and so it was that pippa’s impulsive invitation brought the lady of the blue dress once more into miss mason’s surroundings.
and with her advent came one of the brightest threads which the fates were using to weave into the hitherto sombre pattern of her life. for there is never any knowing what the fates will do. for years the woof of their weaving may be utterly grey, but if the warp has kept firm and strong they may suddenly take the brightest colours—a very crazy patchwork of them—and weave them into the most intricate and curious pattern imaginable. and because the strength of the warp of this life pleased them, they were now choosing the most fantastically coloured threads in the weaving of the woof.
pippa told miss mason of the invitation she had issued, and then went to wash her hands and brush her hair. there was no need to change her dress. she had already put on her prettiest frock to lunch with paul.
just before half-past three there was a knock at the door. pippa looked up expectant. but it was only barnabas.
“hullo!” he said, coming in and seeing the tea-things on the table—sally would be occupied with hot cakes at the last moment—“you’re expecting company.”
“the duchessa di corleone, monsieur paul, and monsieur christopher,” pippa told him.
“shall i be in the way?” asked barnabas, looking at miss mason, “or may i stay?”
“you are never in the way,” said miss mason decisively.
pippa sat down near him and slid one hand into his. and miss mason looked at them, and thought that only a year ago, and perhaps at that very hour, she had been sitting in a stiff drawing-room furnished with hideous chairs and ornamented with wax flowers under glass shades, listening to a long and minute account of miss stanhope’s ill-health, sleeplessness, and want of appetite. and because the contrast was so very great, her eyes grew a trifle misty with unshed happy tears, and she said a little prayer, that was certainly more catholic than her distinctly broad church views realized, for miss stanhope’s present welfare.
and then suddenly voices were heard outside the studio, a woman’s voice which miss mason seemed to recognize, and a man laughing.
the next moment sally opened the door. her eyes were round with awe.
“the duchess——” the next words were indistinguishable—“mr. charlton, and mr. treherne,” she gasped. already in her mind she was telling jim that she had had the honour of ushering a real live duchess into the studio.
the duchessa di corleone came into the room. then she gave a little exclamation of astonishment and went forwards with outstretched hands.
“my fairy godmother!” she cried. and she was nearer truth than she had any idea as she spoke the words.
“the lady in the blue dress!” said miss mason, her face radiant with pleasure.
“so you two know each other,” said paul.
“we met—when was it—last may?” said sara. “may i introduce mr. charlton.” and the man whom miss mason had seen in the lounge of the wilton hotel bowed.
“it is,” said the duchessa when she was seated, and after barnabas had been introduced, “quite the most unexpected and delightful meeting. it was not till i was on my way to italy that i remembered i had never asked your name.” and then she told the others of their first meeting.
“and has it all,” she asked, “been just as delightful as i prophesied?”
“more delightful,” said miss mason promptly. she was looking at christopher. she remembered the “christopher, darling,” and her mind, woman-like, was keen on the secret of a romance.
sara saw her glance. by a flash of intuition she guessed something of what was passing in [pg 171]miss mason’s mind. it gave her an opportunity she had been looking for during the last hour and a half.
“christopher came to fetch me that evening to take me to an at home, i remember. he is an extraordinarily useful person. i have known him since i was ten years old.”
the words were addressed to miss mason. they were intended for another occupant of the studio.
“i remember,” said christopher, “our first meeting. it was, i think, unique.”
“in what way?” asked paul.
“the duchessa and her parents,” said christopher, “had taken a house in devonshire, at salcombe, as a matter of fact, where i then lived. my mother, being of a hospitable turn of mind, and also of opinion that young men should make themselves generally useful, sent me across the road to enquire of captain and mrs. de courcy if i could be of any assistance to them. i went. i found the duchessa seated on the veranda on an overturned flower-pot. she was engaged in teaching ‘nap’ to three small boys who had come in from the next door garden, also with hospitable intentions. i found mrs. de courcy disentangling silver forks from among her evening frocks; they had been packed among them for safety——”
“mamma was always under the impression that everybody was going to steal everything,” interjected the duchessa.
“captain de courcy,” went on christopher, “was extracting tin-tacks from the kitchen coal-scuttle, into which they had been upset by the duchessa in her frantic questing for playing-cards.”
“and did you,” asked miss mason grimly, “assist him?”
“i extracted two tacks,” continued christopher reminiscently. “then i heard the duchessa laugh. have you ever heard her? i went out on to the veranda. first i looked at her, then i turned another flower-pot upside down and sat upon it. i tried to instruct her in a few of the correct rules of ‘nap.’ she cheated, i remember, abominably. she has, in fact, cheated throughout her life.”
“indeed, i have not,” said sara indignantly. there was a dimple at the corner of her mouth.
“you have,” said christopher calmly. “you have cheated the fates every time they dealt the cards of fortune against you. it’s a trick many of us would give our eyes to learn. they deal her black cards, heigh presto! the duchessa has changed them to red ones. they deal her low dull cards—the duchessa holds aces and kings, particularly,” ended christopher severely, “kings!”
“christopher,” said sara sweetly, “is given to exaggeration.” she was first the tiniest bit annoyed. christopher’s last word savoured somewhat of an accusation of flirting. no woman cares to be accused of that pastime before a man in whom she is feeling—well, certainly more than just a careless interest. besides, the music paul had been hearing during the last ten weeks had begun to reach the duchessa’s ears, though as yet quite faintly. the slight implication of flirting came as a discord to the tune it was playing.
“the late duca di corleone might certainly be termed a king,” protested christopher, “while the casa di corleone and the coffers of centesimi are most assuredly many aces.”
“yes,” agreed the duchessa. “you, however, said ‘particularly kings.’”
“my mistake,” said christopher politely. “i should have said particularly aces.”
the duchessa made a little gracious gesture of forgiveness. paul had been stroking a small grey kitten—gift of dan to pippa—during the little conversation, and was apparently entirely engrossed in the kitten. but he had heard every word, and christopher’s intimacy with the duchessa was seen by him in a new and far more satisfactory light.
“but now,” said the duchessa, addressing herself to miss mason, “i want to hear everything you have been doing since last may.”
miss mason glanced around the studio.
“got a studio,” she said.
“and also,” said barnabas, “she has adopted six nephews and one niece.”
“me,” said pippa, who was gazing at the duchessa with fascinated eyes.
sara smiled. she looked at paul and barnabas.
“i imagine,” she said, “that these are two of the nephews. where are the others?”
“in their studios,” said barnabas. “aunt olive doesn’t keep all her nephews on the premises. they are the six artists of the courtyard.”
“oh,” said sara, with a low laugh, “then you, too, have a magic courtyard.”
“where is yours?” asked pippa.
and the duchessa told her, bringing the sunshine of italy and the gleam of golden oranges into the studio, bathing it in their light and colour. and paul listened as he listened always when she spoke, loving the sound of her voice and the magic of her words.
suddenly as she ended they heard the sound of a violin. it came from across the courtyard and through the partly open window.
“hush!” said the duchessa, and she raised her head listening.
when the last sad notes had died away, she looked across at paul.
“who is it?” she asked softly, her eyes full of tears, for the sad bitterness of a troubled heart had wailed through the music.
“michael chester,” said paul quietly.
“and why,” asked the duchessa, “is he not taking london by storm?”
“because,” said paul, “he is a cripple.”
“ah!” said the duchessa. she had no need to ask more, for the music had told her the rest.
after a time she left, promising to come again. as she went into the courtyard with paul and christopher she looked towards the window from whence the sounds of the violin had proceeded.
“i wonder,” she said, “if one day he will play for me.”
