A GUEST FROM ITALY.
The next few days passed rather like a dream to Roma. Her father
improved slowly but steadily, the tranquil and contented condition of
his mind going far towards ensuring his recovery.
Tor came in and out very much as a son of the house might do, and
Meredith was entirely satisfied. He did not care to talk or discuss
the matter of the sudden betrothal with either daughter or son-in-law
elect. He remained passively content, and accepted the fact with the
calm superiority characteristic of his habit of mind, and the two most
deeply concerned were glad that it should be so.
Roma grew to watch with interest for Tor’s visits, and a strong liking
sprang up between the two so curiously thrown together. There was not
a spark of love (in the ordinary sense of the word) in this friendship.
Roma and Tor would never grow sentimental over one another under any
circumstances, for the strange, subtle unity of spirit, which is the
essence of real love, was entirely wanting between them.
Mr. Meredith had, by his injudicious treatment of the subject,
effectually prevented Roma from feeling anything but aversion for the
husband he had selected, until Tor’s quiet kindness had overcome her
repugnance; and he had Maud’s image too deeply enshrined within his
heart to spare over-much thought or admiration for another woman.
But a very friendly understanding was now arrived at, and Roma was
quite willing to accept Tor as a kind of ‘big brother,’ and to treat
him with a frank cordiality that was the surest indication of a mind
at ease. The confession which he had made to her, upon the night of
their odd betrothal, had been a wise one, for it had taken away all
sense of embarrassed discomfort, and given her an interest in him which
she could not otherwise have indulged. Altogether, an episode which
might have been very painful and trying, had, by a little dexterous
management on Tor’s part, led to a more comfortable state of mutual
understanding than had seemed possible at one time; and Roma gained
such confidence in his skill, as well as in his kindliness, that she
ceased to trouble her head as to how the matter was to end, feeling
certain that he would clear it up all in good time, and in a way which
would cause no painful shock to her father’s feelings.
Roma was at work again in her studio about a week after her father’s
sudden illness. Michael Meredith was downstairs again, sleeping quietly
in his own small study. The girl had left him, as she could do now,
with a mind at ease, and had returned to her work.
She was modelling a bust of Maud Debenham, to give to her brother as a
token of friendship and gratitude. Maud had given her a sitting that
morning, and she was anxious to get on with the work before the next
visit, which was promised for the morrow.
The bust was a great source of delight to the two girls, and its
existence was kept a profound secret from the intended recipient.
Roma was hard at work upon the clay, when a servant entered with a card
upon a tray.
‘It is a foreign gentleman to see master,’ was the explanation. ‘He
cannot speak hardly any English. I think he is Italian by his looks.
What shall I do with him? The master is asleep.’
‘And he must not be disturbed. I must see the—is he a gentleman, Anne?’
‘Yes, ma’am—I think so, by the looks of him; but one can never trust
those foreign chaps.’
Roma smiled at this insular prejudice, and looked down at the card. The
name was written in the fine characters of foreign penmanship—
_Marco Pagliadini._
‘I do not think I remember the name; but he may be a friend of
father’s, from Italy. I must not send him away,’ said Roma to herself.
Then aloud she added: ‘Show the gentleman here, Anne, and let me know
when your master is awake.’
A few minutes later, a grave, handsome young Italian was shown in,
who bowed low to Roma with a stately grace, which had nothing servile
in its reverence; and relieved her at once from the suspicion that the
stranger might be some foreign beggar who had come to sponge upon her
father. This man was evidently of gentle birth and breeding; and the
girl felt at once at her ease with him.
In her mother’s tongue, which was as familiar to her as the English she
generally spoke, she greeted him, with the grave and formal courtesy
which sat more naturally upon her than the freedom of manner permitted
in this country. Roma had spent most of her life in Italy, and felt
herself more at home with her mother’s countrymen than with her
father’s.
She bid Signor Pagliadini be seated, and explained to him that her
father had been ill, and was still very feeble; that he was now
resting, and she feared to disturb him; but at the same time he must
not be deprived of the pleasure of a visit like the present, and if the
Signor would be so kind as to wait for half an hour, her father would
be delighted to see him.
The Signor would be delighted to do so, and expressed himself
concerned to hear of the illness of Mr. Meredith. In a short time the
two in the studio were talking easily and pleasantly together.
‘Did you know my father in Italy?’ Roma asked at length. ‘I am not
sure, but I fancy I have seen your face somewhere.’
