THE PRINCESS PLANS TO RECEIVE THE AMERICAN HEIRESS
When the pony-cart arrived at the castle the princess alighted, too
preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice that her husband drove off
in the opposite direction from the stables. Her forehead was wrinkled
and her head bent as she walked between the high hedges of ilex toward
the south wing of the building. Her worry over their inability to pay
the debt was increased by the fact that their creditor was the Duke
Scorpa.
There had been a feud between the Sanseveros and the Scorpas for over a
century, and while the present generation tried to ignore it, the
princess felt instinctively that like the people of Alsace Lorraine, who
never really forgave the government that changed their nationality, the
Scorpas never forgave the Sanseveros for lands which they claimed were
unjustly lost in 1803, when a daughter of the house married a Sansevero
and took a portion of the Scorpa property as her dowry. That these same
lands were distant from either county seat, and of comparatively small
value, in no way mitigated the Scorpa resentment, and every time they
looked at the map and saw the triangular piece painted over from the
Scorpa red to the Sansevero blue, there was bad feeling.
When the old Prince Sansevero was alive, he and the present Duke, who
was then a violent tempered youth, had several unfriendly encounters
about the boundary line of this same property. All this had seemed very
trivial to Alessandro, the present Prince, who looked upon the Duke as
one of his best friends--but Alessandro had no perspicacity. He believed
others to be as free from guile as himself.
Reaching a small postern gate at the end of the path, the princess
opened it by pressing a hidden spring. This led directly into the
apartments at the end of the south wing next to the kitchen offices--the
only ones at present in use. She went directly to her own sitting-room,
from which the evidences of her toilet had meantime been removed.
This room better than anything else proclaimed the manner of woman who
occupied it. It had been arranged by one to whom comfort was of
paramount importance, and, in spite of a certain incongruity, the whole
effect was pleasing and harmonious. The frescoes on the walls were
almost obliterated by age, and were partially covered by dull red stuff.
Against this latter hung three pictures from the famous Sansevero
collection: a Holy Family by Leonardo da Vinci, a triptych by Perugino,
and a Madonna by Correggio. Hardly less celebrated, but sharply at odds
with the ecclesiastical subjects of the paintings, was the mantle,
carved in a bacchanalian procession of satyrs and nymphs--a model said
to have been made by Niccola Pisano.
The floor, of the inevitable black and white marble, was strewn with
rugs; and in front of desk and sofa bear skins had been added as a
double protection against the cold. The furniture was modern upholstery,
with gay chintz slip-covers. Frilled muslin curtains were crossed over
and draped high under outer ones of chintz. And everywhere there were
flowers--roses, orange blossoms, and camellias; in tall jars and short,
on every available piece of furniture. Scarcely less in evidence were
photographs, propped against walls, ornaments, and flower jars; long,
narrow, highly glazed European photographs with white backgrounds,
uniformed officers, sentimentally posed engaged couples, young mothers
in full evening dress reading to barefooted babies out of gingerly held
picture books. There were photographs of all varieties; big ones and
little ones, framed and unframed--the king and the queen with
crown-surmounted settings and boldly written first names, and "_A la
cara Eleanor_" inscribed above that of her majesty. In the other
photographs the signatures grew in complication and length as their
aristocratic importance diminished. Books and magazines littered the
tables; French, Italian, and English in indiscriminate association. A
workbasket of plain sewing lay open among the pillows on the sofa. An
American magazine, with a paper-knife inserted between its leaves, was
tossed beside a tooled morocco edition of Tacitus. A crucifix hung
beneath the Correggio; a plaster model of the Discobolus stood between
the windows.
