THE MEETING
The soft mantle of a southern twilight had fallen upon land and sea,
and the heart of the Palermitans was glad. Out they trooped into the
scented darkness, strolling along the promenade in little groups,
listening to the band, drinking in the cool night breeze from the sea,
singling out friends, laughing, talking, flirting, and passing on. A
long line of carriages was drawn up along the Marina, and many of the
old Sicilian aristocracy were mingling with the crowd.
Palermo is like a night blossom which opens only with the first breath
of evening. By day, it is parched and sleepy and stupid; by night, it
is alive and joyous–the place itself becomes an alfresco paradise. It
is night which draws the sweetness from the flowers. The air is heavy
with the faint perfume of hyacinths and wild violets, and a breeze
stirring amongst the orange groves wafts a delicious aromatic odour
across the bay. Long rays of light from the little semi-circle of
white-fronted villas flash across the slumbering waters of the harbour.
Out-of-door restaurants are crowded; all is light and life and bustle;
every one is glad to have seen the last of the broiling sun; every one
is happy and light-hearted. The inborn gaiety of the south asserts
itself. Women in graceful toilettes pass backwards and forwards along
the broad parade, making the air sweeter still with the perfume of
their floating draperies, and the light revelry of their musical
laughter.
‘Tis a motley throng, and there is no respecting of persons.
Townspeople, a sprinkling of the old nobility, and a few curious
visitors follow in each other’s footsteps. By day, those who can,
sleep; by night, they awake and don their daintiest clothing, and
Palermo is gay.
The terrace of the Hôtel de l’Europe extends to the very verge of the
promenade, and, night by night, is crowded with men of all conditions
and nations, who sit before little marble tables facing the sea,
smoking and drinking coffee and liqueurs. At one of these, so close to
the promenade that the dresses of the passers-by almost touched them,
two men were seated.
One was of an order and race easily to be distinguished in any quarter
of the globe–an English country gentleman. There was no possibility
of any mistake about him. Saxon was written in his face, in the cut of
his clothes; even his attitude betrayed it. He was tall and handsome,
and young enough not to have outlived enthusiasm, for he was looking
out upon the gay scene with keen interest. His features were well cut,
his eyes were blue, and his bronze face was smooth, save for a slight,
well-formed moustache. He wore a brown tweed coat and waistcoat,
flannel trousers, a straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he was smoking
a briar pipe, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet resting upon
the stone-work.
His companion was of a different type. He was of medium height only,
and thin; his complexion was sallow, and his eyes and hair were black.
His features, though not altogether pleasing, were regular, and almost
classical in outline. His clothes displayed him to the worst possible
advantage. He wore black trousers and a dark frock coat, tightly
fitting, which accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. The only
relief to the sombreness of his attire consisted in a white flower
carefully fastened in his button-hole. He, too, had been smoking, but
his cigarette had gone out, and he was watching the stream of people
pass and repass, with a fixed searching gaze. Though young, his face
was worn and troubled. He had none of the _sang-froid_ or the
pleasure-seeking carelessness of the Englishman who sat by his side.
His whole appearance was that of a man with a steadfast definite
purpose in life–of a man who had tasted early the sweets and bitters
of existence, joy and sorrow, passion and grief.
They were only acquaintances, these two men; chance had brought them
together for some evil purpose of her own. When the Englishman, who,
unlike most of his compatriots, was a young man of a sociable turn of
mind, and detested solitude, had come across him a few minutes ago in
the long, low dining-room of the hotel, and had proposed their sharing
a table and their coffee outside, the other would have refused if he
could have done so with courtesy. As that had been impossible he had
yielded, however, and they had become for a while companions, albeit
silent ones.
The Englishman was in far too good a humour with himself, the place,
and his surroundings, to hold his peace for long. He exchanged his
pipe for a Havana, and commenced to talk.
“I say, this is an awfully jolly place! No idea it was anything like
it. I’m glad I came!”
His _vis-à-vis_ bowed in a courteous but abstracted manner. He had no
wish to encourage the conversation, so he made no reply. But the
Englishman, having made up his mind to talk, was not easily repulsed.
“You don’t live here, do you?” he asked.
The Sicilian shook his head..
“No! It happens that I was born here, but my home was on the other
side of the island. It is many years since I visited it.”
He had made a longer speech than he had intended, and he paid the
penalty for it. The Englishman drew his chair a little nearer, and
continued with an air of increasing familiarity.
“It’s very stupid of me, but, do you know, I’ve quite forgotten your
name for the moment. I remember my cousin, Cis Davenport, introducing
us at Rome, and I knew you again directly I saw you. But I’m hanged if
I can think of your name! I always had a precious bad memory.”
