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Page 77
A mournful spectacle appeared, drawn by the sound of well-known
voices, and the old spaniel, Prince, crept to Mary's feet. He
offered feeble homage, and she made much of him, but the dog had
sunk to a shadow.
"He must be put away, poor old beggar; it's cruel to keep him
alive. Only Masters said he was determined he should not go while
Uncle Walter was abroad. Masters has been a mother to him."
"Tell father that; he may blame Masters for letting him linger on
like this. He rather hoped, I know, that poor Prince would be
painlessly destroyed, or die, before he came back."
"Masters would never have let him die unless directed to do so."
"And I'm sure father could never have written the words down and
posted them. You know father."
Letters awaited the returned travellers, one from Colonel Vane,
who described his meeting with Signor Mannetti, and hoped something
might come of it; and another from the stranger himself. He
expressed satisfaction at his invitation, and proposed arriving at
Chadlands on the following Monday, unless directions reached him
to the contrary.
When the time came, Sir Walter himself went into Exeter to meet
his guest and bring him back by motor-car. At first sight of the
signor, his host experienced a slight shock of astonishment to
mark the Italian's age. For Vergilio Mannetti was an ancient man.
He had been tall, but now stooped, and, though not decrepit, yet
he needed assistance, and was accompanied and attended by a
middle-aged Italian. The traveller displayed a distinguished
bearing. He had a brown, clean-shaved face, the skin of which
appeared to have shrunk rather than wrinkled, yet no suggestion
of a mummy accompanied this physical accident. His hair was still
plentiful, and white as snow; his dark eyes were undimmed, and
proved not only brilliant but wonderfully keen. He told them more
than once, and indeed proved, that behind large glasses, that lent
an owl-like expression to his face, his long sight was unimpaired.
His rather round face sparkled with intelligence and humor.
He owned to eighty years, yet presented an amazing vitality and a
keen interest in life and its fulness. The old man had played the
looker-on at human existence, and seemed to know as much, if not
more, of the game than the players. He confessed to this attitude
and blamed himself for it.
"I have never done a stroke of honest work in my life," he said.
"I was born with the silver spoon in my mouth. Alas, I have been
amazingly lazy; it was my metier to look on. I ought, at least,
to have written a book; but then all the things I wanted to say
have been so exquisitely said by Count Gobineau in his immortal
volumes, that I should only have been an echo. The world is too
full of echoes as it is. Believe me, if I had been called to work
for my living, I should have cut a respectable figure, for I
have an excellent brain."
"You know England, signor?"
"When I tell you that I married an English-woman, and that both my
sons have English blood in their veins, you will realize the
sincerity of my devotion. My dear wife was a Somerset."
Mary May always declared that the old Italian won her heart and
even awakened something akin to affection before she had known him
half an hour. There was a fascination in his admixture of childish
simplicity and varied knowledge. None, indeed, could resist his
gracious humor and old-world courtesies. The old man could be
simple and ingenuous, too; but only when it pleased him so to be;
and it was not the second childishness of age, for his intellect
remained keen and moved far more swiftly than any at Chadlands.
But he was modest and loved a jest. The hand of time had indeed
touched him, and sometimes his memory broke down and he faltered
with a verbal difficulty; but this only appeared to happen when he
was weary.
"The morning is my good time," he told them. "You will, I fear,
find me a stupid old fellow after dinner."
Signor Mannetti proved a tremendous talker, and implicitly revealed
that he belonged to the nobility of his country, and that he
enjoyed the friendship of many notable men. The subject of his
visit was not mentioned on the day of his arrival. He spoke only
of Italy, laughed to think he had passed through Florence to seek
Sir Walter in England, and then, finding his hostess a neophyte at
the shrines of art, attuned himself to the subject for her benefit.
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