“Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?” asked Mrs. O'Donovan
Florence.
“Congratulate me--? On what?” asked Beatrice.
“On what, indeed!” cried the vivacious Irishwoman. “Don't try to pull
the wool over the eyes of an old campaigner like me.”
Beatrice looked blank.
“I can't in the least think what you mean,” she said.
“Get along with you,” cried Mrs. O'Donovan Florence; and she brandished
her sunshade threateningly. “On your engagement to Mr.--what's this his
name is?--to be sure.”
She glanced indicatively down the lawn, in the direction of Peter's
retreating tweeds.
Beatrice had looked blank. But now she looked--first, perhaps, for
a tiny fraction of a second, startled--then gently, compassionately
ironical.
“My poor Kate! Are you out of your senses?” she enquired, in accents of
concern, nodding her head, with a feint of pensive pity.
“Not I,” returned Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, cheerfully confident. “But I
'm thinking I could lay my finger on a long-limbed young Englishman less
than a mile from here, who very nearly is. Hasn't he asked you yet?”
“Es-to bete?” Beatrice murmured, pitifully nodding again.
“Ah, well, if he has n't, it's merely a question of time when he will,”
said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “You've only to notice the famished
gaze with which he devours you, to see his condition. But don't try to
hoodwink me. Don't pretend that this is news to you.”
“News!” scoffed Beatrice. “It's news and nonsense--the product of your
irrepressible imagination. Mr. What's-this-his-name-is, as you call him,
and I are the barest acquaintances. He's our temporary neighbour--the
tenant for the season of Villa Floriano--the house you can catch a
glimpse of, below there, through the trees, on the other side of the
river.”
“Is he, now, really? And that's very interesting too. But I wasn't
denying it.” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence smiled, with derisive sweetness.
“The fact of his being the tenant of the house I can catch a glimpse
of, through the trees, on the other side of the river, though a valuable
acquisition to my stores of knowledge, does n't explain away his
famished glance unless, indeed, he's behind with the rent: but even
then, it's not famished he'd look, but merely anxious and persuasive.
I'm a landlord myself. No, Trixie, dear, you've made roast meat of the
poor fellow's heart, as the poetical Persians express it; and if he has
n't told you so yet with his tongue, he tells the whole world so with
his eyes as often as he allows them to rest on their loadstone, your
face. You can see the sparks and the smoke escaping from them, as though
they were chimneys. If you've not observed that for yourself, it can
only be that excessive modesty has rendered you blind. The man is head
over ears in love with you. Nonsense or bonsense, that is the sober
truth.”
Beatrice laughed.
“I 'm sorry to destroy a romance, Kate,” she said; “but alas for the
pretty one you 've woven, I happen to know that, so far from being in
love with me, Mr. Marchdale is quite desperately in love with another
woman. He was talking to me about her the moment before you arrived.”
“Was he, indeed?--and you the barest acquaintances!” quizzed Mrs.
O'Donovan Florence, pulling a face. “Well, well,” she went on
thoughtfully, “if he's in love with another woman, that settles my last
remaining doubt. It can only be that the other woman's yourself.”
Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again.
“Is that what they call an Irishism?” she asked, with polite curiosity.
“And an Irishism is a very good thing, too--when employed with
intention,” retorted her friend. “Did he just chance, now, in a casual
way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?”
“Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!” Beatrice laughed. “What
can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify? For since he's
in love with her, it's hardly likely that he's in love with you or me at
the same time, is it?”
“That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her
name myself. And what else did he tell you about her? He's told me
nothing; but I'll warrant I could paint her portrait. She's a fine
figure of a young Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands
about five-feet-eight in her shoes. There's an expression of great
malice and humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care
haughtiness in the poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into
the bargain--something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she's
monstrously rich; and she adds, you'll be surprised to learn, to her
other fascinations that of being a widow. Faith, the men are so fond
of widows, it's a marvel to me that we're ever married at all until we
reach that condition;--and there, if you like, is another Irishism for
you. But what's this? Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have
I touched the heel of Achilles? She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a
widow?... But--bless us and save us!--what's come to you now? You're as
white as a sheet. What is it?”
“Good heavens!” gasped Beatrice. She lay back in her chair, and stared
with horrified eyes into space. “Good--good heavens!”
Mrs. O' Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand.
“What is it, my dear? What's come to you?” she asked, in alarm.
Beatrice gave a kind of groan.
“It's absurd--it's impossible,” she said; “and yet, if by any ridiculous
chance you should be right, it's too horribly horrible.” She repeated
her groan. “If by any ridiculous chance you are right, the man will
think that I have been leading him on!”
“LEADING HIM ON!” Mrs. O'Donovan Florence suppressed a shriek of
ecstatic mirth. “There's no question about my being right,” she averred
soberly. “He wears his heart behind his eyeglass; and whoso runs may
read it.”
“Well, then--” began Beatrice, with an air of desperation... “But no,”
she broke off. “YOU CAN'T be right. It's impossible, impossible. Wait.
I'll tell you the whole story. You shall see for yourself.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, assuming an attitude of devout
attention, which she retained while Beatrice (not without certain starts
and hesitations) recounted the fond tale of Peter's novel, and of the
woman who had suggested the character of Pauline.