The Sicilian looked none too well pleased at the implied request. He
glanced uneasily around, and then bent forward, leaning his elbow upon
the table so that the heads of the two men almost touched. When they
had come into the place, he had carefully chosen a position as far away
from the flaming lights as possible, but they were still within hearing
of many of the chattering groups around.
“I do not object to telling you my name,” he said in a low tone, sunk
almost to a whisper, “but you will pardon me if I make a request which
may appear somewhat singular to you. I do not wish you to address me
by it here, or to mention it. To be frank, there are reasons for
wishing my presence in this neighbourhood not to be known. You are a
gentleman, and you will understand.”
“Oh, perfectly,” the Englishman answered in a tone of blank
bewilderment.
What did it all mean? Had he run off with some one else’s wife, or was
he in debt? One of the two seemed to be the natural conclusion.
Anyhow, he did not want to know the fellow’s name. He had only asked
out of politeness, and if he were in any sort of scrape, perhaps it
would be better not to know it.
“I tell you what,” the Englishman explained, in the midst of the
other’s hesitating pause, “don’t tell it me! I can call you anything
you like for this evening. I daresay we sha’n’t meet afterwards, and
if you want to keep it dark about your being here, why, then, I sha’n’t
be able to give you away–by accident, of course. Come, I’ll call you
anything you like. Choose your name for the night!”
The Sicilian shook his head slowly.
“You have been told my name when I had the honour of being presented to
you at Rome,” he said, “and at any chance mention you might recall it.
I prefer to tell it to you, and rely upon your honour.”
“As you like.”
“My name is Leonardo di Marioni!”
“By Jove! of course it is!” the Englishman exclaimed. “I should have
thought of it in a moment. I remember, Davenport made me laugh when he
introduced us. His pronounciation’s so queer, you know, and he’s only
been at Rome about a month, so he hasn’t had time to pick it up. Good
old Cis! he was always a dunce! I suppose his uncle got him in at the
Embassy.”
“No doubt,” the Sicilian answered politely. “I have only had the
pleasure of meeting your cousin once or twice, and I know him but
slightly. You will not forget my request, and if you have occasion to
address me, perhaps you will be so good as to do so by the name of
‘Cortegi.’ It is the name by which I am known here, and to which I
have some right.”
The Englishman nodded.
“All right. I’ll remember. By the bye,” he went on, “I had the
pleasure of meeting your sister in Naples, I believe. She is engaged
to marry Martin Briscoe, isn’t she?”
The Sicilian’s face darkened into a scowl; the thin lips were tightly
compressed, and his eyes flashed with angry light.
“I was not aware of it,” he answered haughtily.
The other raised his eyebrows.
“Fact, I assure you,” he continued suavely, not noticing the Sicilian’s
change of countenance. “Martin told me about it himself. I should
have thought that you would have known all about it. Briscoe isn’t
half a bad fellow,” he went on meditatively. “Of course, it isn’t
altogether pleasant to have a father who makes pickles, and who won’t
leave off, although he must have made a fine pot of money. But Martin
stands it very well. He isn’t half a bad fellow.”
The Sicilian rose from his chair with a sudden impetuous movement. The
moonlight fell upon his white, furious face and black eyes, ablaze with
passion. He was in a towering rage.
“I repeat, sir, that I know of no such engagement!” he exclaimed, in a
voice necessarily subdued, but none the less fierce and angry. “I do
not understand your nation, which admits into the society of nobles
such men. It is infamous! In Sicily we do not do these things. For
such a man to think of an alliance with a Marioni is more than
presumption–it is blasphemy!”
“That’s all very well, but I only know what I was told,” the Englishman
answered bluntly. “It’s no affair of mine. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
The Sicilian stood quite still for a moment; a shade of sadness stole
into his marble face, and his tone, when he spoke again, was more
mournful than angry.
“It may be as you say, Signor. I have been travelling, and for many
months I have seen nothing of my sister. I have heard such rumours as
you allude to, but I have not heeded them. The affair is between us
two. I will say no more. Only this. While I am alive, that marriage
will not take place!”
He resumed his seat, and conversation languished between the two men.
The Englishman sat with knitted eyebrows, watching the people pass
backwards and forwards, with an absent, puzzled look in his blue eyes.
He had an indistinct recollection of having been told something
interesting about this man at the time of their introduction. He was
notorious for something. What was it? His memory seemed utterly to
fail him. He could only remember that, for some reason or other,
Leonardo di Marioni had been considered a very interesting figure in
Roman society during his brief stay at the capital, and that he had
vanished from it quite suddenly.
The Sicilian, too, was watching the people pass to and fro, but more
with the intent gaze of one who awaits an expected arrival than with
the idle regard of his companion. Once the latter caught his anxious,
expectant look, and at the same time noticed that the slim fingers
which held his cigarette were trembling nervously.
“Evidently looking out for some one,” he thought. “Seems a queer fish
anyhow. Is it a man or a woman, I wonder?”
Soon he knew.
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