The basin from which the launch plied lay inside a seawall inclosing a
small placid rectangle with a walk all about and iron benches. Steps at
the back, guarded by two great Pompeian sandstone urns, and pressed by
a luxuriant growth, led up to the villa. Gheta looked curiously about
as she stepped from the launch and went forward with her brother-in-law.
Lavinia followed, with Gheta's maid and a porter in the rear.
Lavinia realized that her sister looked badly; in the unsparing blaze
of midday the wrinkles about her eyes were apparent, and they had
multiplied. Although it was past the first of June, Gheta was wearing
a linen suit of last year; and--as her maid unpacked--Lavinia saw the
familiar pink tulle and the lavender gown with the gold velvet buttons.
“Your dressmaker is very late,” she observed thoughtlessly.
A slow flush spread over the other's countenance; she did not reply
immediately and Lavinia would have given a great deal to unsay her
period.
“It isn't that,” Gheta finally explained; “the family find that I am too
expensive. You see, I haven't justified their hopes and they have been
cutting down.”
Her voice was thin, metallic; her features had sharpened like folded
paper creased between the fingers.
“It's very good form here,” she went on, dancing about her room. It was
hardly more than a marble gallery, the peristyle choked with flowering
bushes, camellias and althea and hibiscus, barely furnished, and filled
with drifting perfumes and the savor of the sea. “What a shame that
these things must be got at a price!”
Lavinia glanced at her sharply; until the present moment that would have
expressed her own attitude, but said by Gheta it seemed a little crude.
It was, anyhow, painfully obvious, and she had no intention of showing
Gheta the true state of her being.
“Isn't that so of everything--worth having?” she asked, adding the
latter purely as a counter.
The elder drew up her fine shoulders.
“That's very courageous of you,” she admitted--“especially since
everybody knew your opinion of Orsi. Heaven knows you made no effort to
disguise your feeling to others.”
Lavinia smiled calmly; Cesare was really very thoughtful, and she said
so. Gheta replied at a sudden tangent:
“Mochales has been a great nuisance.”
Lavinia was gazing through an opening in the leaves at the sparkling
blue plane of the bay. She made no movement, aware of her sister's
unsparing curiosity turned upon her, and only said:
“Really?”
“Spaniards are so tempestuous,” Gheta continued; “he's been whispering
a hundred mad schemes in my ear. He gave up an important engagement in
Madrid rather than leave Florence. I have been almost stirred by him, he
is so slender and handsome.
“Simply every woman--except perhaps me--is in love with him.”
“There's no danger of your loving any one besides yourself.”
“I saw him the day before I left; told him where I was going. Then I had
to beg him not to take the same train. He said he was going to Naples,
anyhow, to sail from there for Spain. He will be at the Grand Hotel and
I gave him permission to see me here once.”
Lavinia revolved slowly.
“Why not? He turned my head round at least twice.” She moved toward
the door. “Ring whenever you like,” she said; “there are servants for
everything.”
In her room she wondered, with burning cheeks, when Abrego y Mochales
would come. Her sentimental interest in him had waned a trifle during
the past busy weeks; but, in spite of that, he was the great romantic
attachment of her life. If he had returned her love no whispered scheme
would have been too mad. What would he think of her now? But she knew
instinctively that there would be no change in Mochales' attitude. He
was in love with Gheta; blind to the rest of the world.
She sat lost in a day-dream--how different her life would have been,
married to the bull-fighter! She would have become a part of the fierce
Spanish crowds at the ring, traveled to South America, seen the people
heap roses, jewels, upon her idol....
Cesare Orsi stood in the doorway, smiling with oppressive good-nature.
“Lavinia,” he told her, “I've done something, and now I'm in the devil
of a doubt.” He advanced, holding a small package, and sat on the edge
of a chair, mopping his brow. “You see,” he began diffidently, “that is,
as you must know, at first--you were at the convent--I thought something
of proposing for your sister. Thank God,” he added vigorously, “I
waited! Well, I didn't; although, to be completely honest, I knew that
it came to be expected. I could see the surprise in your father's
face. It occurred to me afterward that if I had brought Gheta any
embarrassment I'd like to do something in a small way, a sort of
acknowledgment. And to-day I saw this,” he held out the package; “it
was pretty and I bought it for her at once. But now, when the moment
arrives, I hesitate to give it to her. Gheta has grown so--so formal
that I'm afraid of her,” he laughed.
Lavinia unwrapped the paper covering from a green morocco box and,
releasing the catch, saw a shimmering string of delicately pink pearls.
