The Lady Paramount Read online

  Produced by Al Haines

  THE LADY PARAMOUNT

  By HENRY HARLAND

  _Author of_

  "THE CARDINAL'S SNUFF-BOX"

  JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD

  LONDON & NEW YORK -- MCMII

  Copyright, 1902

  BY JOHN LANE

  All rights reserved

  To

  EDMUND GOSSE

  The Lady Paramount

  I

  On the twenty-second anniversary of Susanna's birth, old CommendatoreFregi, her guardian, whose charge, by the provisions of her father'swill, on that day terminated, gave a festa in her honour at his villain Vallanza. Cannon had been fired in the morning: two-and-twentysalvoes, if you please, though Susanna had protested that this wasfalse heraldry, and that it advertised her, into the bargain, for anold maid. In the afternoon there had been a regatta. Seven tinysailing-boats, monotypes,--the entire fleet, indeed, of the Reale YachtClub d'Ilaria--had described a triangle in the bay, with Vallanza,Presa, and Veno as its points; and I need n't tell anyone who knows theisland of Sampaolo that the Marchese Baldo del Ponte's _Mermaid_,English name and all, had come home easily the first. Then, in theevening, there was a dinner, followed by a ball, and fire-works in thegarden.

  Susanna was already staying at the summer palace on Isola Nobile, foralready--though her birthday falls on the seventeenth of April--thewarm weather had set in; and when the last guests had gone their way,the Commendatore escorted her and her duenna, the Baroness Casaterrena,down through the purple Italian night, musical with the rivalries of ahundred nightingales, to the sea-wall, where, at his privatelanding-stage, in the bat-haunted glare of two tall electric lamps, herlaunch was waiting. But as he offered Susanna his hand, to help heraboard, she stepped quickly to one side, and said, with a charmingindicative inclination of the head, "The Baronessa."

  The precedence, of course, was rightfully her own. How like her, andhow handsome of her, thought the fond old man, thus to waive it infavour of her senior. So he transferred his attention to the Baroness.She was a heavy body, slow and circumspect in her motions; but atlength she had safely found her place among the silk cushions in thestern, and the Commendatore, turning back, again held out his hand tohis sometime ward. As he was in the act of doing so, however, his earswere startled by a sound of puffing and of churning which caused himabruptly to face about.

  "Hi! Stop!" he cried excitedly, for the launch was several yards outin the bay; and one could hear the Baroness, equally excited,expostulating with the man at the machine:

  "He! Ferma, ferma!"

  "It's all right," said Susanna, in that rather deep voice of hers,tranquil and leisurely; "my orders."

  And the launch, unperturbed, held its course towards the glow-wormlights of Isola Nobile.

  The Commendatore stared. . . .

  For a matter of five seconds, his brows knitted together, his mouthhalf open, the Commendatore stared, now at Susanna, now after thebobbing lanterns of the launch,--whilst, clear in the suspension, thechoir of nightingales sobbed and shouted.

  "_Your_ orders?" he faltered at last. Many emotions were concentratedin the pronoun.

  "Yes," said Susanna, with a naturalness that perhaps was studied. "Thefirst act of my reign."

  He had never known her to give an order before, without askingpermission; and this, in any case, was such an incomprehensible order.How, for instance, was she to get back to the palace?

  "But how on earth," he puzzled, "will you get back to----"

  "Oh, I 'm not returning to Isola Nobile tonight," Susanna jauntilymentioned, her chin a little perked up in the air. Then, with thesweetest smile--through which there pierced, perhaps, just a faintglimmer of secret mischief?--"I 'm starting on my wander-year," sheadded, and waved her hand imperially towards the open sea.

  It was a progression of surprises for the tall, thin old Commendatore.No sooner had Susanna thus bewilderingly spoken, than the rub and dipof oars became audible, rhythmically nearing; and a minute after, fromthe outer darkness, a row-boat, white and slender, manned by two rowersin smart nautical uniforms, shot forward into the light, and drew upalongside the quay.