And in the midst of old and new, religious and pagan, priceless and
insignificant, sat her Excellency, the ex-American beauty and present
chatelaine of the great family of the princes of the Sansevero, in a
golf skirt and walking boots, a plain starched shirtwaist and stock tie,
adding to the wrinkles in her forehead and in the corners of her eyes by
trying to figure out how, with forty thousand lire, she was going to pay
a debt of sixty thousand lire and have enough left over to open the
great palace in Rome, and realize a dream that had always been in her
heart--to take Nina out in Roman society, to give herself the delight of
showing Rome to Nina, and the greater delight of showing Nina to Rome.
She glanced up at two photographs, the only ones on her desk. The first
was of her husband, taken in the fancy costume of a troubadour, with the
signature "Sandro" across the lower half, in characters symbolical of
the song he might have sung, so gay and ascending was the handwriting.
The other picture was of a young woman in evening dress. The face was
bright and winning rather than pretty; the personality really chic, and
this in spite of the fact that the girl's clothes were over-elaborate.
Her dress was a mass of embroidery, and around her throat she wore a
diamond collar. Diamond hairpins held the loops of waving fair
hair--very like the princess's own--and two handsome rings were on the
fingers of one hand. It in no way suggested the Italian idea of a young
girl; yet there was a youthful freshness in the expression of the face,
a girlish slimness of the figure that could not have been produced by
touching up the negative. Under the picture was written in a clear and
modernly square handwriting, "To my own Auntie Princess with love from
Nina."
The name "Auntie Princess" carried as much of Nina's personality to the
mind of her aunt as the picture itself. It was the one her childish lips
had spoken when she was told that her aunt was to marry a prince. Most
distinct of all Eleanor Sansevero's memories of home was one of Nina
being held up high above the crowd at the end of the pier to blow
good-by kisses to the bride of a foreign nobleman, being carried out
into the river whose widening water was making actual the separation
between herself and all that till then had been her life.
It was only for a little while, she had thought at the time. She would
go back once a year or so, surely; and Nina should come over often. But
in the intervening fifteen years, though the Randolphs had been in
Europe many times, they had always chosen midsummer for their trip, and
the princess had joined her sister at some northern city or
watering-place. This visit, therefore, was to be Nina's first glimpse
of her aunt's home, and the princess was determined that she should not
spend the time desolately in the country! She might come here for a
little while--for reasons that the princess would have found hard to
explain to herself, she did not want Nina to get a false impression. Yet
for nothing would she have exposed her husband's failing--even to her
own family. With the weakness of a true wife, she never dreamed that all
her world suspected, if it did not actually know, of the great inroads
on her fortune that his gambling had made.
The princess went back to her accounts, but no amount of auditing made
the sum they had saved any larger. A large pearl pendant that had been
the Randolphs' wedding present to her, and a ruby that had been her
mother's, were her only remaining possessions that could bring anything
like the sum needed; with them and perhaps notes on her next year's
income, they might make up the full amount. But how to sell the jewels
was the problem. There is little demand for really fine stones in Italy,
and besides, they might be recognized. Long before, she had sold her
emerald earrings and had false ones put in their places. She had hated
wearing the imitations, but she had worn the real ones constantly, she
feared their sudden absence might be noticed.
Indeed, as it was, one day out in the garden, when Scorpa was sitting
near her, she thought she saw a knowing gleam in his eyes. Afterwards
she tried to assure herself that it was a trick of her own
consciousness; but she had not worn the earrings again in the
daytime--nor ever if she knew that Scorpa was to be present.
She threw down her pencil. The first thing at all events was to find out
how much she could realize on her stones, and to do that she would have
to go to Paris. Taking a railroad gazette out of a drawer, she looked up
trains. Eight-thirty mornings, arriving at---- The door burst open. The
prince, exuberant, his face wreathed in smiles, skipped, rather than
walked, into the room. In pure joyousness he pinched her cheek.
"What do you think, my dear one? It is all arranged. We can have _la
bella_ Nina; we shall go to Rome as usual. And you, you more than
generous, shall not sell any jewels!"
His wife did not at once echo his gladness; in fact she seemed
frightened.
"What has happened? You have not made a wager and won?"
