It was autumn, but such an autumn as often puts summer to shame. The
skies were as blue, the air as soft, as those of July; but that the
leaves had changed their emerald hues for those of russet-brown and
gold, one might well be tempted to believe that the summer was still
with us, and the winter afar off.
The sun poured its generous warmth over the Villa Capri, laving the
white stone front of the graceful house with its bright rays, and
tinting the statues on the terraces, which, in Italian fashion, rose
in three tiers from the smooth lawn to the _salon_ and dining-room
windows. On the highest of the three terraces, lying back in a hammock
chair of velvet tapestry, was an old lady with a face of aristocratic
beauty set in snow-white hair. At a little distance, pacing up and
down, were two young ladies, the younger of the two with her arm round
the waist of her companion, and her beautiful young face turned up with
that air of pure devotion and affection which only exists in the heart
of one woman for another.
The old lady was the Princess Rivani, the mother of Florence and
Ferdinand; and the two girls were Margaret and Florence. It had come to
pass that Margaret was an honored inmate of the Villa Capri.
The Princess Florence had fallen in love with Margaret's lovely face,
and its sad, gentle smile, and still more with her sweet voice, and had
taken a fancy that Margaret's presence in the villa was necessary to
her existence; and as princesses' whims are born but to be gratified,
Margaret was here.
The mother, who made a rule never to deny her darling child any
innocent and harmless desire, welcomed Margaret with the gentle
sweetness of a patrician, combined with the frank candor of an old lady.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Leslie," she had said. "You have
won my daughter's heart, and your presence seems necessary to her
happiness. I trust you will not let her be a burden to you. Please
consider the villa your home while it seems good to you to remain with
us, and I hope that will be for a long period."
That was all; but as the signora--as the elder princess was
called--always said what she meant, and never more than she meant, it
was a good deal. She had scanned Margaret's face when she had been
presented to her, and had listened to her voice, and was convinced that
Margaret was a lady, and a fit companion for the princess, and she had
said so in a sentence to her daughter.
"I like your friend, Florence, and I can understand the charm she
exerts over you. It is a very lovely face, a----"
"Is it not, mamma?" exclaimed Florence enthusiastically.
"--But it is a very sad one. I am afraid Miss Leslie has had some great
trouble, one of those sorrows which set their mark upon the heart, as a
fell disease brands the face."
"But you will not like her the less for that, mamma?" Florence had
said, and the signora had replied with a sigh:
"No, rather the more, my dear," for the signora had suffered also in
her life.
So the princess had her wish gratified, and Margaret came to the
villa, and the princess, instead of growing tired of her, as one would
be tempted to prophesy, seemed to grow more attached and devoted as the
days rolled into weeks, and the weeks threatened to glide into months.
If it had not been for the experience of the grandeur of Leyton Court,
Margaret might have been rather overwhelmed by the splendor of Capri
Villa, for the Rivanis were great people, of the best blood in Italy,
and lived in a state befitting their rank.
The villa was not so large as the Court--that Court which Blair had
often told her she would one day be mistress of--but it was exquisitely
situated, and the interior was replete with the refined splendor of a
palace.
The suit of rooms allotted to Margaret were large and grand enough
for a duchess, but when she murmured something in deprecation of such
sumptuous apartments, the princess had opened her blue eyes wide and
smiled with surprise.
"Oh, but I want you to be comfortable, dear," she said. "I want you to
feel at home--that is the English phrase, isn't it?"
"Yes, but 'at home' all my rooms would have gone into the smallest you
have given me," Margaret had said, smiling.
"Really! Well, at any rate you need large rooms, for are you not an
artist, and do you not want a studio? Ferdinand has given orders
that the large room with the big window is to be fitted up as a
painting-room for you; and he promised to choose some pictures and some
curios, and all those kind of things you artists love, to furnish it.
He has gone to Rome, you know."
Margaret looked rather grave. A prince is a prince to us English
people, and it rather alarmed her that she should be the cause of so
much trouble to his highness.
