XII
Alas, the uncertain glory of an English June. That night the weatherchanged. Monday was grey and cold, the beginning of a cold grey week,a week of rain and wind, of low skies and scudding clouds; thesad-coloured sea flecked with angry white, the earth sodden; leaves,torn from their trees, scurrying down the pathways; and Adrian, of allpersons, given over to peevishness and lamentations.
"Oh, I brazenly confess it--I 'm a fair-weather friend," he said, as helooked disconsolately forth from the window of his business-room, (aroom, by the bye, whereof the chief article of furniture was apiano-a-queue). "Bring me sunshine and peaches, and I 'll be as sweetas bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair. But this sort of gashly,growsy, grim, sour, shuddery weather turns me into a broken-heartedvixen. I could sit down and cry. I could lie down and die. I couldrise up and snap your head off. I am filled with verjuice and vitriol.Oh, me! Oh, my!"
He stamped backwards and forwards, in nervous exasperation. He went tothe piano, and brought his hands down in a discordant clang upon thekeys.
"Can't anybody silence those stupid _birds_?" he cried, moving back tothe window, through which the merry piping of a robin was audible."How inept, how spiteful, of them to go on singing, singing, in theface of such odious weather. Tell Wickersmith or someone to take a gunand an umbrella, and to go out and shoot them. And the wind--thestrumpet wind," he cried. "All last night it gurgled and howled andhooted in my chimney like a drunken banshee, and nearly frightened meto death. And me a musician. And me the gentlest of God'screatures--who never did any harm, but killed the mice in father'sbarn. I ask you, as a man of the world, is it delicate, is it fair?Drip, drip, drip--swish, swish, swash,--ugh, the rain! If it could_guess_ how I despise it!" He made a face and shook his fist at it."Do you think the weather _knows_ how disagreeable it is? We all knowhow disagreeable other people can be, but so few of us know howdisagreeable we ourselves can be. Do you think the weather knows? Doyou think it's behaving in this way purposely to vex me?"
But for Anthony it was a period not without compensations. He sawSusanna nearly every day. On Tuesday she and Miss Sandus were hisguests at dinner; on Wednesday he and Adrian were her guests atluncheon; on Thursday, at tea-time, they paid their visit of digestion;on Friday, the rain holding up for a few hours in the afternoon, he andSusanna went for a walk on the cliffs.
The sea-wind buffetted their faces, it lifted Susanna's hair and blewstray locks about her temples, it summoned a lively colour to hercheeks. Anthony could admire the resolute lines, the forceful action,of her strong young body, as she braced herself to march against it.From the turf under their feet rose the keen odour of wet earth, andthe mingled scents of clover and wild thyme. All round themsand-martins wheeled and swerved, in a flight that was like aerialskating. Far below, and beyond the dark-green of Rowland Marshes,which followed the winding of the cliffs like a shadow, stretched thegrey sea, with its legions of white horses.
"What a sense one gets, from here, of the sea's immensity," Susannasaid. "I think the horizon is a million miles away."
"It is," affirmed Anthony, with conclusiveness, as one possessing exactknowledge. Then, in a minute, "And, as we are speaking in roundnumbers, are you aware that it's a million years since I last had thepleasure of a word with you?"
Susanna's dark eyes grew big.
"A million years? Is it really," she doubted, in astonishment.
"Really and truly," asseverated he.
"A million years! How strange," she murmured, as one in a maze.
"Truth is often strange," said he.
"Yes--but this is particularly strange," she pointed out. "Because,first, we have only known each other a week. And, secondly, I wasunder the impression that you had had 'a word with me' yesterday--andagain the day before yesterday--and again the day before that."
"I beg your pardon," said he. "I have not had a word with you since wesat by the brink of your artificial streamlet last Saturday afternoon;and that, speaking in round numbers, was a million years ago. As foryesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that,--Idon't count it having a word with you when we are surrounded bystrangers."
"Strangers--?" wondered Susanna.
