It was a wonderful drive. Beppo, who acted as chauffeur, was skilful and
daring—the unkind would have called him reckless. He took the old,
almost worn-out, motor-car where most drivers would have feared to
venture, but Lily, physically, was very brave, and once or twice when
the Marchese uttered a word of remonstrance she was surprised, and a
little amused.
She was still absorbed in what had happened, and in going over and over
again every word of her strange talk with the woman who now sat,
absolutely silent, by Beppo Polda’s side.
Certain passages of the conversation remained far more vividly in Lily’s
mind than others. Thus, while she hardly gave a thought to the question
to which the Marchesa attached such tremendous importance—the question
of how Aunt Cosy procured the money which she now and again sent or gave
to her son—the English girl kept thinking of what the other woman had
said about her, Lily Fairfield, and Beppo.
She felt a good deal disturbed, and at the same time thrilled and moved.
Was Beppo really in love with her? Certainly his manner was very, very
different when they two, by chance, found themselves alone, even for a
few moments. He then either became at once ardent and deferential—or
coaxing, affectionate, and delightfully confidential.
This last had been his attitude during the drive he had taken her the
day before yesterday, and it was the mood in which she liked him best.
When he gazed with burning eyes into her face, the while paying her
outrageous compliments, she felt shy, and very ill at ease. At such
moments he seemed to be trying an experiment—trying, that is, to rouse
in her a feeling her whole being denied him the right to exact. And
yet—and yet she did find him an exciting and stimulating companion, and
she could not help being glad he was staying on in Monte Carlo....
All at once the motor began to slow down. They were going over the
yellow, marshy piece of rough road where they had stopped during the
first drive Lily had taken with Beppo and his friends.
The Marchese exclaimed in his careful English: “It is a spring under the
earth. Never dry here!”
Once they were safely across the marshy place, Beppo began driving along
what was little more than a path cut through a big olive grove, which
brought them, far sooner than Lily expected, to the front door of La
Solitude.
“There is no short cut around here that I do not know,” the young man
said, as he helped her down; and almost at the same moment the Marchesa
called out: “I cannot do myself the pleasure of coming in to see the
Countess, for a friend is coming to tea. Will you return to dinner
to-night, and then accompany us to the Club, Lily?”
“I’ve promised to dine with M. Popeau. But I believe”—she
hesitated—“that he is going to take me into the Club.”
“Then we shall meet once again—so? I am glad!”
* * * * *
To Lily’s relief, Aunt Cosy made no objection at all to her spending the
evening with M. Popeau and Captain Stuart. In fact, she seemed pleased
rather than otherwise that the girl should be going to do what must yet
seem to Continental ideas a very unconventional thing.
But perhaps because she now knew that her son intended to stay on for a
little longer in Monte Carlo, the Countess’s manner was extraordinarily
effusive. She seemed excited, unlike herself—indeed, her air of
contentment, almost of joy, was in curious contrast to Cristina’s
overcast countenance. The old woman looked nervous, unhappy, and ill at
ease; and when fastening up Lily’s pretty evening frock she gave a long,
convulsive sigh.
“Is anything the matter, Cristina?”
“No, Mademoiselle. There is nothing more the matter than there has been
for a very long time,” was the cryptic answer.
At a quarter to eight M. Popeau called for Lily, and during the rapid
drive down into Monte Carlo he observed suddenly:
“The Countess does not look like herself to-night. I wonder what has
happened to so excite and please her? _Have you any idea of the
reason?_”
He asked the question in a very peculiar tone, and Lily, surprised,
answered: “Beppo is staying on in Monte Carlo. He may even come to La
Solitude for a few days. That is quite enough to account for Aunt Cosy’s
good humour.”
“Are the Pescobaldis leaving to-morrow?”
“Yes, and it’s because Beppo can’t get the room he wants at the Hidalgo
Hotel that he is thinking of honouring his mother by paying us a short
visit!”
Lily could not help a sarcastic inflection coming into her voice. She
liked Beppo very much, but she had no sympathy with his love of luxury,
and of having everything “just so” about him. After all, what was good
enough for his father and mother—to say nothing of herself—ought to be
good enough for him!
“So, so,” said M. Popeau thoughtfully. “The young Count is not going
away?”
Lily looked around quickly. M. Popeau spoke in a singular, preoccupied
tone.