The princess laughed at her serious countenance.
"Do not look so grave," she said. "It was Ferdy's own idea. He chose
the rooms, and said how nice the big one would do for a studio. You
can't think how thoughtful he is--when he chooses to think at all."
"His highness is very good," said Margaret, "but I am ashamed to give
him so much trouble."
The princess laughed again.
"Ferdy loves trouble. His great grief is that he has nothing to do, for
you see there is nothing to employ him here. The steward looks after
the land, and the major domo does all the business in the villa, and
there is nothing for poor Ferdy to do when he is away from the court. I
want you to like my brother, Miss Leslie," she added.
"I should be very ungrateful if I did not," said Margaret.
All this had occurred on the first day of her arrival; since then the
studio had been furnished and she had been made to feel as if she were
part and parcel of the Rivani family. Just before Margaret's arrival,
the prince had been called away by his duties to the Italian Court, and
the three ladies were left alone, so that Margaret had as yet had no
opportunity of thanking him for his kindness, of which she was reminded
every time she entered the luxurious studio he had furnished for her.
Margaret's lines had indeed fallen in pleasant places, and if the
possession of good and true friends and the comforts of a luxury
brought to the highest state of perfection, could have brought
happiness, she should have been happy. But the sadness which wrapped
her as in a veil through which she smiled, and sometimes laughed, never
left her, and she spent hours in her studio, with the brush lying
untouched, and her dark eyes fixed dreamily upon the hills which rose
before her windows. She could not prevent her thoughts from traveling
back towards the past, that past with which she had done forever, and
often in the gloaming of the late summer evenings she would see Blair's
face rise before her, and hear his voice as she had heard it during
those few happy weeks when she had believed him to be her lover and
husband.
There was only one way of escape from these thoughts, this flitting
back of her heart which brought her so keen an anguish, and that was in
work.
She had come to the villa on the understanding that she should give
lessons in painting to the princess, but Florence soon showed the
futility of such an arrangement.
"Dear, you will never make me an artist," she said; "never, do what you
will! I can learn to paint a barn, or a village pump, so that I needn't
write 'this is a barn,' or 'this is a pump,' underneath them, but that
is all. Don't waste your valuable time upon an impracticable--isn't
that a splendid English word?--subject, but do your own work. I'll
bring you my dreadful daubs, and you shall tell me where I am wrong,
but you sha'n't work and drudge like an ordinary drawing-mistress. I
daren't let you, for the last words Ferdy said were, 'Don't abuse Miss
Leslie's good nature, and bore her! Remember that she is an artist, and
she's something to the world that you must not rob it of!' and Ferdy
said wisely."
"I think he spoke too generously, and thought only of the stranger
within his gates," said Margaret.
"But mamma thinks the same," said the princess. "She has set her heart
upon your painting a great picture while you are at the villa. You
know that mamma and Ferdy are devoted to art; I think that either of
them would rather be an artist--a true artist--than Ruler of Italy, and
if you want to do them an honor, why paint a grand picture, exhibit it
at the Salon, and date it from the Villa Capri."
Life at the villa, Margaret found, was one of routine--pleasant, easy
routine--but still carefully measured out and planned.
At eight the great bell in the campanile rang for rising; at nine the
household gathered in the hall for prayers; at half-past breakfast was
served. At one o'clock the luncheon bell rang, and at seven the major
domo, in his solemn suit of black, stood at the drawing-room door to
announce dinner.
There was an army of servants, male and female, and the three ladies
were attended with as much state as if the king were present.
Between breakfast and dinner Margaret worked.
Art is a jealous mistress; she will not share her shrine with any other
god, though it be Cupid himself. If Margaret had remained the happy
wife of Lord Blair, it is a question whether any more pictures of
worth would have left her easel, but now, with her great sorrow ever
present with her, she felt that her work alone would bring her partial
forgetfulness.
