," Dorning returned stoutly. "That is exactly the wrong
attitude. I do not understand it in you--you who are so intelligent
and sensible about other things. There are so many other things for
you to interest yourself in than in these petty love affairs."
Rodrigo straightened. He did not relish criticism. In the next
instant, realizing that Dorning was honest in his questioning and
rather pleased that he had aroused his quiet guest to such a pitch,
he relaxed and asked calmly, "What other interests do you recommend
for a reckless and extravagant gentleman, like myself, who now finds
himself penniless and equipped for nothing in the world but for
amusing the ladies and for being amused by them?"
"If you will pardon me--are you really in straightened circumstances?"
"Yes. I am in debt. Economy was not one of my father's virtues, nor
did he take the trouble to develop it in me." Rodrigo, fearing to be
misunderstood, added, "Not that I am in need of a loan, you
understand. You have done quite enough for me, and I am grateful."
"What are you thinking of doing then?"
"I can either marry the first single rich lady or widow who will have
me, or I can sell or rent this place and its contents."
"You would do neither of those two foolish things."
"Why not?" Rodrigo was curious. He was secretly rather pleased at
the personal turn the conversation had taken, for, with all his
worldliness and experience along romantic lines, it seemed that
Dorning's common sense might be valuable in considering the rather
dismaying future.
"Have you ever considered entering trade?" Dorning asked tentatively.
"My father was in trade. There is nothing unpleasant about it to me.
What sort of trade?"
Thus encouraged, John Dorning revealed what was in his mind.
"We--Dorning and Son," he explained, "have gone in recently, to a
very extensive degree, for Italian antiques. My mission over here is
for the purpose of adding to our stock. Also, if possible, to
acquire a man to manage that department of our business, someone who
is an expert in that line and who at the same time is fitted to deal
with our rather exclusive clientele. It occurs to me that you might
be that man, if you would care to consider it."
Rodrigo did not reply at once. He took three or four steps in
silence, thoughtfully, away from Dorning. Go to America! Enter
business! He recalled the deprecatory manner in which his father had
always talked about business and the great relief it had been for the
elder Torriani to leave the Indian trade and settle down at last to
be a gentleman again. And he was very much like his father in so
many ways. The business of John Dorning, to be sure, was art,
something he, Rodrigo, loved. It was not like the mad commercial
scramble of ordinary trade. There was nothing commercial about
Dorning. Something within Rodrigo said "Go." Something in Dorning's
offer was lifting off his mind the almost physical weight that
oppressed him every time he considered the future.
"I will accept your offer and return with you to America," Rodrigo
said with quiet suddenness.
John Dorning started. He had not suspected such a quick and decisive
answer. "Fine," he said. "Can you arrange your affairs to sail with
me next week on the Italia?"
Rodrigo was sure that he could. Now that he was committed to the
plunge, he was positively gay about it. The two young men spent the
rest of the day talking the arrangements over. In the afternoon they
journeyed in to Naples in Rodrigo's car and entered an agreement with
the fussy Italian real estate agent to rent the palace of the
Torrianis to the family of a young American author who had just made
a fortune out of a best-selling novel and wished to write its sequel
along the romantic shore of the Bay of Naples.