Average cabins; a novel

Front matter

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Chapter I

D enis LORIMER spent the winter succeeding the Armistice in Rome. During the final months of the War, after a long slow recovery from shell-shock, he had acted as interpreter on the Italian Front, where his knowledge of various European languages and particularly of Italian had proved extremely useful.

Rome had attracted him for two reasons. First, because much of his childhood had been spent there, and he had felt a strong desire to revisit those scenes once so familiar. Secondly, he had received a cordial invitation from one Pio Ascarelli, a young Roman Marchese, to come to his house as often as he liked. Denis had been able to render some small but, as it proved, important service to Ascarelli during the time when their paths had merged on the Julian Front.

As an English officer, apparently well supplied with money, and with the valuable if tacit testimonial which intimacy at Casa Ascarelli bestowed, Denis found the doors of many agreeable houses thrown open to him. Captious critics might have remarked that he avoided the society of his brotherofficers and fellow-countrymen rather too scrupulously, but when charged with this he would smilingly assert that he had lived so long in Rome as a boy that he counted himself half an Italian, and felt more at home in the society of Italians than in that of Englishmen.

Denis had volunteered for service in the first days of the War. Up till then he had acted for some years as agent to old Lord Farewether, a Catholic peer and owner of large estates in the North of England. It was commonly supposed that he had given up his “job” in order to enlist, a mistake which Lord Farewether had never attempted either to contradict or to rectify.

Denis was at this time a dark singularly handsome man of nine and twenty. He became rapidly popular, and Roman gossip freely whispered that his footing in Palazzo Ascarelli promised to become permanent. Donna Camilla, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the house, was aware of the services rendered to Pio in a moment of perilous emergency, and she smiled gratefully upon the stranger who gazed at her with eyes as dark as her own.

Donna Camilla, though only just introduced to society, was already renowned for her beauty, and more than one young man of wealth and position had timidly approached the old Marchesa on her daughter’s behalf, but so far none of these overtures had met with success.

She was a slim strip of a girl with the small delicate features, the clear pale dark skin, the wellshaped patrician head, the tiny hands and feet of her race. Her father was dead, but her mother still lived, and guarded her treasure with jealous vigilance. The new freedom that in all lands had released women from their age-long captivity, had so far not penetrated within the walls of Palazzo Ascarelli. And in her watchful care the old Marchesa was supported by her two sons, Pio and Domenico, who were both nearly a decade older than their sister and since their father’s death had held a complete authority over her against which she did not dream of rebelling. She obeyed Pio — the head of the house and a strong-willed, autocratic, passionate man — as if he had been her father. She both loved and feared him. He had told her that she must be kind to Denis — to welcome him whenever he came to the house. Camilla very dutifully obeyed him. The path was made easy for Denis, the obstacles being, as it were, automatically removed.

There were fair and beautiful days in Rome that winter, and in their release from anxiety, people strove to recapture something of the old gay life with its dances and receptions despite the fierce and fatal onslaughts of the Spanish sickness that swept across the land, claiming its grim toll of victims as inexorably as the War had done. Pious people remembered the Pale Horse of the Apocalypse and dreaded lest the Black Horse of Famine should presently appear. . . . The epidemic entered Palazzo Ascarelli in February and carried off, after a few days’ illness, the old Marchesa.

Denis Lorimer attended the Requiem Mass and left cards of condolence at the palace. Pio had been passionately attached to his mother; he felt her loss even more keenly than did Camilla. Denis could hardly recognize this grief-worn man when he met him one morning in the Corso. He hardly liked to approach him, but Pio stopped him and informed him of his intention of leaving Rome, and of spending some months at the old Villa Ascarelli in the Umbrian hills.

“Domenico and Camilla will of course accompany me,” he said. Then he added, rather to Lorimer’s surprise, “I hope that perhaps later on you lO will pay us a visit there. There is not a great deal to do, but there are horses — you will have plenty of riding.’’