And she did work. At first she thought she would paint a view of
Florence from the hills, and she made a very fair sketch; but,
about a week after her arrival at the villa she was sitting before
a fresh canvas, and, her thoughts flying back to the past, she, all
unwittingly, took up the charcoal and began to draw the outline of the
Long Rock at Appleford. It was not until she had sketched in the whole
of the scene that she became conscious of what she was doing; and when
she had so become conscious, she took up her brush to wipe the marks
out. Then she hesitated. A desire to paint the scene took possession of
her, and she went on with it.
She painted the rock, with the sea raging round it, and the sky
threatening it from above; and, as she painted, the whole scene came
back to her, just as a scene which a novelist has witnessed with his
own eyes comes back to him.
And as the picture grew, it exerted a fascination for her which she
could not repel.
On this she worked day after day, carefully locking up the unfinished
picture in the mahogany case which the prince had supplied with the
rest of the furniture of the studio.
She felt that she could do nothing until it was finished. One day the
princess knocked at the door, and Margaret, before she opened it,
hurriedly inclosed the canvas in its mahogany case.
"Why, you have shut your picture up," said the princess in a tone of
disappointment.
"I will show it to you, if you wish," said Margaret, laying her hand
upon the key; but the princess stopped her.
"No, no," she said. "Do not. I think I understand. It is your great
picture, is it not? And you do not want any one to see it until it is
finished."
Margaret was silent for a moment, then, as the princess put her arm
round her, and laid her cheek against Margaret's, she said:
"If I ever am so fortunate as to do anything approaching 'great,' this
will be it, and I do not want you to see it until it is finished,
princess."
"I would not see it for worlds until you say that I may, dear," said
the girl, lovingly.
Day by day Margaret worked at the picture; it took possession of her
body and soul. All the anguish of that awful night, when she battled
against life and prayed for death, was portrayed in that savage sea and
darkling sky.
She finished the scene, and was looking at it one day, with the
dissatisfaction that the true artist always feels, when she thought of
the words of Turner: "No landscape, beautiful as it may be, is complete
without the human figure, God's masterpiece in nature."
She pondered over this for awhile, then, taking up her brush, she
painted on the top of the rock the figure of a woman. It was that of a
young girl, half kneeling, half lying, the water lapping savagely at
her feet, her face upturned to the angry sky.
Half unconsciously she painted that face as her own--a girl's face,
white and wan, marked with an agony beyond that of the fear of death.
Despair and utter hopelessness spoke eloquently in the dark eyes and
the attitude of the figure; and when she had finished it, she stood and
gazed at it, half frightened by its realism.
She knew that if it was not a great picture, it was a picture at which
no one could look at and pass by unmoved.
She locked the door of the cabinet which inclosed the canvas, and went
on the terrace and found the princess waiting for her. The girl put
her arm round Margaret's waist, and led her up and down, the signora
looking on at the pair from her chair smilingly.
"And have you nearly finished your picture, dear?" asked Florence.
"Yes," said Margaret, dreamily, "it is quite finished."
"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Florence. "Ferdinand will be so pleased.
He is coming this evening, you know, dear."
"I did not know," said Margaret, still absently.
"Ah, no, I forgot. I did not tell you, because mamma cautioned me not
to say anything that might disturb you at your work. He is coming, and
rather a large party with him."
Margaret, as the girl spoke, remembered noticing that some preparations
seemed to have been going on in the villa for some days past, as if for
many guests; she had thought little of it at the time, her mind being
absorbed in her work.
"My brother often brings some of his friends back with him," said
Florence; "they like the quietude of Florence after the fuss and bustle
of the court. How glad I shall be to get him back, not that I have
missed him so much this time, for, you see, I have had you, dear."
"I am afraid I have been a very poor companion," said Margaret.
"You have been the dearest, the best, and the sweetest a girl was ever
lucky enough to find!" responded the princess, earnestly.
They walked up and down the terrace for some time, talking about the
prince and his many virtues, as a sister who adores her brother will
talk to her closest bosom friend; then Margaret went to her own room.
