Part 15 (1/2)
The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments at Madame Morini's invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan serenade--
”Io ti amero finche le Rondinelle Avranno fatto il nido dell' amore; Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelle Vi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.
Io ti amero, Io ti amero, Fin che avro vita Mio bel tesor!”
As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for some responding glance.
But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languis.h.i.+ng in gaol--and of Filomena Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.
”You are sad to-night,” he managed to whisper to her as they turned together from the singers.
She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.
Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of manner, and excessively polite--the kind of man who at once attracted a woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly a.n.a.lyse her regard for him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality; or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.
True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty and meaningless, and to a.s.sume that they were good friends and nothing more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured t.i.tle of Comtesse Dubard.
Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a great breach between admiration and actual affection.
What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed plainly that he was really her father's friend. And yet, strangely enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be forewarned!
”What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina,” Dubard said in a low, sympathetic voice. ”But do not be disquieted. I will a.s.sist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know.”
”I shall say nothing,” was her reply. ”But,” she added, ”I cannot help feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my father and warn him.”
”Oh, write if you wish,” he exclaimed quickly. ”Only recollect all that I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse your father's apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless.
No?” he went on. ”Remain patient, and leave everything to me.”
She sighed, without replying; then, in order to rea.s.sure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely--
”You know, Mary, that I will do my very best--for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that.”
He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary's relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father's peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father's safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.
He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those old _stornelli_ of the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of a _contadino_ at Castellina a few days previously--
”Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia, Non ti voglio amar piu, non n'ho piu voglia...
Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!”
And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening pa.s.sed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.
Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina's preoccupied look.
”I'm very tired, that's all,” Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.
Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.
For a long time she sat before the gla.s.s in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father--and if so, it meant ruin for them all!
Should she disregard the count's suggestion and write to him, urging him to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone to Rome? Should she write in secret?