CHAPTER I THE TWO OLD LADIES

Produced by Dagny; John Bickers

STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS

ITALY

CONTENTS

A FAITHFUL RETAINER James Payn

BIANCA W. E. Norris

GONERIL A. Mary F. Robinson

THE BRIGAND’S BRIDE Laurence Oliphant

MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS Anthony Trollope

A FAITHFUL RETAINER, By James Payn

When I lived in the country,--which was a long time ago,--our nearest

neighbours were the Luscombes. They were very great personages in the

country indeed, and the family were greatly “respected”; though not,

so far as I could discern, for any particular reason, except from

their having been there for several generations. People are supposed to

improve, like wine, from keeping--even if they are rather “ordinary” at

starting; and the Luscombes, at the time I knew them, were considered

quite a “vintage” family. They had begun in Charles II.’s time, and

dated their descent from greatness in the female line. That they had

managed to keep a great estate not very much impaired so long was

certainly a proof of great cleverness, since there had been many

spend-thrifts among them; but fortunately there had been a miser or two,

who had restored the average, and their fortunes.

Mr. Roger Luscombe, the present proprietor, was neither the one nor the

other, but he was inclined to frugality, and no wonder; a burnt child

dreads the fire, even though he may have had nothing to do with lighting

it himself, and his father had kicked down a good many thousands with

the help of “the bones” (as dice were called in his day) and “the

devil’s books” (which was the name for cards with those that disapproved

of them) and race-horses; there was plenty left, but it made the old

gentleman careful and especially solicitous to keep it. There was no

stint, however, of any kind at the Court, which to me, who lived in the

little vicarage of Dalton with my father, seemed a palace.

It was indeed a very fine place, with statues in the hall and pictures

in the gallery and peacocks on the terrace. Lady Jane, the daughter of

a wealthy peer, who had almost put things on their old footing with her

ample dowry, was a very great lady, and had been used, I was told, to

an even more splendid home; but to me, who had no mother, she was simply

the kindest and most gracious woman I had ever known.

My connection with the Luscombes arose from their only son Richard

being my father’s pupil. We were both brought up at home, but for very

different reasons. In my case it was from economy: the living was small

and our family was large, though, as it happened, I had no brothers.

Richard was too precious to his parents to be trusted to the tender

mercies of a public school. He was in delicate health, not so much

natural to him as caused by an excess of care--coddling. Though he and I

were very good friends, unless when we were quarreling, it must be owned

that he was a spoiled boy.

There is a good deal of nonsense talked of young gentlemen who are

brought up from their cradles in an atmosphere of flattery _not_

being spoiled; but unless they are angels--which is a very exceptional

case--it cannot be otherwise. Richard Luscombe was a good fellow in

many ways; liberal with his money (indeed, apt to be lavish), and

kind-hearted, but self-willed, effeminate, and impulsive. He had

also--which was a source of great alarm and grief to his father--a

marked taste for speculation.

After the age of “alley tors and commoneys,” of albert-rock and

hard-bake, in which we both gambled frightfully, I could afford him no

opportunities of gratifying this passion; but if he could get a little

money “on” anything, there was nothing that pleased him better--not

that he cared for the money, but for the delight of winning it. The next

moment he would give it away to a beggar. Numbers of good people look

upon gambling with even greater horror than it deserves, because they

cannot understand this; the attraction of risk, and the wild joy of

“pulling off” something when the chances are against one, are unknown to

them. It is the same with the love of liquor. Richard Luscombe had not

a spark of that (his father left him one of the best cellars in England,

but he never touches even a glass of claret after dinner; “I should as

soon think,” he says, “of eating when I am not hungry”); but he dearly

liked what he called a “spec.” Never shall I forget the first time he

realised anything that could be termed a stake.

When he was about sixteen, he and I had driven over to some little

country races a few miles away from Dalton, without, I fear, announcing

our intention of so doing. Fresh air was good for “our dear Richard,”

and since pedestrian exercise (which he also hated) exhausted him, he

had a groom and dog-cart always at his own disposal. It was a day of

great excitement for me, who had never before seen a race-course. The

flags, the grand stand (a rude erection of planks, which came down,

by-the-bye, the next year during the race for the cup, and reduced the

sporting population), the insinuating gipsies, the bawling card-sellers,

and especially the shining horses with their twisted manes, all excited

my admiration.

I was well acquainted with them in fiction; and these illustrations of

the books I loved so well delighted me. Richard, who had read less and

seen more, was bent on business.

He was tall for his age, but very slight and youthful-looking, and the

contrast of his appearance with that of the company in the little ring,

composed as it was of a choice selection of the roughest blackguards in

England, was very striking.

Many of these knew who he was, and were very glad to see him, but only

one of the book-makers secured his patronage. The fact was, Master

Richard had but one five-pound note to lay; he had been saving up his

pocket-money for weeks for this very purpose, and he took ten to one

about an outsider, “Don Sebastian,”--a name I shall remember when all

other historical knowledge has departed from me,--not because he knew

anything of the horse, but because the longest odds were laid against

him.

I didn’t like the look of the “gentleman sportsman” who took custody

of that five-pound note, but Richard (who had never seen him before)

assured me, with his usual confidence, that he was “straight as a die”

and “as honest as the day.”

The race excited me exceedingly; Richard had lent me a field-glass (for

everything he had was in duplicate, if not triplicate), and I watched

the progress of that running rainbow with a beating heart. At first

Yellow Cap (the Don) seemed completely out of it, the last of all; but

presently he began to creep up, and as they drew near the winning-post,

shouts of “Yellow Cap wins!” “Yellow Cap wins!” rent the air. He did

win by a head, and with a well-pleased flush on my face at my friend’s

marvellous good fortune, I turned to congratulate him. He was gone. The

tumult and confusion were excessive; but looking toward the exit gate, I

just caught a glimpse of the book-maker passing rapidly through it, and

then of Richard in pursuit of him.

A stout young farmer, whom I knew, was standing behind me, and in a few

hurried words I told him what had happened. “Come with me,” he said,

and off we ran, as though we had been entered for the cup ourselves. The

other two were already a field ahead, and far away from the course; but,

fast as the book-maker ran, the delicate Richard had come up with him. I

could imagine how pumped he was, but the idea of having been swindled by

this scoundrel, who was running off with his five-pound note, as well as

the fifty pounds he owed him, had no doubt lent him wings. It could not,

however, lend him strength, nor teach him the art of self-defence,

and after a few moments, passed doubtless in polite request and blunt

refusal, we saw the miscreant strike out from the shoulder and Richard

go down.

The time thus lost, however, short-lived as was the combat, was fatal

to the victor. There were few better runners in Dalton than my companion

and myself, and we gained on the book-maker, who had probably trained on

gin and bad tobacco, hand over hand. As we drew near him he turned round

and inquired, with many expletives, made half inarticulate by want

of breath, what we wanted with a gentleman engaged on his own private

affairs.

“Well,” I said,--for as I could trust my agricultural friend with the

more practical measures that were likely to follow I thought it only

fair that I should do the talking,--“we want first the five-pound note

which that young gentleman, whom you have just knocked down, intrusted

to your care, and then the fifty pounds you have lost to him.”

He called Heaven to witness that he had never made a bet in his life

with any young gentleman, but that, having been molested, he believed by

a footpad, as he was returning home to his family, he had been compelled

to defend himself.

“I heard you make the bet and saw you take the money,” I remarked, with

confidence.

“That’s good enough,” said the farmer. “Now if you don’t shell out that

money this instant, I’ll have you back in the ring in a brace of shakes

and tell them what has happened. Last year they tore a welsher pretty

nigh to pieces, and this year, if you don’t ‘part,’ they’ll do it

quite.”

The book-maker turned livid,--I never saw a man in such a funk in my

life,--and produced a greasy pocket-book, out of which he took Richard’s

bank-note, and ten quite new ones; and I noticed there were more left,

so that poverty was not his excuse for fraud.

“Let me look at ‘em against the sun,” said the farmer, “to see as the

water-mark is all right.”

This was a precaution I should never have thought of, and it gave me

for the first time a sense of the great intelligence of my father’s

parishioner.

“Yes, they’re all correct. And now you may go; but if ever you show your

face again on Southick (Southwick) race-course it will be the worst for

you.”

He slunk away, and we returned to Richard, who was sitting on the

ground, looking at his nose, which was bleeding and had attained vast

dimensions.

“Did you get the money?” were his first words, which I thought very

characteristic.

“Yes, there it is, squire--ten fivers and your own note.”

“Very good; I should never have seen a shilling of it but for you and

Charley, so we will just divide it into three shares.”

The farmer said, “No,” but eventually took his L16 13s. 4d., and quite

right too. Of course I did not take Richard’s money, but he afterward

bought me a rifle with it, which I could not refuse. The farmer, as may

be well imagined, could be trusted to say nothing of our adventure; but

it was impossible to hide Richard’s nose. He was far too honest a fellow

to tell a lie about it, and the whole story came out. His father was

dreadfully shocked at it, and Lady Jane in despair: the one about his

gambling propensities, and the other about his nose; she thought, if the

injury did not prove fatal, he would be disfigured for life.