The thought of the coming influx of visitors disturbed her; like most
persons who have endured a great sorrow, she shrank from meeting new
faces, and she resolved to keep to her own rooms, as it was understood
she should do when she pleased, while these gay people remained.
Toward evening the guests arrived, and Margaret, from behind the
curtains of her long window, saw several handsome carriages drive up
to the great entrance, and a group of ladies and gentlemen--most of
the latter in military or court uniforms; in their midst stood the
tall figure of the prince, towering above the rest, his handsome face
wearing the grave smile of welcome, as he ushered his friends into
the house, in which were the usual stir and excitement attending the
arrival of a large party.
Margaret drew the lace curtains over her window, and took up a book.
Presently the dressing-bell rang, then the dinner-bell, and soon after
there came a knock at the door. In response to her "Come in," the
Princess Florence entered in her rich evening dress, and ran across
the room.
"Why, dear, aren't you dressed?" she exclaimed.
"I am not coming down to dinner to-night, Florence, if you will excuse
me," said Margaret, gently.
Florence stopped short, and looked at her with keen disappointment in
her blue eyes.
"Not coming down to dinner? Oh, Miss Leslie, I am so sorry! And Ferdy,
he will be so disappointed!"
"The prince," said Margaret, smiling at the girl's earnestness. "I do
not suppose your brother will notice my absence, Florence."
"Not notice!" exclaimed Florence. "Why, he asked after you almost
directly after he had got into the house; and he has inquired where you
were at least half a dozen times."
"The prince is very kind," said Margaret, "but I will not come down
to-night, dear."
"You do not like all these people coming?" said the princess; "and yet
you would like them, they are all so nice and--and friendly: it is a
sort of holiday for them, you know."
"I am sure they are very nice, dear," said Margaret, "but I would
rather be alone."
There was nothing more to be urged against such quiet decision, and the
princess kissed her and reluctantly went down to the _salon_.
A maid who had been set apart to wait upon Margaret brought her her
dinner, and Margaret took up her book afterward, and tried to lose
herself in it. Now and again she took a candle and looked at her
picture, and every time she looked at it the present faded and the past
stood out before her.
What was Blair doing now? Had the woman, his wife, returned to him?
Where was he, and was he happy? No, Margaret thought, there could be no
happiness for him unless he were utterly destitute of heart and could
forget the girl whose love for him had led her to ruin and dishonor!
From these sad thoughts she was aroused by a knock at the door and the
voice of the princess calling softly:
"May we come in, dear?"
Margaret opened the door, and there stood the prince beside his sister.
He was in evening dress, and upon his bosom glittered a cluster of
orders; he looked the patrician he was, but there was a deep humility
and reverence in the manner of his bow and the way in which he extended
his hand to her.
"Will you forgive this intrusion, Miss Leslie?" he said in his
excellent English, which was made more musical rather than less by
the slight accent. "I have come to beg you to give us the honor and
pleasure of your company. Florence tells me that you are not ill, or I
should not have bothered you."
Margaret made room for them to enter, standing with downcast eyes under
his gaze, which was full of admiration and respectful regard.
"Pray come," he said with an eagerness only half concealed. "For all
our sakes, if not for your own, and I should add for your own, too;
for there are some people here whom I think you would like to meet."
He mentioned some names of which Margaret had heard as those of
great people in Rome. "And there are some artists, too, Miss Leslie;
surely you will not refuse them the pleasure and honor of making your
acquaintance. My mother, too, begs that, if you feel well enough, you
will come down. There is Count Vasali, the great musician; he will play
for us, I hope."
"Oh, do come, if only for an hour, dear," said the princess, adding her
prayer.
Margaret hesitated, and while she hesitated the prince went slowly up
to the easel upon which the picture stood, with the cabinet unlocked.
He started, and drew a little nearer, then looked from Margaret to the
picture, and from the picture to Margaret again.
"Is this----?" he said, in a low voice, then stopped.
"Oh, it is the picture! May I look now he has seen it?" exclaimed the
princess; then she, too, drew near, and stood speechless.
