Part 52 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIV

The servant who opened the door for Leslie on this softly brilliant June morning, being well accustomed to admitting her, obligingly antic.i.p.ated her question, ”Are the ladies at home?”

”The _signorina_ is in the _salottino_,” he said. From which Leslie understood that the person whom she chiefly had come to see was out. It did not really matter, for she had time to wait. Aurora was likely to come back for lunch.

She released the man from attendance by a little wave of her hand, ”Never mind announcing me!” and directed her footsteps toward the tall white-and-gold door standing partly open.

On her way to it she picked up off the floor a small lawn handkerchief.

The ball-room impressed her anew as being very vast, very empty, furnished almost solely as it was by the sparkling chandeliers, every pendant of which to-day was gay with reflections of the green and flowery and sun-washed outdoors.

She turned toward the _salottino_, remotely wondering by what chance Estelle was preferring it to the favorite red and green sitting-room upstairs. The _salottino_ had utility when a party was going on, but to sit and embroider or study French surrounded by all those fountains of love....

A sharp bark preceded the tumbling out through the _salottino_ door of a little white mop on feet. Upon recognizing Leslie, this performed evolutions expressive of great joy.

She had stopped to pat the excited little swirl of silk when Estelle came forward to see who was there.

With delighted good mornings the women exchanged the foreign salute, which Leslie had adopted and Estelle submitted to, a mere touching of cheeks while the lips kiss the air.

They sat down on the rococo settee to talk, Leslie, quick of eye, wondering what had happened to give Estelle that unusual air, an air of--no, it was indefinable. Excitement had a share in it, and possibly chagrin, and, it almost seemed, exaltation. The chief thing about it, however, was that she was trying to conceal it; doing her best, but it was a poor best, to appear natural. Leslie graciously allowed her to suppose she was succeeding, and entered at once upon the reason for her early call.

”I really think, Estelle, that the villa at Antiniano would suit Aurora.

As for you, I am positive, my dear, that you would adore it. It is a little out of the thick of things, but has a very fine view of the sea, also a very pretty garden. Certain conveniences, of course, it hasn't, but, then, you mustn't expect those of an Italian villa. I saw Madame Rossi yesterday, and she said she wished you would make an excursion to Antiniano to see for yourselves. She is sure you would be charmed. One request she would make: that the peasant family be allowed to continue in their little corner of the house, where they wouldn't be the least in your way, and then that the little donkey should be allowed to remain in the stable. But in return you could use him, she said.”

”Ride him?”

”Yes, or harness him. For the country, why not, my dear? They are ever so strong little beasts.”

Estelle began to laugh, presumably at the picture of Aurora on donkey-back, or, with herself, exhilarating the country-side by the vision of them drawn in a donkey-cart. Leslie joined in her merriment, but expostulatingly, and, warned by a note in Estelle's laugh, watched her with suspicion while it developed into a nervous cackle. She saw her cover her eyes with one hand, and with the other vainly feel in her pocket. She was crying. Leslie tendered the little handkerchief found on the floor, and knew then that it had dried tears before on that same day. She waited, tactfully silent, merely placing a condoling hand over her friend's.

”I might as well tell you,” Estelle got out, when her crying fit permitted her to speak, ”that Aurora isn't going to take any villa at Antiniano this summer.... She's gone away.”

”Gone away? What do you mean?” asked Leslie, surprised into a very complete blankness of expression.

”What I say.” And in her incalculable frame of mind Estelle again was laughing. ”Oh, I don't know which to do, whether to laugh or cry!” she explained, with eyes bright at once from laughter and from tears. ”One moment I laugh, next moment I cry. I feel as if I were walking in my sleep. I guess what I need is a nerve-pill.”

”You say that Aurora has gone away. Where?”

”Where Gerald pleases, I guess. She's gone with him.”

”With Gerald? Now, my dear friend, please explain. You laugh, you cry.

You say Aurora has gone away with Gerald. Please collect yourself and tell me what it means. 'Gone away with Gerald.' How do you mean gone away with him?”

”I mean they have eloped, or as good as.”

”No, no; people don't elope when there is neither an inconvenient husband, nor unamenable parents, nor any possible reason why they should not have each other if they wish to.”

”I wonder what you would call it, then. As late as twelve o'clock last night I didn't know a thing about it, and this morning early they left together in a carriage, with her trunk strapped on the back.”

Leslie lifted her hands to her temples and pressed them as if to keep her head from a dangerous expansion with the size of the new idea that must find a home there.

”So it was in earnest!” she said aloud, yet as if speaking to herself.