The Cardinal's Snuff-Box. Harland Henry
Peter Marchdale—I don't know whether he will be your Peter Marchdale or not, my dear; though the name seems hardly likely to be common—son of the late Mr. Archibald Marchdale, Q. C., and nephew of old General Marchdale, of Whitstoke. A highly respectable and stodgy Norfolk family. I've never happened to meet the man myself, but I'm told he's a bit of an eccentric, who amuses himself globe-trotting, and writing books (novels, I believe) which nobody, so far as I am aware, ever reads. He writes under a pseudonym, Felix—I 'm not sure whether it's Mildmay or Wildmay. He began life, by the bye, in the Diplomatic, and was attache for a while at Berlin, or Petersburg, or somewhere; but whether (in the elegant language of Diplomacy) he 'chucked it up,' or failed to pass his exams, I'm not in a position to say. He will be near thirty, and ought to have a couple of thousand a year—more or less. His father, at any rate, was a great man at the bar, and must have left something decent. And the only other thing in the world I know about him is that he's a great friend of that clever gossip Margaret Winchfield—which goes to show that however obscure he may be as a scribbler of fiction, he must possess some redeeming virtues as a social being—for Mrs. Winchfield is by no means the sort that falls in love with bores. As you 're not, either—well, verbum sap., as my little brother Freddie says.”
Beatrice gazed off, over the sunny lawn, with its trees and their long shadows, with its shrubberies, its bright flower-beds, its marble benches, its artificial ruin; over the lake, with its coloured sails, its incongruous puffing steamboats; down the valley, away to the rosy peaks of Monte Sfiorito, and the deep blue sky behind them. She plucked a spray of jessamine, and brushed the cool white blossoms across her cheek, and inhaled their fairy fragrance.
“An obscure scribbler of fiction,” she mused. “Ah, well, one is an obscure reader of fiction oneself. We must send to London for Mr. Felix Mildmay Wildmay's works.”
VIII
On Monday evening, at the end of dinner, as she set the fruit before him, “The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked.
Peter frowned at the fruit, figs and peaches—
“Figs imperial purple, and blushing peaches”—
ranged alternately, with fine precision, in a circle, round a central heap of translucent yellow grapes.
“Is this the produce of my own vine and fig-tree?” he demanded.
“Yes, Signorino; and also peach-tree,” replied Marietta.
“Peaches do not grow on fig-trees?” he enquired.
“No, Signorino,” said Marietta.
“Nor figs on thistles. I wonder why not,” said he.
“It is n't Nature,” was Marietta's confident generalisation.
“Marietta Cignolesi,” Peter pronounced severely, looking her hard in the eyes, “I am told you are a witch.”
“No,” said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.
“I quite understand,” he genially persisted. “It's a part of the game to deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you with holy water-so don't be frightened. Besides, if you should do anything outrageous—if you should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, for example—I could never forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ a little of your witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost something—something very precious—more precious than rubies—more precious than fine gold.”
Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.
“In the villa? In the garden?” she exclaimed, anxiously.
“No, you conscientious old thing you,” Peter hastened to relieve her. “Nowhere in your jurisdiction—so don't distress yourself: Laggiu, laggiu.”
And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space.
“The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” counselled this Catholic witch.
“St. Anthony of Padua? Why of Padua?” asked Peter.
“St. Anthony of Padua,” said Marietta.
“You mean of Lisbon,” corrected Peter.
“No,” insisted the old woman, with energy. “St. Anthony of Padua.”
“But he was born in Lisbon;” insisted Peter.
“No,” said Marietta.
“Yes,” said he, “parola d' onore. And, what's more to the purpose, he died in Lisbon. You clearly mean St. Anthony of Lisbon.”
“No!” Marietta raised her voice, for his speedier conviction. “There is no St. Anthony of Lisbon. St. Anthony of Padua.”
“What's the use of sticking to your guns in that obstinate fashion?” Peter complained. “It's mere pride of opinion. Don't you know that the ready concession of minor points is a part of the grace of life?”
“When you lose an object, you put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” said Marietta, weary but resolved.
“Not unless you wish to recover the object,” contended Peter.
Marietta stared at him, blinking.
“I have no wish to recover the object I have lost,” he continued blandly. “The loss of it is a new, thrilling, humanising experience. It will make a man of me—and, let us hope, a better man. Besides, in a sense, I lost it long ago—'when first my smitten eyes beat full on her,' one evening at the Francais, three, four years ago. But it's essential to my happiness that I should see the person into whose possession it has fallen. That is why I am not angry with you for being a witch. It suits my convenience. Please arrange with the powers of darkness to the end that I may meet the person in question tomorrow at the latest. No!” He raised a forbidding hand. “I will listen to no protestations. And, for the rest, you may count upon my absolute discretion.
'She is the darling of my heart
And she lives in our valley,'”
he carolled softly.
“E del mio cuore la carina,
E dimor' nella nostra vallettina,”
he obligingly translated. “But for all the good I get of her, she might as well live on the top of the Cornobastone,” he added dismally. “Yes, now you may bring me my coffee—only, let it be tea. When your coffee is coffee it keeps me awake at night.”
Marietta trudged back to her kitchen, nodding at the sky.
The next afternoon, however, the Duchessa di Santangiolo appeared on the opposite bank of the tumultuous Aco.
IX
Peter happened to be engaged in the amiable pastime of tossing bread-crumbs to his goldfinches.
But a score or so of sparrows, vulture-like, lurked under cover of the neighbouring foliage, to dash in viciously, at the critical moment, and snatch the food from the finches' very mouths.
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.
At last, sorrowfully, (but there was always a smile at the back of her eyes), she shook her head.