"Yes," said he. "That fellow Willes, and your enchanting friend MissSandus."
Susanna gave one of her light trills of laughter.
"We can't discuss our private affairs before them," said Anthony; "andI 've been pining to discuss our private affairs."
"Have we private affairs?" Susanna questioned, in surprise.
"Of course we have," said he. "Everybody has. And it is to discussthem that I have inveigled you into taking this walk with me. Does n'tthe sort of English weather you 're at present getting a taste of makeyou wish you had never left Italy?"
"Oh," she acquainted him, "it sometimes rains in Italy."
"Does it, indeed?" he enquired, opening his eyes. "But never--surelynever--at Sampaolo?"
"Yes, even sometimes at Sampaolo," she laughed. "And mercy, how thewind can blow there! This is nothing to it. I don't think you haveany winds in England so violent as our _temporali_."
Anthony nodded, with satisfaction.
"Please go on," he urged. "I have been longing to hear more aboutSampaolo."
"Oh?" said Susanna, looking sceptical. "I feared I had wearied youinexcusably with Sampaolo."
"Every syllable you pronounced," vowed he, "was of palpitatinginterest, and you broke off at the most palpitating moment. You wereon the point of telling me how, from an Island of the Blessed, Sampaolocame to be an Island of the Distressed--when we were interrupted by askylark."
"That would be a terribly long story," Susanna premonished him, shakingher head.
"I adore terribly long stories," he declared. "And have we not beforeus the whole of future time?"
"Sampaolo came to be an Island of the Distressed," said she, "because,some half-century ago, the Sampaolesi got infected with an idea thatwas then a kind of epidemic--the idea of Italian unity. So they had arevolution, overthrew their legitimate sovereign, gave up theirIndependence, and united themselves to the 'unholy and unhappy State'which has since assumed the name of the Kingdom of Italy."
"That is not a terribly long story," Anthony complained. "I 'm afraidyou are suppressing some of the details."
"Yes," she at once acknowledged, "I daresay I 'm suppressing a goodmany of the details."
"That's not ingenuous," said he, "nor--nor kind."
"It was not unkindly meant," said she.
"But Sampaolo," he questioned, "had, then, been independent? Go on.Be communicative, be copious; tell me all about it."
"For more than seven hundred years," answered Susanna, "Sampaolo hadbeen independent. The Counts of Sampaolo were counts regnant, holdingthe island by feudal tenure from the Pope, who was their suzerain, andto whom they paid a tribute. They were counts regnant and lordsparamount, _tiranni_, as they were called in mediaeval Italy; they hadtheir own coinage, their own flag, their own little army; and thoughsome of the noble Sampaolese families bore the title of prince or dukeat Rome, they ranked only as barons at Sampaolo, and were subjects ofthe Count."
A certain enthusiasm rang in her voice. They walked on for some pacesin silence.
"In the Palazzo Rosso at Vallanza, to this day," she continued, "youwill be shown the throne-room, with the great scarlet throne, and thegilded coronet topping the canopy above it. But the Counts of Sampaolowere good men and wise rulers; and, under them, for more than sevenhundred years, the island was free, prosperous, and happy. And thoughmany times the Turks tried to take it, and many times the Venetians,and though sometimes the Pope tried to take it back, when the Popehappened to be a difficult Pope, the Sampaolesi, who were splendidfighters, always managed to hold their own."
Again they took some paces in silence.
"Then"--her voice had modulated--"then the idea of Italian unity waspreached to them, and in 1850 they had a revolution; and foo
lish,foolish Sampaolo voluntarily submitted itself to the reign of VictorEmmanuel. And ever since,"--her eyes darkened,--"what with theimpossible taxes, the military conscription, the corrupt officials, theCamorra, Sampaolo has been in a very wretched plight indeed.But--_pazienza_!" She gave her shoulders a light little shrug. "TheKingdom of Italy will not last forever."
