how to act. At first she hadcontemplated explaining everything to her mother, but on reflection shesaw that there were certain reasons why her anxiety should not bearoused. Her Excellency was in very delicate health, and while inLondon had consulted a physician, who had told her that she must have aslittle mental worry as possible. For that reason Mary resolved to hidethe serious truth from her.
Dubard, with his studied elegance of manner, was entertaining the ladieswith droll stories, for he was something of a humourist, and essentiallya ladies' man. Once or twice as Mary's eyes met his he saw in them anexpression of deep anxiety, and of course knew well the reason.
The Fry girls were particularly interested in the young Frenchman, ofwhom they had heard as a new star in the social firmament in Rome duringthe previous season, but, being provincials, they had not met him. Bothwere dark and fairly good-looking; Eva aged about twenty-one, and Annatwo years her senior. Their father, Henry Fry, was an exporter ofmarble and of olive oil, who, like his father before him, carried onbusiness in Genoa, and had amassed a considerable fortune; but MrsFry's death three years previously had left the girls to shift forthemselves in the social world, and their mother having long been anintimate friend of Her Excellency, the latter each year invited thegirls up to San Donato as company for Mary.
Dinner ended at last, and the little party passed through the threegreat salons lit by the thousand wax candles in their antique sconces,into the minor drawing-room beyond, which was always used of an eveningbecause it was cosier and small enough to be carpeted.
The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instrumentsat Madame Morini's invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscanserenade--
"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 forsome responding glance.
But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of thatunfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing ingaol--and of Filomena Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.
"You are sad to-night," he managed to whisper to her as they turnedtogether from the singers.
She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.
Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a verypleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant ofmanner, and excessively polite--the kind of man who at once attracted awoman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly analyse her regard forhim, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality;or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which maybe 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 hislove for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as emptyand meaningless, and to assume that they were good friends and nothingmore. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would bepleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife ofa wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honouredtitle of Comtesse Dubard.
Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon thewhole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinctand unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of hissociety, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was atrifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was agreat breach between admiration and actual affection.
What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showedplainly that he was really her father's friend. And yet, strangelyenough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? shewondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely beforewarned!
"What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina," Dubardsaid in a low, sympathetic voice. "But do not be disquieted. I willassist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do nottell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know."
"I shall say nothing," was her reply. "But," she added, "I cannot helpfeeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to myfather and warn him."
"Oh, write if you wish," he exclaimed quickly. "Only recollect all thatI have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouseyour 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 reassure her, hewhispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely--
"You know, Mary, that I will do my very best--for your sake. You knowme sufficiently well for that."
He would have continued his protestations of affection had not thesingers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejointhe little group, much to Mary's relief, for at that moment she had nothought beyond her father's peril. She did not exactly mistrust thecount, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for herfather's safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, butshe experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.
He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, sheresponded, chanting one of those old _stornelli_ of the countryfolkwhich she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weirdlove-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was oneshe had taken down from the lips of a _contadino_ at Castellina a fewdays 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 himwith an expression which told him that he had created a favourableimpression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bellover the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests roseand parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostlycorridors by the domestics with candles.
Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tressesbefore the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarkedin surprise upon the signorina's preoccupied look.
"I'm very tired, that's all," Mary replied, and as quickly as possibledismissed the girl and locked her door.
Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she hadchosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with cleanchintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was ahandsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift fromher devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from theceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.
For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown,her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before herfather--and if so, it meant ruin for them all!
Should she disregard the count's suggestion and write to him, urging himto come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel aloneto Rome? Should she write in secret?
How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clockstruck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath herwindow, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed toher little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but wasdismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.
If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give theletter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for theyoung peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in themorning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paperin the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolvedto go and obtain some.
Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, andopening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor pasther mother's door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to thedoor at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room
fullof priceless editions.
As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenlyhalted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantryentertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises wereheard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact,she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, andcirculated among the superstitious folk in order to give the housebetter protection against thieves.
She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.
Yes, someone was moving in the library!
Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determinedto first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiouslyto the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through thekeyhole.
She was not mistaken.
A light shone within. The great green door of her father's safe stoodopen before