The Man with the Double Heart Part 42

And see that the quails aren't overdone."

"Very good, sir. There are letters come since the Signore left."

He returned with a silver tray on which lay his master's correspondence.

McTaggart took them, with a yawn, turning them over indifferently.

From somewhere through the drowsy heat came a distant sound of chopping wood and a man's voice raised musically, singing over his morning work.

McTaggart drank his gla.s.s of vermouth, then choosing an envelope directed in a round hand, broke it open with a smile.

It was long since he had heard from Jill. He glanced at the date. The letter had lain at his London rooms and was now sent on to Italy by the faithful Bethune.

"Dear Peter," it began.

"I wonder where you are now? and if you're _ever_ coming home! It's ages since you last wrote, and I've been meaning to reply--only I've been _so_ worried. You'll understand when I tell you my news--about Mother. She's gone to prison."

McTaggart jumped. The very word seemed sinister in the heart of that peaceful drowsy wood, lapped by the indolent Southern sea.

"Poor old Jill!" He read on, his face growing steadily graver.

"I daresay you saw in the papers of the latest Suffragette attempt!--that bomb in Downing Street, I mean. Well, Mother was in it, with Stephen. And now she's gone to Holloway--isn't it _dreadful_?

She's refused bail and declares she means to hunger strike!--I've been nearly off my head about it.

"For she'll never stand it--she hasn't the strength. It will simply kill her----" a smudged word suggested to the reader a tear, hastily blotted off the paper.

Before McTaggart a vision rose of the grey eyes with their frank gaze, fringed by lashes, dark and curled, and the eager face of his school girl friend.

"Mr. Bethune's been awfully kind. He actually arranged for bail, but Mother wouldn't hear of it and there she is--in Holloway Prison.

"Roddy's home. He went to the Head and asked leave to come back to me.

He's simply furious about it all--wants to have it out with Stephen.

Needless to say, _he's_ free! You bet Stephen looks after himself. I suppose he thinks that _one_ martyr (in the Bible, I mean) is good enough!"

McTaggart laughed grimly aloud at the typical line as he thought of Jill. He could almost see her saying the words, the delicate nostrils curled with scorn.

"Well--that settles it!" He finished the letter and picked up the time-table with a frown.

"I might be able to help the child----" He turned the pages thoughtfully.

"I can catch the express at Genoa and go straight through next Friday--I think. I shall get back in time for Henley. It ought to be jolly in London now."

This settled, he dressed for lunch and informed Mario of his departure, somewhat to the latter's chagrin, who had various ties at Viareggio.

"The Signore will not be here for the races?"

The man's voice was so doleful that McTaggart hesitated, remembering they were fixed for Sunday.

"Well--we might stay over the week-end, and go on Monday--perhaps that's better."

The man blessed him audibly with the gentle familiarity that seems to exist in that old land between the n.o.bility and their servants.

"You can take a holiday on Sunday--so long as you get my packing done--and say good-bye to Lucia?" He laughed at the man's guilty face.

"Ahi!--_That_ for the women!" Mario, recovering himself, gave an expressive, scornful shrug--"But the races are a different matter!--and I hear 'La Luna' is sure to win."

McTaggart smiled, cutting short the man's chatter, and went down to receive his guests, a little bored by the coming lunch.

His fears were amply justified.

The poet was in a sombre mood, the Principessa plainly anxious.

"It's his new Tragedy," she whispered as they settled themselves at the table--"he is so sensitive, my dear--the penalty of genius."

McTaggart, with a solemn face, received these subtle confidences, somewhat relieved by the presence of his other neighbour, graceful and young.

But the Countess Marco Viviani was not in her usual high spirits. A slim brunette, with a wonderful figure, and much admired in the Roman set, she could not brook in any form opposition to her will.

She explained in an audible aside her quarrel--a new-born affair--with her husband, who faced McTaggart and watched the pair with insolent eyes.

It seemed that he had required of her an alteration in the days, arranged between them, when they should appear side by side at the Casino.

Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days had been fixed in order to allow the Count Tuesdays and Fridays to himself to parade there his latest theatrical fancy.

Now "La Carlotta" was making trouble. She wanted to interfere with the rule. But the Countess was adamant. She would not bend before the actress.

"It will make a scandal," she announced. "Everyone knows those are _my_ days! I would prefer to leave the place and go to Bagni di Luca."

But the villa at Viareggio belonged to the Count and he clearly saw that economy forbade a rupture which would mean a second establishment.

So he sulked, undecided still, hating his handsome, captious wife--who had known the existence of many "Carlottas" and was plainly unreasonable!

McTaggart felt that the atmosphere was charged with electricity. The poet never opened his mouth, the Principessa was openly troubled. The only person who seemed unmoved by the depression in the air was Don Cesare, her youngest son, who made an unexpected sixth. A handsome youth of seventeen with a black moustache and charming manner--already that of a man of the world--he chattered gaily, enjoying his lunch.

"I wish you would come with me this evening," he said to his host eagerly--"into the marshes and bring your gun--I'm going out after 'beccaccini.' I've had a special punt made for the narrow waterways to the lake. It's a beauty--I want to try it--I'm sure we should have some capital sport."

"All right--what time?" McTaggart liked his youngest guest.

"About five. If we find it's hot we can lie up somewhere in the d.y.k.es."

He referred to the curious intricate scheme of irrigation in the plain that lies between the hills and sea--the famous draining of the marshes.

For the low land looks like a chequer board, crossed and recrossed by narrow streams that widen into two big lakes--a favorite haunt for wild fowl.

"I've always wanted to explore those long ditches in a boat. I tried once and was nearly poisoned--my keel kept sticking in the mud."

"Exactly--that's the trouble--the smell!" Don Cesare nodded gaily.

"That's why I've had this punt made flat bottomed and very narrow. In the deep parts you can use a paddle and where it's shallow a long pole--against the bank--_not_ in the water!"

He turned to the Countess with a smile.