He was well in a week, but the circumstances had the gravest

consequences. It was decided that something must be done with the heir

of the Luscombes to wean him from low company (this was not me, but

grooms and racing people); but even this predilection was ascribed in

part to his fragile constitution. A fashionable physician came down from

London to consider the case. He could not quite be brought to the point

desired by Lady Jane, to lay Richard’s love of gambling at the door of

the delicacy of his lungs; but he was brought very near it. The young

fellow, his “opinion” was, had been brought up too much like a hothouse

flower; his tastes were what they were chiefly because he had no

opportunities of forming better ones; with improved strength his moral

nature would become more elevated. That he was truthful was a great

source of satisfaction (this was with reference to his distinct refusal

to give up gambling to please anybody) and a most wholesome physical

sign. “My recommendation is that he should be temporarily removed from

his present dull surroundings; there is not scope in them for his mind;

he should be sent abroad for a month or two with his tutor. That will do

him a world of good.”

If it was not very good advice, it was probably quite as judicious

as other “opinions” for which a hundred and fifty guineas have been

cheerfully paid. It was at all events a great comfort to hear that there

was nothing constitutionally wrong with “dearest Richard,” and that he

only wanted a tonic for mind and body. The doctor’s verdict was accepted

by both parents, but there was an insurmountable obstacle to its being

carried into effect in Master Richard himself. My father could not

leave his parish and his family, and with no other tutor could the young

gentleman be induced to go.

Now it happened that the butler at the Court, John Maitland, who, as

is often the case in such households, had the gravity and dignity of a

bishop, was so fortunate as to be a favourite both with the old folks

and the young one. He really was a superior person, and not only

“honest as the day” in Richard’s eyes (which, as we have seen, was not

a guarantee of straightforwardness), but in those of every one else. He

had been born in the village, had been page to Mr. Luscombe’s father,

and had lived more than fifty years at the Court. The relations between

master and servant were feudal, mingled with the more modern attachment

that comes of good service properly appreciated. He thought the

Luscombes, if not the only old family in the world, the best, and

worshipped--though in a dignified and ecclesiastical manner--the ground

trodden on both by the squire and Master Richard. My own impression

was that under pretence of giving way to the latter he played into the

parental hands; but as this was certainly for my young friend’s good,

I never communicated my suspicions to him. Maitland, at all events,

had more influence over him than any man except my father. Still it

astonished us all not a little, notwithstanding the high opinion we

entertained of him, when we heard that the butler was to be intrusted

with the guardianship of Richard abroad. Such a thing could not have

happened in any other family, but so it was arranged; and partly as

valet, partly as confidential companion and treasurer Maitland started

with his young master on his travels.

These were to last for not less than six months, and Italy, because

of its warm climate, was the country to which they were bound. That it

would do the young fellow good, both moral and physical, we all hoped;

but my father had his doubts. He feared that Maitland’s influence over

his companion would wane when away from the Court; but it never entered

into his mind that he would willingly permit any wrong doing, and still

less that the man would himself succumb to any temptation that involved

dishonesty.

They travelled by easy stages; though they used the railway, of course,

they did so only for a few hours a day, and got out and remained at

places of interest. Richard was very amenable, and indeed showed no

desire for dissipation; his one weakness--that of having a “spree”--had

no opportunity of being gratified; and Maitland wrote home the most

gratifying letters, not only respecting the behaviour of his charge, but

of the improvement in his health. As they drew nearer to Italy, Richard

observed one day that he should spend a day or two at Monte Carlo.

Maitland had never heard of the place or of its peculiar attractions;

and “Master Richard” only told him that it was very picturesque. The

horror of the faithful retainer may therefore be imagined when he found

that it was a gambling resort.

He could not prevent his young master frequenting the tables, and

though he kept the purse, with the exception of a few pounds, and would

certainly have stood between him and ruin, he could not prevent his

winning. Richard had the luck, and more, that proverbially attends young

people--he had the luck of the devil; his few napoleons swelling to a

great many on the very first day, and he was in the seventh heaven of

happiness. The next day and the next he won largely, immensely; in vain

Maitland threatened to write to his father, and even to leave him.

“All right,” replied the reckless youth. “You may do as you like; even

if the governor disinherits me I can make my fortune by stopping here.

And as to leaving me, go by all means; I shall get on very well with a

French valet.”

It was dreadful.

Richard grew happier and happier every day, as the golden flood flowed

in upon him, but also extremely hectic. He passed the whole day at the

tables, and the want of air and exercise, and, still more, the intense

excitement which possessed him, began to have the most serious effect.

That prescription of “seeing the world,” and “escaping from his dull

surroundings,” was having a very different result from what had

been expected. “The paths of glory lead but to the grave”; the young

Englishman and his luck were the talk of all Monte Carlo, and he enjoyed

his notoriety very much; but, as the poor butler plaintively observed,

what was the good of that when Master Richard was “killing himself”?

How the news was received at the Court I had no means of judging, for

the squire kept a rigid silence, except that he had long conferences

with my father; and Lady Jane kept her room. It was indeed a very sore

subject. The squire wanted to start for Monte Carlo at once; but he was

singularly insular, detested travel, and in truth was very unfit for

such a “cutting-out expedition” as was contemplated. He waited, half out

of his mind with anxiety, but in hopes of a better report; what he hoped

for was that luck would turn, and Richard lose every shilling.

The very reverse of this, however, took place; Richard won more and

more. He would come home to his hotel in the evening with a porter

carrying his gains. His portmanteau was full of napoleons. It was

characteristic of him that he never thought of banking it. One evening

he came in with very bright eyes, but a most shrunken and cadaverous

face.

“This has been my best day of all, Johnny,” he said. “See, I have won

two thousand pounds; and you shall have a hundred of it.”

But Maitland refused to have anything to do with such ill-gotten gains,

for which, too, his young master was sacrificing his health, and perhaps

his life. Still--though this did not strike Richard till afterward--he

could not help regarding the great heap of gold with considerable

interest. Added to the lad’s previous gains, the amount was now very

large indeed--more than five thousand pounds.

“I should really think, Master Richard, as you had now won enough.”

“Enough? Certainly not. I have not broken the bank yet. I mean to do

that before I’ve done with it, Johnny.”

“That will be after you’ve killed yourself,” said honest John.

“Well, then I shall die _rich_,” was the reckless rejoinder.

Richard, who was too exhausted for repose, tossed and tumbled on his bed

for hours, and eventually dropped into a heavy slumber, and slept far

into the next morning. He awoke feeling very unwell, but his chief

anxiety was lest he should miss the opening of the tables; he was always

the first to begin. He rang his bell violently for Maitland. There was

no reply, and when he rang again, one of the hotel servants came up.

“Where is my man?” he inquired.

“Monsieur’s man-servant took monsieur’s luggage to the railway-station;

he is gone by the early train to Turin.”

“Gone to Turin with my luggage?”

“Yes, with the two portmanteaus--very heavy ones.”

Richard got out of bed, and dragged his weary limbs into the

dressing-room, an inner apartment, where the portmanteaus were kept for

safety. They were both gone.

“What train did the scoundrel go by? Where is my watch? Why, the villain

has taken that too! Send for the police! No; there is no time to be

lost--send a telegram. Why, he has not even left me enough money to pay

a telegram!”

All his small change was gone. Honest John had taken everything; he had

not left his young master a single sixpence. At this revelation of

the state of affairs, poor Richard, weakened as he was by his long

excitement, threw himself on the bed and burst into tears. The

attendant, to whom, as usual, he had been liberal, was affected by an

emotion so strange in an Englishman.

“Monsieur must not fret; the thief will be caught and the money

restored. It will be well, perhaps to tell the _maitre d’hotel_.”

The master of the hotel appeared with a very grave face. He was

desolated to hear of the misfortune that had befallen his young guest.

Perhaps there was not quite so much taken as had been reported.

“I tell you it’s all gone; more than five thousand pounds, and my watch

and chain; I have not half a franc in my possession.”

“That is unfortunate indeed,” said the _maitre d’hotel_, looking graver

than ever, “because there is my bill to settle.”

“Oh, hang your bill!” cried Richard. “_That_ will be all right. I must

telegraph to my father at once.”

“But how is monsieur to telegraph if he has no money?”

It was probably the first time in his life that the young fellow had

ever understood how inconvenient a thing is poverty. What also amazed

him beyond measure was the man’s manner; yesterday, and all other

days, it had been polite to obsequiousness; now it was dry almost to

insolence. It seemed, indeed, to imply some doubt of the bona fides of

his guest--that he might not, in short, be much better than honest John

himself, of whom he was possibly the confederate; that the whole story

was a trumped-up one to account for the inability to meet his bill. As

to his having won largely at the tables, that might be true enough; but

he also might have lost it all, and more with it; money changes hands at

Monte Carlo very rapidly.

In the end, however, and not without much objection, the landlord

advanced a sufficient sum to enable Richard to telegraph home. He also

permitted him to stay on at the hotel, stipulating, however, that

he should call for no wine, nor indulge in anything expensive--a

humiliating arrangement enough, but not so much so as the terms of

another proviso, that he was never to enter the gambling saloon or go

beyond the public gardens. Even there he was under surveillance, and it

was, in short, quite clear that he was suspected of an intention to run

away without paying his bill--perhaps even of joining his “confederate,”

Mr. John Maitland.