“Cesare!” she exclaimed. “How gorgeous!” She lifted the necklace,
letting it slide cool and fine through her fingers. “It's too good of
you. This has cost hundreds and hundreds. I'll keep it myself.”
He laughed, shaking all over; then fell serious.
“Everything I have--all, all--is yours,” he assured her. Lavinia
turned away with an uncomfortable feeling of falseness. “What do you
predict--will Gheta take it, understand, or will she play the frozen
princess?”
“If I know Gheta, she'll take it,” Lavinia promptly replied.
Orsi presented Gheta Sanviano with the necklace at dinner. She took it
slowly from its box and glanced at the diamond clasp.
“Thank you, Cesare, immensely! What a shame that pink pearls so closely
resemble coral! No one gives you credit for them.”
A feeling of shame for her sister's ungraciousness possessed Lavinia and
mounted to angry resentment. She had no particular desire to champion
Cesare, but the simplicity and kindness of his thought demanded more
than a superficial admission. At the same time she had no intention of
permitting Gheta any display of superiority here.
“You need only say they were from Cesare,” she observed coldly; “with
him, it is always pearls.”
Such a tide of pleasure swept over her husband's countenance that
Lavinia bit her lip in annoyance. She had intended only to rebuke Gheta
and had not calculated the effect of her speech upon Cesare. She was
scrupulously careful not to mislead the latter with regard to her
feeling for him. She went to a rather needless extreme to demonstrate
that she conducted herself from a sense of duty and propriety alone.
Her married life, she assured herself, already resembled the
Mantegazzas', whose indifferent courtesy she had marked and wondered at.
Perhaps in time, like them, she would grow accustomed to it; but now it
took all her determination to maintain the smallest daily amenities. It
was not that her actual condition was unbearable, but only that it was
so tragically removed from what she had imagined; she had dreamed of
romance, it had been embodied for her eager gaze--and she had married
Cesare Orsi!
Gheta returned the necklace to its box and the dinner progressed in
silence. The coffee was on when the elder sister said:
“I had a card from the Grand Hotel a while ago; Abrego y Mochales is
there.”
“And there,” Orsi put in promptly, “I hope he'll stay, or sail for
Spain. I don't want the clown about here.”
Gheta turned.
“But you will regret that,” she addressed Lavinia; “you always found him
so fascinating.”
Lavinia's husband cleared his throat sharply; he was clearly impatiently
annoyed.
“What foolishness!” he cried. “From the first, Lavinia has been scarcely
conscious of his existence.”
Lavinia avoided her sister's mocking gaze, disturbed and angry.
“Certainly Signore Mochales must be asked here,” she declared.
“I suppose it can't be avoided,” Orsi muttered.
It was arranged that the Spaniard should dine with them on the following
evening and Lavinia spent the intervening time in exploring her
emotions. She recognized now that Gheta hated both Cesare and herself,
and that she would miss no opportunity to force an awkward or even
dangerously unpleasant situation upon them. Gheta had sharpened in
being as well as in countenance to such a degree that Lavinia lost what
natural affection for her sister she had retained.
This, in a way, allied her with Cesare. She was now able at least to
survey him in a detached manner, with an impersonal comprehension of his
good qualities and aesthetic shortcomings; and in pointing out to Gheta
the lavish beauty of her--Lavinia's--surroundings, she engendered in
herself a slight proprietary pride. She met Abrego y Mochales at the
basin with a direct bright smile, standing firmly upon her wall.
Against the blue water shadowed by the promise of dusk he was a somber
and splendid figure. Her heart undeniably beat faster and she was vexed
when he turned immediately to Gheta. His greeting was intensely serious,
his gaze so hungry that Lavinia looked away. It was vulgar, she told
herself. Cesare met them above and greeted Mochales with a superficial
heartiness. It was difficult for Cesare Orsi to conceal his opinions and
feelings. The other man's gravity was superb.
At dinner conversation languished. Gheta, in a very low dress, had
a bright red scarf about her shoulders, and was painted. This was so
unusual that it had almost the effect of a disguise; her eyes were
staring and brilliant, her fingers constantly fidgeting and creasing
her napkin. Afterward she walked with Mochales to the corner of the
belvedere, where they had all been sitting, and from there drifted
the low continuous murmur of her voice, briefly punctuated by a deep
masculine note of interrogation. Below, the water was invisible in the
wrap of night. Naples shone like a pale gold net drawn about the sweep
of its hills. A glow like a thumb print hung over Vesuvius; the hidden
column of smoke smudged the stars.