Denis thanked him. He secretly hoped that the invitation might come before he was compelled for urgent financial reasons to leave Rome. Otherwise the idyll which had begun so promisingly and which had of late begun to affect him seriously, must inevitably come to an end.

Pio bade him an abrupt farewell, and Denis, pursuing his way along the Corso, felt slightly depressed at the thought that the old palace, whose doors had always been so hospitably opened to him, would now be left untenanted. Pio might forget his promise to invite him to his country house. A shadow seemed suddenly to have fallen upon Rome.

It seemed to him that since the Marchesa’s death something of his intimacy with the family had slipped away. Immersed in his own grief, Pio had almost forgotten his new friend. Even to-day, while kindly and courteous, he had seemed like a stranger. He had not even suggested that Denis should pay a farewell visit to the palace; it had evidently never occurred to him that Lorimer had any special wish to see Camilla again. And yet — and yet — Denis could not help feeling convinced that he had at least awakened some slight interest in the young girl’s mind. He had never been actually alone in her company, but the rooms at the palace were very large, and they had often talked together quite out of hearing of the old Marchesa, who generally sat knitting close to the open fireplace, where the great olive logs burned with such fragrant aroma. Once he had shown her a photograph of Sledwick, that ancient pile where he had spent three extraordinarily happy years, and when she murmured slowly : “That is your home in Eng-

II land?” he had not contradicted it. He had only said evasively: “It was my home, but it’s let now, for a term of years. Taxation, you know, is awfully heavy in England since the War, and it falls heaviest on the landowner.”

Her interest in the picture had been pretty to see. Sledwick was nobly placed with great woods sheltering it from the north, and beyond them the famous moors where some of the finest grouse-shooting in England was to be had. Later on he had intended to tell Camilla that the house did not really belong to him, but that he had lived there on terms of intimate friendship with its owner. The Farewethers were not addicted to travel ; they preferred their own country; it was only rarely that a more than usually pious member of the family would visit Rome in order to see the Holy Father. Denis felt pretty safe; there was little chance of his deception being discovered, and he had observed that Camilla and her brothers implicitly believed in all those advantages of wealth and position which he had tacitly represented himself as possessing. They had accepted him as their friend, had received him on terms that were almost intimate, and from that moment had placed complete confidence in his word.

Camilla had begged to be permitted to keep the photograph of that ancient stone edifice, with the Gothic tower of a small chapel rising from the extreme westerly portion of it. Brought up in the pious traditions of her house, W interested her when Denis further told her that all through the melancholy, tragic days of religious persecution in England, the Light before the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel at Sledwick had never been extinguished. She had never been in England, and had always pictured it as a dreary sunless country wrapped in fog, but Denis had corrected this impression and had awakened within her a strong desire to go there. She knew her own country fairly well and had visited most of the important cities in it; she had spent several summers in Switzerland and a few weeks in Paris. But she felt that in all her travels she had never seen such a beautiful house as Sledwick. That haunt of ancient peace seemed to have cast a spell upon her, as perhaps indeed Denis intended that it should. He felt that his own significance had increased in her eyes. And although he was never quite happy or at ease with himself when he remembered the little episode, he little dreamed that it would affect his future so mercilessly.

'Some weeks passed, and Denis had already begun to regard his dwindling store of Italian lire with anxiety and dismay, when Pio’s letter arrived, confirming his invitation and even asking him to come as soon as he could conveniently do so. “It is very dull up here,” he wrote, “and Domenico has had to go away on business to the North. My sister and I are alone. It is not, I fear, very amusing, but the country round here is very beautiful, and we shall be able to show you all the neighboring hill-cities.”

It was in March, and Easter would not fall for another month. No arbitrary limit was fixed for his stay, and Denis hoped that if he played his cards well he might be invited to remain at least until Lent was over. Fortune seemed for once to be smiling upon him, for Pio’s letter had only just arrived in time and had relieved Denis at a highly critical moment.