  "A boat from the _Fiorimondo_," he gasped, in stupefaction.

  "Yes," said Susanna, pleasantly. "The _Fiorimondo_ takes me as far asVenice. There I leave it for the train."

  The Commendatore's faded old blue eyes flickered anxiously.

  "I can't think I am dreaming," he remarked, with a kind of vagueplaintiveness; "and of course you are not serious. My dear, I don'tunderstand."

  "Oh, I 'm as serious as mathematics," she assured him.

  She gave her head a little pensive movement of affirmation, and liftedher eyes to his, bright with an expression of trustful candour. Thiswas an expression she was somewhat apt to assume when her mood was ateasing one; and it generally had the effect of breaking down theCommendatore's gravity. "You are a witch," he would laugh, availinghimself without shame of the way-worn reproach, "a wicked, irresistiblelittle witch."

  "The thing," she explained, "is as simple as good-day. I 'm startingon my travels--to see the world--Paris, which I have only seenonce--London, which I have never seen--the seaports of Bohemia, themountains of Thule, which I have often seen from a distance, in themists on the horizon. The _Fiorimondo_ takes me as far as Venice.That is one of the advantages of owning a steam-yacht. Otherwise, Ishould have to go by the Austrian-Lloyd packet; and that would n't behalf so comfortable."

  Her eyes, still raised to the Commendatore's, melted in a smile;--asmile seemingly all innocence, persuasiveness, tender appeal forapprobation, but (I 'm afraid) with an undergleam that was like amocking challenge.

  He, perforce, smiled too, though with manifest reluctance; and at thesame time he frowned.

  "My dear, if it were possible, I should be angry with you. This isscarcely an appropriate hour for mystifications."

  "_That_ it is n't," agreed Susanna, heartily. And she put up her hand,to cover a weary little yawn. "But there 's _no_ mystification. There's a perfectly plain statement of fact. I 'm starting to-night forVenice."

  He studied her intently for a moment, fixedly, pondering something.Then, all at once, the lines of dismay cleared from his lean oldivory-yellow face.

  "Ha! In a ball-dress," he scoffed, and pointed a finger at Susanna'ssnowy confection of tulle and satin and silver embroidery, alla-shimmer in the artificial moonlight of the electric lamps, againstthe background of southern garden,--the outlines and masses, dim andmysterious in the night, of palms and cypresses, of slendereucalyptus-trees, oleanders, magnolias, of orange-trees, where theoranges hung, amid the dark foliage, like dull-burning lanterns. Acrescent of diamonds twinkled in the warm blackness of her hair. Shewore a collar of pearls round her throat, and a long rope of pearlsthat descended to her waist, and was then looped up and caught at thebosom by an opal clasp. A delicate perfume, like the perfume ofviolets, came and went in the air near her. She held a great fluffyfan of white feathers in one hand, and in the other carried loose herlong white gloves; and gems sparkled on her fingers. The waters underthe sea-wall beside her kept up a perpetual whispering, like acommentary on the situation. The old man considered these things, andhis misgivings were entirely dissipated.

  "Ha!" he scoffed, twisting his immense iron-grey moustaches withcomplacency. "I can't guess what prank you may be up to, but you arenever starting for Venice in a ball-dress. You 're capable of a gooddeal, my dear, but you 're not capable of that."

  "Oh, I 'm capable of anything and everything," Susanna answered,cheerfully ominous. "Besides," she plausibly admonished him, "youmight do me the justice of supposing that I have changes aboard the_Fiorimondo_. My maid awaits me there with quite a doze
n boxes.So--you see. Oh, and by the bye," she interjected, "Serafino also iscoming with me. He'll act as courier--buy my tickets, register myluggage; and then, when we reach our ultimate destination, resume hiswhite cap and apron. My ultimate destination, you must know," shesaid, with a lightness which, I think, on the face of it was spurious,"is a little village in England--a little village called Craford;and"--she smiled convincingly--"I hear that the cuisine is not to bedepended upon in little English villages."

