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