"I--I hope you like it," said Margaret, with the nervousness of an
artist whose work is being surveyed and criticised.
"Like it!" exclaimed the prince, gravely. "It is----" He stopped again,
then turned to Margaret with almost solemn earnestness. "Miss Leslie, I
am not an artist; I do not presume to be a critic, but I am convinced
that this is a marvelous picture! It is, I think, a great work. I
cannot tell you how it moves me! But there are others in the house who
are more capable of judging and appreciating it. You will let me show
it to them?"
Margaret flushed and then turned pale. She would have kept the picture
to herself, for the present, at any rate; but then she considered the
matter in the few seconds while he stood waiting. After all, she was an
artist; it was by her art that she must exist, and it was well that her
picture should be seen.
"I will do as you wish, prince," she said.
"No, not I, but you!" he said, gently, with a little thrill in his
voice that touched Margaret, and made the princess turn and look at him.
"Take it, then," said Margaret.
He took it from the easel, and locked it in the cabinet carefully.
"And you will come down? You must!" urged Florence eagerly. "You
must hear what they say. I know what it will be: they will say what
Ferdinand said!"
"Very well," said Margaret, with a little sigh.
The princess clapped her hands.
"Oh, I am so glad. I will come for you in half an hour. Will that do?"
"Miss Leslie will understand that she will meet friends," said the
prince, laying a delicate stress on the word, "though she has not seen
them yet."
And with this courtly, kindly word of encouragement, he carried off the
picture.
Margaret changed her plain black dress for one of black lace, which,
simple as it was, and without ornament, lent to her graceful figure a
distinguished air which even Worth himself sometimes cannot bestow, and
before the half hour was up the princess came for her.
"Dressed already, dear! Oh, and how well you look! May I kiss you? Ah!
after all, it is only the English who really know how to dress. Why,
yours is the prettiest costume in the house----"
"It is the simplest, dear, I am sure," said Margaret.
The princess led her to her mother, and the old lady made room for her
on the settee.
"I am glad you have come, my dear Miss Leslie," she said in her slow,
gentle voice; "we should all have been so sorry if you had not."
Margaret said nothing, but presently gained courage to look round.
Some lady was at the piano playing, and there were a few persons
round her; but the rest of the party was gathered together round some
object at the end of the room, about which candles and lamps had been
arranged, and she knew it was her picture.
Presently she saw the prince approaching, with an old gentleman at his
side, an old man with long silvery hair and pale face, from which the
dark eyes shone with a strange brilliance that was yet soft and dreamy.
"Miss Leslie," said the prince, "let me introduce Signor Alfero to you."
It was the great artist whose works Margaret had stood before with
admiration and awe.
She inclined her head without a word. The great artist's eyes rested
on her keenly for a moment, then he said:
"To have seen your picture, Miss Leslie, is to desire a knowledge of
you. You are very young!"
It was a strange speech, and it brought the color to Margaret's face.
"I had expected to see an older person--one whose experience would
account for her success; but it is always so, it is to youth all things
are possible. My dear, you have painted a wonderful picture! It is a
work of genius. I cannot tell you how it has moved me. How came you to
paint it?"
Margaret looked up questioningly and fearfully.
"I mean," said the great man with a kindly smile, "where did you get
your subject? Waves and rocks are old as the hills, but your waves and
rocks are new because they are so terribly real. And the figure too!
Why, yes--it is your own! Miss Leslie, your picture is a great one. I
tell you this without flattery, and as one of our trade. It is great,
and it will bring you fame."
Fame! Alas, it might bring her fame, but of what value would fame be to
her now?
Perhaps the absence of all joy in her face as she received the tidings,
touched the great man, for he said:
"But we do not care for that, do we? not so greatly, that is. It is the
satisfaction in our work, is it not? Will you come with me and let me
ask you a few questions about one or two things in your picture?"
He held out his arm, and Margaret, still speechless, let him lead her
to the easel upon which the picture stood.
The group, clustering round it, made way for the pair, looking at
Margaret, and whispering together in the well-bred way which conceals
the act.