The only thing that comforted Richard was the conviction that he should

have a remittance from his father in a few hours; but nothing of the

sort, not even a telegram, arrived. Day after day went by, and the

young fellow was in despair; he felt like a pariah, for he had been

so occupied with the tables that he had made no friends; and his few

acquaintances looked askance at him, as being under a cloud, with the

precise nature of which they were unacquainted. Friendless and penniless

in a foreign land, his spirit was utterly broken, and he began

to understand what a fool he had made of himself; especially how

ungratefully he had behaved to his father, without whom it was not so

easy to “get on,” it appeared, as he had imagined. He saw, too, the evil

of his conduct in having thrust a temptation in the way of honest John

too great to be resisted. The police could hear no news of him, and,

indeed, seemed very incredulous with respect to Richard’s account of the

matter.

On the fourth day Richard received a letter from his father of the

gravest kind, though expressed in the most affectionate terms. He hardly

alluded to the immediate misfortune that had happened to him, but spoke

of the anxiety and alarm which his conduct had caused his mother

and himself. “I enclose you a check,” he wrote, “just sufficient to

comfortably bring you home and pay your hotel bill, and exceedingly

regret that I cannot trust my son with more--lest he should risk it in

a way that gives his mother and myself more distress of mind than I can

express.”

Richard’s heart was touched, as it well might have been; though perhaps

the condition of mind in which his father’s communication found him had

something to do with it. By that night’s mail he despatched a letter

home which gave the greatest delight at the Court, and also at the

vicarage, for Mr. Luscombe, full of pride and joy, brought it to my

father to read. “I have been very foolish, sir, and very wicked,” it

ran. “I believe I should have been dead by this time had not Maitland

stolen my money (so that I have no reason to feel very angry with him)

and deprived me of the means of suicide. I give you my word of honour

that I will never gamble again.”

Lady Jane sent a telegram to meet Master Richard in Paris, to say what

a dear good boy he was, and how happy he had made her. This did not

surprise him, but what did astonish him very much on arriving at the

Court was that John Maitland opened the door for him.

“Why, you old scoundrel!”

“Yes, sir, I know; I’m a thief and all that, but I did it for the best;

I did, indeed.”

Though the fatted calf was killed for Master Richard, he had by no means

returned like the prodigal son. On the contrary, he had sent home

a remittance, as it were, by the butler, of more than five thousand

pounds. The whole plot had been devised by honest John as the only

method of extricating Master Richard from that Monte Carlo spider’s web,

and had been carried out by the help of the _maitre d’hotel_, with the

squire’s approval. And to do the young fellow justice, he never resented

the trick that had been played upon him.

Richard was not sent abroad again, but to Cambridge, where eventually he

took a fourth-class (poll) degree; and Lady Jane was as proud of it

as if he had been senior wrangler. He kept his word, in spite of all

temptations to the contrary, and never touched a card--a circumstance

which drove him to take a fair amount of exercise, and, in consequence,

he steadily improved in health. He was sometimes chaffed by his

companions for his abstinence from play; they should have thought he was

the last man to be afraid of losing his money.

“You are right, so far,” he would answer, drily; “but the fact is, I

have had enough of winning.”

To which they would reply:

“Oh yes, we dare say,” an elliptical expression, which conveyed

disbelief.

He never told them the story of his Monte Carlo experiences; but in the

vacations he would often talk to honest John about them. We may be sure

that that faithful retainer did not go unrewarded for his fraudulent

act.

BIANCA, By W. E. Norris

Not long since, I was one among a crowd of nobodies at a big official

reception in Paris when the Marchese and Marchesa di San Silvestro were

announced. There was a momentary hush; those about the doorway fell back

to let this distinguished couple pass, and some of us stood on tiptoe to

get a glimpse of them; for San Silvestro is a man of no small importance

in the political and diplomatic world, and his wife enjoys quite a

European fame for beauty and amiability, having had opportunities of

displaying both these attractive gifts at the several courts where she

has acted as Italian ambassadress. They made their way quickly up the

long room,--she short, rather sallow, inclined toward embonpoint, but

with eyes whose magnificence was rivalled only by that of her diamonds;

he bald-headed, fat, gray-haired, covered with orders,--and were soon

out of sight. I followed them with a sigh which caused my neighbour to

ask me jocosely whether the marchesa was an old flame of mine.

“Far from it,” I answered. “Only the sight of her reminded me of bygone

days. Dear, dear me! how time does slip on! It is fifteen years since I

saw her last.”

I moved away, looking down rather ruefully at the waistcoat to whose

circumference fifteen years have made no trifling addition, and

wondering whether I was really as much altered and aged in appearance as

the marchesa was.

Fifteen years--it is no such very long time; and yet I dare say that the

persons principally concerned in the incident which I am about to relate

have given up thinking about it as completely as I had done, until the

sound of that lady’s name, and the sight of her big black eyes, recalled

it to me, and set me thinking of the sunny spring afternoon on which

my sister Anne and I journeyed from Verona to Venice, and of her naive

exclamations of delight on finding herself in a real gondola, gliding

smoothly down the Grand Canal. My sister Anne is by some years my

senior. She is what might be called an old lady now, and she certainly

was an old maid then, and had long accepted her position as such. Then,

as now, she habitually wore a gray alpaca gown, a pair of gold-rimmed

spectacles, gloves a couple of sizes too large for her, and a shapeless,

broad-leaved straw hat, from which a blue veil was flung back and

streamed out in the breeze behind her, like a ship’s ensign. Then, as

now, she was the simplest, the most kind-hearted, the most prejudiced

of mortals; an enthusiastic admirer of the arts, and given, as her own

small contribution thereto, to the production of endless water-colour

landscapes, a trifle woolly, indeed, as to outline, and somewhat faulty

as to perspective, but warm in colouring, and highly thought of in

the family. I believe, in fact, that it was chiefly with a view to

the filling of her portfolio that she had persuaded me to take her to

Venice; and, as I am constitutionally indolent, I was willing enough to

spend a few weeks in the city which, of all cities in the world, is

the best adapted for lazy people. We engaged rooms at Danielli’s,

and unpacked all our clothes, knowing that we were not likely to make

another move until the heat should drive us away.

The first few days, I remember, were not altogether full of enjoyment

for one of us. My excellent Anne, who has all her brother’s virtues,

without his failings, would have scouted the notion of allowing any

dread of physical fatigue to stand between her and the churches and

pictures which she had come all the way from England to admire; and, as

Venice was an old haunt of mine, she very excusably expected me to act

as cicerone to her, and allowed me but little rest between the hours of

breakfast and of the _table d’hote_. At last, however, she conceived the

modest and felicitous idea of making a copy of Titian’s “Assumption”;

and, having obtained the requisite permission for that purpose, set

to work upon the first of a long series of courageous attempts, all of

which she conscientiously destroyed when in a half-finished state. At

that rate it seemed likely that her days would be fully occupied for

some weeks to come; and I urged her to persevere, and not to allow

herself to be disheartened by a few brilliant failures; and so she

hurried away, early every morning, with her paint-box, her brushes, and

her block, and I was left free to smoke my cigarettes in peace, in front

of my favourite cafe on the Piazza San Marco.

I was sitting there one morning, watching, with half-closed eyes, the

pigeons circling overhead under a cloudless sky, and enjoying the fresh

salt breeze that came across the ruffled water from the Adriatic, when I

was accosted by one of the white-coated Austrian officers by whom Venice

was thronged in those days, and whom I presently recognised as a young

fellow named Von Rosenau, whom I had known slightly in Vienna the

previous winter. I returned his greeting cordially, for I always like

to associate as much as possible with foreigners when I am abroad,

and little did I foresee into what trouble this fair-haired,

innocent-looking youth was destined to lead me.

I asked him how he liked Venice, and he answered laughingly that he was

not there from choice. “I am in disgrace,” he explained. “I am always in

disgrace, only this time it is rather worse than usual. Do you remember

my father, the general? No? Perhaps he was not in Vienna when you were

there. He is a soldier of the old school, and manages his family as they

tell me he used to manage his regiment in former years, boasting that he

never allowed a breach of discipline to pass unpunished, and never will.

Last year I exceeded my allowance, and the colonel got orders to stop

my leave; this year I borrowed from the Jews, the whole thing was found

out, and I was removed from the cavalry, and put into a Croat regiment

under orders for Venice. Next year will probably see me enrolled in the

police; and so it will go on, I suppose, till some fine morning I

shall find myself driving a two-horse yellow diligence in the wilds

of Carinthia, and blowing a horn to let the villagers know that the

imperial and royal mail is approaching.”

After a little more conversation we separated, but only to meet again,

that same evening, on the Piazza San Marco, whither I had wandered to

listen to the band after dinner, and where I found Von Rosenau seated

with a number of his brother officers in front of the principal cafe.

These gentlemen, to whom I was presently introduced, were unanimous in

complaining of their present quarters. Venice, they said, might be all

very well for artists and travellers; but viewed as a garrison it was

the dullest of places. There were no amusements, there was no sport, and

just now no society; for the Italians were in one of their periodical

fits of sulks, and would not speak to, or look at, a German if they

could possibly avoid it. “They will not even show themselves when

our band is playing,” said one of the officers, pointing toward the

well-nigh empty piazza. “As for the ladies, it is reported that if one

of them is seen speaking to an Austrian, she is either assassinated or

sent off to spend the rest of her days in a convent. At all events, it

is certain that we have none of us any successes to boast of, except Von

Rosenau, who has had an affair, they say, only he is pleased to be very

mysterious about it.”

“Where does she live, Von Rosenau?” asked another. “Is she rich? Is she

noble? Has she a husband, who will stab you both? or only a mother, who

will send her to a nunnery, and let you go free? You might gratify

our curiosity a little. It would do you no harm, and it would give us

something to talk about.”

