She was instantly all eagerness, and beamed upon him with a frank
delight that stabbed him.
"Martel? Does he know?"
"No, You see, there's no use--no possibility."
"I'm sorry. There must be some great mistake. I cannot conceive of so
sad a thing."
"Please don't try," he exclaimed, panic-stricken at thought of the
dangerous ground he was treading and miserably afraid she would guess
the truth in spite of him.
"I should think any woman might love you," she said, critically, after
a moment's meditation. "You are good and brave and true."
"Most discerning of women!" he cried, with an elaborate bow. "Those are
but a few of my admirable traits." He was relieved to see that she had
no suspicion of his feelings, for she was extremely quick of wit and
her intuition was keen. No doubt, her failure to read him was due to
her absorption in her own affairs. He had arrived at a better knowledge
of her capabilities to-day and began to realize that she was as
changeable as a chameleon. One moment she could be like the sirocco in
warmth and languor, the next as sparkling as the sunlit ocean. Again
she could be steeped in a dreamy abstraction or alive with a pagan joy
of life. She might have been sixteen or thirty, as her mood chanced to
affect her. Of all the crossed strains that go to make up the Sicilian
race she had inherited more of the Oriental than the Greek or Roman.
Somewhere back in the Ginini family there was Saracen blood, he felt
sure.
Blake was as good as his word, and made her wishes known to Martel, who
laughingly accused him of a lack of faith in his own arguments. The
Count was bubbling with spirits at the immediate nearness of his
nuptials, and declined to consider anything which might interfere with
them. He joyfully told Blake that the tickets were already bought and
all arrangements made to leave for Messina immediately after the
ceremony, which would take place in the church at Terranova. They would
catch the boat for Naples on the evening after the wedding, he
explained, and Blake was to accompany them at least that far on his way
to America. Meanwhile, he had no intention of foregoing the pleasure of
to-morrow's celebration, even if Belisario Cardi himself should appear,
to dispute his coming. It was the first, the last, and the only time he
intended marrying, and he had promised himself to enjoy the occasion to
the utmost, despite those letters, which, after all, were not to be
taken seriously. So the matter was allowed to stand.
The country people had begun to assemble when Martel and his friend
arrived at the Ginini manor on the following afternoon, and the grounds
were filling with gaily dressed peasants. The train from Messina had
brought Margherita's relatives, and the bishop had sent word that he
would arrive in ample time for the ceremony on the next morning. The
contadini were coming in afoot, astride of donkeys and mules, or in
gaily painted carts pictured with the miracles of the saints and the
conquests of the Moors. There were dark-haired men and women,
wild-haired boys with roses above their ears, girls with huge ear-rings
and fringed shawls which swept the ground as they walked. As yet they
had not entirely lost their restraint, but Martel went among them with
friendly hand-clasps and exuberant greetings, renewing old
acquaintances and welcoming new until at last their shyness disappeared
and they began to laugh and chatter unaffectedly.
Savigno had traveled, he told them. He had arranged many surprises for
his friends. There would be games, dances, music, and a wonderful
entertainment in the big striped tent yonder, supplied by a troupe of
players which he had brought all the way from Palermo. As for the
feast, well, the tables were already stretched under the trees, as they
could see, and if any one wished to tantalize his nostrils just let him
wander past the kitchen in the rear, where a dozen women had been at
work since dawn. But that was not all; there would be gifts for the
children and prizes for the best dancers. The handsomest woman would
receive a magnificent shawl the like of which had never been dreamed of
in Terranova, and then to prevent jealousy the others would receive
presents also. But he would not say too much. Let them wait and see.
Finally there would be fireworks, enough to satisfy every one; and all
he asked of them was that they drink the health of the Countess
Margherita and wish her lifelong happiness. It was to be a memorable
occasion, he hoped, and if they did not enjoy themselves as never
before, then he and his bride would feel that their wedding had been a
great, a colossal failure.
But it seemed, as night approached, that Martel had no reason to doubt
the quality of his entertainment, for the guests gave themselves up to
joy as only southerners can, forgetting poverty, hardship, and all the
grinding cares of their barren lives. They yielded quickly to the
passion of the festa, and Blake began to see Sicily for the first time.
He would have liked to enter into their merrymaking, but felt himself
too much a stranger.
The feast was elaborate; no ristorante could have equaled it, no one
but a spendthrift lover like Martel would have furnished it. But it was
not until darkness came and the trees began to twinkle and glow with
their myriad lights that the fun reached its highest pitch. Then there
was true Sicilian dancing, true Sicilian joking, love-making. Eyes were
bright, cheeks were flushed, lips were parted, and the halls of
Terranova echoed to a bacchanalian tumult.
There had been an elaborate supper inside also, to which the more
prominent townspeople had been invited and from which Norvin Blake was
only too eager to escape as it drew to an end. The strain to which he
had been subjected for the past week was growing unbearable, and the
sight of Margherita Ginini clad like a vision in some elaborate
Parisian gown so intensified his distress that he was glad to slip away
into the open air at the first opportunity. He found Ricardo leaning
against the bole of a eucalyptus-tree, observing the throng with
watchful eyes.
"Why aren't you making merry?" Blake inquired.