Beyond these sordid considerations lay his desire to see Camilla again. She had been gone rather more than a month from Rome, and if her heart had any secret to td\ her, she must by now have learned it.

“Of course he is after her money. She will have a large fortune,” said the gossips of Rome. But although Denis certainly wanted money and wanted it badly, he felt that he would have loved Camilla just as passionately if she had been penniless. Sometimes hope ran very high, and then his courage would fail a little when he remembered that he would first have to approach Pio. Italian usage did not permit -a man, as in England, to approach the girl herself with an offer of marriage, a declaration of love. And there was always something within him that secretly feared Pio. He was a just man but a very hard one. When you looked at his finely-cut face, with its precise and definite outlines and sternly-molded lips and chin, you felt that it would be easier to win compassion from him than forgiveness. . . . Some such thoughts as these were in Denis’s mind that fair spring afternoon when the Roman train rolled into the little Umbrian station.

Pio was on the platform, wrapped in a short but voluminous fur coat, his face slightly reddened from exposure to the wind. He came quickly up to Denis and held out his hand with a smile of greeting. They went out into the road beyond and found a big red automobile awaiting them. Denis’s suitcase and bag were speedily brought and placed in the back of the car. Pio was driving, unaccompanied. Like many of his race he was a highlyskilled mechanic.

The scenery that lay outspread before them was wild and very beautiful. Spring was less advanced up here than it had been in Rome, and only a faint impalpable mist of green showed upon the woods. Olive-yards that were silver-colored and shone in the breeze that had sprung up, clothed the slopes of the hills, and here and there groups of giant cypresses lifted their inky-black spires to the sky.

In their rapid traveling they sometimes passed shining glimpses of Lake Trasimeno, lying like a blue jewel within its incomparable setting of hills. Sometimes a little brown hill-city, perched perilously, as it seemed, upon a ledge of rock, frowned defiance at them. In the distance they could see the towers of grim Perugia outlined against the sky, a formidable stronghold.

“That’s the Villa over there,” said Pio suddenly, indicating the direction with a nod of his head. Denis lifted his eyes a little and saw a great square stucco house standing magnificently in groves of superb ilex-trees, with a background of still leafless oaks and chestnuts beyond. A broad terrace stretched in front of the house, and below, the olives and vines flowed away from terrace to terrace into the plain.

“It’s been in our family a long time, and it’s rather falling to pieces,” continued Pio; “but now the War’s over, I mean to have it done up. I am very fond of it, and so is Camilla.” ^

He dropped into silence again. And very soon, as it seemed to Denis, the car was climbing the Steep winding road that led from the plain to Villa Ascarelli. It only then occurred to Denis that Pio had wished to make some kind of apology for the dilapidated state of his villa to the owner of Sledwick. The thought made him extremely uncomfortable, and he had a strong wish to acknowledge the false position in which he had wilfully placed himself. It would not do, however, to endanger his chances with Camilla by any premature or precipitate disclosure of the kind.

Donna Camilla, a slight figure in deepest mourning, was waiting on the terrace to receive them. Black was not becoming to her; she was too dark to wear it to advantage; nevertheless she looked extremely beautiful. Pio kissed her in a kind almost fatherly fashion, and she greeted Denis with a charming smile of welcome. Walking between the brother, and sister, Denis Lorimer passed through the great portone into the fine hall beyond.