"We will devoutly hope not," concurred Anthony. "Meanwhile, I am gladto note that in politics you are a true-blue reactionary."
"In Sampaolese politics," said she, "reaction would be progress.Before 1850 the people of Sampaolo were prosperous, now they aremiserably poor; were pious, now they are horribly irreligious; weregoverned by honest gentlemen, now they form part of a nation that isgoverned by its criminal classes."
"And what became of the honest gentlemen?" Anthony enquired. "What didthe counts do, after they were--'hurled,' I believe, is the consecratedexpression--after they were hurled from their scarlet thrones?"
"Ah," said Susanna, seriously, "there you bring me to the chapter ofthe story that is shameful."
"Oh--?" said he, looking up.
"The revolution at Sampaolo was headed by the Count's near kinsman,"she said. "The present legitimate Count of Sampaolo is an exile. Histitle and properties are held by a cousin, who has no more right tothem, no more shadow of a right, of a moral right, than--than I have."
"Ah," said Anthony. And then, philosophically, "A very prettyminiature of an historical situation," he commented. "Orleans andBourbon, Hanover and Stuart. A count in possession, and a count overthe water, an usurper and a pretender."
"Exactly," she assented, "save that the Count in possession happens tobe a Countess--the grand-daughter of the original usurper, whose maleline is extinct. Oh, the history of Sampaolo has been highly coloured.A writer in some English magazine once described it as a patchwork ofmelodrama and opera-bouffe. It ended, if you like, in melodrama andopera-bouffe, but it began in pure romance and chivalry."
"Don't stop," said Anthony. "Tell me about the beginning."
"I can tell you that," announced Susanna, smiling, "in the words ofyour own English historian, Alban Butler."
She paused for an instant, as if to make sure of her memory, and then,smiling, recited--
"'In the year 1102 or 1103,' he says, in his Life of St. Guy Valdescusof The Thorn, as he Anglicises San Guido Valdeschi della Spina, 'whenthe Saint was returning from the Holy Land, where he had been acrusader, he was shipwrecked, by the Providence of God, upon the islandof Ilaria, in the Adriatic Sea; and he was greatly afflicted by thediscovery that the inhabitants of that country were almost totallyignorant of the truths of our Holy Religion, while the little knowledgethey possessed was confused with many diabolical superstitions. Theystill invoked the daemons of pagan mythology, and sacrilegiouslyincluded our Divine Lord and His Blessed Mother in the number of these.Now, St. Guy had distinguished himself in the Crusade alike for hisvalour in action, for the edifying character of his conversation, andfor the devotion and recollection with which he performed the exercisesof religion; and he was surnamed Guy of the Thorn for that he hadcaused to be fixed in the hilt of his sword a sharp thorn, or spine,which, when he fought, should prick the flesh of his hand, and thuskeep him in mind of the pious purpose for which he was fighting, andthat it behoved a soldier of the Cross to fight, not in private angeror martial pride, but in Christian zeal and humility. When, therefore,after his shipwreck, and after many other perils and adventures by seaand land, the Saint finally arrived at Rome, of which city his familywere patricians, and where his venerable mother, as well as his wifeand children, eagerly awaited his return, he was received with everysign of favour by the Pope, Pascal the Second, who commended him warmlyupon the good reports he had had of him, and asked him to choose hisown reward. St. Guy answered that for his reward he prayed he might besent back to the island of Ilaria, with a bishop and a sufficientcompany of priests, there to spread the pure light of the Faith amongthe unfortunate natives. Whereupon the Pope created him Count andGovernor of the country, the heathen name of which he changed to St.Paul, and gave him as the emblem of his authority a sword in the hiltof which was fixed a thorn of gold. This holy relic, under the name ofthe Spina d'Oro, is preserved, for the reverence of the faithful. Inthe cathedral of the city of Vallanza, where the descendants of St. Guystill reign as lieutenants of the Sovereign Pontiff.'--There,"concluded Susanna, with a little laugh, "that is the Reverend AlbanButler's account of the matter."