‘We may possibly have met, Signorina,’ answered the Italian. ‘For I,
too, have been much in Rome; but I had not the honour of personal
acquaintance with your father then. I bring with me an introduction
from Signor Mattei in Florence. When he heard that I proposed to visit
England, he insisted that I should make myself known to the Signor
Meredith, who, he tells me, has been settled here for some time.’
‘Yes, we have been four years in England,’ answered Roma, with a smile
and a sigh; ‘but I think I like Italy best.’
‘I can understand that well,’ he answered, looking out into space with
his bright, handsome eyes. ‘There is no country like our Italy.’
‘No, I think not,’ assented Roma; and forthwith they fell to discussing
its many perfections with a one-sided enthusiasm peculiarly Italian.
Roma meantime studied with a certain artistic pleasure, the handsome
head of the young foreigner. He had the thick, dark clustering locks
so often seen in Italians, and his hair was rather longer than an
Englishman’s would be, though not effeminately so. His eyes looked
different colours in different lights, but they were good eyes, well
formed and expressive, and their long black lashes and thick arched
brows added greatly to their force and beauty. His features were good
and delicately cut, and the expression of the mouth, so far as it could
be seen through the moustache and silky black Vandyke beard, was both
frank and sweet. Altogether it was a pleasant face to look upon, and
Roma, who was without any ‘insular prejudice’ where foreigners were
concerned, felt that she should like this man, and speculated a little
as to who he was, and what could be the object of his visit.
‘Are these your works of art, may I ask, Signorina?’ inquired Signor
Pagliadini by-and-by.
‘Some are mine, and some are my father’s,’ answered Roma. ‘I have been
finishing, as best I can, those that were left incomplete when—when he
lost his sight. You know that he has become blind?’
‘Signor Mattei told me so much. I was grieved to learn it. It must
be a sad affliction to one who loved art so well. I can have a great
sympathy for him, for my eyes have suffered from a too close attention
to etching, for which work I have a great passion. Even now I cannot
use them quite as I would, and a strong light tires them.’
And as he spoke he adjusted his _pince-nez_, the glasses of which were
slightly tinged with blue.
‘I am sorry,’ said Roma.
‘But it is nothing—a mere trifle. I am better already, and a little
travelling will set me quite to rights. With the Signor Meredith,
unfortunately, it is not so.’ Then seeing a look of pain on Roma’s
face, he added quickly, rising at the same time, ‘Is this bust the
Signorina’s work? It is very charming. May I ask if it is the work of
imagination, or a portrait?’
‘It is an attempt to model a friend of mine,’ Roma answered, smiling.
‘I’m afraid it is not very successful. It is not half pretty enough. If
you stay any time in this part of the world, Signor, you will be sure
to see Miss Debenham of Ladywell Manor. You will then see how much more
charming is the original.’
‘What name did you say, Signorina?’
‘Miss Debenham—Maud Debenham,’ answered Roma. ‘Perhaps you know her?’
He shook his head.
‘No; but I think I know her brother. I knew a Mr. Debenham once—a Mr.
Philip Debenham, who was travelling with his friend, a Mr.—Mr.— What
was the name?’
‘Torwood,’ suggested Roma.
‘Ah yes—that was the name—Mr. Torwood. I met them in Rome and Naples
once. I knew Mr. Debenham well, but his friend not much. That accounts
for the likeness—I have been puzzling over that face as I sat here,
wondering of whom it reminded me. I see it all now. It is like my
friend Filippo. So his sister is a neighbour of yours, is she,
Signorina? Then I may hear news of my friend.’
‘Yes, Maud is here certainly,’ answered Roma, in a half-puzzled way;
‘but she is not a bit like her brother—not in the very least. Philip
Debenham is here too. He came into some property not long since, and
has been here about six or eight weeks, I think, taking possession. You
will be sure to see him, if you stay; but he must have changed very
much since you knew him, for he is not at all like Maud now.’
Signor Pagliadini smiled with a kind of polite incredulity.
‘I do not think a man can change so much as you would represent in
a few years; but then likenesses appeal so differently to different
persons. What appears to one a very striking similarity, another will
not even see. There, no doubt, lies the whole matter.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Roma dubiously; ‘but I cannot think anyone would
see any great likeness between Philip and Maud Debenham; for brother
and sister, they are strikingly dissimilar—at least most people think
so.’
‘Ah, well, I may be wrong; but I shall be delighted to renew my
acquaintance with my good friend. Is Mr. Torwood with him still? They
were constant companions in days of old.’
‘Yes; but they cannot be so now. Mr. Torwood is ill, I believe. I think
he is trying German baths or something. Oh yes; and he has gone on a
sea-voyage now. Mr. Debenham went to Germany a little while ago to
arrange it. I suppose he will come here for a visit when he is well.’