The great artist asked his questions--they related to various lights
and shades, and wave formations--and Margaret answered modestly, in her
low, sweet voice; then the prince, who stood on the other side of her,
found himself besieged by applications for introductions, and quietly
he brought one after another of the group to Margaret, and made them
known to her.
It was evident that she was the celebrity of the evening. The fame
which the great artist had prophesied had come already, for there was
not one there who was not willing to blow a blast upon the trumpet
which announces the appearance of a great one to the waiting and
welcoming world.
It was not only the fact that she had painted a picture which Alfero
had pronounced "great," but her beauty, with its touching air of
subdued sadness, took possession of them.
They gathered around her, these noblemen and famous ladies, and made
much of her, until the prince, fearing that she would be tired and
overdone, offered her his arm, and led her, on the excuse of showing
her the flowers, toward the conservatory.
Margaret was tired and excited, though there was no trace of it in the
sweet, pale face, and she was glad of a few minutes' rest.
The prince led her to a seat placed amidst a cluster of ferns and
exotics, and, taking up a fan, gently fanned her.
"I spoke truly, you see, Miss Leslie," he said. "I cannot tell you with
what joy and pride--yes, pride!--Signor Alfero's words filled me. But
we will not speak of them again to-night; though I trust they have made
you as happy as they have made me."
There was something in his voice which half frightened Margaret, and,
as she looked up to reply, she found his eyes fixed upon her with a
light in them which caused hers to droop, though why she knew not.
"The signor--every one--has been too good to me," she said.
"No," he said, with a suppressed earnestness. "That no one who knows
you could be."
He was silent a moment, then he looked round.
"Ah, how glad I am to be at home!" but as he spoke his eyes returned to
her face.
"And they are all glad to have you, prince," said Margaret.
"All?" he said. "May I include you, Miss Leslie?"
A faint flush rose to Margaret's face, then it grew pale again.
"I?" she said. "Oh, yes, I am glad!"
"You make me very glad to hear you say that," he said in a low voice,
bending down so that he almost whispered the words in her ears. "I
have thought of you very often while I have been away, Miss Leslie,
wondering, and hoping that you might be happy here at the villa, and
longing to get back that I might see you again."
Margaret's heart beat fast.
She told herself that it was only the language of courtly kindness;
warmer than an Englishman would use, but meaning no more than usual.
"What beautiful flowers!" she said, looking at a bunch of camellias
before her.
He glanced at her dress, unadorned by a single article of jewelry,
then crossing the conservatory, picked a snow-white blossom and brought
it to her.
"Will you accept this?" he said.
"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret. "How lovely it is," and she held it in
her hand.
"Will you wear it?" he asked, and his voice grew low and almost
tremulous.
Margaret started and her face went white.
They were almost the very words Blair had spoken in the little garden
at Leyton Court that never-to-be-forgotten night, and they brought back
the past and her own position with a lurid distinctness.
"No, no!" she breathed, scarcely knowing what she said, and she let the
flower drop into her lap.
The prince's face grew grave and pained.
"Have--have I offended you?--have I been too presumptuous?" he asked,
humbly.
"No, no!" she said, again. Then she looked up. "Presumptuous, your
highness? You! to me! The presumption would be mine if I--if I were to
accept----" she paused.
"Do I understand you?" he said, drawing nearer, his handsome, patrician
face flushing, his eyes seeking hers with an eager intentness. "Miss
Leslie, my poor flower would be honored by the touch of your hand; will
you honor me also by wearing it? Miss Leslie----" he paused a moment,
then went on--"I do not think you understand. Shall I tell you now, or
are you too tired and wearied? I think you must know what I would say.
Such love as mine will break through all guards, try as we will to hide
it, and proclaim itself to the beloved one----"
Margaret started to her feet with a wild horror in her eyes.
"Do not--speak another word!" she breathed. "I--I cannot listen!
I--take me back, please, your highness!"
