Florence had gone back to summer the next day. The heat was intense,
the streets were deserted, the very blue of the sky seemed to burn, all
the poor green things to have the life drawn out of them by the
scorching sun. There was a little loggia at Miss Cartwright's Casa
Giulia, where Jack and his aunt could have managed to keep themselves
cool if Miss Preston would have permitted it, but she routed them out
more than once. Heat or no heat she had no compassion for idleness, and
she came tramping up the stairs with bundles of book labels for the
Church library, with horrible knitted garments which she had dragged
from wintry receptacles, with all kinds of out-of-season duties which
were to rouse Miss Cartwright. She was one of those people whose
presence is a perpetual rebuke; it is impossible to fulfil their
requirements, you feel yourself making feeble excuses, and going down,
down, down, lower and lower in your own opinion and in theirs.
"Why do you let her tyrannise over you?" said Jack indignantly. It is
to be feared that he called her an old cat, but all the same he was
himself conscious of this uncomfortable sinking in her presence.
"She does not always do things in the pleasantest manner," said Miss
Cartwright gently, "but she is so conscientious and so useful that it is
impossible not to admire her. There is a great deal of misery in
Florence, and I am sure I often feel how selfish and idle it must seem
to her when I sit in this pretty loggia out of the reach of it all,
while she is always toiling and planning. Indeed, Jack, if you only
knew half she did, you would appreciate her better."
"Heaven forbid!" said the young man fervently.
Even Cartouche, who had made his way up to the loggia, was too sleepy to
do anything but snap at persevering flies; the others sat lazily
pretending to read or work; every now and then Miss Cartwright asked
questions about Phillis; it was all dreamy and quiet. From where they
sat they could see other loggias--people at their windows, women coming
out on flat shady roofs to water their plants, odd little nests of
chimneys like honeycombs, pigeon-holes, mysterious gratings, a curious
kind of roof-life of which they made part and which had its interests.
In those sunny countries it takes little to make a picture; here the
business is elaborate, but there sun and sky do so much that you want
little more--a scarlet flower in a pot, a clambering vine, and the
effect is given. Jack lay back idly wondering at the beauty of an old
house wall opposite on which the sun poured in golden splendour, and the
rich shadows of the eaves marked bold outlines against the sky, when
Miss Preston's voice behind made him start.
"If you are busy I am sorry to interrupt you, Mary," she began, with a
searching glance at Miss Cartwright, who was hastily settling her cap,
and trying to look as if she had not been asleep, "but it is necessary
that some one should take back the books to the library this afternoon."
"Oh, I think not," said Miss Cartwright nervously; "they may really wait
until to-morrow, the heat is too intolerable for anything not absolutely
necessary to be done."
"I consider this necessary. The books were promised to Vieusseux for
to-day."
Miss Preston spoke in her uncompromising tone, the two culprits looked
at each other and fidgeted. Some old nursery story began to run in
Jack's head of naughty children, severe fairies, impossible tasks, heaps
of shining silks which had to be sorted. Miss Cartwright made another
feeble effort.
"I could not ask Winter to go out until it is cooler, but then she might
take them."
"I shall take them myself," said Miss Preston decidedly. "I have no
desire to delegate duties. I have only come to know whether you wish to
try the candles at Lanzi's? In that case, I will call there."
When she had gone, Jack jumped up in a fume.
"The woman is unendurable," he said. "She will be up here again in a
moment with some other horrible propositions. I can't stand any more of
them. Look here, Aunt Mary, I will take Cartouche back to the hotel,
and in an hour or so it will have cooled down enough to give him a run.
You need not think about dinner, I shall get it at Dony's, or somewhere,
and look in here again lateish in the evening. If she is human she will
be asleep then, after all this hunting her fellow-creatures."
Ibbetson could not stay long at the hotel, where the air was heavy with
heat. He made his way through the shady alleys of the Cascine; the
people were collecting, the carriages drawn up, gay ladies in all sorts
of bright and delicate colours, gentlemen wearing oddly-shaped hats and
conspicuous gloves; a gay brilliant scene enough, but not one which at
that moment had any attractions for Jack. He had in his pocket a letter
from Phillis--the first. It was written with some care and restraint,
as he noticed with a sigh which yet he could not have explained. They
would leave Bologna for Florence on Saturday--this was Thursday. The
heat was terrific, the arcades were a great comfort, the hotel was
excellent, the Etruscan remains were most interesting. The little
letter told everything there was to say--mentioned Mrs Leyton's health,
Captain Leyton's sketches--yet Jack was dissatisfied with it, and vexed
at his own dissatisfaction. The old vein of thought kept recurring; it
was not Tuscany in which he was walking, Tuscany with its golden lights,
its wealth of colour, its grapes clambering from tree to tree, but more
prosaic Surrey where carts were drawing their heavy harvest loads along
the roads, and Hetherton lay low amidst its masses of dark trees. The
picture caused him a little thrill of revulsion, and then a sharper
thrill of self-reproach.
