Peter climbed up to his observatory--a square four-windowed
turret, at the top of the house--thence to watch the storm and
exult in it. Really it was splendid--to see, to hear; its
immense wild force, its immense reckless fury. Rain had never
rained so hard, he thought. Already, the lake, the mountain
slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were totally blotted
out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even the
neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own
garden, were barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog. The
big drops pelted the river like bullets, sending up splashes
bigger than themselves. And the tiled roof just above his head
resounded with a continual loud crepitation, as if a multitude
of iron-shod elves were dancing on it. The thunder crashed,
roared, reverberated, like the toppling of great edifices. The
lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long blinding
zig-zags. The wind moaned, howled, hooted--and the square
chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its
buffetings, and was full of the chill and the smell of it.
Really the whole thing was splendid.
His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond
his hedge was transformed to a shallow torrent . . . . And,
just at that moment, looking off along the highroad, he saw
something that brought his heart into his throat.
Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain
--the Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest.
In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate.
"Come in--come in," he called.
"We are simply drenched--we shall inundate your house," the
Duchessa said, as he showed them into his sitting-room.
They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees
with mud.
"Good heavens!" gasped Peter, stupid. "How were you ever out
in such a downpour?"
She smiled, rather forlornly.
"No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for
a good long walk--for pleasure."
"You must be wet to the bone--you must be perishing with cold,"
he cried, looking from one to another.
"Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold," she admitted.
"And I have no means of offering you a fire--there are no
fireplaces," he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian
room, to certify their absence.
"Is n't there a kitchen?" asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of
raillery kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.
Peter threw up his hands.
"I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell
Marietta to light a fire."