I
FOR quite a week—wasn't it?—obscure little Altronde held the centre of the stage. The newspapers of France and England, as well as those of Italy, had daily paragraphs. Belated details, coming in like stragglers after a battle, gave vividness to the story. Massimiliano, at Paris, plaintively indignant, overflowed in interviews. In interviews also, in speeches, in proclamations, Civillo adumbrated, magniloquently, vaguely, his future policy. There were “Character Sketches,” reminiscent, anecdotal, of Civillo, “By a lifelong Friend,” of Massimiliano, “By a Former Member of his Household,” etc. etc. There were even character sketches of poor Bertram, “By an Old Harrovian,” “By One who knew him at Cambridge,” which I hope he enjoyed reading. In the illustrated papers, of course, there were portraits. And in some of the weightier periodicals the past history of Altronde was recalled, a bleak, monotonous history, little more than a catalogue of murders....
With dagger thrusts and cups of poison, for something like three long sad hundred years, the rival houses of Bertrandoni and Ceresini had played the game of give and take. Finally, there were leading articles condemning the revolution as an act of brigandage, hailing it as a forward step towards liberty and light. And then, at the week's end, the theme was dropped.
We may believe that the newspapers were read with interest at Villa Santa Cecilia, and that to the mistress of that household, on the subject of Altronde, they never seemed to contain enough.
“It's almost as if we'd had a hand in the affair,” she reflected; “but these scrappy newspaper accounts leave us with no more knowledge than as if we were complete outsiders. Why don't they give more particulars? Why aren't they more intime?”
“I'll tell you what,” said Ponty, “let's go there. It's only half a day's journey. There we can study the question on the spot.”
“Yes, and look as if we were running after him. No, thank you,” sniffed Lucilla.
“I dare say we should look a little like accusing spirits, if he saw us,” Ponty admitted.
“But let's go in disguise. We can shave our heads, stain our skins, wear elastic-sided boots and pass ourselves off as an Albanian currant merchant and his family travelling to improve our minds in foreign politics.”
“I see Ruth and myself,” Lucilla yawned, “swathed in embroideries and wearing elasticsided boots, and presently we should be arrested as spies, and when our innocent curiosity had been well aired by the press, we should look to Bertram Bertrandoni more like accusing spirits than ever.”
“You women,” growled Pontycroft, extracting a cigarette from his cigarette case, “are so relentlessly cautious! You have no faith in the unexpected! That's why you'll never know the supreme content of throwing your bonnets over the mills, regardless of consequences.”
“The Consequences!” Lucilla retorted, “they're too obvious. We should be left bareheaded, et voilà tout!”
“Ah, well—there you are,” replied Ponty, and touched a match to his cigarette.
Yes, we may believe that the newspapers were read with interest at the Villa Santa Cecilia and that they gave the man there occasion for what his sister called “a prodigious deal of jawing.”
“Well, my poor Ariadne,” he commiserated, “ginger is still hot in the mouth, and Naxos is still a comfortable place of sojourn. Our star has been snatched from us and borne aloft to its high orbit in the heavens; we from our lowly coigne of earth can watch and unselfishly rejoice at its high destiny. Of course, the one thing to regret is that you didn't nail him when you had him. Nail the wild star to its track in the half climbed Zodiac,” he advised, sententious.
And in spirit ripe for mischief, Ponty bethought him of a long-forgotten poem, and he went all the way down to Vieusseux to procure a volume of the works of Wordsworth. Henceforth, dreamily, from time to time, he would fall to repeating favourite lines. For nearly a day Ruth bore, with equanimity tempered by repartee, a volley of verse:
“He was a lovely youth, I guess”
said Ponty,
“The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he.”
“I cannot dispute it. He was good-looking,” Ruth suavely returned.
“But,”—this he let fall from the terrace an hour later, to Ruth engaged below in snipping dead leaves from Lucilla's clambering rose bushes,—
“But, when his father called, the youth
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.”
“Fathers make, like mothers, I imagine, a poor substitute for brides,” said Ruth. She glanced at him with amusement. “Never, my nurse used to tell me, is a good while. Did that foolish youth find his bride?” she added, absorbed apparently in her occupation, “when he came back to claim her? As he did at last, you may rest assured.”
Pontycroft made no reply to this question, but he placed his book on the table and prepared to descend the steps:
“God help thee, Ruth,”
he exclaimed.
“Such pains she had
That she in half a year went mad.”
“I'm sure she would have gone mad in twenty-four hours if you had been by to persecute the poor thing,” answered Ruth. She beat a hasty retreat towards the Pergola, whither, she knew, Ponty's laziness would check pursuit of her.
“When Ruth was left half desolate,” Ponty, casually, after luncheon, observed—
“Her lover took another state.
And Ruth not thirty years old.”
“Ruth, it seems to me, was old enough to have known better,” retorted his victim with asperity. “You haven't scanned that last line properly either. 'And Ruth not thirty years old' gives the correct lilt.” Ruth sat down to write her letters. She turned her back with deliberation upon her tormentor, who answered: “Oh, yes, thanks,” and went off murmuring and tattooing on his fingers,—
“And Ruth not thirty years old....”