‘My friend Filippo must miss him. He used to follow him about like his
shadow.’
‘I cannot fancy Philip doing that,’ Roma said, with a little laugh. ‘He
is much too independent. He seems quite happy here, though I am sure he
is fond of his friend.’
‘I suppose he is too well satisfied with his accession to wealth and
importance, to have much thought to spare for anything else.’
‘I don’t know. I should not think he was that sort of man. I fancy he
really liked travelling about better than he likes living in one place.
But he knows his duty as a landowner, and I believe he does it very
well. You will find Mr. Debenham very popular here.’
Roma spoke with some little warmth. She fancied, she hardly knew why,
that the stranger had thrown some slight disparagement upon Philip
Debenham, and she did not approve his tone.
‘I think Mr. Debenham always was popular,’ assented Signor Pagliadini
readily and pleasantly. ‘I always found him most interesting and
agreeable. I am fond of the English, I think. I am looking forward to
my stay amongst them. I wonder if I shall meet any other friends here.
I suppose that would be too much good fortune.’
‘It is not very likely,’ answered Roma. ‘For there are very few people
at Ladywell—it is quite a remote place. Mr. Belassis has never been
abroad, or his family either; and except for them, there are hardly any
more people just round here.’
A few questions about the Belassis family and the neighbourhood kept
the ball of conversation going some minutes longer; but the subject
of his friend Philip Debenham was evidently of much greater interest
to the stranger, as was but natural, and Roma was telling him a few
general facts about the people at Ladywell, when the maid knocked at
the door to announce that Mr. Meredith was awake, and would like to see
the gentleman.
Roma went to introduce the stranger to her father, and then she
retired, leaving; the two men to make their own way together.
She had not been long in her studio when a well-known step came ringing
down the long passage, and she had barely time to fling a cloth over
the bust of Maud, before Tor had entered, as he now did almost at will,
greeting her in frank, brotherly fashion.
‘Well, Roma, how is the world going with you to-day? How is your
father?’
‘Better, thanks; much more like himself every day. Have you seen him?’
‘No. I heard a jabber of Italian going on in his room, so I walked past
and came here. Whom has he got with him to-day?’
‘An Italian gentleman—an old friend of yours.’
‘Of mine?’
‘So he says. He met you in Italy, and talks affectionately of his
friend Filippo.’
‘The devil he does!’ breathed Tor to himself; but aloud he said, ‘Very
kind of him, I’m sure. What’s the fellow’s name?’
‘Marco Pagliadini.’
‘Never heard of him, to my knowledge.’
‘You must have a bad memory, for I think you must have known him quite
well once.’
‘Well, certainly I have known a vast number of foreign fellows at one
time or another,’ answered Tor, racking his brains in vain to remember
the name of Pagliadini in connection with Phil or himself, ‘but I
certainly have no recollection of this chap.’
‘You will remember him when you see him, for he is very good-looking,
in an Italian sort of style.’
Tor was not at all anxious to meet this fascinating foreigner, and
mentally consigned him to the infernal regions with hearty goodwill.
If he really had known Phil in past days, he would certainly fail to
recognise the present Philip Debenham, and more likely than not would
be able again to identify him as Torwood. Altogether, it was as awkward
an incident as could well have occurred, this sudden advent of the
Italian into the Merediths’ household.
‘Might have been another Debenham he knew,’ suggested Tor, by way of
saying something.
‘It couldn’t be that, because he knew Mr. Torwood too,’ answered Roma.
Again Tor registered a mental aspiration that the gentleman and his
knowledge might be consigned to a warmer region than that of England,
and determined more resolutely than ever to avoid a meeting.
‘Well, I dare say I have met him somewhere; but he can’t have made a
deep impression upon me, as I have no recollection of his name. One
doesn’t keep all one’s acquaintances in one’s head for evermore; and as
he might be pained by my oblivion, I’d better not meet him, I think.
Good-bye, Roma. I’m glad your father is better. I’ll come and see him
some other day, when I’ve more time.’
‘Must you go now? He will be sorry not to see you. You have hardly been
here a minute.’
‘Maud wanted me to ride with her as soon as it grew a little cooler.
I think I will do so now. That Signor will engross your father quite
enough for one day. He ought not to talk too much, you know.’
‘Won’t you stay and see Signor Pagliadini?’ asked Roma, rather
surprised at his decision.
