“It's not altogether a bad sort of view--is it?” some one said, in
English.
The voice was a woman's. It was clear and smooth; it was crisp-cut,
distinguished.
Peter glanced about him.
On the opposite bank of the Aco, in the grounds of Ventirose, five or
six yards away, a lady was standing, looking at him, smiling.
Peter's eyes met hers, took in her face.... And suddenly his heart gave
a jump. Then it stopped dead still, tingling, for a second. Then it flew
off, racing perilously.--Oh, for reasons--for the best reasons in the
world: but thereby hangs my tale.
She was a young woman, tall, slender, in a white frock, with a white
cloak, an indescribable complexity of soft lace and airy ruffles, round
her shoulders. She wore no hat. Her hair, brown and warm in shadow,
sparkled, where it caught the light, in a kind of crinkly iridescence,
like threads of glass.
Peter's heart (for the best reasons in the world) was racing perilously.
“It's impossible--impossible--impossible”--the words strummed themselves
to its rhythm. Peter's wits (for had not the impossible come to pass?)
were in a perilous confusion. But he managed to rise from his rustic
bench, and to achieve a bow.
She inclined her head graciously.
“You do not think it altogether bad--I hope?” she questioned, in her
crisp-cut voice, raising her eyebrows slightly, with a droll little
assumption of solicitude.
Peter's wits were in confusion; but he must answer her. An automatic
second-self, summoned by the emergency, answered for him.
“I think one might safely call it altogether good.”
“Oh--?” she exclaimed.
Her eyebrows went up again, but now they expressed a certain whimsical
surprise. She threw back her head, and regarded the prospect critically.
“It is not, then, too spectacular, too violent?” she wondered, returning
her gaze to Peter, with an air of polite readiness to defer to his
opinion. “Not too much like a decor de theatre?”
“One should judge it,” his automatic second-self submitted, “with some
leniency. It is, after all, only unaided Nature.”
A spark flickered in her eyes, while she appeared to ponder. (But I am
not sure whether she was pondering the speech or its speaker.)
“Really?” she said, in the end. “Did did Nature build the villas, and
plant the cornfields?”
But his automatic second-self was on its mettle.
“Yes,” it asserted boldly; “the kind of men who build villas and plant
cornfields must be classified as natural forces.”
She gave a light little laugh--and again appeared to ponder for a
moment.
Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an
interrogative brightening of the eyes, “Mr. Marchdale no doubt?” she
hazarded.
Peter bowed.
“I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect,” she went
on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito. “I”--there was the
briefest suspension--“I am your landlady.”
For a third time Peter bowed, a rather more elaborate bow than his
earlier ones, a bow of respectful enlightenment, of feudal homage.
“You arrived this afternoon?” she conjectured.
“By the five-twenty-five from Bergamo,” said he.
“A very convenient train,” she remarked; and then, in the pleasantest
manner, whereby the unusual mode of valediction was carried off, “Good
evening.”
“Good evening,” responded Peter, and accomplished his fourth bow.
She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the trees,
towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the surrounding
green.
Peter stood still, looking after her.
But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic bench, like
a man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh. He was absurdly pale.
All the same, clenching his fists, and softly pounding the table with
them, he muttered exultantly, between his teeth, “What luck! What
incredible luck! It's she--it's she, as I 'm a heathen. Oh, what
supernatural luck!”