“I had occasion to-day to look through the private telegrams which have
arrived at Monte Carlo in the last twelve hours——” he hesitated, and
then added slowly, significantly: “and I saw a telegram which I believe
contained news which more than accounts for the Countess being so joyous
to-night.”
“Really?” said Lily uncomfortably. “How very strange.”
Somehow it shocked her very much that M. Popeau should have the right to
look at private telegrams sent through the Post Office. It seemed to her
a very improper thing to happen! No doubt the telegram concerned the
Countess’s mysterious money matters—those money matters concerning which
the Marchesa Pescobaldi had shown such intense interest and curiosity.
“Do you know anything of such a telegram?” asked the Frenchman.
He asked the unexpected question very gravely, and as Lily shook her
head, a look of relief came over his face.
“I’m glad of that!” he said. “Somehow I did not believe that you had
seen the telegram I have in my mind. But I regard it as almost certain
that the Countess will show it you either to-night, or to-morrow
morning.”
Lily was rather taken aback by these mysterious words. But she regarded
M. Popeau as being rather fond of saying mysterious things and of making
mysterious allusions, so she remained silent; and soon she was far too
much absorbed in the amusing, brilliant scene in which she found herself
at once a spectator and an actress to give any thought to what he had
said.
The Old Casino—as habitués of Monte Carlo have fallen into the way of
calling it—has now been given over for some years to the ordinary
tourist. Not so the so-called Sporting Club. To the Club any man can
obtain admission who can prove that he is a member of a reputable club
in whatever may be his own country.
Lily was astonished to see the grandiose way in which everything was
conducted there. All the diners in the restaurant of the Club wore
evening dress, and the great rooms had a palatial splendour about them,
while the decorations were in very much better taste than those of the
rooms at the Casino.
They had found Captain Stuart waiting for them, and after they had
finished dinner the three went off and looked on at the already high
play going on at the tables.
The Club was far more Lily’s original idea of a famous gambling resort
than had been the Casino. The people about her looked, too, of a
different class from those she had seen in the other place.
After they had strolled about from table to table, Monsieur Popeau now
and again risking a sovereign or two, Lily saw Beppo Polda and the
Marchesa Pescobaldi coming slowly towards her.
When the necessary introductions had been made, the Marchesa began to
talk eagerly to the Frenchman, whom she at once remembered having met
before the war.
Angus Stuart, with something like a scowl on his face, moved away from
the two couples, but he was still near enough to hear Beppo Polda
murmur: “I have never seen you in evening dress before, Lily—how lovely
you look!”
“What a cad the man must be to say such a thing!” Angus Stuart almost
said the words aloud.
Lily laughed nervously. “I have never known anyone pay so many
compliments as you do, Beppo! If any of my old friends heard the things
you sometimes say they would think you were making fun of me——”
“They would be fools! You _do_ look beautiful to-night—so beautiful that
I am not going to risk my luck at the tables. I should be sure to win,
and if I won I should be in despair!”
Of course Lily knew that Beppo meant to imply that the gambler who is
lucky at play is unlucky in love. Again she laughed nervously, but in
spite of herself she felt that there was something alluring in her
companion’s deep voice and absorbed ardent gaze.
“I can think of many good reasons why you should not play, Beppo!”
She uttered the simple words coquettishly, and Angus Stuart bit his
lips. This was a side of Lily Fairfield he had not known was there, and
a sudden, passionate wave of anger and disgust swept over him. But
instead of moving away, as he would have been wise to do, he moved just
a little nearer to the tall, distinguished-looking foreigner and the
fair, flushed, English girl, whose delicate beauty was certainly set off
to great advantage by her pale grey gown and quaint-looking evening
cloak.
The young Scotsman heard Beppo Polda say in a very low voice: “You know
that from to-morrow I stay at La Solitude?”
“I’m glad of that,” Lily said smiling.
“Is that really true? Your words make me so happy—happier than you know,
Lily!”
Beppo was gazing down eagerly into her face, and Angus Stuart felt a
wild impulse come over him—if only he could knock the fellow down.
“I’m glad you’re coming to La Solitude, because I know it will please
Aunt Cosy. You know that I have always thought it unkind of you to have
gone to the Hidalgo Hotel when she was expecting you to stay with her,”
and this time Lily spoke quite seriously.