Jack knew nothing of the road along which he was plodding; indeed, it
was not always a road, he went here and there where it seemed shady and
out of the dust, along the tall canes by the side of the Arno, sometimes
through a vineyard, where the contadini were gathering the beautiful
fruit with their sickles. At last he found himself climbing a hill,
where the road was white, steep, and stony, and to his left was one of
those walls which you may yet see built round the old villas, sloping
inwards, as if originally set up for defence. Presently he came, of
course, to the little niche high up in the wall, where, behind a
grating, were rudely coloured figures of the Madonna and Child, and an
earthenware pot in which some scarlet lilies were flaming. Somehow such
little tributes are more touching than the most elaborate decorations;
Ibbetson found himself wondering who had placed them there, as he went
toiling up his hill. The next moment he reached the entrance of the
villa; iron gates standing open led into a rather untidy looking drive,
arched over by tall trees of paradise and paulownias; and the shade of
their broad leaves was so attractive a contrast to the dusty road, that
he stood and looked in for a few minutes. There was an unreasonable
attraction to him about the place. He smiled at himself when it struck
him, and whistling to Cartouche, who had plunged among the trees,
prepared to continue his tramp up the stony hill.
But Cartouche was not forthcoming. On the contrary, certain sounds were
to be heard implying that he had met with a very congenial amusement
within--a rustling among bushes, short sharp yelps, terrified gobblings,
flutterings, then a girl's cry. Jack whistled and called in vain,
finally ran along the drive and found himself in a broad space before
the villa, where two men armed with sticks were pursuing Cartouche,
three or four young turkeys were flying helplessly about, and a girl
stood holding another, apparently dead, in her hands. The instant she
saw Ibbetson she stamped her foot, and cried out passionately in
Italian--
"Take away that wicked, villainous dog, do you hear!"
Jack was struck dumb, not at the command, but at the face which was
turned towards him. He had never in his life seen so beautiful a
creature. The large brown eyes flashed reproachfully through their
tears, the rounded and glowing cheek might have belonged to a Hebe, the
indignant curl of the short upper lip only showed more strongly the
beauty of its curves. She stood facing him, one hand holding the dead
bird, the other pointing inexorably at Cartouche, who, aware of his
misdeeds, skilfully avoided a blow aimed by one of the gardeners, and
fled behind his master. Then her face changed slightly, and she looked
down at the bird.
"You are not Italian," she said still vehemently, but in English so pure
as to excite the young man's wonder more keenly, "and perhaps you did
not know about it; but your dog should not come in and kill our turkeys.
See, it is quite dead," she added, holding it out; "and they were such
dear little things, my sister and I had just brought them in a basket
from the _podere_ to show my mother."
"I am very sorry, very sorry indeed," said Ibbetson with great
earnestness, "and very much ashamed that I did not keep a better look
out."
"If you were only passing by in the road, of course you could not help
it," said the girl, looking at him gravely; "but perhaps you will try to
prevent his doing it again. I should be very much obliged if you would,
for I cannot bear to see things hurt."
"I will certainly flog him."
There was a pause, and she took another survey, but this time it was of
Cartouche, whom his master was holding.
"He does not seem a very fierce dog?" she said inquiringly.
"Quite the reverse," said Ibbetson smiling. "He is little more than a
puppy, and this mischief is only play, but still it is necessary he
should be taught what he is not to do."
Jack was looking very determined; Cartouche had the air of a victim.
The girl glanced at the turkey which she still held, and again at the
dog.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, as if rather ashamed of herself, "you will
not beat him? The turkey is dead, and I think he understands he is not
to do it again. Indeed, Antonio shall carry the rest back to the farm.
You will not beat him?"
"You have a right to say what shall be done."
"Then I say that," she said, brightening and clapping her hands. "Here
is my sister, I must tell her about it."
She ran to meet a younger girl who came down the steps of a terrace.
