CHAPTER XXXV WE ENTERTAIN AT THE VILLA

My father and I were sitting at breakfast on the following morning, out of doors, on the wooden balcony, when I again recurred to the visit which we were to receive.

Below us stretched a wild, neglected garden, picturesque but overgrown, and further away was a flourishing vineyard and a bare stretch of heath, only redeemed from absolute ugliness by the brilliant patches of wild-flowers and frequent groups of olive-trees. Although it was early morning the warm air was already laden with the languid, almost oppressive, scent of wild hyacinths and other odorous plants, and there seemed to be every promise of a scorching hot day. As usual, our breakfast consisted almost entirely of different sorts of fruits and the wine of the country, and until we had nearly finished and my father had leaned back in his low wicker chair, with the blue smoke from a cigarette curling around him, we scarcely interchanged a word.

"I wonder if there's anything in the house for lunch?" I remarked, rather abruptly.

My father looked at me with a mild astonishment, for we seldom asked one another questions of that sort, leaving almost everything to our housekeeper.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he acknowledged, languidly fanning himself with his hat. "Better ask Marie. Why this premature curiosity?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "We may have company," I remarked.

My father arched his eyebrows, and looked at me incredulously.

"Company, nonsense! You haven't asked your friends to luncheon, have you?"

I shook my head. "Haven't asked them, but I shouldn't wonder if they weren't here all the same. They are going to San Martino, and it occurs to me that by the time they reach here they may be glad of a rest. It's going to be a warmish day."

Marie had come out to take away the remains of our breakfast, and I appealed to her. She shrugged her massive shoulders discouragingly, and held up her hands. We were not often home for lunch, and she had provided nothing.

We looked at one another helplessly, my father and I, and then simultaneously broke into a short laugh.

"Let us hope your friends will have had a good breakfast, Hugh," my father said. "But, Marie," he added, "surely there were chickens?"

"Ah, surely, there were chickens, so many that they were becoming a nuisance! Pietro should kill some at once, that they might be cooked and cold by luncheon time."

"And omelettes, Marie; you can make omelettes?" I suggested.

She was half indignant at the idea of there being any doubt about it! Omelettes there could be, surely! Were not her omelettes equal to any one's? And if the signers were expecting visitors, they need have no fear! They might make their minds quite at rest. Lunch there should be, fit for any one.

We both breathed more freely, and decided that Marie was a treasure. Then I lounged off into the garden on a very womanish errand—namely, to gather some flowers to decorate the table with, and finally, having seen all things in a state of preparation, I mounted Jacko and rode off towards Palermo, leaving my father vastly amused at the orders I had given.

Just outside the city I met them in a heavy native carriage, and, turning round, I rode by their side. Frank and Mr. Leigh were also on mules, but Lady Olive, in a cream-coloured costume, and with a bunch of hyacinths, which I had given her the night before, in her bosom, was sitting in the carriage by her father's side. She welcomed me with the most becoming blush, and, as I touched her hand, I could not help thinking how fresh, and cool, and English-like she appeared. Perhaps my eyes told her something of my admiration, for she turned hers quickly away, and seemed eager to commence a conversation.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, how strange you look on that animal after the Black Prince! Aren't you afraid of your feet touching the ground?"

"Jacko is not to be despised," I assured her. "I'm afraid the Black Prince's knees would suffer in this country. Ever ridden one of these animals before?" I asked Mr. Leigh, who was by my side.

He smiled at the question.

"In very many countries," he answered. "I've crossed the Pyrenees, and cantered into Jerusalem on one. They're sure-footed beasts."

I looked at him with interest. Evidently he had been a traveller, and he was doubtless the man whom my father desired to meet.