  All the Commendatore's anxieties had revived. This time he frowned ingrim earnest.

  "_Creforrrd_!" he ejaculated.

  The word fell like an explosion; and there was the climax of horrifiedastonishment in those reverberating r's.

  "I think you are mad," he said. "Or, if you are not mad, you are theslyest young miss in Christendom."

  Susanna's eyes darkened, pathetic, wistful.

  "Ah, don't be cross," she pleaded. "I 'm not mad, and I 'm not sly.But I 'm free and independent. What's the good of being free andindependent," she largely argued, "if you can't do the things you wantto? I 'm going to Craford to realise the aspiration of a lifetime. I'm going to find out my cousin, and make his acquaintance, and see whathe 's like. And then--well, if he 's nice, who knows what may happen?I planned it ever so long ago," she proclaimed, with an ingenuousnessthat was almost brazen, "and made all my preparations. Then I sat downand waited for the day when I should be free and independent."

  Her eyes melted again, deprecating his censure, beseeching hisindulgence, yet still, with a little glint of raillery, defying him todo his worst.

  His hand sawed the air, his foot tapped the ground.

  "Free and independent, free and independent," he fumed, in derision."Fine words, fine words. And you made all your preparationsbeforehand, in secrecy; and you 're not sly? Misericordia di Dio!"

  He groaned impotently; he shook his bony old fist at the stars in thefirmament.

  "Perhaps you will admit," he questioned loftily, "that there aredecencies to be observed even by the free and independent? It is notdecent for you to travel alone. If you mean a single word of what yousay, why are n't you accompanied by the Baronessa?"

  "The Baronessa fatigues me," Susanna answered gently. "And Iexasperate her and try her patience cruelly. She 's always puttingspokes in my wheel, and I 'm always saying and doing things shedisapproves of. Ah, if she only suspected the half of the things Idon't say or do, but think and feel!"

  She nodded with profound significance.

  "We belong," she pointed out, "to discrepant generations. I 'm sointensely modern, and she 's so irredeemably eighteen-sixty. I 'veonly waited for this blessed day of liberty to cut adrift from theBaronessa. And the pleasure will be mutual, I promise you. She willenjoy a peace and a calm that she has n't known for ages. Ouf! I feellike Europe after the downfall of Napoleon."

  She gave her shoulders a little shake of satisfaction.

  "The Baronessa," she said, and I 'm afraid there was laughter in hertone, "is a prisoner for the night on Isola Nobile." I 'm afraid shetittered. "I gave orders that the launch was to start off the momentshe put her foot aboard it, and on no account was it to turn back, andon no account was any boat to leave the island till to-morrow morning.I expect she 'll be rather annoyed--and puzzled. But--cosa vuole?It's all in the day's work."

  Then her voice modulated, and became confidential and exultant.

  "I 'm going to have such a delicious plunge. See--to-night I have puton pearls, and diamonds, and rings, that the Baronessa would never letme wear. And I 've got a whole bagful of books, to read in thetrain--Anatole France, and Shakespeare, and Gyp, and Pierre Loti, andMoliere, and Max Beerbohm, and everybody: all the books the Baronessawould have died a thousand deaths rather than let me look at. That'sthe nuisance of being a woman of position--you 're brought up never toread anything except the Lives of the Saints and the fashion papers. I've had to do all my really important reading by stealth, like a thiefin the night. Ah," she sighed, "if I were only a man, like you! Butas for observing the decencies," she continued briskly, "you need haveno fear. I 'm going to the land of all lands where (if report speakstrue) one has most opportunities of observing them--I 'm going toEngland, and I 'll observe them with both eyes. And I 'm nottravelling alone." She spurned the imputation. "There are Rosina andSerafino; and at the end of my journey I shall have Miss Sandus. Youremember that nice Miss Sandus?" she asked, smiling up at him. "She ismy fellow-conspirator. We arranged it all before she went away lastautumn. I 'm to go to her house in London, and she will go with me toCraford. She 's frantically interested about my cousin. She thinksit's the most thrilling and romantic story she has ever heard. And shethoroughly sympathises with my desire to make friends with him, and tooffer him some sort of reparation."

