CHAPTER XVI
When he awoke it was ten o'clock.
A shaft of sunshine from under the blind fell across his vast bed and he rubbed his eyes, sleepy, bewildered, wondering where on earth he could be? Then he remembered, felt for his watch, throwing back the heavy clothes, and caught his knees in the frail night-shirt. The batiste ripped as he slid to the floor.
The icy cold of the marble roused him, effectually banishing further sleep. He pattered across toward the light for the first glimpse of the world outside.
Here he was foiled at the start. For the deep windows were set high, the opening far above his head, dating from those warlike times when the solid walls were a shelter from missiles.
He dragged a heavy gilded chair underneath and mounting upon it, drew the faded curtains aside and peered forth eagerly.
But his room faced the court-yard. He could only see the opposite wing of the palace dark against the sky, rugged and gray, with a turreted roof, a picture of mediæval strength.
A cloud of pigeons swirled up, flashing their myriad silver wings, as a servant passed along the gallery, with its twisted columns of carved marble.
Beneath he caught a glimpse of the fountain and against the dazzling sapphire sky, like a lily on a slender stem, a single tower rose above the walls, in faded brick with a pointed belfry, white as snow, and an iron cross.
Dissatisfied, he returned to bed and, conscious of his appetite, rang the bell by his side, his teeth chattering with the cold.
Beppo answered to the summons, his old face wreathed in smiles, voluble and bearing a tray with hot chocolate and rolls. In vain McTaggart tried to gather the gist of the old man's talk. One word stood out plain, recurrent, with a questioning, anxious note.
"Toob"—he pondered upon it as at last the old servant withdrew and he leaned back against the pillows, glad of the somewhat scanty breakfast.
Presently he heard steps. A knock sounded on the door, and in came four men, staggering under a heavy burden. It proved to be an enormous bath, of the kind one associates with a fixed base and many fittings, utterly devoid of paint. McTaggart watched with wide eyes. It was bumped down before the stove, which Mario proceeded to light, and then under Beppo's guidance a sheet was spread over the vast sarcophagus and tucked in to form a lining.
Then the men filed out. The bath was filled with cold water and beside it—like a tender offspring!—a small foot-tub was arranged. From the latter a cloud of steam arose—a welcome sight to McTaggart—and on a chair before the stove was laid a garment in bath-toweling.
Mario approached the bed.
"Good morning to Him. His 'toob' is ready." He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth that lit up the olive face and lingered in the sloe-like eyes.
His tub! McTaggart solved the enigma. And what a tub! He checked a laugh as Beppo gravely took his tray with a glance in which triumph lurked.
But still Mario stood, expectant. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled up and—Beppo, lingering in the rear—he began a long respectful inquiry.
McTaggart, bewildered, shook his head. He caught the words "fregamento"—"massage" ... Good Heavens!—they were going to bathe him!
"Non, non!"—he stammered—"solo!" He pointed to the door, confused, as the two men consulted together.
Beppo resumed his pantomime. He took Mario's strong hand and rubbed it sharply across his chest.
"Ecco! ... 'friction'?" His anxious eyes watched his master's amazed face.
"Io," said McTaggart stoutly—"always ... sempre." He waved them away. "Grazia—ma ... addio!"
At this very obvious hint the two servants slowly withdrew.
McTaggart shot from his bed and turned the key in the door. Then his stifled mirth exploded and he laughed until he cried.
"That was a narrow shave," he said, staring into the huge bath. "My uncle had some funny habits—muslin night-shirts and massage! Horrible, this wet sheet..." He dipped a finger in and shivered. "I'll swear there's ice in it——" he said. "Happy thought!" He took the foot-tub and poured in the boiling water.
His bath over, he dressed quickly, then rang the bell for the man, after a vain hunt for razors among the many toilette articles.
But Mario was prepared for this. He shaved McTaggart skilfully, produced powder, produced perfumes—which Peter hurriedly declined.
Then Beppo reappeared, with a message from the Marchesa. She would receive her new nephew as soon as it suited him.
He followed the "maestro di casa" to the further wing of the palace and was shown into a small boudoir hung with a striped primrose silk. The room was dainty, filled with flowers and photographs, scattered about on the modern French furniture above the delicate Aubusson carpet. On an easel under a palm, stood a large portrait in pastel of a dapper little gentleman, with a slim waist and padded shoulders. The face, old but still handsome, bore lines of dissipation around the keen dark eyes. He had grizzled hair, grey eyebrows, and a startlingly black moustache.
"My uncle, I should imagine." McTaggart was bending down to examine the picture more closely when a door on his right was opened by a smiling maid.
"Par ici, Monsieur." She stood aside for him to pass and a musical voice from the room beyond welcomed him.
"Entrez donc!—Bonjour, mon neveu..."