Ibbetson stood where she had left him, feeling a little awkward, it must
be confessed, and not knowing whether he was to go or stay, or into what
strange place he had fallen. Were these people English or Italian? The
girl's type of beauty was Italian, but the English she spoke bore no
trace of being acquired. The villa was square, large, and apparently
out of repair; there was a tower which looked older than the rest of the
building, and a handsome high-arched entrance. Plants were arranged in
pyramids round vases or statues; there were lemon trees in great tubs,
tiny oranges hanging between the leaves, tube roses scenting the air,
glossy acanthuses. In the centre of the broad space in front of the
house, where Jack was standing, was a pond with a fountain in its midst,
which you might reach from the villa through a covered way matted over
with banksia roses, and having seats at intervals under the cool shade.
He had just time to notice all this when the two girls turned and joined
him.
"This is my sister," said his first acquaintance with a pretty little
gesture of introduction, "but we do not know your name, or anything
about you, except that you are English."
"My name is Ibbetson, John Ibbetson," said the young man laughing, and
yet reddening slightly.
"You are quite right in supposing that I am English, but will you pardon
me if I ask whether you can possibly be my country people?"
"I am," said the younger girl shyly, and her sister turned upon her a
reproachful look.
"And I, too," she said quickly. "What makes you doubt it? English
people often live abroad, as you must know. We are called Masters, my
mother is in the house, and you will come in to see her, of course."
Jack muttered something about his dress and the dust, but the girl shook
her head imperatively.
"That does not matter in the least. We live here alone and see nobody,
that is why I wish you to go in; I know it is not good for mamma to be
so solitary, and have no one but us. Kitty and I often talk about it,
but what can we do? There are only the gardeners, and old Andrea, the
cook, and the people at the farm, and she does not care about the farm.
We brought the turkeys back to-day just for a little amusement."
"And I was so unfortunate as to be the cause of putting an end to it."
"Yes," said the girl gravely, "but never mind. Your coming to see her
will be better, perhaps. This way, please."
Ibbetson followed, half amused and half piqued. It was quite evident
that he was only looked upon as a new and possible means of
entertainment where other means were wanting, and yet the girl's manner
was so simple and frank that it was impossible to feel offended. And
the brightness, the unconventionality of the scene charmed him. The air
was full of wonderful gleaming lights, of sweet scents. Every line of
the old villa seemed in harmony with the rich colouring about it; so
were the sisters in their cool white dresses. It was all strange and
yet familiar, and he followed, wondering what new features would
presently disclose themselves, whether it was to end in a fairy tale or
plainest English prose. Cartouche, fortunately still a little subdued
by the consciousness of misdoing, was tied into a thicket of scarlet
geraniums by the side of the entrance, then Kitty pushed the heavy door,
and passing through a small marble-paved hall, opened another door
leading into an immense salon, perhaps fifty feet long. To English eyes
it looked but barely furnished, but it was cool and well shaded; two
large windows opened on a terrace, and there, on a white marble table,
under the shade of a magnificent paulownia tree, was spread the dinner
service. It was like a feast in Boccaccio, Jack thought, after the
stuffy table-d'hotes and the stuffier dining-room at Hetherton--stands
of bright flowers, piles of rosy peaches, grapes full of lustrous
colour, plums, figs heaped on their dishes, and two or three green
melons lying in the midst of this gay confusion of colour.
"It is nearly seven o'clock, I see," said the elder girl, glancing
carelessly at it. "Kitty, tell Pasquale to set another place; of course
you will dine with us," she added, turning to the young Englishman, "but
please to come to the breakfast-room, mamma is sure to be there."
As she spoke she opened a door which led into another and smaller salon,
and from this they went through another. Both had inlaid floors and
marble tables; in one a couple of marble statues stood looking sadly and
reproachfully, so Jack fancied, at the girl who went quickly by without
so much as glancing towards them, her beautiful face eager, her cheeks
glowing. There were no statues in the second room, only black negro
boys holding flower-stands; but the stands were empty, and evidently the
rooms were uninhabited, and even on this day a little dreary. It was
different with the little room to which they led; there all the
available furniture had been gathered. It was not very handsome, but a
pretty homelike air hung about everything. A glass door opened on steps
which went down to a gay little flower-garden, and were shaded by a
weeping willow, while from some unseen source there came a pleasant
refreshing sound of bubbling water. In a low chair near the window sat
a lady who had probably been asleep, from the bewildered air with which
she looked up, and Jack's companion evidently thought so too, for she
gave a little impatient pat upon her shoulder.
"Wake up, mamma, we have got something quite new for you to-day," she
began in the tone in which one would offer a toy to a spoiled child.