Chapter II

T he days passed peacefully, if a trifle monotonously, at Villa Ascarelli. An aged priest. Father Antonio, who lived in some remote region of the old house and looked almost as if he were a part of it, said Mass every day at half past seven. The chapel shared in the general air of dilapidation-, with its tarnished gilding, its dim frescoed walls, its moth-eaten hangings from which all color had departed. Every member of the household, including all the servants, and a young man called Signor Basi, who seemed to act as secretary and agent to Pio, invariably attended this early Mass. Donna Camilla, her head draped in a thick black veil which tantalizingly hid her face, always knelt by her brother’s side on one of a row of prie-dieu chairs set apart for the ' family. When Mass was over, she disappeared to her own apartments and Denis seldom saw her again till luncheon time, unless some expedition had been planned for the morning. Pio was often too busy to arrange anything of the sort, but when possible he would go out for a couple of hours accompanied by Denis and Camilla, to visit some city or church in the neighborhood.

Denis had always suspected that Pio was completely master in his own house, but he had not quite realized until now, how absolute that rule was. Nothing was done — even the ordinary affairs of i6 housekeeping — ^without ultimate reference to him. Denis wondered sometimes if Donna Camilla ever chafed under this rule. Perhaps she was too young. Perhaps her will had never come into definite antagonism with Pio’s. She seemed deeply attached to her brother, and he to her. Pio was proud of Camilla, of her beauty, of her intelligence. He was as indulgent towards her as his nature permitted. But he was something of an autocrat, something too of a tyrant. To oppose him would be like resisting a stone wall.

Only once did Denis in those first days perceive the slightest disagreement between them. Camilla had a young maid called Ilda, who accompanied her whenever she went out for a walk and was nearly always in attendance on her. Camilla was fond of Ilda, and Denis had often heard them laughing and talking together. She was the only young thing in the place except Camilla herself; it was natural, he thought, that they should enjoy each other’s companionship. Once or twice it had passed through Lorimer’s mind that if he ever found courage to speak to Camilla of his love, regardless of national prejudice and custom, he might find in Ilda a useful and helpful ally. Not being accustomed to Italian servants, he thought she sometimes addressed her young mistress too familiarly, as if unaware of the class-barriers that divided them; he was also astonished one day when Camilla had reproved her rather sharply for some act of negligence, to see her go up almost immediately and kiss Ilda, as if to show that she was forgiven.

One evening at dinner Camilla came down with red eyes. She scarcely touched her food, and Denis perceived that she could only control herself with difficulty. When Pio addressed her, he did so in tones of icy politeness. Clearly there had been some quarrel or scene, and Denis as a third person.

presumably neutral, felt the awkwardness of his own situation.

Suddenly Camilla broke down altogether, hid her face in her hands and burst into passionate sobbing. Pio for a moment looked disconcerted; then he said:

“My dear Camilla, remember we are not alone. If you can’t control yourself, you’d better go up to your room!” His dark eyes flashed.

Had the two wills, the two fiery southern natures, come into conflict at last? . . .

“Oh, Pio — I can’t bear it without Ilda ! You must write and tell her that she may come back . . . it’s cruel to send her away. . .

Pio’s face hardened.

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” he said sternly; “I sent Ilda away because she didn’t obey me. Giulia can act as your maid; she is old and faithful.”

Camilla continued to sob. It was almost a relief when she rose from the table and left the room. Pio turned to his guest.

“She is still such a child,” he said half in apology, “and at times like all children she is very unreasonable. It had been my intention for some time past to send Ilda away. She was too young and frivolous, and Camilla ought to have some one older who can look after her better. I have been waiting for an opportunity, and to-day Ilda was not only insolent, but she disobeyed me. I sent her back to Rome to her mother at once.” He spoke rather sulkily, as if determined to defend his own action, which at first sight might appear hard and a little cruel.

“Your sister was very fond of her. Naturally she feels parting with her,” Denis ventured to say.

“Oh, she will soon forget all about her,” said Pio, “and I sometimes think Ilda did not have a good i8 influence over her. Once or twice I detected a tendency in Camilla to . . he hesitated, “to dispute my word, in little things. I think Ilda encouraged her to do so.”