“But OF COURSE!” cried the Irishwoman, when the tale was finished;
and this time her shriek of mirth, of glee, was not suppressed. “Of
course--you miracle of unsuspecting innocence! The man would never have
breathed a whisper of the affair to any soul alive, save to his heroine
herself--let alone to you, if you and she were not the same. Couple that
with the eyes he makes at you, and you've got assurance twice assured.
You ought to have guessed it from the first syllable he uttered. And
when he went on about her exalted station and her fabulous wealth! Oh,
my ingenue! Oh, my guileless lambkin! And you Trixie Belfont! Where's
your famous wit? Where are your famous intuitions?”
“BUT DON'T YOU SEE,” wailed Beatrice, “don't you see the utterly odious
position this leaves me in? I've been urging him with all my might to
tell her! I said... oh, the things I said!” She shuddered visibly. “I
said that differences of rank and fortune could n't matter.” She gave a
melancholy laugh. “I said that very likely she'd accept him. I said she
couldn't help being... Oh, my dear, my dear! He'll think--of course,
he can't help thinking--that I was encouraging him--that I was coming
halfway to meet him.”
“Hush, hush! It's not so bad as that,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence,
soothingly. “For surely, as I understand it, the man doesn't dream that
you knew it was about himself he was speaking. He always talked of the
book as by a friend of his; and you never let him suspect that you had
pierced his subterfuge.”
Beatrice frowned for an instant, putting this consideration in its
place, in her troubled mind. Then suddenly a light of intense, of
immense relief broke in her face.
“Thank goodness!” she sighed. “I had forgotten. No, he does n't dream
that. But oh, the fright I had!”
“He'll tell you, all the same,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
“No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I 'll give him
no chance,” Beatrice answered.
“Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him,” said her friend.
“Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities,” cried Beatrice.
“You'll marry him,” reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly. “You'll
end by marrying him--if you're human; and I've seldom known a human
being who was more so. It's not in flesh and blood to remain unmoved by
a tribute such as that man has paid you. The first thing you'll do will
be to re-read the novel. Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself,
for I 'm naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin
gold--but I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will itself be
wanting, directly it's alone. And then the poison will work. And you'll
end by marrying him.”
“In the first place,” replied Beatrice, firmly, “I shall never marry any
one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place, I shall not re-read
the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I shall insist on your taking it
with you when you leave to-day. And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced
that you're right about my being... well, you might as well say the
raw material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare
possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me before.
Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know how to prevent any
possible developments.”
“In the first place,” said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal firmness,
“wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel. Wait till you're
alone. A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind;
you'd be miserable if you had n't it to refer to. In the next place, the
poison will work and work. Say what you will, it's flattery that wins
us. In the third place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good
Catholic of him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow,
for a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And
your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and he's not
bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title, now, I wonder? Or
will you step down, and be plain Mrs. Marchdale? No--the Honourable
Mrs.--excuse me--'Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in
the 'Morning Post' already. And will you continue to live in Italy? Or
will you come back to England?”
“Oh, my good Kate, my sweet Kate, my incorrigible Kate, what an
extravagantly silly Kate you can be when the mood takes you,” Beatrice
laughed.
“Kate me as many Kates as you like, the man is really not bad-looking.
He has a nice lithe springy figure, and a clean complexion, and an open
brow. And if there's a suggestion of superciliousness in the tilt of his
nose, of scepticism in the twirl of his moustaches, and of obstinacy in
the squareness of his chin--ma foi, you must take the bitter with the
sweet. Besides, he has decent hair, and plenty of it--he'll not go bald.
And he dresses well, and wears his clothes with an air. In short, you'll
make a very handsome couple. Anyhow, when your family are gathered
round the evening lamp to-night, I 'll stake my fortune on it, but I
can foretell the name of the book they'll find Trixie Belfont reading,”
laughed Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
For a few minutes, after her friend had left her, Beatrice sat still,
her head resting on her hand, and gazed with fixed eyes at Monte
Sfiorito. Then she rose, and walked briskly backwards and forwards, for
a while, up and down the terrace. Presently she came to a standstill,
and leaning on the balustrade, while one of her feet kept lightly
tapping the pavement, looked off again towards the mountain.
The prospect was well worth her attention, with its blue and green and
gold, its wood and water, its misty-blushing snows, its spaciousness
and its atmosphere. In the sky a million fluffy little cloudlets floated
like a flock of fantastic birds, with mother-of-pearl tinted plumage.
The shadows were lengthening now. The sunshine glanced from the smooth
surface of the lake as from burnished metal, and falling on the coloured
sails of the fishing-boats, made them gleam like sails of crimson silk.
But I wonder how much of this Beatrice really saw.
She plucked an oleander from one of the tall marble urns set along the
balustrade, and pressed the pink blossom against her face, and, closing
her eyes, breathed in its perfume; then, absent-minded, she let it drop,
over the terrace, upon the path below.
“It's impossible,” she said suddenly, aloud. At last she went into the
house, and up to her rose-and-white retiring-room. There she took a book
from the table, and sank into a deep easy-chair, and began to turn the
pages.
But when, by and by, approaching footsteps became audible in the
stone-floored corridor without, Beatrice hastily shut the book, thrust
it back upon the table, and caught up another so that Emilia Manfredi,
entering, found her reading Monsieur Anatole France's “Etui de nacre.”
“Emilia,” she said, “I wish you would translate the I Jongleur de Notre
Dame' into Italian.”