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And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday. "What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica. "There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the sister. "Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted. "Certainly," said the sister.
"Oh, I 'm not undertaking to discuss theology with him," said the Cardinal. "But one must do something in exchange for a couple of hundred lire so I'll come and give you my moral support." "You shall have your lovely silver snuffbox, all the same," said she. Mark the predestination! "CASTEL VENTIROSE, "August 21 st. "DEAR Mr.
It encouraged him to wait, to watch, to expect; to linger in his garden, gazing hungry-eyed up the lawns of Ventirose, striving to pierce the foliage that embowered the castle; to wander the country round-about, scanning every vista, scrutinising every shape and shadow, a tweed-clad Gastibelza.
All that evening, something which he had not been conscious of noticing especially when it was present to him certainly he had paid no conscious attention to its details kept recurring and recurring to Peter's memory: the appearance of the prettily-arranged terrace-end at Ventirose: the white awning, with the blue sky at its edges, the sunny park beyond; the warm-hued carpets on the marble pavement; the wicker chairs, with their bright cushions; the table, with its books and bibelots the yellow French books, a tortoise-shell paperknife, a silver paperweight, a crystal smelling-bottle, a bowlful of drooping poppies; and the marble balustrade, with its delicate tracery of leaves and tendrils, where the jessamine twined round its pillars.
Then, just across the river, at his left, stretched the smooth lawns of the park of Ventirose, with glimpses of the many-pinnacled castle through the trees; and, beyond, undulating country, flourishing, friendly, a perspective of vineyards, cornfields, groves, and gardens, pointed by numberless white villas.
She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the trees, towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the surrounding green. Peter stood still, looking after her. But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic bench, like a man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh. He was absurdly pale.
"I 'm afraid you are a Latin, after all," he said, and left her with a sense of disappointment. That afternoon Marietta asked, "Would you care to visit the castle, Signorino?" He was seated under his willow-tree, by the river, smoking cigarettes burning superfluous time. Marietta pointed towards Ventirose. "Why?" said he. "The family are away.
No, certainly not. The idea was preposterous. "Nevertheless," said Peter, "it's a long while since I have darkened the doors of Ventirose. And a poor excuse is better than none. And anyhow, the Cardinal will be glad to have his snuff." The ladder-bridge was in its place. He crossed the Aco.
The Duchessa watched this little drama for a minute, smiling, in silent meditation: while Peter who, for a wonder, had his back turned to the park of Ventirose, and, for a greater wonder still perhaps, felt no pricking in his thumbs remained unconscious of her presence. "Oh, the pirates, the daredevils," she sighed. Peter started; faced about; saluted.
Marchdale has been at Ventirose," remarked the Cardinal. "Oh ? Is it?" responded Beatrice, with indifference. "It is more than three weeks, I think it is nearly a month," the Cardinal said. "Oh ?" said she. "He has had his hands full, of course; he has had little leisure," the Cardinal pursued. "His devotion to his poor old servant has been quite admirable.
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