I
|FOR quite a week--wasn't it?--obscure little Altronde held the centre
of the stage. The newspapers of France and England, as well as those of
Italy, had daily paragraphs. Belated details, coming in like stragglers
after a battle, gave vividness to the story. Massimiliano, at Paris,
plaintively indignant, overflowed in interviews. In interviews also, in
speeches, in proclamations, Civillo adumbrated, magniloquently, vaguely,
his future policy. There were “Character Sketches,” reminiscent,
anecdotal, of Civillo, “By a lifelong Friend,” of Massimiliano, “By a
Former Member of his Household,” etc. etc. There were even character
sketches of poor Bertram, “By an Old Harrovian,” “By One who knew him at
Cambridge,” which I hope he enjoyed reading. In the illustrated papers,
of course, there were portraits. And in some of the weightier
periodicals the past history of Altronde was recalled, a bleak,
monotonous history, little more than a catalogue of murders....
With dagger thrusts and cups of poison, for something like three long
sad hundred years, the rival houses of Bertrandoni and Ceresini had
played the game of give and take. Finally, there were leading articles
condemning the revolution as an act of brigandage, hailing it as a
forward step towards liberty and light. And then, at the week's end, the
theme was dropped.
We may believe that the newspapers were read with interest at Villa
Santa Cecilia, and that to the mistress of that household, on the
subject of Altronde, they never seemed to contain enough.
“It's almost as if we'd had a hand in the affair,” she reflected; “but
these scrappy newspaper accounts leave us with no more knowledge than as
if we were complete outsiders. Why don't they give more particulars? Why
aren't they more _intime?_”
“I'll tell you what,” said Ponty, “let's go there. It's only half a
day's journey. There we can study the question on the spot.”
“Yes, and look as if we were running after him. No, thank you,” sniffed
Lucilla.
“I dare say we should look a little like accusing spirits, if he saw
us,” Ponty admitted.
“But let's go in disguise. We can shave our heads, stain our skins,
wear elastic-sided boots and pass ourselves off as an Albanian currant
merchant and his family travelling to improve our minds in foreign
politics.”
“I see Ruth and myself,” Lucilla yawned, “swathed in embroideries and
wearing elasticsided boots, and presently we should be arrested as
spies, and when our innocent curiosity had been well aired by the press,
we should look to Bertram Bertrandoni more like accusing spirits than
ever.”
“You women,” growled Pontycroft, extracting a cigarette from his
cigarette case, “are so relentlessly cautious! You have no faith in the
unexpected! That's why you'll never know the supreme content of throwing
your bonnets over the mills, regardless of consequences.”
“The Consequences!” Lucilla retorted, “they're too obvious. We should be
left bareheaded, _et voilà tout!_”
“Ah, well--there you are,” replied Ponty, and touched a match to his
cigarette.
Yes, we may believe that the newspapers were read with interest at the
Villa Santa Cecilia and that they gave the man there occasion for what
his sister called “a prodigious deal of jawing.”
“Well, my poor Ariadne,” he commiserated, “ginger is still hot in the
mouth, and Naxos is still a comfortable place of sojourn. Our star has
been snatched from us and borne aloft to its high orbit in the heavens;
we from our lowly coigne of earth can watch and unselfishly rejoice at
its high destiny. Of course, the one thing to regret is that you didn't
nail him when you had him. Nail the wild star to its track in the half
climbed Zodiac,” he advised, sententious.
And in spirit ripe for mischief, Ponty bethought him of a long-forgotten
poem, and he went all the way down to Vieusseux to procure a volume of
the works of Wordsworth. Henceforth, dreamily, from time to time, he
would fall to repeating favourite lines. For nearly a day Ruth bore,
with equanimity tempered by repartee, a volley of verse:
“He was a lovely youth, I guess”
said Ponty,
“The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he.”
“I cannot dispute it. He was good-looking,” Ruth suavely returned.
“But,”--this he let fall from the terrace an hour later, to Ruth engaged
below in snipping dead leaves from Lucilla's clambering rose bushes,--
“But, when his father called, the youth