"I stand dumb with admiration," professed Anthony, his upcast handspeaking volumes, "before your powers of memory. Fancy being able toquote Alban Butler word for word, like that!"
"When I was young," Susanna explained, "I was made by my Englishgoverness to learn many of Butler's Lives by heart, and, as an Ilarian,the Life of San Guido interested me particularly. He was canonised, bythe way, by Adrian the Fourth--the English Pope. As a consequence ofthat, the Valdeschi have always had a great fondness for England, andhave often married English wives--English Catholics, of course. AnEnglishwoman was Countess of Sampaolo when the end came, the patchworkend."
"Ah, yes," said Anthony, "the patchwork end--tell me about that."
"The end," Susanna answered, "was an act of shameful treachery on thepart of one of the descendants of San Guido towards another, hisimmediate kinsman, and the rightful head of the family. And now it ismelodrama and opera-bouffe as much as ever you will. It is arevolution in a tea-cup. It is the ancient story of the Wicked Uncle."
"Yes?" said Anthony.
"It is perfectly trite," said Susanna, "and it would be perfectlyabsurd, if it were n't rather tragic, or perfectly tragic, if it weren't rather absurd."
She thought for a moment. Anthony waited, attentive.
"In 1850," she narrated, "Count Antonio the Seventeenth died, leaving awidow, who was English, and an only son, a lad of twelve, who shouldnaturally have succeeded his father as Guido the Eleventh. But CountAntonio had a younger brother, also named Guido, who coveted thesuccession for himself, and had long been intriguing to secureit--organising secret societies among the people, to further the ideaof Italian unity, and bargaining with the King of Sardinia for theprice he should receive if he contrived to bring the Sampaolesi to giveup their independence. Well," she went on, with a slight effect ofeffort, "while his brother lay dying, Guido, spying his opportunity,was especially active. 'Now,' he said to the people, 'is the time tostrike. If, at my brother's death, his son succeeds him, we shall havea regency, and the regent will be a foreigner and a woman. Now is thetime to terminate this petty despotism forever, to repudiate thesuzerainty of the Pope, and to join in the great movement of ItaliaRiunita. To the Palace! Let us seize the Englishwoman and her son,and banish them from the island. Let us hoist the tricolour, andproclaim ourselves Italians, and subjects of the King. To the Palace!'So, while that poor lady"--her voice quavered a little--"while thatpoor lady was kneeling at the bedside of her dead husband,"--her voicesank,--"a great mob of insurgents broke into the Palazzo Rosso, singing'Fuori l'Italia lo straniero,' seized her and the little Count, draggedthem to the sea-front, and put them aboard a ship that was leaving forTrieste."
She paused for a few seconds.
"Then there was a plebiscite," she proceeded, "and Sampaolo solemnlytransformed itself into a province of the Kingdom of Sardinia."
She paused again.
"And the Wicked Uncle," she again proceeded, "received his price fromTurin. First, he was appointed Prefect of Sampaolo for life.Secondly, the little Count and his mother were summoned to take theoath of fidelity to the King, and as they did not turn up to do so,having gone to her people in England, they were declared to haveoutlawed themselves, and to be 'civilly dead', their properties,accordingly, passing to the next heir, who, of course, was Guidohimself. Thirdly, Guido was created Count of Sampaolo by royal patent,the Papal dignity being pronounced 'null and not recognisable in theterritories of the King.' It is Guido's granddaughter who is Countessof Sampaolo to-da
y."
She terminated her narration with a motion of the hand, as if she weretossing something from her. Anthony waited a little before he spoke.
"And the little Count?" he said, at length.
"The little Count," said Susanna, "went through the formality of suinghis uncle for the recovery of his estates--or, rather, his mother, ashis guardian, did so for him. But as the action had to be tried in thelaw-courts at Turin, I need n't tell you how it ended. In fact, it wasnever tried at all. For at the outset the judges decided that thesuitor would have no standing before them until he had taken the oathof allegiance to the King, and renounced his allegiance to the Pope.He was 'civilly dead'--he must civilly resuscitate himself. As herefused to do this, his cause was dismissed, unheard."
