He was as pale as a sheet; the candle he held trembled violently. He said nothing, only stared at me with a wild, haggard look.
Then I realized why he looked so. The doorway of the sitting room was visible from his own room. Seeing a light where there should be none—a frail, flickering shadow of light—in a room that had not been inhabited since his adored daughter left, never to return, he had thought…I dared not contemplate what he may have thought.
“I came to see how the work is going,” I explained, taking his arm. “Come, let us go; it is dark here, and cold.”
“SÌ, SÌ,” he muttered, yielding to the pressure of my hand as a child might. “è molto fredo qui.…” And he accompanied me into the corridor with a faltering step quite unlike his usual brisk stride.
Once out of the room, he recovered some of his spirits, but as we went on I saw that he was studying me with a frown. Suddenly he said. “Your gown. It is not right.”
Puzzled, I looked down at my frock. As I had half expected. Grandfather had objected to my wearing black all the time, so I had allowed myself to be persuaded to relax the rules just a little. I was proud of this dress, which the seamstress had finished only the day before. It was of gleaming white satin with an overskirt of black lace and scallops of the same shadowy fabric around the sleeves.
Grandfather touched my jet mourning brooch, which fastened the lace bertha.
“Jewels,” he said slowly. “A princess should wear jewels. Come. I will give you the ones that are yours.”
“But—” I began.
“Yes, yes, it is necessary. I have wanted so long to see you wear them. For me, carissima?”
It was impossible to refuse him; and, to be honest, I was vain enough to be easily persuaded. I assumed he meant to offer me, only for that evening, some of the family jewels that would have been my mother’s. Few women are strong enough to resist the lure of gems, and I was no exception.
We strolled arm in arm to the library, and there he seated me in a chair while he went to the Raphael madonna that hung between the windows. I watched while he lifted the picture. Behind it was the utilitarian gray face of a wall safe.
From the aperture Grandfather withdrew box after box of crimson leather stamped with the family arms in gold. They were of all sizes and shapes, and my anticipation mounted as he piled them on the desk. Not until all had been removed and the safe closed and hidden again did he begin opening the boxes.
The first was almost a foot square. When he took out the contents I caught a great solemn flash of gold, and eagerly put out my hand. Grandfather shook his head and with his own hands put the ornament around my neck. I had no opportunity to examine it before he came toward me with the next—a large golden brooch, which, with some fumbling, he fastened to the lace at my breast. They came thick and fast after that—a bracelet several inches wide, carved all over with tiny figures of crouching animals; other armlets of sheet gold; a second necklace, from whose woven gold chain hung the head of a fanged dragon; gold filigree earrings so heavy they dragged at my earlobes.…I held up my hand, filled with a mounting sense of oppression as the massive gold pressed against my flesh.
“Please, Grandfather.…It is so heavy!”
“One more.” And on my brow he placed a diadem of twisted gold wires.
I knew the jewels were not family treasures, but the parure of an ancient Etruscan lady, excavated, no doubt, from one of the tombs on his property. The chill I felt from them was not solely physical; it was eerie to reflect that the last warm flesh they had touched was now dust. But I told myself not to dwell on such thoughts, which were, after all, pure superstition. Had not the Princess of Canino created a sensation by appearing at the ambassador’s fete in the parure of Etruscan jewelry excavated by her husband?
Grandfather’s strange mood had lightened as he took out the jewels; now, standing back to admire the effect, he smiled and said something I did not understand. When my hands went automatically to my head, to adjust the diadem, he laughed and spoke again; this time I recognized the word “mirror.”
There was a tall, gilt-framed mirror on the wall. It had been chosen for the beauty of its carved frame, and the silvering of the glass was somewhat worn. Perhaps it was this quality, or the dim light—for the room was lighted by only a few candles—but the sight of myself in the muddy surface of the mirror made me start back.
My face was annihilated by its frame of gold—around my throat, at my breast, on my brow. For the most part the ornaments were far too massive for modern tastes. But the workmanship was superb. The first necklace was my favorite. The chain was composed of half a dozen tiny individual chains woven into an intricate web. From it hung loops of even finer chain, and a series of flower pendants, each covered with the minute balls of gold, tinier than grains of sand, which were a distinctive sign of Etruscan gold work. It was quite lovely, and by itself would have been a charming ornament. I touched it gently and said aloud,
“This must have been her favorite. Oh, Grandfather, may I wear this tonight, just this one? I promise I will take the greatest care of it.”
I gave another start as Grandfather’s face appeared in the mirror next to mine. The distorting surface gave him such an odd look—all staring eyes and smiling mouth. He understood my request, but I did not find it so easy to understand his answer. He wanted me to wear the entire parure to dinner! I expostulated. Not only was the jewelry quite uncomfortably heavy, but I felt I should look ridiculous. But Grandfather did not brook argument. So we started down the hall, my hand on his arm; and the well-trained servants who lighted our passage showed no sign of surprise at the sight of me.