“Bah! he will tell you nothing,” cried a third. “He is afraid. He knows

that there are half a dozen of us who could cut him out in an hour.”

“Von Rosenau,” said a young ensign, solemnly, “you would do better to

make a clean breast of it. Concealment is useless. Janovicz saw you with

her in Santa Maria della Salute the other day, and could have followed

her home quite easily if he had been so inclined.”

“They were seen together on the Lido, too. People who want to keep their

secrets ought not to be so imprudent.”

“A good comrade ought to have no secrets from the regiment.”

“Come, Von Rosenau, we will promise not to speak to her without

your permission if you will tell us how you managed to make her

acquaintance.”

The object of all these attacks received them with the most perfect

composure, continuing to smoke his cigar and gaze out seaward,

without so much as turning his head toward his questioners, to whom he

vouchsafed no reply whatever. Probably, as an ex-hussar and a sprig of

nobility, he may have held his head a little above those of his present

brother officers, and preferred disregarding their familiarity to

resenting it, as he might have done if it had come from men whom he

considered on a footing of equality with himself. Such, at least, was my

impression; and it was confirmed by the friendly advances which he made

toward me, from that day forth, and by the persistence with which he

sought my society. I thought he seemed to wish for some companion whose

ideas had not been developed exclusively in barrack atmosphere; and

I, on my side, was not unwilling to listen to the chatter of a lively,

good-natured young fellow, at intervals, during my long idle days.

It was at the end of a week, I think, or thereabouts, that he honoured

me with his full confidence. We had been sea-fishing in a small open

boat which he had purchased, and which he managed without assistance;

that is to say, that we had provided ourselves with what was requisite

for the pursuit of that engrossing sport, and that the young count had

gone through the form of dropping his line over the side and pulling it

up, baitless and fishless, from time to time, while I had dispensed with

even this shallow pretence of employment, and had stretched myself out

full length upon the cushions which I had thoughtfully brought with me,

inhaling the salt-laden breeze, and luxuriating in perfect inaction,

till such time as it had become necessary for us to think of returning

homeward. My companion had been sighing portentously every now and again

all through the afternoon, and had repeatedly given vent to a sound

as though he had been about to say something, and had as often checked

himself, and fallen back into silence. So that I was in a great measure

prepared for the disclosure that fell from him at length as we slipped

before the wind across the broad lagoon, toward the haze and blaze of

sunset which was glorifying the old city of the doges.

“Do you know,” said he, suddenly, “that I am desperately in love?” I

said I had conjectured as much; and he seemed a good deal surprised at

my powers of divination. “Yes,” he resumed, “I am in love; and with

an Italian lady too, unfortunately. Her name is Bianca,--the Signorina

Bianca Marinelli,--and she is the most divinely beautiful creature the

sun ever shone upon.”

“That,” said I, “is of course.”

“It is the truth; and when you have seen her, you will acknowledge that

I do not exaggerate. I have known her nearly two months now. I became

acquainted with her accidentally--she dropped her handkerchief in a

shop, and I took it to her, and so we got to be upon speaking terms,

and--and--But I need not give you the whole history. We have discovered

that we are all the world to each other; we have sworn to remain

faithful to each other all our lives long; and we renew the oath

whenever we meet. But that, unhappily, is very seldom! for her father,

the Marchese Marinelli, scarcely ever lets her out of his sight; and he

is a sour, narrow-minded old fellow, as proud as he is poor, an intense

hater of all Austrians; and if he were to discover our attachment, I

shudder to think of what the consequences might be.”

“And your own father--the stern old general of whom you told me--what

would he say to it all?”

“Oh, he, of course, would not hear of such a marriage for a moment. He

detests and despises the Venetians as cordially as the marchese abhors

the _Tedeschi_; and, as I am entirely dependent upon him, I should not

dream of saying a word to him about the matter until I was married, and

nothing could be done to separate me from Bianca.”

“So that, upon the whole, you appear to stand a very fair chance of

starvation, if everything turns out according to your wishes. And pray,

in what way do you imagine that I can assist you toward this desirable

end? For I take it for granted that you have some reason for letting me

into your secret.”

Von Rosenau laughed good-humouredly.

“You form conclusions quickly,” he said. “Well, I will confess to you

that I have thought lately that you might be of great service to me

without inconveniencing yourself much. The other day, when you did me

the honour to introduce me to your sister, I was very nearly telling her

all. She has such a kind countenance; and I felt sure that she would not

refuse to let my poor Bianca visit her sometimes. The old marchese, you

see, would have no objection to leaving his daughter for hours under the

care of an English lady; and I thought that perhaps when Miss Jenkinson

went out to work at her painting--I might come in.”

“Fortunate indeed is it for you,” I said, “that your confidence in the

kind countenance of my sister Anne did not carry you quite to the point

of divulging this precious scheme to her. I, who know her pretty well,

can tell you exactly the course she would have pursued if you had.

Without one moment’s hesitation, she would have found out the address of

the young lady’s father, hurried off thither, and told him all about

it. Anne is a thoroughly good creature; but she has little sympathy with

love-making, still less with surreptitious love-making, and she would as

soon think of accepting the part you are so good as to assign to her as

of forging a check.”

He sighed, and said he supposed, then, that they must continue to

meet as they had been in the habit of doing, but that it was rather

unsatisfactory.

“It says something for your ingenuity that you contrive to meet at all,”

I remarked.

“Well, yes, there are considerable difficulties, because the old man’s

movements are so uncertain; and there is some risk too, for, as you

heard the other day, we have been seen together. Moreover, I have

been obliged to tell everything to my servant Johann, who waylays the

marchese’s housekeeper at market in the mornings, and finds out from

her when and where I can have an opportunity of meeting Bianca. I would

rather not have trusted him; but I could think of no other plan.”

“At any rate, I should have thought you might have selected some more

retired rendezvous than the most frequented church in Venice.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I wish you would suggest one within reach,”

he said. “There are no retired places in this accursed town. But, in

fact, we see each other very seldom. Often for days together the only

way in which I can get a glimpse of her is by loitering about in my boat

in front of her father’s house, and watching till she shows herself at

the window. We are in her neighborhood now, and it is close upon the

hour at which I can generally calculate upon her appearing. Would you

mind my making a short detour that way before I set you down at your

hotel?”

We had entered the Grand Canal while Von Rosenau had been relating his

love-tale, and some minutes before he had lowered his sail and taken to

the oars. He now slewed the boat’s head round abruptly, and we shot into

a dark and narrow waterway, and so, after sundry twistings and turnings,

arrived before a grim, time-worn structure, so hemmed in by the

surrounding buildings that it seemed as if no ray of sunshine could ever

penetrate within its walls.

“That is the Palazzo Marinelli,” said my companion. “The greater part of

it is let to different tenants. The family has long been much too poor

to inhabit the whole of it, and now the old man only reserves himself

four rooms on the third floor. Those are the windows, in the far corner;

and there--no!--yes!--there is Bianca.”

I brought my eyeglass to bear upon the point indicated just in time

to catch sight of a female head, which was thrust out through the open

window for an instant, and then withdrawn with great celerity.

“Ah,” sighed the count, “it is you who have driven her away. I ought to

have remembered that she would be frightened at seeing a stranger. And

now she will not show herself again, I fear. Come; I will take you home.

Confess now--is she not more beautiful than you expected?”

“My dear sir, I had hardly time to see whether she was a man or a woman;

but I am quite willing to take your word for it that there never was

anybody like her.”

“If you would like to wait a little longer--half an hour or so--she

_might_ put her head out again,” said the young man, wistfully.

“Thank you very much; but my sister will be wondering why I do not come

to take her down to the _table d’hote_. And besides, I am not in love

myself, I may perhaps be excused for saying that I want my dinner.”

“As you please,” answered the count, looking the least bit in the world

affronted; and so he pulled back in silence to the steps of the hotel,

where we parted.

I don’t know whether Von Rosenau felt aggrieved by my rather

unsympathetic reception of his confidence, or whether he thought it

useless to discuss his projects further with one who could not or would

not assist him in carrying them out; but although we continued to meet

daily, as before, he did not recur to the interesting subject, and it

was not for me to take the initiative in doing so. Curiosity, I confess,

led me to direct my gondolier more than once to the narrow canal

over which the Palazzo Martinelli towered; and on each occasion I was

rewarded by descrying, from the depths of the miniature mourning-coach

which concealed me, the faithful count, seated in his boat and waiting

in patient faith, like another Ritter Toggenburg, with his eyes fixed

upon the corner window; but of the lady I could see no sign. I was

rather disappointed at first, as day after day went by and my young

friend showed no disposition to break the silence in which he had chosen

to wrap himself; for I had nothing to do in Venice, and I thought it

would have been rather amusing to watch the progress of this incipient

romance. By degrees, however, I ceased to trouble myself about it; and

at the end of a fortnight I had other things to think of, in the shape

of plans for the summer, my sister Anne having by that time satisfied

herself that, all things considered, Titian’s “Assumption” was a little

too much for her.

It was Captain Janovicz who informed me casually one evening that

Von Rosenau was going away in a few days on leave, and that he would

probably be absent for a considerable time.

“For my own part,” remarked my informant, “I shall be surprised if we

see him back in the regiment at all. He was only sent to us as a sort of

punishment for having been a naughty boy, and I suppose now he will be

forgiven, and restored to the hussars.”