"And then--?" said Anthony.
"Then the little Count returned to England, and grew to be a big count,and married an Englishwoman, and had a son, and died. He was adoptedby his mother's brother, an English country gentleman, who, survivinghim, and being a bachelor, adopted his son in turn. The son, however,dropped his title of Count, a title more than seven hundred years old,and assumed the name of his benevolent great-uncle. I 'm not sure,"she reflected, "that I quite approve of his dropping that magnificentold title."
"Oh, he very likely found it an encumbrance, living in England, as anEnglishman--especially if he was n't very rich," said Anthony. "Hevery likely felt that it rendered him rather uncomfortably conspicuous.Besides, a man does n't actually _drop_ a title--he merely puts it inhis pocket--he can always take it out again. You don't, I suppose," heasked, with a skilfully-wrought semblance of indifference, "happen toremember the name that he assumed?"
"Of course, I happen to remember it," replied Susanna. "As you mustperceive, the history of Sampaolo is a matter I have studied somewhatprofoundly. How could I forget so salient a fact as that? The namethat he assumed," she said, her air elaborately detached, "was Craford."
But Anthony evinced not the slightest sign of a sensation.
"Craford?" he repeated. "Ah, indeed? That is a good name, a good oldsouth-country Saxon name."
"Yes," agreed Susanna; "but it is not so good as Antonio FrancescoGuido Maria Valdeschi della Spina, Conte di Sampaolo."
"It is not so long, at any rate," said he.
"Nor so full of colour," supplemented she.
"As I hinted before, a name like a herald's tabard might be somethingof an inconvenience in work-a-day England," he returned. Then hesmiled, rather sorrily. "So you 've known all there was to be knownfrom the beginning, and my laborious dissimulation has been useless?"
"Not useless," she consoled him, her eyes mirthfully meeting his. "Ithas amused me hugely."
"You've--if you don't mind the expression--you've jolly well taken mein," he owned, with a laconic laugh.
"Yes," laughed she, her chin in the air.
And for a few minutes they walked on without speaking.
The wind buffetted their faces, it wafted stray locks of hair aboutSusanna's temples, it smelt of the sea and the rain-clouds, though itcould not blow away the nearer, friendlier smell of the wet earth, northe sweetness of the clover and wild thyme. All round them,sand-martins performed their circling, swooping evolutions. In greatsquares fenced by hurdles, flocks of sheep nibbled the wet grass. Farbeneath, the waters stretched grey to the blurred horizon, where theyand the low grey sky seemed one.
But I think our young man and woman were oblivious of things external,absorbed in their private meditations and emotions. They walked onwithout speaking, till a turn in the cliff-line brought them in sightof the little town of Blye, at the cliffs' base, where it rose from thesurrounding green of Rowland Marshes like a smoky red island.
"Blye," said Anthony, glancing down.
"Yes," said Susanna. "I had no idea we had come so far."
"I 'm afraid we have come _too_ far. I 'm afraid I have allowed you totire yourself," said he, with anxiety.
"Tired!" she protested. "Could one ever get tired walking in suchexhilarating air as this?"
And, indeed, her colour, her bright eyes, her animated carriage, put toscorn his apprehension.
"But we must turn back, all the same," she added, "or--we shall not behome for tea."
She spoke in bated accents, and made a grave face, as if to miss teawere to miss a function sacrosanct.
Anthony laughed, and they turned back.
"It's a bit of a coincidence," he remarked presently, "that, comingfrom Sampaolo, you should just have chanced to take a house at Craford."