The prince's face paled, and his lips shut tightly; but with the
courtly grace which could not forsake him, even at such a moment, he
took her hand and drew it through his arm.
"Your lightest word is law to me," he murmured. "I will say no
more--to-night; but I must speak sooner or later. But no more to-night!
Not one word, be assured. You may trust me, if you will not do more!"
Margaret was speechless, her heart throbbing with a dreadful amazement
and horror. That he--the great prince--should have spoken to her--to
her upon whose life rested so dark a shame, almost maddened her.
In silence he led her into the _salon_. As he did so, a certain noble
lady, an old schoolfellow of his mother, who was sitting beside her,
looked up at them, then turned to the signora.
"This is a very beautiful girl, signora!"
The old lady glanced at Margaret and smiled placidly.
"Miss Leslie?--yes."
"Very," said the countess. "There is something sad and _spirituelle_
about her which renders her loveliness something higher than the
ordinary beauty of which one sees so much nowadays."
"Yes," said the signora. "I fear she has passed through some great
sorrow. There is a look in her eyes when she is silent and thinking,
which makes one tempted to get up and kiss her."
"A dangerous charm, that," remarked the countess dryly.
"A charm; yes, that is the word," assented the signora, smiling. "She
has charmed the heart out of Florence, and has crept into mine, poor
girl."
"Poor girl!" echoed the countess, dryly; then, as it seemed abruptly
and inconsequentially, she said, "How handsome Ferdinand has grown!"
The signora let her eyes linger upon him with all a mother's pride and
tenderness.
"Yes; has he not? He is like his father."
"And his mother," said the countess. "He is a great favorite at court,
my dear. There is a career before him if there should happen to be a
war, as I suppose there will be."
"I could do without a career for him if the price is to be a war," said
the signora, sighing.
"He seems very attentive to Miss Leslie," remarked the countess,
looking at the two young people as they crossed the room.
The prince had found a seat for Margaret, but still remained by her
side, bending over her with that rapt attention which distinguished him.
"Oh yes," assented the signora, placidly. "He thinks a great deal of
her. I imagine that he is very pleased at the success of her picture.
Ferdinand is devoted to art; and says that the villa is renowned as the
birthplace of so great a picture as Miss Leslie has painted."
"Hem!" said the countess; then, with a frown, she said, "Don't you
think that the charm you speak of may exert itself over Ferdinand?"
"Over Ferdinand?" the signora glanced across at them with a serene
smile.
"Yes, over Ferdinand," repeated the old countess, almost impatiently,
"or do you think that the male heart is less susceptible than the
female. Do you suppose that Ferdinand is blind to Miss Leslie's
loveliness, and that it is only revealed to you and Florence?"
"What do you mean?" asked the signora.
"What do I mean? Why, my dear Lucille, aren't you afraid that, to speak
plainly, Ferdinand may--fall in love with Miss Leslie?"
The old princess looked at her for a moment with a mild surprise, then
she drew her slight figure up to its full height and smiled with placid
hauteur.
"Ferdinand will not fall in love with Miss Leslie," she said, with an
air of calm conviction.
"Oh," said the countess, dryly. "Does he wear an amulet warranted to
protect him from such eyes as hers, such beauty as hers?"
"Yes," said the mother. "Ferdinand wears such an amulet. It is the
consciousness of his rank and all its duties and responsibilities. Miss
Leslie is a most charming girl, and Florence and I are attached to her;
but Ferdinand----" she paused and smiled. "I know Ferdinand very well,
I think, my dear, so well, that if you were to hint that he was likely
to fall in love with one of the maid-servants I should be as little
alarmed."
The countess looked at her with a strange smile, then glanced at the
prince and Margaret.
"My dear Lucille," she said, "I beg your pardon. Of course, you are
quite right, and there is no danger. There has never been an instance
of one of our rank marrying beneath him, has there?" and she laughed
ironically.
The signora smiled and shook her head.
"My dear," she said, "there isn't a prouder man in Italy than
Ferdinand. I am not at all uneasy."