“So much for undying love,” thinks I, with a cynical chuckle. “If

there is any gratitude in man, that young fellow ought to be showering

blessings on me for having refused to hold the noose for him to thrust

his head into.”

Alas! I knew not of what I was speaking. I had not yet heard the last

of Herr von Rosenau’s entanglement, nor was I destined to escape from

playing my part in it. The very next morning, after breakfast, as I

was poring over a map of Switzerland, “Murray” on my right hand and

“Bradshaw” on my left, his card was brought to me, together with an

urgent request that I would see him immediately and alone; and before I

had had time to send a reply, he came clattering into the room, trailing

his sabre behind him, and dropped into the first arm-chair with a

despairing self-abandonment which shook the house to its foundations.

“Mr. Jenkinson,” said he, “I am a ruined man!”

I answered rather drily that I was very sorry to hear it. If I must

confess the truth, I thought he had come to borrow money of me.

“A most cruel calamity has befallen me,” he went on; “and unless you

will consent to help me out of it--”

“I am sure I shall be delighted to do anything in my power,” I

interrupted, apprehensively; “but I am afraid--”

“You cannot refuse me till you have heard what I have to say. I am aware

that I have no claim whatever upon your kindness; but you are the only

man in the world who can save me, and, whereas the happiness of my

whole life is at stake, the utmost you can have to put up with will be

a little inconvenience. Now I will explain myself in as few words as

possible, because I have only a minute to spare. In fact, I ought to be

out on the ramparts at this moment. You have not forgotten what I told

you about myself and the Signorina Martinelli, and how we had agreed to

seize the first opportunity that offered to be privately married, and to

escape over the mountains to my father’s house, and throw ourselves upon

his mercy?”

“I don’t remember your having mentioned any such plan.”

“No matter--so it was. Well, everything seemed to have fallen out most

fortunately for us. I found out some time ago that the marchese would

be going over to Padua this evening on business, and would be absent

at least one whole day, and I immediately applied for my leave to begin

to-morrow. This I obtained at once through my father, who now expects

me to be with him in a few days, and little knows that I shall not come

alone. Johann and the marchese’s housekeeper arranged the rest between

them. I was to meet my dear Bianca early in the morning on the Lido;

thence we were to go by boat to Mestre, where a carriage was to be in

waiting for us; and the same evening we were to be married by a priest,

to whom I have given due notice, at a place called Longarone. And so

we should have gone on, across the Ampezzo Pass homeward. Now would you

believe that all this has been defeated by a mere freak on the part of

my colonel? Only this morning, after it was much too late to make any

alteration in our plans, he told me that he should require me to be on

duty all to-day and to-morrow, and that my leave could not begin until

the next day. Is it not maddening? And the worst of it is that I have no

means of letting Bianca know of this, for I dare not send a message

to the palazzo, and there is no chance of my seeing her myself; and of

course she will go to the Lido to-morrow morning, and will find no one

there. Now, my dear Mr. Jenkinson--my good, kind friend--do you begin to

see what I want you to do for me?”

“Not in the very least.”

“No? But it is evident enough. Now listen. You must meet Bianca

to-morrow morning; you explain to her what has happened; you take her in

the boat, which will be waiting for you, to Mestre; you proceed in the

travelling-carriage, which will also be waiting for you, to Longarone;

you see the priest, and appoint with him for the following evening; and

the next day I arrive, and you return to Venice. Is that clear?”

The volubility with which this programme was enunciated so took away my

breath that I scarcely realised its audacity.

“You will not refuse; I am sure you will not,” said the count, rising

and hooking up his sword, as if about to depart.

“Stop, stop!” I exclaimed. “You don’t consider what you are asking.

I can’t elope with young women in this casual sort of way. I have a

character--and a sister. How am I to explain all this to my sister, I

should like to know?”

“Oh, make any excuse you can think of to her. Now, Mr. Jenkinson, you

know there cannot be any real difficulty in that. You consent then? A

thousand, thousand thanks! I will send you a few more instructions by

letter this evening. I really must not stay any longer now. Good-bye.”

“Stop! Why can’t your servant Johann do all this instead of me?”

“Because he is on duty like myself. Good-bye.”

“Stop! Why can’t you postpone your flight for a day? I don’t so much

mind meeting the young lady and telling her all about it.”

“Quite out of the question, my dear sir. It is perfectly possible that

the marchese may return from Padua to-morrow night, and what should we

do then? No, no; there is no help for it. Good-bye.”

“Stop! Hi! Come back!”

But it was too late. My impetuous visitor was down the staircase and

away before I had descended a single flight in pursuit, and all I could

do was to return to my room and register a vow within my own heart that

I would have nothing to do with this preposterous scheme.

Looking back upon what followed across the interval of fifteen years, I

find that I can really give no satisfactory reason for my having failed

to adhere to this wise resolution. I had no particular feeling of

friendship for Von Rosenau; I did not care two straws about the

Signorina Bianca, whom I had never seen; and certainly I am not, nor

ever was, the sort of person who loves romantic adventures for their

own sake. Perhaps it was good-nature, perhaps it was only an indolent

shrinking from disobliging anybody, that influenced me--it does not

much matter now. Whatever the cause of my yielding may have been, I did

yield. I prefer to pass over in silence the doubts and hesitations which

beset me for the remainder of the day; the arrival, toward evening,

of the piteous note from Von Rosenau, which finally overcame my

weak resistance to his will; and the series of circumstantial false

statements (I blush when I think of them) by means of which I accounted

to my sister for my proposed sudden departure.

Suffice it to say that, very early on the following morning, there might

have been seen, pacing up and down the shore on the seaward side of

the Lido, and peering anxiously about him through an eyeglass, as if in

search of somebody or something, the figure of a tall, spare Englishman,

clad in a complete suit of shepherd’s tartan, with a wide-awake on his

head, a leather bag slung by a strap across his shoulder, and a light

coat over his arm. Myself, in point of act, in the travelling-costume of

the epoch.

I was kept waiting a long time--longer than I liked; for, as may be

supposed, I was most anxious to be well away from Venice before the rest

of the world was up and about; but at length there appeared, round the

corner of a long white wall which skirted the beach, a little lady,

thickly veiled, who, on catching sight of me, whisked round, and

incontinently vanished. This was so evidently the fair Bianca that I

followed her without hesitation, and almost ran into her arms as I swung

round the angle of the wall behind which she had retreated. She gave

a great start, stared at me, for an instant, like a startled fawn, and

then took to her heels and fled. It was rather ridiculous; but there was

nothing for me to do but to give chase. My legs are long, and I had soon

headed her round.

“I presume that I have the honour of addressing the Signorina

Marinelli?” I panted, in French, as I faced her, hat in hand.

She answered me by a piercing shriek, which left no room for doubt as to

her identity.

“For the love of Heaven, don’t do that!” I entreated, in an agony. “You

will alarm the whole neighbourhood and ruin us both. Believe me, I am

only here as your friend, and very much against my own wishes. I have

come on the part of Count Albrecht von Rosenau, who is unable to come

himself, because--”

Here she opened her mouth with so manifest an intention of raising

another resounding screech that I became desperate, and seized her by

the wrists in my anxiety. “_Sgridi ancora una volta_,” says I, in the

purest _lingua Toscana_, “_e la lascero qui_--to get out of this mess as

best you can--_cosi sicuro che il mio nome e Jenkinsono_!”

To my great relief she began to laugh. Immediately afterward, however,

she sat down on the shingle and began to cry. It was too vexatious: what

on earth was I to do?

“Do you understand English?” I asked, despairingly.

She shook her head, but sobbed out that she spoke French; so I proceeded

to address her in that language.

“Signorina, if you do not get up and control your emotion, I will not

be answerable for the consequences. We are surrounded by dangers of the

most--compromising description; and every moment of delay must add

to them. I know that the officers often come out here to bathe in the

morning; so do many of the English people from Danielli’s. If we are

discovered together there will be such a scandal as never was, and you

will most assuredly not become Countess von Rosenau. Think of that, and

it will brace your nerves. What you have to do is to come directly with

me to the boat which is all ready to take us to Mestre. Allow me to

carry your hand-bag.”

Not a bit of it! The signorina refused to stir.

“What is it? Where is Alberto? What has happened?” she cried. “You have

told me nothing.”

“Well, then, I will explain,” I answered, impatiently. And I explained

accordingly.

But, dear me, what a fuss she did make over it all! One would have

supposed, to hear her, that I had planned this unfortunate complication

for my own pleasure, and that I ought to have been playing the part of a

suppliant instead of that of a sorely tried benefactor. First she was

so kind as to set me down as an imposter, and was only convinced of my

honesty when I showed her a letter in the beloved Alberto’s handwriting.

Then she declared that she could not possibly go off with a total

stranger. Then she discovered that, upon further consideration, she

could not abandon poor dear papa in his old age. And so forth, and so

forth, with a running accompaniment of tears and sobs. Of course she

consented at last to enter the boat; but I was so exasperated by her

silly behaviour that I would not speak to her, and had really scarcely

noticed whether she was pretty or plain till we were more than half-way

to Mestre. But when we had hoisted our sail, and were running before a

fine, fresh breeze toward the land, and our four men had shipped their

oars and were chattering and laughing under their breath in the bows,

and the first perils of our enterprise seemed to have been safely

surmounted, my equanimity began to return to me, and I stole a glance at

the partner of my flight, who had lifted her veil, and showed a pretty,

round, childish face, with a clear, brown complexion, and a pair of

the most splendid dark eyes it has ever been my good fortune to

behold. There were no tears in them now, but a certain half-frightened,

half-mischievous light instead, as if she rather enjoyed the adventure,

in spite of its inauspicious opening. A very little encouragement

induced her to enter into conversation, and ere long she was prattling

away as unrestrainedly as if we had been friends all our lives. She

asked me a great many questions. What was I doing in Venice? Had I known

Alberto long? Was I very fond of him? Did I think that the old Count

von Rosenau would be very angry when he heard of his son’s marriage?