"Nothing could be simpler," said Susanna. "I wished to pass the summerin England, and was looking for a country house. The agent in Londonmentioned Craford New Manor, among a number of others, and Miss Sandusand I came down to see it. The prospect of finding myself the tenantof my exiled sovereign rather appealed to me--appealed to my sense ofromance and to my sense of humour. And then,"--her eyesbrightened,--"when we met your perfectly irresistible Mr. Willes,hesitation was impossible. He kept breaking out with little snatchesof song, while he was showing us over the place; and afterwards heinvited us to his music-room, (or I think he called it his_business_-room), and sang properly to us--his own compositions. Heeven permitted me to play some of his accompaniments."
Anthony chuckled.
"I 'm sure he did--I see my Adrian," he said. "Well, I owe him morethan he 's aware of."
"Your Excellency is the legitimate Count of Sampaolo," said Susanna."Antonio, by the Grace of God, and the favour of the Holy See, Count ofSampaolo--thirty-fourth count, and eighteenth of the name. I am yourvery loyal subject. Let's conspire together for your restoration."
"You told me the other day that you were a subject of the Pope,"Anthony objected.
"That is during this interregnum," she explained. "The Pope is ourliege lord's liege lord, and, in our liege lord's absence, our homagereverts to him. I will never, at all events, admit myself to be asubject of the Duke of Savoy. Let's plot for your restoration."
"My 'restoration,' if that is n't too sounding a term, is a thing pastpraying for," said Anthony. "But I don't know that I should verykeenly desire it, even if it were n't."
"What!" cried she. "Would n't it be fun to potentate it on a scarletthrone?"
"Not such good fun, I fancy, as it is to squire it in these greenmeadows," he responded. "Are n't scarlet thrones apt to be upholsteredwith worries and responsibilities?"
"Are n't green meadows sown thick with worries and responsibilities?"asked Susanna.
"Very likely," he consented. "But for a moderate stipend I can alwayshire a man like Willes to reap and deal with them for me."
"Could n't you hire 'a man like Willis' to extract them from yourscarlet cushions? Potentates have grand viziers. Mr. Willes wouldmake a delicious grand vizier," she reflected, with a kind ofwistfulness.
"He would indeed," said Anthony. "And we should have comic opera againwith interest."
"But you only look at it from a selfish point of view," said Susanna."Think of poor Sampaolo--under the old regime, an Island of theBlessed."
"Seriously, is there at Sampaolo, the faintest sentiment in favour of areturn to the old regime?" he asked.
"Seriously, and more 's the pity, not the faintest," Susanna confessed."I believe I am the only legitimist in the island--save a few priestsand nuns, and they don't count. I am the entire legitimist party."
She turned towards him, making a little bow.
"Yet there is every manner of discontent with the present regime," shesaid. "The taxes, the conscription, the difficulties put in the way ofcommerce, the monstrous number of officials, and the corruption of themone and all, are felt and hated by everyone. Under the old regime, forexample," she illustrated, "Vallanza was a free port,--now we have topay both a national duty and a municipal duty on exports as well asimports; nothing was taxed but land, and that very lightly--now nearlyeverything is taxed, even salt, even a working-man's tools, even apeasant's necessary donkey, so th
at out of every lira earned thegovernment takes from forty to sixty centimes; the fisheries ofSampaolo, which are very valuable, were reserved for theSampaolesi,--now they are open to all Italy, and Sampaolo, an island,cannot compete with Ancona, on the railway. In Sampaolo to-day, if youhave any public business to transact, from taking out a dog license toseeking justice in the law-courts, every official you have to dealwith, including the judges, expects his buonamano. If you post aletter, it is an even chance whether the Post-Office young men won'tdestroy the letter and steal the stamps; while, if you go to thePost-Office to buy stamps, it is highly possible that they willplayfully sell you forged ones."
She gave a bitter little laugh.