Camilla did not appear again that evening. But Pio left Denis alone directly dinner was over, and presumably he went upstairs to reason with his sister. When she appeared the next day she looked very pale and as if she had not slept, but there were no traces now of those tempestuous tears which had so wrung Denis’s heart. He had been secretly furious with Pio for what he considered his harsh high-handed action in thus summarily dismissing Ilda. No doubt he had good reason for doing so, and as a watch-dog she was, even in Denis’s opinion, entirely inadequate. Still, he considered that Pio had been unnecessarily stern and unsympathetic.

Somehow the little incident with its accompanying glimpse into their intimate family life made Denis feel less like an honored stranger and much more like an old friend. He even ventured upon a few words of consolation and sympathy to Camilla herself when next he found himself alone with her. Her eyes filled with tears, and she seemed too much overcome to reply. Pio’s entrance put a stop to the little interview, and Denis purposely distracted his attention lest he should perceive his sister’s tears and inquire into the cause of them.

“I wish you would take Camilla for a ride this afternoon,” Pio said to him just before luncheon; “it will distract her and prevent her from thinking too much about Ilda.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Denis, unconsciously imitating something of his host’s courteous rather formal manner. Never before had it been suggested that he should ride with Camilla unattended by a third person. Pio was evidently bent on relaxing discipline for the moment, perhaps actuated by some obscure desire to make amends to Camilla for robbing her of her companion.

am too busy to go myself,” said Pio; “you can’t imagine what a number of things there are to see to in a place like this. When I am in Rome, things seem to go perfectly well here, but as long as I am living on the property, no one will stir a finger without consulting me.”

So there were disadvantages in autocracy, after all, reflected Denis. Pio’s presence would no doubt rob all his dependents of such initiative as they might possess. Denis could not but perceive certain side-lights that were thrown upon the character of Pio, now that he saw him at such close quarters, and almost unconsciously there sprang up in his heart an antagonism that began to color all his thoughts of him.

He was riding with Camilla that afternoon, when he said suddenly:

“You must miss Ilda. . . .”

“Yes, 5 miss her. But Pio has forbidden me to think about her any more — he even advised me not to speak of her.” Her delicate face assumed rather a hard set look.

“And do you always obey Pio?” said Denis, rather daringly.

“I try to. You see he is so much older — so much wiser. And I have no mother now to advise me. '

“You are very good,” said Denis, and this time he threw some little warmth of admiration into his voice.

“Oh, no,” said Camilla quickly, “Pm not at all good. You wouldn’t say that, if you knew me better. At first d was angry with Pio and bitter and rebellious — it quite shocked him. He had never spoken so sternly to me before. He sent Father Antonio to me. And then I went to confession — ”

She broke off. “Fm going to try and do as Pio says and not think about Ilda any more.”

Denis was aghast at the little recital. It showed him how completely Camilla was ruled and controlled by her brother, the kind of submission he extorted from her. When he thought of the absolute independence and freedom from all control, parental and otherwise, possessed by most girls of eighteen in England, he felt profoundly sorry for her. Yet she spoke quite calmly, almost like a child reviewing its own past naughtiness, recognizing it while deeply regretting it.

“But I think Pio was to blame for sending her away without even consulting you. It seemed to me an unjustifiable thing to do, and cruel into the bargain.” There was indignation in his tone, and his dark eyes flashed. He was angry with Pio for exercising this complete ascendancy over his sister, and yet he secretly envied him for possessing it. It showed him so clearly the real love she had for Pio, and her complete confidence in his judgment even though it made her suffer. Her words had given him an intimate insight into her character and mode of life. Intimate, yes, and poignant. . . .

Camilla turned to him suddenly.

“You mustn’t think I’m unhappy because I cried last night at dinner. I was unhappy then, yes, and angry — •! felt I couldn’t live without Ilda. Now I can see that Pio was quite right.” It seemed almost as if she discerned that Denis was still wholly unconvinced of the rectitude of her brother’s action. “You must try to forget all about it,” she added brightly. “Now I’m going to take you for my favorite ride. Just through those woods and down to the Lake. Pio will never come that way — he says there’s no place to gallop. But when I’m riding with you, I don’t want to gallop — ^I like to ride slowly and talk.” She made this announcement quite simply, perfectly unconscious of its effect upon Denis.