“If I had known who would be at La Solitude I should have come there
straight,” Beppo answered.
And Angus Stuart again felt that hot, unreasonable rush of rage possess
him. How dare this fellow talk in that intimate way to a girl of whom he
had seen very much less than he, Stuart, had done? And why did Lily seem
to enjoy those boldly turned compliments?
Captain Stuart told himself bitterly that women were all alike; also
that he had made a mistake—that Lily was not the kind of a girl he had
taken her to be. What would have been more easy than for her to snub
Count Beppo? He remembered how she had snubbed dear old Hercules Popeau
on their long journey from Paris, when the Frenchman, presuming on his
age, had been perhaps a thought too familiar in his manner; and yet she
allowed this—this bold brute to say what he liked to her!
“When I am at La Solitude,” went on Beppo in a low tone, “I shall be a
good boy, and never come down to Monte Carlo! We will go up each morning
to the golf club and have a round. In the afternoons I will take you
drives among the mountains. I have already managed to hire a two-seater
for a week.”
Lily felt a little startled by his eager, intimate tones; also she had
caught a glimpse of Angus Stuart’s face.
“I shan’t be able to be idle all day long,” she said hurriedly. “I have
asked the English chaplain here if he can’t find me something to do.
I’ve already had a month of complete holiday, and somehow I find that
idleness doesn’t suit me.”
Beppo Polda looked extremely surprised and, yes, displeased.
“What nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, but it isn’t nonsense.” Lily was speaking very decidedly now.
“There’s a convalescent home for English soldiers near here, and I have
already arranged to go there and help with some of the work. I’m quite
looking forward to it!”
“Does mamma know of this foolish plan?” asked Beppo.
“No, I haven’t told Aunt Cosy yet. But she and I quite understand one
another.” Lily looked up at him a little defiantly. “She knows that I am
an English girl, and that I am used to doing what I wish—and to going
about by myself.”
At that moment the Marchesa Pescobaldi detached herself from M. Popeau
and came smilingly towards them.
“I fear I must leave this charming scene,” she exclaimed, “for we make
an early start to-morrow morning—my husband and I.”
She bent forward, and, to Lily’s astonishment, kissed her warmly.
“Good-bye, my little friend!” she said in French. “Perhaps next time we
meet in Rome? Do not forget what I said to you to-day. You and I are
friends—_whatever happens_—henceforth!”
Lily felt a sudden feeling of recoil from the beautiful woman. She
wondered—wondered—wondered whether the Marchesa really had the Evil Eye?
Feeling a little ashamed of herself, she made the curious little
symbolic sign with her finger and thumb which M. Popeau had once told
her was supposed to avert ill-luck.
Beppo bowed ceremoniously. “_A demain_, Lily,” he said quietly. And then
he escorted the Marchesa out through the mass of slowly-moving people.
Lily watched them threading their way among the crowd; then she looked
round, and felt a little bewildered and surprised to find herself close
to a table where a big duel was going on between a small group of
players and the bank.
Suddenly she saw that M. Popeau and Angus Stewart were standing apart
near one of the now closely-curtained windows. They were talking
earnestly, and Lily would have been very much surprised had she known
what M. Popeau had drawn Angus Stuart aside to say.
* * * * *
“At the risk of offending you, I beg you to forget yourself, my friend.
Believe me, she is in danger!”
“I am not thinking of myself,” said Angus Stuart in an angry tone, “and
I am trying not to think of her! If Miss Fairfield is in danger, it is
her own fault. How can she allow that fellow to make love to her in that
open, impudent way?”
“She is a child, and, though intelligent, has no knowledge of life at
all,” said M. Popeau slowly. “Let me remind you of the truest of our
French proverbs: ‘To know all is to forgive all.’ I lay claim to know, I
will not say everything, but a good deal that I do not feel I can say to
you. I regard her as being in real danger of having her life wrecked by
a number of cruel, selfish, and unscrupulous people, who care for her as
much as I do for that piece of paper on the floor! I refer, of course,
to the Count and Countess Polda; also, incidentally, to the Marchesa
Pescobaldi, who, in this affair, is proving once again that even a
heartless woman may be a sublimely unselfish lover. I did my best the
other day to warn Miss Fairfield. I was, as they say in England, snubbed
for my pains!” He laughed a little ruefully.
