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Page 76
"Now I write to the post-office at Milan, where your servant
directed me that letters should for the moment be sent. If
you are returning soon, I wait for you. If not, it may be
possible to meet in Italy. But I should prefer to think
you return ere long, for I cannot be of practical service
until I have myself, with your permission, visited your
house and seen the Grey Room with my own eyes.
"I beg you will accept my assurances of kindly regard and
sympathy in the great sufferings you and Madame May have
been called upon to endure.
"Until I hear from you, I remain at Claridge's Hotel in
London.
"I have the honor to be,
"Faithfully yours,
"Vergilio Mannetti."
To this communication, albeit he felt little hope, Sir Walter made
speedy response. He declared his intention of returning to England
during the following week, after which he hoped that Signor
Mannetti would visit Chadlands at any time convenient to himself.
He thanked him gratefully, but feared that, since the Italian based
his theory on a crime, he could not feel particularly sanguine, for
the possibility of such a thing had proved non-existent.
Mary, however, looked deeper into the letter. She even suspected
that the writer himself entertained a greater belief in his powers
than he declared.
"One has always felt the Grey Room is somehow associated with
Italy," she said. "The ceiling we know was moulded by Italians in
Elizabeth's day."
"It was; but so are all the other moulded ceilings in the house as
well."
"He may understand Italian workmanship, and know some similar roof
that hid a secret."
"The roof cannot conceal an assassin, and he clearly believes
himself on the track of a crime." Nevertheless, Sir Walter's
interest increased as the hour approached for their return home.
Only when that was decided did he discover how much he longed to
be there. For the horror and suffering of the past were a little
dimmed already; he thirsted to see his woods and meadows in their
vernal dress, to hear the murmur of his river, and move again
among familiar voices and familiar paths.
Chadlands welcomed them on a rare evening of May, and the very
genuine joy of his people moved Sir Walter not a little. Henry
Lennox was already arrived, and deeply interested to read the
Italian's letter. He and Mary walked presently in the gardens
and he found her changed. She spoke more slowly, laughed not at
all. But she had welcomed him with affection, and been
interested to learn all that he had to tell her of himself.
"I felt that it would disappoint you to be stopped at the last
moment," she said, "but I knew the reason would satisfy you well
enough. I feel hopeful somehow; father does not. Yet it is hope
mixed with fear, for Signor Mannetti speaks of a great crime."
"A vain theory, I'm afraid. Tell me about yourself. You are well?"
"Yes, very well. You must come to Italy some day, Henry, and let
me show you the wonderful things I have seen."
"I should dearly love it. I'm such a Goth. But it's only brutal
laziness. I want to take up art and understand a little of what
it really matters."
"You have it in you. Are you writing any more poetry?"
"Nothing worth showing you."
She exercised the old fascination; but he indulged in no hope of
the future. He knew what her husband had been to Mary, despite
the shortness of their union; and, rightly, he felt positive that
she would never marry again.
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