Lavinia grew restless and descended to her room, where she procured a
fan. Returning, she was partly startled by a pale still figure in the
gloom of a passage. She saw that it was Gheta, and spoke; but the other
moved away without reply and quickly vanished. Above, Lavinia halted
at the strange spectacle--clearly drawn against the luminous depths of
space--of Mochales and her husband rigidly facing each other.
“I must admit,” Orsi said in an exasperated voice, “that I don't
understand.”
Lavinia saw that he was holding something in a half-extended hand.
Moving closer, she identified the object as the necklace he had given
Gheta.
“What is it that you don't understand, Cesare?” she asked.
“Some infernal joke or foolishness!”
“It is no joke, signore,” Mochales responded; “and it is
better,--perhaps, for your wife to leave us.”
Orsi turned to Lavinia.
“He gives me back this necklace of Gheta's,” he explained; “he says that
he has every right. It appears that Gheta is going to marry him, and he
already objects to presents from her brother-in-law.”
“But what stuff!” Lavinia pronounced.
A swift surprise overtook her at Cesare's announcement--Gheta and
Mochales to marry! She was certain that the arrangement had not existed
that morning. A fleet inchoate sorrow numbed her heart and fled.
“Orsi has been only truthful enough to suit his own purpose,” Mochales
stated, “Signora, please----” He indicated the descent from the
belvedere.
She moved closer to him, smiling appealingly.
“What is it all about?” she queried.
“Forgive me; it is impossible to answer.”
“Cesare?” She addressed her husband.
“Why, this--this donkey hints that there was something improper in my
present. It seems that I have been annoying Gheta by my attentions,
flattering her with pearls.”
“Did Gheta tell you that?” Lavinia demanded. A growing resentment took
possession of her. “Because if she did, she lied!”
“Ah!” Mochales whispered sharply.
“They're both mad,” Orsi told her, “and should be dipped in the bay.”
Never had Abrego y Mochales appeared handsomer; never more like fine
bronze. That latter fact struck her forcibly. His face was no more
mutable than a mask of metal. Its stark rigidity sent a cold tremor to
her heart.
“And,” she went on impetuously, “since Gheta said that, I'll tell you
really about this necklace: Cesare gave it to her because he was sorry
for her; because he thought that perhaps he had misled her. He spoke of
it to me first.”
“No, signora,” the Spaniard responded deliberately; “it is not your
sister who lies.”
Cesare Orsi exclaimed angrily. He took a hasty step; but Lavinia,
quicker, moved between the two men.
“This is impossible,” she declared, “and must stop immediately! It is
childish!”
There was now a metallic ring in Mochales' voice that disturbed her even
more than his words. The bull-fighter, completely immobile, seemed
a little inhuman; he was without a visible stir of emotion, but Orsi
looked more puzzled and angry every moment.
“This,” he ejaculated, “in my own house--infamous!”
“Signor Mochales,” Lavinia reiterated, “what I have told you is
absolutely so.”
“Your sister, signora, has said something different.... She did not want
to tell me, but I persisted--I saw that something was wrong--and forced
it from her.”
“Enough!” Orsi commanded. “One can see plainly that you have been duped;
some things may be overlooked.... You have talked enough.”
Mochales moved easily forward.
“You pudding!” he said in a low even voice. “Do you talk to me--Abrego y
Mochales?”
A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's
countenance.
“Leave!” he insisted, “Or I'll have you flung into the bay.”
A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the
water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new
dread of the Spaniard. He was completely outside the circle of impulses
which she understood and to which she reacted. He was not a part of her
world; he coldly menaced the foundations of all right and security.
Her worship of romance died miserably. In a way, she thought, she was
responsible for the present horrible situation; it was the result of the
feeling she had had for Mochales. Lavinia was certain that if Gheta
had not known of it the Spaniard would have been quickly dropped by the
elder. She was suddenly conscious of the perfume he always bore; that,
curiously, lent him a strange additional oppression.
“Mochales,” he said in a species of strained wonderment, “threatened ...
thrown into the bay! Mochales--the Flower of Spain! And by a helpless
mound of fat, a tub of entrails----”
“Cesare!” Lavinia cried in an energy of desperation. “Come! Don't listen
to him.”
Orsi released her grasp.
“I believe you are at the Grand Hotel?” he addressed the other man.
“Until I hear from you.”
“To-morrow----”
All the heat had apparently evaporated from their words; they spoke with
a perfunctory politeness. Cesare Orsi said:
“I will order the launch.”
In a few minutes the palpitations of the steam died in the direction of
Naples.