“Seriously, Stuart, I have learnt something to-day which makes it quite
clear to me that the Countess Polda—there is something sinister about
that woman, I wish I could find out what it is—will make a tremendous
effort to attach this English girl to her son. Should she succeed—I say
it in all solemnity—that sweet child will soon be changed from a happy,
joyous young thing into a grief-worn miserable woman! I speak of what I
know. I am an old man, and I have become attached to you.”
He paused, and Angus Stuart muttered something under his breath. Was it,
“You’re a good chap, Popeau”?
The Frenchman went on, speaking much more slowly than was his wont. “You
have your chance to-day. Remember what Shakespeare says, ‘There is a
tide in the affairs of men.’ That tide has come to you _now_. Take her
back to La Solitude, my friend, and speak to her on the way. It is a
fine night. Why should you two not walk up there, through the scented
orange groves? I always look at a woman’s feet, and to-night I noticed
that Miss Lily was shod in good strong shoes. I was surprised, but
glad,” he concluded quaintly.
“But what shall I say to her?” asked the other.
M. Popeau looked at him shrewdly.
“I do not press you to speak to her of your own feelings. That is a
matter that every man must settle for himself. But I want you to put her
on her guard. Beppo Polda is a charmer of women.” He saw that his words
made the young Scotsman wince.
“It is a great mistake when one is thinking of things as serious as is
this thing, to avoid looking at the truth. Beppo Polda, I repeat, is a
charmer. And, unfortunately, he likes and admires Miss Lily. I go
farther, I say that she is Beppo Polda’s ideal of what a man’s wife
should be. But does that mean that he would be kind or faithful to her
after the first few weeks of married life _if temptation came his way_?”
He paused—then answered his own question. “No, of course he would not
be! He would always respect her, no doubt, but respect does not satisfy
an Englishwoman, as it so often does a Frenchwoman or an Italian.
Married to Beppo Polda,” concluded M. Popeau very solemnly, “our little
Lily would wither like a flower put into a hot gas-oven.”
It was a quaint, almost a grotesque, simile, but somehow it impressed
Angus Stuart deeply.
“From to-morrow,” went on M. Popeau, “Beppo Polda will be living at La
Solitude. They will be together all day long, and he will make love to
her all day long. His mother will help and abet him in every conceivable
way possible.”
“But what am I to say to her? She will think me impertinent—and she will
be right! I have no standing in this matter, Popeau—would to Heaven I
had!”
“In your place,” said Hercules Popeau impressively, “I would sacrifice
myself for her.”
“Heaven knows I am willing to do that!”
“Are you really willing, my friend? Are you willing to put your pride in
your pocket? Are you willing to tell her that you love her, and that it
is because you love her, even without hope, that you are entitled to
warn her against this man? Though the Scotch, as I have found out many a
time during the late war, think themselves in every way superior to the
English (I do not say that they are, or that they are not, but that is
their conviction), still you and she are bound by a common language.
Implore her, above all, to do nothing in a hurry. Do not let Beppo Polda
go back to Rome engaged to be married to Lily Fairfield.”
The matter of fact words made the young man feel sick with apprehension,
anger, and jealousy. Why, Popeau spoke as if the matter was already
almost settled!
“It has not occurred to you, I suppose, that Beppo Polda may be making
love to her with no thought of marriage?” Angus Stuart said slowly.
“I confess that was my first conviction. When I spoke to Miss Lily a few
days ago I thought Beppo Polda was simply amusing himself—nothing more!
But I have a very good reason for having changed my mind.”
As he uttered these words he walked across to where Lily was still
standing watching the play, and feeling, deep in her heart, forlorn, and
a little depressed.
“I have now to go off to see a friend on business at the Hôtel de Paris,
so Captain Stuart will escort you home, Mademoiselle.”
M. Popeau spoke with a touch of rather unusual formality, and Lily
looked round at him surprised. “I am entrusting you to the care of a
good and faithful friend,” he went on in French. “Be kind to him
to-night.”
Stuart was now slowly walking towards them, and his face, which had been
set in grim lines, softened as his eyes rested on Lily.
The two walked out of the club in silence. She looked distractingly
pretty, but also what Stuart had never seen her look before, that is,
ashamed—ashamed as a child looks who knows she has done wrong, and yet,
while longing for forgiveness, does not want to ask for it.