He stood on the threshold, tall and eager, his blue eyes opening wide, as he looked into a dainty bedroom, dim and warm and heavily scented.
Before him was a high bed, draped in black, and against the pillows, vivid, alive, in the sable setting, a young and very lovely woman.
Her hair, of a glossy raven hue, was piled loosely on her head under a boudoir cap of lace and she wore a filmy negligee, from which her arms, white and rounded, escaped beneath knots of ribbon and lay on the black satin bedspread with the effect of chiselled marble.
Her face, oval and ivory-white, was faintly amused. Her great brown eyes, languorous and insolent, swept McTaggart from head to foot.
But what absorbed his attention most was her mouth, like a curved scarlet flower blown on to her still face by a breath of Spring ... He gazed at her.
Then his wits returned to him.
He walked forward and took the hand lazily extended, stooped, and, with a happy inspiration, raised it gravely to his lips.
The Marchesa's dark eyes flashed. The red mouth smiled at him.
"Mais vous êtes tr ... es bien!" She rolled her r's with Italian emphasis.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, my aunt." And, indeed, he only spoke the truth. In a flash he found a valid excuse for his late uncle's dandyism; that somewhat pathetic defiance of age beside his youthful second wife.
"You have well slept?—Had all you needed?" Her French, full of liquid vowel sounds, fell musically on his ears.
"And the 'tub'? Ah! I know the English ways. I say to Beppo: See now!—a cold bath—cold ... cold ...! That is what the English love." She gave a clear, rippling laugh.
"And then you appear—a true Italian! Ma si!" she nodded her head gaily. "A Maramonte—Mon Dieu, I am glad!—without the teeth. You understand?"
"Not quite," McTaggart smiled back, showing a white row as he spoke.
"The English teeth—quel horreur!—that stick out like the wild boar."
The young man laughed outright.
"Oh—we aren't all as bad as that! But Italy is the land of beauty——" he gazed at her—"I am learning that."
Then, suddenly, it flashed across him that his attitude was hardly correct toward a newly made widow, and the mirth died out of his blue eyes.
"I wish," he said, "that my first visit had been at a less painful moment. Believe me..." He stammered, searching for words, trying to find the proper phrase.
She watched him with a shade of malice, divining his perplexity.
"Death is sad," she said calmly. "But it has to be ... and he was old."
McTaggart started. This cold philosophy struck him as distinctly heartless, and with quick intuition she guessed his thought, a touch of sadness in her eyes.
"You think it strange I speak like that?—My nephew, wait ... I am but nineteen. The marriage was arranged for me; I left the convent to come here. Ah! I was young—too young by far!"
Under the ivory of her cheek the colour rose and into her eyes came a shrinking look, like a hurt child, remembering past punishment.
"I come here, to this ... tomb," she shivered as she chose the word—"so gay, so fresh ... so innocent! He had seen me once among the Sisters—his cousin was the Mother Superior...
"And then—to be alone so much. He loved Paris well, you see"—(McTaggart remembered the phrase before and the shrewd glance of the French guard)—"He did not take me even to Rome, but left me here with old Beppo. And jealous!—jealous all the time ... of his own sons—of my music master!——
"Ah—what a life!" Her hands went up. She gave a fierce little laugh. "I thank the good God from my heart. I make no pretence to you."
A deep pity stirred the man with a horror of foreign marriages. He thought for a second of Cydonia—and pictured her, here and alone, at the mercy of the late marquis. His soul rose in revolt.
"Poor little Aunt—I understand." His voice was grave, his eyes tender.
She raised herself against the pillows with a quick smile of gratitude.
"My nephew—I like you very much. You have a heart—one feels that. And—see you—I will pray for his soul." She crossed herself with a touch of fervour. "I will have many masses sung ... But regret?—ah, no! that is beyond me."
A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart averted his eyes and they fell on the sombre hangings of the huge funereal-looking bed.
"This is the custom here?" he asked.
"The custom?" She frowned slightly. Then her tense look relaxed. The red lips quivered apart. "Dieu!—qu'il est drôle!" She laughed aloud. "This?—and this?" She touched the curtains, then the counterpane with her hand.
"You think this is mourning, perhaps?—Au contraire..." She shook with mirth.
"Your Uncle had these made for me ... il avait des idées ... assez bizarres!" She stretched out one perfect arm on the black satin and admired it.
McTaggart felt a swift horror of the old man with his tired eyes. Then he laughed. The Marchesa's face was like an impudent, healthy child's.
"And now, my nephew—au revoir. We meet again at twelve for lunch."
He stooped and kissed her outstretched hand. The dreaded interview was over.
He found his way into the hall and sat down at a writing-table, determined to get his letter off to Cydonia's father before lunch.
"Dear Sir."
He wrote the words on a sheet edged with an inch of black. Then tore it up and started again.