There was not much opportunity for conversation, for the road was such that it took all our attention to remain safely in our saddles. Our progress, too, or rather the progress of the carriage, was slow, and long before we had arrived at the villa Lord Parkhurst began to look hot and Lady Olive a little bored. Only Frank seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, with that indifference to the weather which a hardy school-boy generally displays, galloping round in circles, and urging his animal, a respectable and highly disgusted old mule, into the most extraordinary antics. At last the ruined front of the villa, half hidden amongst the grove of orange-trees which stretched behind it, came in sight.

"What a dear old place!" remarked Lady Olive. "Who lives there, Mr. Arbuthnot?"

"At present we do," I said, riding up to the side of the carriage. "If you would really like to make my father's acquaintance, Lord Parkhurst, we should find him at home now, and he would be pleased to see you."

Lord Parkhurst seized upon the idea with avidity.

"I should like it above all things," he declared, "and a change from this beastly rackety machine and this broiling sun will be very welcome. What do you say, Olive?"

Lady Olive was quite of her father's opinion, and so in a few minutes a halt was made at the rusty iron gates supported by tottering grey stone pillars, and we all trooped up the grass-grown avenue.

My father met us at the door, and welcomed our guests with an air of dignified courtesy of which many years of seclusion had not robbed him. He brought up the rear, exchanging affable common-placisms with Lord Parkhurst, whilst I, with Lady Olive and the rest of the party, crossed the marble floor of the entrance-hall, stained and discoloured by age, and entered the larger of the two rooms which we had made some attempt at furnishing. The close-drawn blinds had kept out the burning sun, and after the fierce heat outside the room seemed cool and pleasant enough, although its decorations were faded and its walls in places dilapidated. Lady Olive, stretched in my father's easy chair, pronounced her firm intention of remaining where she was until the sun had lost some of its fierceness, and Lord Parkhurst, who was fanning himself with an air of great contentment, seemed by no means reluctant. So we sat there, a merry, chattering party, my father and Mr. Leigh deep in the discussion of some vexed point in the latter's book—a discussion in which Lord Parkhurst seemed also interested—and we younger ones talking in a somewhat lighter vein.

Presently Marie threw open the folding doors and announced luncheon, and my father, with Lady Olive on his arm—how many years was it, I wonder, since he had performed a like ceremony?—led the way out into the wide shaded balcony where lunch had been prepared. We were quite out of the sun, and the air here was fresh and cool, and laden with sweet scents from the orange-grove close at hand.

"I call this perfectly delicious," Lady Olive declared, sinking into her bamboo chair at the bottom end of the table. "Mr. Arbuthnot, your house is an enchanted one! I was just thinking how nice a bunch of grapes would be, and—behold!"

There were certainly plenty of grapes, and, with a snowy white cloth and the flowers which were intermingled with the fruit, and strewn all over it, the table looked very well for a bachelor abode. My father made a dignified but courteous host, and several times I found myself admiring his easy, natural manners, whilst Lady Olive, opposite to him, looked charming and bright, and kept us all talking and amused. After lunch was over my father and Mr. Leigh again became absorbed in a tête-à-tête, and, as Lord Parkhurst showed decided symptoms of indulging in a siesta, Lady Olive and I, with her brother Frank and the younger sister following, strolled down the steps into the neglected and luxuriantly overgrown but picturesque old garden. I am afraid we talked a good many soft nothings that afternoon, Lady Olive and I, my share in which I have often bitterly repented. But then, how many excuses there were! Lady Olive had openly professed herself to be a flirt, and as such I always regarded her, light-hearted, gay, and with winning manners, but a thorough-paced coquette. Her tender looks, and the soft light which so often shone in her dark eyes, had never been dangerous to me, for I had never believed in their sincerity. They had been very pleasant to respond to, and the occasional pressure of her small white fingers had been pleasant enough to feel. But I had always responded to these with a half-laughing acquiescence, feeling that I was playing my part in a game dangerous to neither of us. Experience has taught me that danger is an element never absent from such mocking interchanges of assumed affection, and that flirting, even in the most innocent manner, and even with one who calls herself a flirt, is better left alone.