‘No, thanks; I don’t think I’ll bother about it. He’ll only detain me
longer, and Maud will be disappointed. I will see you again soon. No
doubt the Italian converse will cheer your father very much more than
my society could do.’
So Tor took his departure in a more precipitate fashion than usual,
although his ease of manner did not in any way desert him, and he
laughed and chatted with Roma up to the moment of his exit. She rather
wondered why he had not stayed to see the Signor; but men were odd, as
Maud had always impressed upon her, and did not act as women would do
under the same circumstances.
In a short time a summons came for her to join the gentlemen in Mr.
Meredith’s study. She found that the tea had been carried there; and
when she entered, one glance at her father’s face showed her how
greatly he had been charmed by the stranger’s visit.
‘Roma, my dear, Signor Pagliadini has kindly consented to become our
guest for a few days. He comes, as you know, as an intimate friend of
our esteemed relative Alberto Mattei. It is a greater pleasure, Signor,
than you can well understand, for a man in my isolated position to
receive a visit from one who comes direct from the land of his fondest
dreams—from the land where the brightest, the happiest years of his
life were spent! Art is my passion—my deepest delight! and the converse
with one who knows and loves her well is more to me than you can easily
comprehend. Your ready acceptance of the humble hospitality which I can
offer, has given me more pleasure than I can well express.’
The stranger made a suitable reply to this flowery address, showing
that the advantage was all on his side, and the obligation a very deep
one; and after Meredith had made his rejoinder to this declaration, he
turned again to his daughter.
‘Philip has been here, has he not?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘I heard his step. I knew he had passed the door twice. How was it he
remained so short a time?’
‘He was in haste, father. He came to ask after you, but he was going
to ride with Maud.’
‘Ah, he is a kind brother. Did you tell him Signor Pagliadini was here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Signor Pagliadini knows Philip.’
‘Yes, so I told him; but he could not wait. However, he will see him
another day.’
The Italian smiled in rather an odd fashion.
‘My old friend Filippo was not anxious, then, to renew the
acquaintance?’
Roma laughed in her quiet way, rather amused at what she thought to be
his pique.
‘Philip is a thorough Englishman, Signor,’ she answered, explaining
away, as best she could, what had evidently been taken somewhat amiss.
‘He goes his own way in his own fashion, turning neither to right nor
left. He had promised to ride with Maud, and ride with Maud he would,
in defiance of all other claims upon his time.’
‘Ah, just so; I perceive. The sister stands always first. It is quite
as it should be.’
‘He is very fond of Maud,’ said Roma, thinking he was still offended,
trying to lead the conversation into other channels.
‘If she at all resembles the statue which you are portraying, it is not
to be wondered at, this fraternal devotion.’
‘Maud is very charming,’ said Mr. Meredith; ‘as you will see for
yourself some day.’
‘And you will find that Philip is just as pleasant in his way, when you
do meet him,’ continued Roma. ‘You must not mind English ways when you
come to England, Signor. They are more blunt, perhaps; but I think an
Englishman’s word is worth its weight in gold!’
The Signor smiled pleasantly.
‘My friend Philip Debenham is fortunate in having such a champion.’
Mr. Meredith laughed, and Roma blushed suddenly and vividly.
‘We allow our daughters more liberty of speech and action than do your
countrymen, Signor. Roma has been brought up _à l’Anglaise_; and then
my daughter has the right to defend her friend.’
The Signor bowed and smiled, and Roma blushed still more vividly. She
thought it bad taste on her father’s part to give so broad a hint to a
perfect stranger, upon private family affairs.
Signor Pagliadini seemed to divine her confusion without looking at
her, and turned the conversation into new channels. He was certainly a
fascinating talker. Roma listened to him with more pleasure than she
had experienced for many a long day.
The soft language of her childhood was like music to her ear, and she
listened to the stories of her native land, and the cities in which her
happy early youth had been passed, with undivided attention.
Michael Meredith dozed in his chair under the influence of the low
musical voice, and the Italian spoke on, talking only to Roma, looking
into her fair, pale face, and delighting with all the artistic feeling
within him, in her rare and perfect beauty of form and feature.
When the blind man awoke to consciousness, more than an hour had
passed, and yet his daughter and their guest were still in earnest
converse. A stroll round the dewy garden after dinner, and some music
in the drawing-room later, closed the day; and Roma went to bed that
night feeling as though something very strange had happened to her,
and as though some new interest had unaccountably come into her life.
This Italian with the soft voice and earnest eyes, that seemed to her
half-strange and half-familiar, interested her more than any man whom
she had met, since her childhood’s dreams had merged into the more
definite ideals of womanhood.