"Suppose I must call him Mr. Cadell!" This done, he stared into space, searching for an opening phrase; faced with the problem of explaining the urgency of his trip abroad.
"If I start by saying my uncle is dead it opens the question of my inheritance—I shall have to explain about my family and it makes the letter long-winded. Besides, I don't want him to know anything about the title. I'd rather, as I said before, go in and win as Peter McTaggart."
He thought for a moment, then covered a page; read it through and crumpled it up.
"Too colloquial—oh, hang! What on earth am I to say?"
Like many men who talk easily, he could not put his thoughts on paper.
For speech is merely to let loose words; writing to draw them close together.
At last he flung down his pen.
"It's no good!" He rose to his feet. "After all, he's got my wire, and I shall be back within the week. But I wish I could write to Cydonia..." He stood for a moment by the stove. "I do hope they're not worrying her, and that the child understands? I know the letter would never reach her, and I'd rather have it fair and square ... It would make things worse to do anything now the Cadells could call underhand!"
He stretched his arms above his head with a yawn that ended in a sigh. Then started to explore his kingdom, casting dull care aside.
He walked down the corridor, glancing at the statuary, and came, at last, to a pair of doors with a coat of arms carved above them.
Here he hesitated for a second, wondering what lay within, and as he did so he heard a step shuffling along in his wake.
He turned to find an old woman, her head shrouded in a shawl, clasping between her withered hands a rounded jar of baked clay. It had a high handle bridging it resembling that of a market basket, and over this the wrinkled face peered at him with sharp black eyes.
"Buon' giorno," said McTaggart. He stared down at her burden. The old creature smiled back and held it out invitingly.
He saw it was filled with hot ashes, the primitive brazier of the people. He warmed his hands for a moment against it, and then pointed to the door.
"Si, si. Venga, Signore." She slipped past him and turned the handle and he found himself in a picture gallery, dimly lighted, with drawn blinds. The door closed, he was alone. Curiously he stared about him.
Above his head was a painted ceiling, a battle scene, mellow with age, with the slightly artificial splendour of the early Sienese School. But from the walls, on every side, out of their dull gilded frames, faces peered down at him, measuring him with liquid eyes.
McTaggart felt a curious pride, swift and clean, run through him. These were his! The same blood stirred in his veins; here was his real inheritance!
He passed slowly along the room. Men in armour challenged him; Cardinals in scarlet robes; fair women smiled down; children paused in their play...
Then he came to the last picture, vivid, with its modern paint, in contrast to those earlier ones, softened by the touch of time.
A young girl in a white dress, a blue riband at her waist and a leghorn hat that swung from her arm wreathed with tiny pink roses. One hand, with taper [Transcriber's note: tapering?] fingers, lay on the sleek head of a greyhound, the other held her flowing skirts from beneath which a slender foot in white stocking and buckled shoe pointed its way down marble steps against a background of cypresses.
And the face? The smile so like his own, the dark hair piled high, the slim form and girlish grace...? Tears rose to the young man's eyes.
Here was his mother in her youth. Before that first season in Rome when she had met his father there, and, with the passion of her race, loved and married the hardy Scot, brought down the anger of her house and sailed away to that northern land never more to return home.
It seemed to her son that she smiled now with triumph in her glowing eyes; calling upon him to vindicate the choice she had made in the past.
And, suddenly, the deeper side of his nature responded to the cry. He saw that it lay within his hands to restore her tarnished honour now.
He drew himself up, his mouth firm, aware of a new responsibility. The fairy atmosphere had fled—this was life ... no mere adventure.
He was the last Maramonte. His eyes swept down the long room, past Cesare—the patriot—to Giordano, hero of Montaperti.
His face, under its olive skin, paled, then flushed; his eyes were grave.
For he must hand on the torch ... he caught his breath, seeing Cydonia.
And a new reverence tinged his love. Not only sweetheart and wife but mother. And at the word he pictured her with a little golden-headed son, clasped within her loving arms.
He had that passionate affection the Italian—of all nations on earth—feels for his offspring and, looking up into his mother's lovely face, he shared his secret hope with her.
Then he started with a frown. For, like some unworthy ghost into that throng, centuries old, came the heavy form of Cadell.
This was the blood he chose to mix with that proud Maramonte strain!
It seemed to him, at his treachery, a silence fell upon the room; eyes turned with a cold stare, haughty faces sneered at him...
Cydonia's parent!—He saw him there with his bourgeois birth stamped upon him; heard again that grating voice, marked the coarse congested face.
For a moment he shrank from the tie.
Then the quick reaction came. What did he owe to this ancient stock? How had they treated his fair young mother?
He was his father's son as well—an Englishman. Up went his head. Cydonia should be his wife—the wife of plain Peter McTaggart.
He swung round and marched out, more in love with her than ever!