My Friend Prospero | Page 2

in the guide-book," she insisted, and held
up the red-bound volume.
The sceptic gave a shrug, as one who disclaimed responsibility and
declined discussion.
"Me, I do not think so. But patience! I will go and ask," he said; and,
turning his back, faded from sight in the depths of the dark tunnel-like

porte-cochère.
Vexed, perplexed, Lady Blanchemain fidgeted a little. To have taken
this long drive for nothing!--sweet though the weather was, fair though
the valley: but she was not a person who could let the means excuse the
end. She neither liked nor was accustomed to see her enterprises
balked,--to see doors remain closed in her face. Doors indeed had a
habit of flying open at her approach. Besides, the fellow's manner,--his
initial stare and silence, his tone when he spoke, his shrug, his
exhortation to patience, and something too in the conduct of his back as
he departed,--hadn't it lacked I don't know what of becoming deference?
to satisfy her amour-propre, at any rate, that the mistake, if there was a
mistake, sprang from no malapprehension of her own, she looked up
chapter and verse. Yes, there the assurance stood, circumstantial, in all
the convincingness of the sturdy, small black type:--
"From Roccadoro a charming excursion may be made, up the beautiful
Val Rampio, to the mediæval village of Sant' Alessina (7 miles), with
its magnificent castle, in fine grounds, formerly a seat of the Sforzas,
now belonging to the Prince of Zelt-Neuminster, and containing the
celebrated Zelt-Neuminster collection of paintings. Incorporated in the
castle buildings, a noticeable peculiarity, are the parish church and
presbytery. Accessible daily, except Monday, from 10 to 4; attendant 1
fr."
So then! To-day was Wednesday, the hour between two and three. So--!
Her amour-propre triumphed, but I fancy her vexation mounted....

IV
"I beg your pardon. It's disgraceful you should have been made to wait.
The porter is an idiot. You wish, of course, to see the house--?"
The English words, on a key of spontaneous apology, with a very
zealous inflection of concern--yet, at the same time, with a kind of
entirely respectful and amiable abruptness, as of one hailing a familiar

friend,--were pronounced in a breath by a brisk, cheerful, unmistakably
English voice.
Lady Blanchemain, whose attention had still been on the incriminated
page, looked quickly up, and (English voice and spontaneous apology
notwithstanding) I won't vouch that the answer at the tip of her
impulsive tongue mightn't have proved a hasty one--but the speaker's
appearance gave her pause: the appearance of the tall, smiling,
unmistakably English young man, by whom Shoulder-knots had
returned accompanied, and who now, having pushed the grille ajar and
issued forth, stood, placing himself with a tentative obeisance at her
service, beside the carriage: he was so clearly, first of all--what, if it
hadn't been for her preoccupation, his voice, tone, accent would have
warned her to expect--so visibly a gentleman; and then, with the even
pink of his complexion, his yellowish hair and beard, his alert, friendly,
very blue blue eyes--with his very blue blue flannels too, and his
brick-red knitted tie--he was so vivid and so unusual.
His appearance gave her a pause; and in the result she in her turn
almost apologized.
"This wretched book," she explained, pathetically bringing forward her
pièce justificative, "said that it was open to the public."
The vivid young man hastened to put her in the right.
"It is--it is," he eagerly affirmed. "Only," he added, with a vaguely
rueful modulation, and always with that amiable abruptness, as a man
very much at his ease, while his blue eyes whimsically brightened,
"only the blessed public never comes--we're so off the beaten path. And
I suppose one mustn't expect a Scioccone"--his voice swelled on the
word, and he cast sidelong a scathing glance at his summoner--"to cope
with unprecedented situations. Will you allow me to help you out?"
"Ah," thought Lady Blanchemain, "Eton," his tone and accent now
nicely appraised by an experienced ear. "Eton--yes; and probably--h'm?
Probably Balliol," her experience led her further to surmise. But
what--with her insatiable curiosity about people, she had of course

immediately begun to wonder--what was an Eton and Balliol man
doing, apparently in a position of authority, at this remote Italian
castle?

V
He helped her out, very gracefully, very gallantly; and under his
guidance she made the tour of the vast building: its greater court and
lesser court; its cloisters, with their faded frescoes, and their marvellous
outlook, northwards, upon the Alps; its immense rotunda, springing to
the open dome, where the sky was like an inset plaque of turquoise; its
"staircase of honour," guarded, in an ascending file, by statues of men
in armour; and then, on the piano nobile, its endless chain of big, empty,
silent, splendid state