They emerged at last from the shadows of the ile»wood to a grassy space that looked down upon Lake Trasimeno, bright as a mirror and colored faintly blue under the wonderful March sky. They could see Cortona hanging upon its rock, with its many towers soaring skywards. There was a sense of spring in the air, and patches of wild anemones reddened the grass with their chalices. Camilla gazed at the view for a little in silence. She wished that Denis would speak.

“Do you like it?” she said at last.

““I wish I could tell you how much. I think this would be my favorite ride, too,” he answered.

“I wish Pio liked it. We hardly ever come here,” said Camilla.

A pale mist of green, impalpable as flame, hung over the chestnut woods. The growing wheat showed like spaces of emerald beneath the olive-trees. The vines, with their twisted knotted stems, as yet showed no sign of their perfumed blossoms, their golden buds. In the distance the Apennines lifted dazzling silver peaks against the sky.

“We must come here oflen — whenever we’re allowed to ride alone together,” said Denis.

“Yes — that will be perfect I” cried Camilla.

When they returned to the villa the swift spring dusk was beginning to fall, wrapping the world in its blue mantle soon to be strewn with stars. Pio was waiting for them on the terrace. As they approached him, Denis fancied that he glanced from one to the other with an interrogative, almost suspicious look. But he only said:

“You’ve been out a very long time, Camilla. I hope you’re not tired. I was beginning to think something had happened.”

Camilla slipped down from her horse, and the groom led it away. She linked her arm in her brother’s.

“We had a beautiful ride. I showed M.r. Lorimer my favorite view of the Lake. It was lovely to-day, and he admired it, too.” She smiled up into her brother’s face, and Pio’s grim features relaxed a little.

“But you must be careful not to overtire yourself,” he said.

And as he looked at Denis, who had just then joined them, it seemed as if his eyes held something of reproach.

Denis felt suddenly chilled. The rapprochement between the brother and sister was obviously very complete, and there was a curious tenderness now, in Pio’s manner to Camilla. Her laid his arm possessively across her shoulders, and Denis fancied that she crept closer to him as if in response. And yet there was nothing abject in her submission, nothing that warred against that fine pride of hers. . . .

Denis saw that the little episode now happily ended would effectually destroy all hope of Camilla’s listening to any kind of clandestine lovemaking on his part. She would certainly be careful for a long time to come not to offend or to disobey Pio. And in this avoidance of anything likely to disturb their present amicable relations, Denis knew that she would not be actuated by fear or any such servile sentiment. She loved Pio; she recognized his authority, she had supreme confidence in his judgment and decisions. It was her pleasure as well as her duty to do his will.

Denis, seeing all this, felt that his obscure and latent antagonism towards his host was likely to increase rather than to diminish. While Camilla was in this mood of renewed submission and contrition, it would be obviously foolhardy to approach her with any revelation of his own feelings towards her.

“Another time when you ride with Camilla, you mustn’t stay out quite so late,” Pio told him that evening. “She isn’t very strong, and the air after sundown is treacherous in Italy, especially in the winter and spring.”

“I’d no idea it was so late,’’ said Denis, writhing inwardly at the faint rebuke in the other’s tone. “We were looking at that superb view. I do hope your sister won’t be any the worse.”

Pio looked mollified. He had not yet begun to suspect that Denis had fallen in love with his sister.- Perhaps he considered the difference in their ages too great. Perhaps, regarding Camilla as a child to be petted and scolded, bidden and forbidden, he overlooked the fact that a young man might possibly see in her a beautiful charming woman whom he wished to marry.

His words, however, seemed to reassure Pio, who said almost apologetically: