CASTEL DEL MONTE
It was March before we found ourselves in the Capital of the South. The
Countess was still there, but the Count, her brother, had not appeared,
and the explanation to which he referred remained unspoken. Here Lucia
was our kind friend and excellent entertainer; but of the tenderness of
the Hotel Promontonio it was hard for me to find a trace. The great lady
indeed outshone her peers, and took my moorland eyes as well as the
regards of others. But I had rather walked by the lake with the scarlet
cloak, or stood with her and been shot at for a white owl in the niche
of the terrace.
In the last days of the month there came from Henry's uncle and
guardian, Wilfred Fenwick, an urgent summons. He was ill, he might be
dying, and Henry was to return at once; while I, in anticipation of his
return, was to continue in Italy. There was indeed nothing to call me
home.
Therefore--and for other reasons--I abode in Italy; and after Henry's
departure I made evident progress in the graces of the Countess. Once or
twice she allowed me to remain behind for half an hour. On these
occasions she would come and throw herself down in a chair by the fire,
and permit me to take her hand. But she was weary and silent, full of
gloomy thoughts, which in vain I tried to draw from her. Still, I think
it comforted her to have me thus sit by her.
One morning, while I was idly leaning upon the bridge, and looking
towards the hills with their white marble palaces set amid the beauty of
the Italian spring, one touched me on the shoulder. I turned, and
lo--Lucia! Not any more the Countess, but Lucia, radiant with
brightness, colour in her cheek for the first time since I had seen her
in the Court of the South, animation sparkling in her eye.
"So I have found you, faithless one," she said. "I have been seeking for
you everywhere."
"And I, have I not been seeking for you all these weeks--and never have
found you till now, Lucia!"
I thought she would not notice the name.
"Why, Sir Heather Jock," she returned, "did you not part with me last
night at eleven of the clock?"
"Pardon me," I replied, letting the love in my heart woo her through my
eyes, and say what I dared not--at least, not here upon the open bridge
over which we slowly walked. "Pardon me, it is true that I parted at
eleven of the clock last night with Madame the Countess of Castel del
Monte. But, on the contrary, this morning I have met Lucia--my little
Saint Lucy of the Eyes."
"Who in Galloway taught you to make such speeches?" she said. "It is all
too pretty to have been said thus trippingly for the first time."
"Love," I made answer. "Love, the Master, taught me; for never before
have I known either a Countess or a Lucia!"
"'Douglas, Douglas, tender and true,' does not your song say?" said she.
"Will you ever be true, Douglas?"
"Lucy, will you ever be cruel? I dare you to say these things to-night
when I come to see you. 'Tis easy to dare to say them in the face of the
streets."
"Ah, Douglas, you will not see me to-night! I have come to bid you
farewell--farewell!" said she, as tragically as she dared, yet so that I
alone would hear her. Her eyes darted here and there, noting who came
near; and a smile flickered about her mouth as she calculated precisely
the breaking strain of my patience, and teased me up to that point. I
can easily enough see her elvish intent now, but I did not then.
"I go this afternoon," she said. "I have come to bid you
farewell--'Farewell! The anchor's weighed! Remember me!'"
"Is that why you are so happy to-day, because you are going away?" I
asked, putting a freezing dignity into my tones.
She nodded girlishly, and I admit, as a critic, adorably.
"Yes," she said, "that is just the reason."
We were now in the Public Gardens, and walking along a more quiet path.
"Good-bye, then," I said, holding out my hand.
"No, indeed!" she said; "I shall not allow you to kiss my hand in
public!"
And she put her hands behind her with a small, petulant gesture. "Now,
then!" she said defiantly.
With the utmost dignity I replied--"Indeed, I had no intention of
kissing your hand, Madame; but I have the honour of wishing you a very
good day."
So lifting my hat, I was walking off, when, turning with me, Lucia
tripped along by my side. I quickened my pace.
"Stephen," she said, "will you not forgive me for the sake of the old
time? It is true I am going away, and that you will not see me
again--unless, unless--you will come and visit me at my country house.
Stephen, if you do not walk more slowly, I declare I shall run after you
down the public promenade!"
I turned and looked at her. With all my heart I tried to be grave and
severe, but the mock-demure look on her face caused me weakly to laugh.
And then it was good-bye to all my dignity.
"Lucy, I wish you would not tease me," I said, still more weakly.
"Poor Toto! give it bon-bons! It shall not be teased, then," she said.
Before we parted, I had promised to come and see her at her country
house within ten days. And so, with a new brightness in her face, Saint
Lucy of the Eyes came back to my heart, and came to stay.
It was mid-April when I started for Castel del Monte. It was spring, and
I was going to see my love. The land about on either side, as I went,
was faintly flushed with peach-blossom shining among the hoary stones.
By the cliff edge the spiny cactus threw out strange withered arms. A
whitethorn without spike or spine gracefully wept floods of blonde
tears.
At a little port by the sea-edge I left the main route, and fared onward
up into the mountains. A mule carried my baggage; and the muleteer who
guided it looked like a mountebank in a garb rusty like withered leaves.
Like withered leaf, too, he danced up the hillside, scaling the long
array of steps which led through the olives toward Castel del Monte.
Some of his antics amused me, until I saw that none of them amused
himself, and that through all the contortions of his face his eyes
remained fixed, joyless, tragic.
Castel del Monte sat on the hill-top, eminent, far-beholding.
Vine-stakes ran up hill and down dale, all about it. White houses were
sprinkled here and there. As we ascended, the sea sank beneath, and the
shining dashes of the wave-crests diminished to sparkling pin-points.
Then with oriental suddenness the sun went down. Still upward fared the
joyless _farceur_, and still upon the soles of my feet, and with my
pilgrim staff in my hand, I followed.
Sometimes the sprays of fragrant blossom swept across our faces.
Sometimes a man stepped out from the roadside and challenged; but, on
receiving a word of salutation from my knave, he returned to his place
with a sharp clank of accoutrement.
White blocks of building moved up to us in the equal dusk of the
evening, took shape for a moment, and vanished behind us. The summit of
the mountain ceased to frown. The strain of climbing was taken from the
mechanic movement of the feet. The mule sent a greeting to his kind; and
some other white mountain, larger, more broken as to its sky-line, moved
in front of us and stayed.
"Castel del Monte!" said the muleteer, wrinkling all the queer puckered
leather of his visage in the strong light which streamed out as the
great door opened. A most dignified Venetian senator, in the black and
radiant linen of the time, came forth to meet me, and with the utmost
respect ushered me within. In my campaigning dress and broad-brimmed
hat, I felt that my appearance was unworthy of the grandeur of the
entrance-hall, of the suits of armour, the vast pictures, and the
massive last-century furniture in crimson and gold.