  The Commendatore was pacing nervously backwards and forwards, being, Isuppose, too punctilious an old-school Latin stickler for etiquette tointerrupt.

  But now, "Curse her for a meddlesome Englishwoman," he splutteredviolently. "To encourage a young girl like you in such midsummerfolly. A young girl?--a young hoyden, a young tom-boy. What? Youwill travel from here to London without a chaperon? And books--Frenchnovels--gr-r-r! I wish you had never been taught to read. I think itis ridiculous to teach women to read. What good will they get byreading? You deserve--upon my word you deserve . . . Well, nevermind. Oh, body of Bacchus!"

  He wrung his hands, as one in desperation.

  "A young girl, a mere child," he cried, in a wail to Heaven; "amere"--he paused, groping for an adequate definition--"a mereirresponsible female orphan! And nobody with power to interfere."

  Susanna drew herself up.

  "Young?" she exclaimed. "A mere child? I? Good gracious, I 'm_twenty-two_."

  She said it, scanning the syllables to give them weight, and in allgood faith I think, as who should say, "I 'm fifty."

  "You really can't accuse me of being young," she apodicticallypronounced. "I 'm twenty-two. Twenty-two long years--aie, Dio mio!And I look even older. I could pass for twenty-five. If," was hersuddenly-inspired concession, "if it will afford you the least atom ofconsolation, I 'll _tell_ people that I am twenty-five. _There_."

  She wooed him anew with those melting eyes, and her tone was soft as acaress.

  "It is n't every man that I 'd offer to sacrifice three of the bestyears of my life for--and it is n't every man that I 'd offer to tellfibs for."

  She threw back her head, and stood in an attitude to invite inspection.

  "Don't I look twenty-five?" she asked. "If you had n't the honour ofmy personal acquaintance, would it ever occur to you that I 'm what youcall 'a young girl'? Would n't you go about enquiring of every one,'Who is that handsome, accomplished, and perfectly dressed woman of theworld?'"

  And she made him the drollest of little quizzical moues.

  In effect, with her tall and rather sumptuously developed figure, withthe humour and vivacity, the character and decision, of her face, withthe glow deep in her eyes, the graver glow beneath the mirth thatdanced near their surface,--and then too, perhaps, with the unequivocalSouthern richness of her colouring: the warm white and covert rose ofher skin, the dense black of her undulating abundant hair, the sudden,sanguine red of her lips,--I think you would have taken her for morethan twenty-two. There was nothing of the immature or the unfinished,nothing of the tentative, in her aspect. With no loss of freshness,there were the strength, the poise, the assurance, that we are wont toassociate with a riper womanhood. Whether she looked twenty-five ornot, she looked, at any rate, a completed product; she lookeddistinguished and worth while; she looked alive, alert: one in whom theblood coursed swiftly, the spirit burned vigorously; one who would loveher pleasure, who could be wayward and provoking, but who could also begenerous and loyal; she looked high-bred, one in whom there was race,as well as temperament and nerve.

  The Commendatore, however, was a thousand miles from theseconsiderations. He glared
fiercely at her--as fiercely as it was _in_his mild old eyes to glare. He held himself erect and aloof, in aposture that was eloquent of haughty indignation.

  "I will ask your Excellency a single question. Are you or are you notthe Countess of Sampaolo?" he demanded sternly.

  But Susanna was incorrigible.

  "At your service--unless I was changed at nurse," she assented,dropping a curtsey; and an imp laughed in her eyes.