"The present Prefect of Sampaolo," she continued her illustrations,"formerly kept a disreputable public house, a sailors' tavern, atAncona. He is known to be a Camorrista; and though his salary is onlya few thousand lire, he lives with the ostentation of a parvenumillionaire, and no one doubts where he gets his money. These evilsare felt by everyone. But the worst evil of all is the condition ofthe Church. In the old days the Sampaolesi were noted for their piety;now, even in modern irreligious Italy, you would seek far to unearth apeople so flagrantly irreligious. From high to low the men areatheists; and the few men who are not, have to be very careful how theyshow it. It is as much as a tradesman's trade is worth, as much as anemploye's place is worth, to go to Mass; the one will sit behind adeserted counter, the other will learn that his services are no longerneeded. The present regime is liked by no one save the officials whobenefit by it; but it tickles the vanity of the Sampaolesi to callthemselves citizens of a Great Power; and so, though many arerepublicans, many socialists, none are legitimists. They would preferany burden to the burden of insignificance; and under the reign of theValdeschi, though free, prosperous, and happy, Sampaolo wasinsignificant."
"You paint a very sad state of things," said Anthony.
"Believe me," said Susanna, "my painting is pale beside the reality."
"And, apparently, a hopeless state," he added.
"Some day the Kingdom of Italy must end in a tremendous smash-up.Afterwards, perhaps, there will be a readjustment. Our hope is inthat," said she.
"Meanwhile, you make it clear, I am afraid," he argued, "that we shouldgain only our labour for our pains in plotting a restoration."
"We should have the excitement of plotting," laughingly argued she.
"A plotter's best reward, like an artist's, you suggest, is thepleasure he takes in his work. But now you are inciting me to look atit again from the selfish point of view, for which a moment ago youwere upbraiding me," he reminded her.
"_Do_ look at it from the selfish point of view," inconsistent andunashamed, she urged. "Think of your lands, your houses, your palacesand gardens, Castel San Guido, Isola Nobile, think of your pictures,your jewels, the thousand precious heirlooms that are rightly yours,think of your mere crude money. How can you bear the thought thatthese are in the possession of a stranger--these, your inheritance, theinheritance of nearly eight hundred years? Oh, if I were in yourplace, the wrong of it would fill the universe for me. I could notendure it."
"One has no choice but to endure it," said he. "One benumbs resentmentwith a fatalistic 'needs must.'"
"One would do better to inflame resentment with a defiant 'where there's a will there 's a way,'" Susanna answered.
"The way is not plain to see."
"No--but we must discover the way. That"--she smiled--"shall be theaim of our plotting."
And again for some time they walked on without speaking.
"If she could only guess how little my heart's desire is centred uponthe lands and houses of Sampaolo," thought Anthony, "how entirely it iscentred upon something much nearer home. I wonder what she would do ifI should tell her."
And at that thought his heart winced with delight and terror.
He looked sidewise at her. Her dark hair curled about her temples, anddrooped in a loose mass behind; her dark eyes shone; there was a warmcolour in her cheeks. Her head held high, her body defined itself inlines of strength and beauty, as she walked by the cliff's edge,resisting the wind, with the sea and the sky for background. He lookedat her, and wondered what would happen if he should tell her; and hisheart glowed with delight, and winced with delight and terror,--glowedwith delight in the supreme reality of her presence, winced withdelight and terror at the imagination of telling her.
And then the suspended rain came down in a sudden pelting shower; andAnthony put up his umbrella. To keep in its shelter, they had to walkvery close to each other, their arms touching sometimes. I daresaythey were both pretty wet when they reached Craford New Manor, but Idon't think either minded much.
Miss Sandus, who met them in the hall, insisted that Susanna must goupstairs and change; but to Anthony she said, "There 'll be tea in aminute or two," and led the way to the drawing-room, the big, oblong,sombre red-and-gold drawing-room, with its heavy furniture, its heavyred damask hangings, its heavy gilded woodwork, its heavy bronzes andpaintings.
Wet as he was, he followed, and sat down, with his conductress, beforethe huge red-marble fireplace, in which a fire of logs was blazing--byno means unwelcome on this not-uncharacteristic English summer's day.
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