"Here is an English gentleman who is going to dine with us. I dare say
you have just come from England, and know about things?" she continued,
addressing him.
Jack felt an irresistible inclination to laugh, and yet there was
something in the little scene which touched him. He had been taken
possession of without much freedom of action being permitted him, and
now was expected to play off his tunes like a wound-up barrel organ.
But it was impossible not to see that the girl was free from any thought
of self, and as she made this last appeal the wistfulness in the
beautiful brown eyes went to his heart. He was going to speak, but she
interrupted him.
"Wait a moment," she said quite gravely, "I had forgotten. This is Mr
Ibbetson, mamma. Mr Ibbetson--Mrs Masters."
Her mother put out her hand languidly.
"Beatrice is original in her introductions, but she knows that anyone
who can tell me about my own country is welcome at Villa Carlina," she
said.
They fell into chat quite easily, indeed everything about the house
seemed free from formality or stiffness, Ibbetson thought. Mrs Masters
was a largely built, fair woman, slow in movement; generally her face
looked placid, but sometimes a startled expression crossed it which gave
a sudden sharpness to the lines on her forehead. She dressed rather
untidily, and with an evident leaning towards bright colours; her voice
went on in a pleasant plaintive ripple, and there was no labour in the
conversation. Bice took no part in it. She had drawn a low chair to
the head of the steps, and sat leaning forward, her elbow on her knee,
her chin resting on her hand, all the delicate lines of her white dress
falling in graceful folds. Jack thought, as he looked, that a sculptor
could not have found a more perfect attitude, or a more exquisitely
moulded head, thrown out as it was by the background of cool green
outside. Who was she? How came she by an English name, and yet the
highest type of Italian beauty? The other girl came in, and he could
see that she was three or four years younger; she was so slender as to
be thin and almost angular, and bore not the least resemblance to either
Bice or her mother.
"Yes, it is pretty here," the mother was saying, "especially just now in
the vintage time. But it becomes very monotonous; the days go by one
after the other, all alike, and all dull. There are no neighbours, or
hardly any. The Moronis come sometimes, young Giovanni brings his
guitar, and the girls sit out there on the steps and sing. Yes, that is
pretty, too, but still one tires, and in the winter of course it is a
hundred times worse. I do envy the people in Florence, who have
theatres and the Cascine always to fall back upon. For myself it does
not matter; but you will understand that it is a trial to see these
children growing up with none of the advantages of other girls--I am
afraid very unlike others."
She looked at Ibbetson for sympathy, but what could he say? It was in
this very unlikeness that it seemed to him the charm lay, and yet he was
sure this was not a woman to understand it. Bice had clasped her hands
round her knee, and was staring out of the window frowning.
"Don't talk about Florence, mamma," she said impatiently. "Everybody
knows what Florence is; Kitty and I would not live there for anything in
the world. Is it any good for people to drive about in their best
clothes and look at one another? But we are English, you know; please
tell us about England," she went on, addressing Ibbetson, "or stay--
there is the dinner bell, come to dinner; I will meet you on the
terrace, and bring your dog, for he must have something to eat, though
he did kill my poor little turkey."
To Jack that dinner was unlike all others; he half expected to awake
from a dream of delicious air, of sweet scents, and the gorgeous fruits
with which the table was piled. The little party sat on two sides of
it; Beatrice, opposite, looked at him with grave questioning eyes; Kitty
was shy and did not say much; but Mrs Masters' talk rippled on without
more break than a little accompaniment of sighs. Old Andrea, the fat
cook, brought up one of the dishes himself in order that he might see
the English signore. He stood with his hands behind him, smiling and
gossiping in a full rich voice about the news of the little town from
which he fetched the letters every day. Afterwards they went back to
the morning room. Crimson cushions had been laid on the steps; Mrs
Masters buried herself in an arm-chair at the top, the others sat about
on the cushions. The glow of the setting sun still lingered in the
clear sky; there were faint sounds of rustling leaves, of dropping
water, the cry of _grilli_, the soft patter of naked feet as the
gardeners ran about, watering.
"We should have no flowers otherwise," explained Kitty; "the lemon trees
alone require it every night. They will go on until ten o'clock."
"I am looking out for fire-flies," said Jack.
"Oh, you are much too late; you will not see them after June. They come
to light the corn to grow, and every night as the clock strikes twelve
they creep up the stems of the trees and go to sleep."
It was all possible, Jack felt, in this land of enchantment. Presently,
without any prelude, the two girls began to sing a wild sweet stornello.