He looked reproachful, almost sulky. "Leonora, unjust you are. Have I
not promised? But I will tell you. I have arranged it all with Scorpa. I
have let him have the Raphael--as security, practically--that is, I have
sold it to him for a hundred thousand lire--a loan merely--and he has
given me the privilege of buying it back at any time, with added
interest, of course. There will be no need of paying for years. He is
enchanted, as he has always wanted the picture, and says he only hopes I
may never wish to take it back."
"No, don't let us do that," the princess broke in, then hesitated, "I
can't tell you how I feel about it, but--I don't trust Scorpa. It is a
hard thing to say, but I have always believed he persuaded you into
buying the 'Little Devil' mine, knowing it could not be worked. Of
course, dear, that heavy loss may not have been his fault, but I'd so
much rather never have any dealings with him. Besides, the very thing I
wish to avoid is letting people know we must get money."
"But, _cara mia_, listen: It is all so well thought out, no one will
know. You see, we go to Rome; this picture hangs in an empty house,
which through the winter is very damp, and bad, therefore, for the
painting. Scorpa keeps his house open and heated; he takes care of it on
that account. Is that not a wonderful reason?"
"Whose reason was that?"
"Scorpa's own!" He danced a few steps in his excess of delight.
His wife arose and put her hand on his arm. "To please me, do not send
the picture. I can sell the jewels and have false stones put in their
places. We need not have any one know. But I don't want to remain in the
duke's debt!"
"The picture is already in his possession."
"In his possession? But how?"
"He drove over here just now, followed me in his motor-car, and took it
back with him."
The princess was evidently frightened. "What are his reasons?" she said
to herself, yet audibly.
Her husband looked at her, his head a little on one side, then he said
banteringly: "My dear, you Americans are too analytical. You always look
for a motive. Life is not of motive over here. Have you not learned that
in all these years? We act from impulse, as the mood takes us--we have
not the hidden thought that you are always looking for."
"You speak for yourself, Sandro _mio_, but all are not like you.
However, since the picture is gone--and since you have made that
arrangement--let it be. I may do Scorpa injustice; he has always
professed friendship for you--as indeed who has not?" She looked at him
with the softened glance that one sees in a mother's face.
Sansevero seated himself at the desk and took up the photograph of Nina.
"When will she arrive?" he asked buoyantly; then with sudden
inspiration, "Write to Giovanni and ask him to hurry home. If Nina
should fancy him, what a prize!"
The princess frowned. "On account of her money, you mean?"
"Ah, but one must think of that! We have no children; all this goes to
Giovanni--with Nina's immense fortune it would be very well. We could
all live as it used to be; there are the apartments on the second floor
in Rome, and the west wing here. I can think of nothing more fitting or
delightful. Has she grown pretty?"
"I don't know that you would call her pretty," mused the princess.
"Besides _you_, my dearest, a beauty might seem plain!" His wife tried
to look indifferent, but she was pleased, nevertheless.
"Tell me, Sandro, you flatterer, but tell me honestly, am I still
pretty? No, really? Will Nina think me the same, or will her thought be
'How my Aunt has gone off'?"
Melodramatically he seized her wrists and drew her to the window;
placing her in the full light of the sun, he peered with mock tragedy
into her face. "Let me see. Your hair--no, not a gray one! The gold of
your hair at least I have not squandered--yet."
"Don't, dear." She would have moved away, but he held her.
"Your face is thinner, but that only shows better its beautiful bones.
Ah, now your smile is just as delicious--but don't wrinkle your forehead
like that; it is full of lines. So--that is better. You make the eyes
sad sometimes; eyes should be the windows that let light into the soul;
they should be glad and admit only sunshine." Then with one of his
lightning transitions of mood, he added, not without a ring of emotion,
"_Mia povera bella_."
But Eleanor reached up and took his face between her hands. "As for
you," she said, "you are always just a boy. Sometimes it is impossible
to believe you are older than I--I think I should have been your
mother."