The Man with the Double Heart Part 35

"Ah--what a life!" Her hands went up. She gave a fierce little laugh.

"I thank the good G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude.

"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 ma.s.ses 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 drole!" 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 idees ... a.s.sez 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 t.i.tle. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sionate 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.