I answered her as best I could, feeling very sorry for the poor little

soul, who evidently did not in the least realise the serious nature

of the step which she was about to take; and she grew more and more

communicative. In the course of a quarter of an hour I had been put in

possession of all the chief incidents of her uneventful life.

I had heard how she had lost her mother when she was still an infant;

how she had been educated partly by two maiden aunts, partly in a

convent at Verona; how she had latterly led a life of almost complete

seclusion in the old Venetian palace; how she had first met Alberto; and

how, after many doubts and misgivings, she had finally been prevailed

upon to sacrifice all for his sake, and to leave her father,

who,--stern, severe, and suspicious, though he had always been generous

to her,--had tried to give her such small pleasures as his means

and habits would permit. She had a likeness of him with her, she

said,--perhaps I might like to see it. She dived into her travelling-bag

as she spoke, and produced from thence a full-length photograph of a

tall, well-built gentleman of sixty or thereabouts, whose gray hair,

black moustache, and intent, frowning gaze made up an ensemble more

striking than attractive.

“Is he not handsome--poor papa?” she asked.

I said the marchese was certainly a very fine-looking man, and inwardly

thanked my stars that he was safely at Padua; for looking at the breadth

of his chest, the length of his arm, and the somewhat forbidding cast of

his features, I could not help perceiving that “poor papa” was precisely

one of those persons with whom a prudent man prefers to keep friends

than to quarrel.

And so, by the time that we reached Mestre, we had become quite friendly

and intimate, and had half forgotten, I think, the absurd relation in

which we stood toward each other. We had rather an awkward moment

when we left the boat and entered our travelling-carriage; for I need

scarcely say that both the boatmen and the grinning vetturino took me

for the bridegroom whose place I temporarily occupied, and they were

pleased to be facetious in a manner which was very embarrassing to me,

but which I could not very well check. Moreover, I felt compelled so

far to sustain my assumed character as to be specially generous in the

manner of a _buona mano_ to those four jolly watermen, and for the first

few miles of our drive I could not help remembering this circumstance

with some regret, and wondering whether it would occur to Von Rosenau to

reimburse me.

Probably our coachman thought that, having a runaway couple to drive,

he ought to make some pretence, at least, of fearing pursuit; for he set

off at such a furious pace that our four half-starved horses were

soon beat, and we had to perform the remainder of the long, hot, dusty

journey at a foot’s pace. I have forgotten how we made the time pass. I

think we slept a good deal. I know we were both very tired and a

trifle cross when in the evening we reached Longarone, a small,

poverty-stricken village, on the verge of that dolomite region which, in

these latter days, has become so frequented by summer tourists.

Tourists usually leave in their wake some of the advantages as well as

the drawbacks of civilisation; and probably there is now a respectable

hotel at Longarone. I suppose, therefore, that I may say, without risk

of laying myself open to an action for slander, that a more filthy den

than the _osteria_ before which my charge and I alighted no imagination,

however disordered, could conceive. It was a vast, dismal building,

which had doubtless been the palace of some rich citizen of the republic

in days of yore, but which had now fallen into dishonoured old age.

Its windows and outside shutters were tightly closed, and had been so,

apparently, from time immemorial; a vile smell of rancid oil and garlic

pervaded it in every part; the cornices of its huge, bare rooms were

festooned with blackened cobwebs, and the dust and dirt of ages had

been suffered to accumulate upon the stone floors of its corridors.

The signorina tucked up her petticoats as she picked her way along the

passages to her bedroom, while I remained behind to order dinner of the

sulky, black-browed padrona to whom I had already had to explain that my

companion and I were not man and wife, and who, I fear, had consequently

conceived no very high opinion of us. Happily the priest had already

been warned by telegram that his service would not be required until the

morrow; so I was spared the nuisance of an interview with him.

After a time we sat down to our tete-a-tete dinner. Such a dinner! Even

after a lapse of all these years I am unable to think of it without a

shudder. Half famished though we were, we could not do much more than

look at the greater part of the dishes which were set before us; and the

climax was reached when we were served with an astonishing compote, made

up, so far as I was able to judge, of equal proportions of preserved

plums and mustard, to which vinegar and sugar had been superadded. Both

the signorina and I partook of this horrible mixture, for it really

looked as if it might be rather nice; and when, after the first

mouthful, each of us looked up, and saw the other’s face of agony and

alarm, we burst into a simultaneous peal of laughter. Up to that moment

we had been very solemn and depressed; but the laugh did us good, and

sent us to bed in somewhat better spirits; and the malignant compote at

least did us the service of effectually banishing our appetite.

I forbear to enlarge upon the horrors of the night. Mosquitos, and other

insects, which, for some reason or other, we English seldom mention,

save under a modest pseudonym, worked their wicked will upon me till

daybreak set me free; and I presume that the fair Bianca was no better

off, for when the breakfast hour arrived I received a message from her

to the effect that she was unable to leave her room.

I was sitting over my dreary little repast, wondering how I should get

through the day, and speculating upon the possibility of my release

before nightfall, and I had just concluded that I must make up my mind

to face another night with the mosquitos and their hardy allies, when,

to my great joy, a slatternly serving-maid came lolloping into the room,

and announced that a gentleman styling himself “_il Conte di Rosenau_”

had arrived and demanded to see me instantly. Here was a piece of

unlooked-for good fortune! I jumped up, and flew to the door to receive

my friend, whose footsteps I already heard on the threshold.

“My dear, good soul!” I cried, “this is too delightful! How did you

manage----”

The remainder of my sentence died away upon my lips; for, alas! it

was not the missing Alberto whom I had nearly embraced, but a stout,

red-faced, white-moustached gentleman, who was in a violent passion,

judging by the terrific salute of Teutonic expletives with which he

greeted my advance. Then he, too, desisted as suddenly as I had done,

and we both fell back a few paces, and stared at each other blankly. The

new-comer was the first to recover himself.

“This is some accursed mistake,” said he, in German.

“Evidently,” said I.

“But they told me that you and an Italian young lady were the only

strangers in the house.”

“Well, sir,” I said, “I can’t help it if we are. The house is not of

a kind likely to attract strangers; and I assure you that, if I could

consult my own wishes, the number of guests would soon be reduced by

one.”

He appeared to be a very choleric old person. “Sir,” said he, “you seem

disposed to carry things off with a high hand; but I suspect that you

know more than you choose to reveal. Be so good as to tell me the name

of the lady who is staying here.”

“I think you are forgetting yourself,” I answered with dignity. “I must

decline to gratify your curiosity.”

He stuck his arms akimbo, and planted himself directly in front of me,

frowning ominously. “Let us waste no more words,” he said. “If I

have made a mistake, I shall be ready to offer you a full apology. If

not--But that is nothing to the purpose. I am Lieutenant-General Graf

von Rosenau, at your service, and I have reason to believe that my

son, Graf Albrecht von Rosenau, a lieutenant in his Imperial and Royal

Majesty’s 99th Croat Regiment, has made a runaway match with a certain

Signorina Bianca Marinelli of Venice. Are you prepared to give me your

word of honour as a gentleman and an Englishman that you are not privy

to this affair?”

At these terrible words I felt my blood run cold. I may have lost my

presence of mind; but I don’t know how I could have got out of the

dilemma even if I had preserved it.

“Your son has not yet arrived,” I stammered.

He pounced upon me like a cat upon a mouse, and gripped both my arms

above the elbow. “Is he married?” he hissed, with his red nose a couple

of inches from mine.

“No,” I answered, “he is not. Perhaps I had better say at once that if

you use personal violence I shall defend myself, in spite of your age.”

Upon this he was kind enough to relax his hold.

“And pray, sir,” he resumed, in a somewhat more temperate tone, after a

short period of reflection, “what have you to do with all this?”

“I am not bound to answer your questions, Herr Graf,” I replied; “but,

as things have turned out, I have no special objection to doing so. Out

of pure good-nature to your son, who was detained by duty in Venice

at the last moment, I consented to bring the Signorina Marinelli here

yesterday, and to await his arrival, which I am now expecting.”

“So you ran away with the girl, instead of Albrecht, did you? Ho, ho,

ho!”

I had seldom heard a more grating or disagreeable laugh.

“I did nothing of the sort,” I answered, tartly. “I simply undertook to

see her safely through the first stage of her journey.”

“And you will have the pleasure of seeing her back, I imagine; for as

for my rascal of a boy, I mean to take him off home with me as soon as

he arrives; and I can assure you that I have no intention of providing

myself with a daughter-in-law in the course of the day.”

I began to feel not a little alarmed. “You cannot have the brutality

to leave me here with a young woman whom I am scarcely so much as

acquainted with on my hands!” I ejaculated, half involuntarily. “What in

the world should I do?”

The old gentleman gave vent to a malevolent chuckle. “Upon my word,

sir,” said he, “I can only see one course open to you as a man of

honour. You must marry her yourself.”