The voices were not very strong, but they were like one; they went on
rising, falling, answering back again, dying away at last into the other
sounds. Cartouche came rushing along; Jack got up and shook himself.
"Must you go? We often sit out here until very late," said Mrs
Masters, rousing herself from a nap. "But you will come again?"
"Will you come to-morrow? We are going on a fig-eating expedition with
the Moronis. We shall start at about four," said Bice, "and go to their
farm."
"I will be here without fail," said the young man eagerly. He went away
into the cool dusky shadows in a sort of bewilderment; there had been
something so unlooked-for and novel in this little episode, that it
impressed him more than a hundred more important things. The questions
he had half forgotten came forward again. Who were they? What had
brought them there?
"_Buona notte, signore_."
It was old Andrea the cook, who was standing smoking a cigar at the
entrance gate, and probably on the look-out for a little gossip.
"A fine vintage this year. The signore has without doubt seen our
vintage? No? Is it possible? Then he will do so this September. The
padrona's grapes will be brought to be weighed next week; the signorine
will take the signore to see them cut. Eh, eh, the signorina Beatrice
can tell him everything. See here, she has a head as good as my own,
though I say it. It is wonderful, a young girl like that, whom I have
nursed on my knee many and many a time. Sometimes, when I hear her
giving her orders, I stare, I cannot believe it. But then she is one of
us, which explains it," added the old man with pride.
"Do you mean that she is not English?" asked Jack, interested in this
confirmation of the ideas which had been floating about in his head
since the first moment of seeing Bice.
Old Andrea shook his head vehemently.
"No, no, no," he said, "not the signorina. Her father was a Capponi;
she is a Capponi, anyone can see that who looks in her eyes, if the
signore will excuse me for saying so. She is a Capponi all over."
"But she told me she was English," said Jack, amused at the old man's
indignation.
"She has whims, though she is so clever," said Andrea testily. "Most of
the clever ones have. Her mother is English, if you will--what of that?
And possibly the _padrone_ did not treat her over well--who knows? He
was a man who liked his own way, and perhaps did not much care how he
got it. _Altro_! The signore knows that men are not all made in the
same fashion, and the Capponi were used to being masters. At any rate,
he is dead."
"And his wife?"
"Si, _signore_, as you see. She married again, before the stone that
covers his grave up at San Miniato had time to lose its whiteness. I go
there sometimes. There are not many others that remember. But as I was
saying, the signora married quickly, and this time it was to a
stranger--an Englishman--with two children."
"Two?"
"Two. There is a young man in some country of strangers, very probably
it is England, and the signore has perhaps brought news of him? No?
Ah, then he will see him on his return. That will delight the
signorina, for she has given her heart to these newcomers. But for all
that she cannot help being a Capponi, and no one can mistake her. Such
a _padrona_ as she makes! Such a head, such a head! Only ask them at
the _podere_ what it is like. The signore goes to Florence?"
"Yes," said Jack, who had been lighting his cigar. "I suppose there is
no shorter road than down this hill?"
"If the signore can keep in his dog he can branch off through the
vineyards to the left. I will show him the path in a moment, and it
will be much quicker."
Andrea, delighted at this chance of a gossip, talked on as they went
down the hill. It was chiefly loyal, admiring homage to the signorina
which filled his mind, and Ibbetson was interested in the ideas he
gathered of a homely and simple life, unlike that of which he was
accustomed to think. When he parted from Andrea, it seemed to him as if
he had known Bice for months instead of hours; a curious charm already
hovered about her, and the remembrance of the wistful looks which
sometimes crossed her face like a contradiction. He left the old man
standing in the road, and turned off into the steep and stony track
which had been pointed out to him as his path. No one was visible when
he got among the vines, but following Andrea's advice, he kept the
unwilling Cartouche close by his side, and walked quickly, for it was
growing late, though a bright moon made the blue sky clear. The air was
light and fresh. A few olive trees, twisted and gnarled, bordered the
path, their grey leaves catching the light like silver; then the Arno
came into sight flooded with radiance; presently the twinkling lights of
Florence gleamed out from dark masses of building, and cupola, and
tower, and one larger blot which marked the Duomo of Our Lady of
Flowers. All over the plain these lights glittered, faintly bright,
here far apart, here tremulously disclosing themselves to the eye, as
shyly as the stars of heaven itself. When Ibbetson reached the city
streets he felt as if he had left enchantment behind him. The thoughts
which had troubled him the evening before, now did not once intrude.
Hetherton might never have been, and the charm of Italy was at work.