CHAPTER I THE TWO OLD LADIES
On one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata, there
stands a house so small that an Englishman would probably take it for a lodge of
the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset cast their shadow over the
cottage and its terrace on to the steep white road. But any of the country people
could tell him that this, too, is a casa signorile, despite its smallness. It stands
somewhat high above the road, a square white house with a projecting roof, and
with four green-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The
beds under the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet who
desired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull a salad, for
they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white, and some tall gray
rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually large oleander faced a strong
and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with their profusion of red and white
sweetness, made amends for the dearth of garden flowers. At either end of the
terrace flourished a thicket of gum-cistus, syringa, stephanotis, and geranium
bushes; and the wall itself, dropping sheer down to the road, was bordered with
the customary Florentine hedge of China roses and irises, now out of bloom.
Great terra-cotta flower-pots, covered with devices, were placed at intervals
along the wall; as it was summer, the oranges and lemons, full of wonderfully
sweet white blossoms and young green fruit, were set there in the sun to ripen.
It was the 17th of June. Although it was after four o'clock, the olives on the steep
hill that went down to Florence looked blindingly white, shadeless, and sharp.
The air trembled round the bright green cypresses behind the house. The roof
steamed. All the windows were shut, all the jalousies shut, yet it was so hot that
no one could stir within. The maid slept in the kitchen; the two elderly mistresses
of the house dozed upon their beds. Not a movement; not a sound.
Gradually along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of distant
carriage-wheels. The sound came nearer and nearer, till one could see the
carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin, cab-horse, his bones starting
under the shaggy hide. Inside the carriage reclined a handsome, middle-aged
lady, with a stern profile turned toward the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton
and a broad hat trudged up the hill at the side.
"Goneril," said Miss Hamelyn, "let me beg you again to come inside the carriage."
"Oh no, Aunt Margaret; I'm not a bit tired."