At this I fairly lost all patience, and gave the Graf my opinion of his

conduct in terms the plainness of which left nothing to be desired.

I included him, his son, and the entire German people in one sweeping

anathema. No Englishman, I said, would have been capable of either

insulting an innocent lady, or of so basely leaving in the lurch one

whose only fault had been a too great readiness to sacrifice his own

convenience to the interests of others. My indignation lent me a flow

of words such as I should never have been able to command in calmer

moments; and I dare say I should have continued in the same strain for

an indefinite time, had I not been summarily cut short by the entrance

of a third person.

There was no occasion for this last intruder to announce himself, in a

voice of thunder, as the Marchese Marinelli. I had at once recognised

the original of the signorina’s photograph, and I perceived that I was

now in about as uncomfortable a position as my bitterest enemy could

have desired for me. The German old gentleman had been very angry at the

outset; but his wrath, as compared with that of the Italian, was as a

breeze to a hurricane. The marchese was literally quivering from head

to foot with concentrated fury. His face was deadly white, his strongly

marked features twitched convulsively, his eyes blazed like those of a

wild animal. Having stated his identity in the manner already referred

to, he made two strides toward the table by which I was seated, and

stood glaring at me as though he would have sprung at my throat. I

thought it might avert consequences which we should both afterward

deplore if I were to place the table between us; and I did so without

loss of time. From the other side of that barrier I adjured my visitor

to keep cool, pledging him my word, in the same breath, that there was

no harm done as yet.

“No harm!” he repeated, in a strident shout that echoed through the bare

room. “Dog! Villain! You ensnare my daughter’s affections--you entice

her away from her father’s house--you cover my family with eternal

disgrace--and then you dare to tell me there is no harm done! Wait a

little, and you shall see that there will be harm enough for you. Marry

her you must, since you have ruined her; but you shall die for it the

next day! It is I--I, Ludovico Marinelli--who swear it!”

I am aware that I do but scant justice to the marchese’s inimitable

style. The above sentences must be imagined as hurled forth in a series

of yells, with a pant between each of them. As a melodramatic actor this

terrific Marinelli would, I am sure, have risen to the first rank in his

profession.

“Signore,” I said, “you are under a misapprehension. I have ensnared

nobody’s affections, and I am entirely guiltless of all the crimes which

you are pleased to attribute to me.”

“What? Are you not, then, the hound who bears the vile and dishonoured

name of Von Rosenau?”

“I am not. I bear the less distinguished, but, I hope, equally

respectable patronymic of Jenkinson.”

But my modest disclaimer passed unheeded, for now another combatant had

thrown himself into the fray.

“Vile and dishonoured name! No one shall permit himself such language

in my presence. I am Lieutenant-General Graf von Rosenau, sir, and you

shall answer to me for your words.”

The Herr Graf’s knowledge of Italian was somewhat limited; but, such as

it was, it had enabled him to catch the sense of the stigma cast upon

his family, and now he was upon his feet, red and gobbling, like a

turkey-cock, and prepared to do battle with a hundred irate Venetians if

need were.

The marchese stared at him in blank amazement. “_You!_” he

ejaculated--“you Von Rosenau! It is incredible--preposterous. Why, you

are old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Not old enough to be in my dotage,--as I should be if I permitted my

son to marry a beggarly Italian,--nor too old to punish impertinence as

it deserves,” retorted the Graf.

“Your son? You are the father then? It is all the same to me. I will

fight you both. But the marriage shall take place first.”

“It shall not.”

“It shall.”

“Insolent slave of an Italian, I will make you eat your words!”

“Triple brute of a German, I spit upon you!”

“Silence, sir!”

“Silence yourself!”

During this animated dialogue I sat apart, softly rubbing my hands. What

a happy dispensation it would be, I could not help thinking, if these

two old madmen were to exterminate each other, like the Kilkenny cats!

Anyhow, their attention was effectually diverted from my humble person,

and that was something to be thankful for.

Never before had I been privileged to listen to so rich a vocabulary of

vituperation. Each disputant had expressed himself, after the first few

words, in his own language, and between them they were now making hubbub

enough to bring the old house down about their ears. Up came the padrona

to see the fun; up came her fat husband, in his shirt-sleeves and

slippers; and her long-legged sons, and her tousle-headed daughters, and

the maid-servant, and the cook, and the ostler--the whole establishment,

in fact, collected at the open folding-doors, and watched with delight

the progress of this battle of words. Last of all, a poor little

trembling figure, with pale face and eyes big with fright, crept in, and

stood, hand on heart, a little in advance of the group. I slipped to her

side, and offered her a chair, but she neither answered me nor noticed

my presence. She was staring at her father as a bird stares at a snake,

and seemed unable to realise anything except the terrible fact that he

had followed and found her.

Presently the old man wheeled round, and became aware of his daughter.

“Unhappy girl!” he exclaimed, “what is this that you have done?”

I greatly fear that the marchese’s paternal corrections must have

sometimes taken a more practical shape than mere verbal upbraidings; for

poor Bianca shrank back, throwing up one arm, as if to shield her face,

and, with a wild cry of “Alberto! come to me!” fell into the arms

of that tardy lover, who at that appropriate moment had made his

appearance, unobserved, upon the scene.

The polyglot disturbance that ensued baffles all description. Indeed,

I should be puzzled to say exactly what took place, or after how many

commands, defiances, threats, protestations, insults, and explanations,

a semblance of peace was finally restored. I only know that, at the

expiration of a certain time, three of us were sitting by the open

window, in a softened and subdued frame of mind, considerately turning

our backs upon the other two, who were bidding each other farewell at

the farther end of the room.

It was the faithless Johann, as I gathered, who was responsible for

this catastrophe. His heart, it appeared, had failed him when he had

discovered that nothing less than a bona-fide marriage was to be the

outcome of the meetings he had shown so much skill in contriving, and,

full of penitence and alarm, he had written to his old master, divulging

the whole project. It so happened that a recent storm in the mountains

had interrupted telegraphic communication, for the time, between Austria

and Venice, and the only course that had seemed open to Herr von Rosenau

was to start post-haste for the latter place, where, indeed, he would

have arrived a day too late had not Albrecht’s colonel seen fit to

postpone his leave. In this latter circumstance also the hand of Johann

seemed discernible. As for the marchese, I suppose he must have returned

rather sooner than had been expected from Padua, and finding his

daughter gone, must have extorted the truth from his housekeeper. He did

not volunteer any explanation of his presence, nor were any of us bold

enough to question him.

As I have said before, I have no very clear recollection of how an

understanding was arrived at and bloodshed averted and the padrona and

her satellites hustled downstairs again. Perhaps I may have had some

share in the work of pacification. Be that as it may, when once the

exasperated parents had discovered that they both really wanted the same

thing,--namely, to recover possession of their respective offspring, to

go home, and never meet each other again,--a species of truce was soon

agreed upon between them for the purpose of separating the two lovers,

who all this time were locked in each other’s arms, in the prettiest

attitude in the world, vowing loudly that nothing should ever part them.

How often since the world began have such vows been made and

broken--broken, not willingly, but of necessity--broken and mourned

over, and, in due course of time, forgotten! I looked at the Marchese di

San Silvestro the other night, as she sailed up the room in her lace and

diamonds, with her fat little husband toddling after her, and wondered

whether, in these days of her magnificence, she ever gave a thought to

her lost Alberto--Alberto, who has been married himself this many a long

day, and has succeeded to his father’s estates, and has numerous family,

I am told. At all events, she was unhappy enough over parting with

him at the time. The two old gentlemen, who, as holders of the

purse-strings, knew that they were completely masters of the situation,

and could afford to be generous, showed some kindliness of feeing at the

last. They allowed the poor lovers an uninterrupted half-hour in

which to bid each other adieu forever, and abstained from any needless

harshness in making their decision known. When the time was up, two

travelling-carriages were seen waiting at the door. Count von Rosenau

pushed his son before him into the first; the marchese assisted the

half-fainting Bianca into the second; the vetturini cracked their whips,

and presently both vehicles were rolling away, the one toward the

north, the other toward the south. I suppose the young people had been

promising to remain faithful to each other until some happier future

time should permit of their union, for at the last moment Albrecht

thrust his head out of the carriage window, and, waving his hand, cried,

“_A rivederci!_” I don’t know whether they ever met again.

The whole scene, I confess, had affected me a good deal, in spite of

some of the absurdities by which it had been marked; and it was not

until I had been alone for some time, and silence had once more fallen

upon the Longarone _osteria_, that I awoke to the fact that it was _my_

carriage which the Marchese Marinelli had calmly appropriated to his own

use, and that there was no visible means of my getting back to Venice

that day. Great was my anger and great my dismay when the ostler

announced this news to me, with a broad grin, in reply to my order to

put the horses to without delay.

“But the marchese himself--how did he get here?” I inquired.

“Oh, he came by the diligence.”

“And the count--the young gentleman?”

“On horseback, signore; but you cannot have his horse. The poor beast is

half dead as it is.”

“Then will you tell me how I am to escape from your infernal town? For

nothing shall induce me to pass another night here.”

“Eh! there is the diligence which goes through at two o’clock in the

morning!”

There was no help for it. I sat up for that diligence, and returned by

it to Mestre, seated between a Capuchin monk and a peasant farmer whose

whole system appeared to be saturated with garlic. I could scarcely have

fared worse in my bed at Longarone.

