ON COMO
Mrs. De Wolfe rarely remained long in one place; she assured her
friends that she must have gipsy blood in her veins, and offered this
idea as a sufficient excuse for her unexpected, and erratic movements.
Weary of Locarno, she adjourned to familiar quarters at Cadenabbia, and
as soon as she was comfortably installed in her favourite sitting-room,
proceeded as usual, to scan the lists of visitors at the various hotels
in the neighbourhood.
"I see the Gordons are over at Bellaggio," she remarked. "The
Mackenzies are back at the Villa d'Este, the Wynnes are in this very
hotel; and oh! what a piece of luck!--Dudley Villars is here too,"
and as she made this announcement, Mrs. De Wolfe turned an unusually
beaming face upon her companion.
In answer to Nancy's glance of interrogation, she explained: "He is the
son of my greatest friend; I held him at the font, tied his sashes,
heard his prayers, and if I am not greatly mistaken, smacked him
soundly.--I am very fond of Dudley."
"Do you think the smackings give him a certain claim?"
"No, indeed, poor fellow; he makes a stronger appeal than that!"
"And is he really a poor fellow?"
"On the contrary, he is rich; but his life has been spoiled, he has
no fixed home; Shandmere is let. Years ago he made an unfortunate
marriage: after a few months of cat-and-dog life, he and his wife
parted, he has no near relatives, or ties, and spends his time rambling
about the world."
"One of the idle rich?"
"Idle rich yourself! Dudley is always intensely occupied; in pursuit of
new schemes, the development of a voice, or some literary undertaking.
He is a charming fellow, so popular, and remarkably handsome!"
"I'm simply dying to see him," exclaimed Nancy.
"Do not die just yet; I'll send him a little note, and ask him to look
me up as soon as he returns. I thought he was in Greece, but Italy
always draws him. His grandmother was an Italian, one of an ancient
Roman family, and from her, he has inherited his graceful manners,
and taste for art. She has also bequeathed him her olive skin, and
matchless dark eyes."
"I don't believe I can possibly wait until he calls," said Nancy. "I
think I shall go down, and hang about the hall."
"Oh, you may laugh, my dear, but you won't make such an acquaintance as
Dudley, in a month of Sundays. He is one of my boys--although he _is_
getting on for forty--and a particular favourite."
"So I see."
"And not without good reason; Dudley is so attentive and thoughtful, to
an old woman. His tender solicitude is quite touching! For instance,
he _never_ forgets my birthday; he knows my tastes in flowers, and
books, and people; remembers my likes and dislikes, the little remedies
I use,--and how I hate sugar, and adore asparagus. Besides all this, I
am his godmother, and since his dear mother is gone, I think he is a
little inclined to look to _me_."
"I hope he will not be furiously jealous, and insist on turning me
adrift," said Nancy.
"On the contrary, my dear, you will become friends,--great friends,
and in one way, he will complete your education. He knows Italy, '_au
bout des ongles_,' and every yard of these lakes. He will widen your
literary horizon, take you out sketching--he really _is_ an artist. It
is marvellous how, in a few strokes, he can place a scene or a face
before you. And not only does he sketch, but write; his books are
praised in the Press, his poems, called masterpieces. Strictly between
ourselves, I buy his books,--but I cannot read them. His poetry is
rather, rather ..." she paused, momentarily at a loss for a word.
"Improper!" suggested Nancy, raising her brows.
"No, you evil-minded girl! or if there is anything of the sort, it is
too deeply hidden for _me_. His writing is vague, and--er, what I may
call nebulous! There are rhapsodies about colour, sunset, perfume, and
eyes. It all seems to me a sort of hotch-potch, but I keep my opinion
to myself, and when anyone asks me what I think of Dudley Villars'
last? I throw up my hands and say 'it's amazing.'"
"Does he do nothing but write amazing poems, paint, and travel?"
"Oh, yes, he goes into society. You will see him in London next season.
He is what I may call in 'fierce demand' for balls. Women intrigue and
squabble, to get him to their houses. He knows all the right people,
and dances like.... Give me a simile."
"A moonbeam."
"Thank you. It is considered a very high distinction to be his partner.
I've been told that girls, whom he has overlooked, have actually been
seen with tears streaming down their faces."
"Poor idiots!" and Nancy laughed heartily, and heartlessly. "So much
for Dudley Villars. Now please tell me something about his wife?"
"I've never seen her; she lives in Florida, I believe, and it is an
old, old story,--they parted many years ago, and possibly people over
here do not suppose that she exists! I happen to know, because I sent
her a wedding present. It is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs, I
must say."
"I wonder they don't get a divorce? Isn't there some place in America,
where it can be managed,--just while you wait at the railway station?"
"You mean in Dakota? Well, it's not quite so rapid as all that, and my
dear child how gliby you talk of divorce! What can you possibly know
about it?"
"I have seen and known divorced people. Don't you remember the pretty
American at Locarno? She had been divorced twice, and was going to
marry that Swedish baron! I believe one of her former husbands happened
to be passing through, and left a card, and a bouquet!"
"Pray who told you all this?"
"Josie Speyde!"
"Oh, Josie," and Mrs. De Wolfe made a gesture of angry impatience.
"Well, she said the lady was really charming: they made great friends,
and played poker together,--she gave Josie lessons."
"That reminds me," said Mrs. De Wolfe, looking round, "I see Hardy
has brought down the card box; we shall just have time for a game of
piquet, before we dress for dinner."
The two ladies had scarcely settled down to piquet, when the door was
flung wide, and a sonorous voice, announced, "Sir Dudley Villars!"