Our entrance into the drawing room was sensational. The others were gathered there waiting for dinner to be announced, and when we came in Galiana bounced to her feet, knocking her embroidery frame over. Even the imperturbable Miss Perkins exclaimed in amazement, and Miss Rhoda let out a snort.
“How vulgar,” she said loudly.
Grandfather took my hand and stepped back; he was displaying me, like a newly purchased statue, and for a moment I resented his possessive attitude. But the admiration in Galiana’s face reassured me; I made a careful curtsy, so as not to disturb the weight that dangled from me. While Galiana fluttered around me, touching the ornaments with greedy little fingers, I looked at the others. The Contessa might have been in another room; she had not lifted her eyes from her embroidery. As for Stefano…
I had not expected we would see him that evening, since he had favored us with his presence for tea, but there he was, with that black stick balanced in his fingers, looking me over with a cool stare. Well schooled as his face was, I thought I detected an even more fiery emotion than usual in his blazing blue eyes, and I made him a mocking little bow. As the heir he probably regarded everything in the castle as his own property. He would not like to think that Grandfather would give me objects of such value.
“Well, Miss Perkins.” I said, turning to that lady, who was walking around me with her head cocked, in the same style in which she was wont to examine works of art. “Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”
“Hmph,” said Miss Perkins, rubbing her nose. “Rather overpowering, don’t you think? Those earrings will tear your flesh, child.”
“Not for one evening. They are only a loan, Miss P. After all,” I added, as she still seemed uncommonly sober, “what better way to display jewelry than on a model? I thought you were anxious to see these.”
“True, true.” Miss Perkins stopped abusing her nose and looked more cheerful as her antiquarian zeal overcame whatever scruples had vexed her. “They are fascinating! Even lovelier than the Regolini jewelry, if the description I read is to be trusted. This giant brooch, or fibula, as it is called, is an amazing piece of workmanship. Look at these rows of tiny animals, sphinxes and lions….”
A servant came to announce supper; I swept in on Grandfather’s arm, feeling like a queen. It wasn’t easy to eat, since a jangle of gold accompanied every movement I made, and the bracelets kept slipping down over my hand. And throughout the meal, whenever I turned to Miss Perkins. I found her watching me with the same puzzled frown.
III
There was rain in the night, but morning dawned clear and bright. By noon the sun had dried all but the deepest puddles, and I decided to go out. I was restless and bored. Miss Perkins was in the library pursuing some antiquarian search; Galiana had excused herself to attend her mother, whose health, always delicate, seemed to be worse that day.
I wandered out into the gardens in search of amusement, but found none, only the usual small army of gardeners at work clipping and raking and weeding. The acres of formal planting required constant attention, especially at this time of year. The roses were at their best, exquisite blooms of every shade from silvery white to a crimson so deep as to be almost purple. This garden, less formal than the others, had been laid out as a compliment to the Prince’s English wife. I could picture her, in the softly flowing gown and broad-brimmed hat of half a century ago, walking along the graveled paths with her spaniels, or sitting on one of the marble benches breathing in the scent of the blooms.
The other gardens were in the Italian or French style, with flowing water ingeniously employed to create a feeling of coolness, not only in innumerable fountains but in water stairs and quiet pools where lilies bloomed. There were artificial grottoes, with statues standing in mosaiced niches. Peacocks strutted along the terraces, shattering the somnolent summer air with their harsh cries.
The gardens were so extensive that I had not yet explored them completely. I was in no mood to do so that morning— fountains and flowers are not exciting enough for restless youth—but in lieu of anything better to do I went on through alleys of close-grown box higher than my head, under fantastic arches of greenery. Passing along a tunnel of vines, I suddenly found myself in an open area bathed in sunlight. All around were flowers growing in delightful confusion—phlox, stock, roses, snapdragons; the tall blue spikes of delphinium, carnations of mammoth size. Their spicy perfume filled the air, which rang with the hum of insects seeking the nectar.
Before me were the walls and turrets of a little house, which I recognized as the one whose fantastic roof I had seen from my bedroom window that first night. Several times since I had watched the distant casements turn gold as lights sprang up within to combat the dark of evening, and I had idly wondered about the identity of the occupant, but had never had the time or the inclination to pursue the question.
Now I started along the path between beds of pansies and dahlias. The little house was quite charming. Leaded windows broke the austere lines of the stone facade. An octagonal tower at the left front corner had a steeply peaked roof, like a dwarf’s cap, and a quaint little carved balcony. My curiosity aroused, I lifted my skirts in order to ascend the steps leading up to the front door. Before I reached it, the door opened and a man came out.
The dreamlike, fairy-tale look of the place had me half convinced that it was unoccupied. I fell back with a cry of surprise. Stefano—for it was he—also started violently.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I was unaware that this was forbidden territory,” I replied, recovering myself. “Even Bluebeard warned his wife not to intrude on the chamber of horrors; if you wish to be undisturbed, you might have said so.”