  "And are you aware," the Commendatore pursued, with the tremor ofrestrained passion in his voice, "that the Countess of Sampaolo, acountess in her own right, is a public personage? Are you aware thatthe actions you are proposing--which would be disgraceful enough if youwere any little obscure bourgeoise--must precipitate a public scandal?Have you reflected that it will all be printed in the newspapers, formen to snigger at in their cafes, for women to cackle over in theirboudoirs? Have you reflected that you will make yourself a nine-days'wonder, a subject for tittle-tattle with all the gossip-mongers ofEurope? Are you without pride, without modesty?"

  Susanna arched her eyebrows, in amiable surprise.

  "Oh?" she said. "Have I omitted to mention that I 'm to do the wholething in masquerade? How stupid of me. Yes,"--her voice becameexplanatory,--"it's essential, you see, that my cousin Antonio shouldnever dream who I really am. He must fancy that I 'm justanybody--till the time comes for me to cast my domino, and reveal thefairy-princess. So I travel under a nom-de-guerre. I 'm a widow, arich, charming, dashing, not too-disconsolate widow; and my name . . .is Madame Fregi."

  She brought out the last words after an instant's irresolution, andmarked them by a hazardous little smile.

  "What!" thundered the Commendatore. "You would dare to take _my_ nameas a cloak for your escapades? I forbid it. Understand. Iperemptorily forbid it."

  He stamped his foot, he nodded his outraged head, menacingly.

  But Susanna was indeed incorrigible.

  "Dear me," she grieved; "I hoped you would be touched by thecompliment. How strange men are. Never mind, though," she said, withgay resignation. "I 'll call myself something else. Let'sthink. . . . Would--would Torrebianca do?" Her eyes sought counselfrom his face.

  Torrebianca, I need n't remind those who are familiar with Sampaolo, isthe name of a mountain, a bare, white, tower-like peak of rock, thatrises in the middle of the island, the apex of the ridge separating thecoast of Vallanza from the coast of Orca.

  "Madame Torrebianca? La Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca?" She triedthe name on her tongue. "Yes, for an impromptu, Torrebianca is n'tbad. It's picturesque, and high-sounding, and yet not--not_invraisemblable_. You don't think it _invraisemblable_? So here 'sluck to that bold adventuress, that knightess-errant, the widowTorrebianca."

  She raised her fluffy white fan, as if it were a goblet from which toquaff the toast, and flourished it aloft.

  The poor old Commendatore was mumbling helpless imprecations in hismoustache. One caught the word "atrocious" several times repeated.

  "And now," said Susanna brightly, "kiss me on both cheeks, and give meyour benediction."

  She moved towards him, and held up her face.

  But he drew away.

  "My child," he began, impressively, "I have no means to constrain you,and I know by experience that when you have made up that perverselittle mind of yours, one might as well attempt to reason with a HebrewJew. Therefore I can only beg, I can only implore. I implore you notto do this fantastic, this incredible, this unheard-of thing. I willgo on my knees to you. I will entreat you, not for my sake, but foryour own sake, for the sake of your dead father and mother, to put thisruinous vagary from you, to abandon this preposterous journey, and tostay quietly here in Sampaolo. Then, if you must open up the past, ifyou must get into communication with your distant cousin, I 'll helpyou to find some other, some sane and decorous method of doing so."

  Still once again Susanna's eyes melted, but there was no mockery inthem now.

  "You are kind and patient," she said, with feeling; "and I hate to be abrute. Yet what is there to do? I can't alter my resolution. And Ican't bear to refuse you when you talk to me like that. So--you mustforgive me if I take a brusque way of escaping the dilemma."

  She ran to the edge of the quay, and sprang lightly into her boat.

  "Avanti--avanti," she cried to the rowers, who instantly pushed theboat free, and bent upon their oars.

  Then she waved her disfranchised guardian a kiss.

  "Addio, Commendatore. I 'll write to you from Venice."