And so that was my reward for an act of disinterested kindness. It

is only experience that can teach a man to appreciate the ingrained

thanklessness of the human race. I was obliged to make a clean breast

of it to my sister, who of course did not keep the secret long; and for

some time afterward I had to submit to a good deal of mild chaff upon

the subject from my friends. But it is an old story now, and two of the

actors in it are dead, and of the remaining three I dare say I am the

only one who cares to recall it. Even to me it is a somewhat painful

reminiscence.

GONERIL, By A. Mary F. Robinson

CHAPTER I THE TWO OLD LADIES

On one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata,

there stands a house so small that an Englishman would probably take it

for a lodge of the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset

cast their shadow over the cottage and its terrace on to the steep white

road. But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is a

_casa signorile_, despite its smallness. It stands somewhat high above

the road, a square white house with a projecting roof, and with four

green-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The beds

under the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet

who desired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull

a salad, for they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white,

and some tall gray rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually

large oleander faced a strong and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with

their profusion of red and white sweetness, made amends for the dearth

of garden flowers. At either end of the terrace flourished a thicket

of gum-cistus, syringa, stephanotis, and geranium bushes; and the wall

itself, dropping sheer down to the road, was bordered with the customary

Florentine hedge of China roses and irises, now out of bloom. Great

terra-cotta flower-pots, covered with devices, were placed at intervals

along the wall; as it was summer, the oranges and lemons, full of

wonderfully sweet white blossoms and young green fruit, were set there

in the sun to ripen.

It was the 17th of June. Although it was after four o’clock, the olives

on the steep hill that went down to Florence looked blindingly white,

shadeless, and sharp. The air trembled round the bright green cypresses

behind the house. The roof steamed. All the windows were shut, all the

jalousies shut, yet it was so hot that no one could stir within. The

maid slept in the kitchen; the two elderly mistresses of the house dozed

upon their beds. Not a movement; not a sound.

Gradually along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of

distant carriage-wheels. The sound came nearer and nearer, till one

could see the carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin,

cab-horse, his bones starting under the shaggy hide. Inside the carriage

reclined a handsome, middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned

toward the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat

trudged up the hill at the side.

“Goneril,” said Miss Hamelyn, “let me beg you again to come inside the

carriage.”

“Oh no, Aunt Margaret; I’m not a bit tired.”

“But I have asked you; that is reason enough.”

“It’s so hot!” cried Goneril.

“That is why I object to your walking.”

“But if it’s so hot for me, just think how hot is must be for the

horse.”

Goneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor, halting, wheezing nag.

“The horse, probably,” rejoined Miss Hamelyn, “does not suffer from

malaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the

middle heat of the summer.”

“True!” said Goneril. Then, after a few minutes, “I’ll get in, Aunt

Margaret, on one condition.”

“In my time young people did not make conditions.”

“Very well, auntie; I’ll get in, and you shall answer all my questions

when you feel inclined.”

The carriage stopped. The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl

seated herself beside Miss Hamelyn. Then for a few minutes they drove

on in silence past the orchards; past the olive-yards, yellow underneath

the ripening corn; past the sudden wide views of the mountains, faintly

crimson in the mist of heat, and, on the other side, of Florence, the

towers and domes steaming beside the hazy river.

“How hot it looks down there!” cried Goneril.

“How hot it _feels_!” echoed Miss Hamelyn, rather grimly.

“Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie.”

Then, a little later, “Won’t you tell me something about the old ladies

with whom you are going to leave me?”

Miss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril’s obedience.

“They are very nice old ladies,” she said; “I met them at Mrs.

Gorthrup’s.” But this was not at all what the young girl wanted.

“Only think, Aunt Margaret,” she cried, impatiently, “I am to stay there

for at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they

are, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty, or ugly, not

even if they speak English!”

“They speak English,” said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end. “One of

them is English, or at least Irish: Miss Prunty.”

“And the other?”

“She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome.”

“Oh!” said Goneril, looking pleased. “I’m glad she’s handsome, and that

they speak English. But they are not relations?”

“No, they are not connected; they are friends.”

“And have they always lived together?”

“Ever since Madame Lilli died,” and Miss Hamelyn named a very celebrated

singer.

“Why!” cried Goneril, quite excited; “were they singers too?”

“Madame Petrucci; nevertheless a lady of the highest respectability.

Miss Prunty was Madame Lilli’s secretary.”

“How nice!” cried the young girl; “how interesting! O auntie, I’m so

glad you found them out.”

“So am I, child; but please remember it is not an ordinary pension.

They only take you, Goneril, till you are strong enough to travel, as an

especial favour to me and to their old friend, Mrs. Gorthrup.”

“I’ll remember, auntie.”

By this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little

house.

“Goneril,” said the elder lady, “I shall leave you outside; you can play

in the garden or the orchard.”

“Very well.”

Miss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of

steps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.

In the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.

“Good-afternoon, Madame Petrucci,” said Miss Hamelyn.

A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and

a white burnoose that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came

eagerly forward. She was rather pretty, with small refined features,

large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow ringlets down

her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.

“Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn,” she cried, “how _glad_ I am to see you! And

have you brought your _charming_ young relation?”

She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and

bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an

impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia

Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.

“Goneril is outside,” said Miss Hamelyn. “How is Miss Prunty?”

“Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She

is, as usual, fatiguing herself with our accounts.” The old lady led the

way into the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As

one’s eyes became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the

incongruity of the furniture: the horsehair chairs and sofa, and

large accountant’s desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano; a

bookcase, in which all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of

old-fashioned operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some

faded laurel crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty

years ago the most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait,

by Winterman, of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders,

holding in her hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of

music, under the title Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of

an elderly and respectable diva of the year ‘40.

“Brigida!” cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. “Brigida! our

charming English friend is arrived!”

“All right!” answered a strong, hearty voice from upstairs. “I’m

coming.”

“You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn,” went on Madame Petrucci. “You

must excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one

little servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any

movement reminds me of approaching age.” The old lady smiled as if that

time were still far ahead.

“I am sure you ought to take care of yourself,” said Miss Hamelyn. “I

hope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you.”

“Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming! I suppose it is in your

family?” asked the old lady.

Miss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece’s name was a sore point

with her.

“It’s an awful name for any Christian woman,” said a deep voice at the

door. “And pray, who’s called Goneril?”

Miss Prunty came forward: a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine

dark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and

masculine in the fashion of her dress.

“And have you brought your niece?” she said, as she turned to Miss

Hamelyn.

“Yes, she is in the garden.”

“Well, I hope she understands that she’ll have to rough it here.”

“Goneril is a very simple girl,” said Miss Hamelyn.

“So it’s she that’s called Goneril?”

“Yes,” said the aunt, making an effort. “Of course I am aware of the

strangeness of the name, but--but, in fact, my brother was devotedly

attached to his wife, who died at Goneril’s birth.”

“Whew!” whistled Miss Prunty. “The parson must have been a fool who

christened her!”

“He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving

with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten.”

“I think it is a charming name!” said Madame Petrucci, coming to the

rescue. “Gonerilla--it dies on one’s lips like music! And if you do not

like it, Brigida, what’s in a name? as your charming Byron said.”

“I hope we shall make her happy,” said Miss Prunty.

“Of course we shall!” cried the elder lady.

“Goneril is easily made happy,” asserted Miss Hamelyn.

“That’s a good thing,” snapped Miss Prunty, “for there’s not much here to

make her so!”

“O Brigida! I am sure there are many attractions. The air, the view,

the historic association! and, more than all, you know there is always a

chance of the signorino!”

“Of whom?” said Miss Hamelyn, rather anxiously.

“Of him!” cried Madame Petrucci, pointing to the engraving opposite.

“He lives, of course, in the capital; but he rents the villa behind our

house,--the Medici Villa,--and when he is tired of Rome he runs down

here for a week or so; and so your Gonerilla may have the benefit of

_his_ society!”

“Very nice, I’m sure,” said Miss Hamelyn, greatly relieved; for she knew

that Signor Graziano must be fifty.

“We have known him,” went on the old lady, “very nearly thirty years.

He used to largely frequent the salon of our dear, our cherished Madame

Lilli.”

The tears came into the old lady’s eyes. No doubt those days seemed near

and dear to her; she did not see the dust on those faded triumphs.

“That’s all stale news!” cried Miss Prunty, jumping up. “And Gon’ril

(since I’ll have to call her so) must be tired of waiting in the

garden.”

They walked out on to the terrace. The girl was not there, but by the

gate into the olive-yard, where there was a lean-to shed for tools, they

found her sitting on a cask, whittling a piece of wood and talking to a

curly-headed little contadino.

Hearing steps, Goneril turned round. “He was asleep,” she said. “Fancy,

in such beautiful weather!”

Then, remembering that two of the ladies were still strangers, she made

an old-fashioned little courtesy.

“I hope you won’t find me a trouble, ladies,” she said.

“She is charming!” said Madame Petrucci, throwing up her hands.

Goneril blushed; her hat had slipped back and showed her short brown

curls of hair, strong regular features, and flexile scarlet mouth

laughing upward like a faun’s. She had sweet dark eyes, a little too

small and narrow.

“I mean to be very happy,” she exclaimed.

“Always mean that, my dear,” said Miss Prunty.

“And now, since Gonerilla is no longer a stranger,” added Madame

Petrucci, “we will leave her to the rustic society of Angiolino while we

show Miss Hamelyn our orangery.”

“And conclude our business!” said Bridget Prunty.