That day at Le Vigne was the beginning of a very happy period for Sophy.
Not only was she infatuated with Italy, but her pleasure in it was
doubled by the fact that she had two such charming friends to share it
with her, to reveal it to her from within as it were. The Marchesa had
perforce to accept Sophy's invitation to lunch with her at Villa
Bianca--Amaldi was of course asked, too. His mother was much reassured
by the perfect composure of his manner on this occasion and on others
that followed in natural sequence. But what gave her the greatest
feeling of security was Sophy herself. No woman in the least _eprise_
with a man could show such perfect, cordial liking for him in his
mother's presence. Such was the Marchesa's opinion.
And she began to think that she might have been mistaken also about
Marco. His manner, the evening that she had spoken to him on this
subject, might very well have resulted from his intense dislike of
personal discussions. He had always been astringently reserved, even in
childhood. Altogether the Marchesa felt immensely relieved, though she
did not relax a whit of her precaution. She was always one of the party
on the pleasant trips they took to different points of interest on the
lake, that Samuel Butler justly calls "so far the most beautiful of all
even the Italian lakes."
Sophy could scarcely realise now those ghastly days at Dynehurst when
the never ceasing rain had made misery more miserable. Only when Anne
Harding's letters came, as they did about once a week, and when she
wrote herself to Cecil, was she plucked for a moment from her joyous
illusion of a new existence that might go sparkling on indefinitely. And
she began to take a quiet delight in her growing knowledge of Amaldi's
character. They spoke to each other without words sometimes, for they
had grown to know strangely well how certain things would impress them
both. Indeed Sophy did not at all realise how she had come to count on
Amaldi's companionship, until one afternoon, when going down to the
_banchetta_ to join the Marchesa for one of their jaunts, she saw that
he was not with her.
"Yes, my dear," said that lady, answering the question in her eyes, "we
shall be two 'lone, lorn women' this evening. Marco has been called to
Rome on business. He was much disappointed, as you may imagine. I bring
you '_tanti saluti e rincrescimenti_' from him. He went at eight o'clock
this morning."
The fact was, Amaldi had come to a point in his passion for Sophy when
he found it suddenly insupportable to be thus near her day after day,
exposed to the kind cruelty of her friendship. He had decided, over
night, that he must escape, if only for a breathing spell as it were,
and he had invented this excuse of _affari_ at Rome.
Then the Marchesa herself had to go to Milan again for a few days. Sophy
was left quite alone, save for Bobby and the maids. And somehow, the
whole lakeside seemed different suddenly--beautiful but empty. September
was drawing on. Soon she would have to be leaving. She feared the
October winds and rains for Bobby. It was apt to be rainy in October,
the Marchesa said. Only one month more. Perhaps she would not see Amaldi
again before she left. She would not admit the sinking of her heart at
this idea. No, her sadness was chiefly that she would have to leave this
lovely spot. She thought of going to Florence--or Venice---- She felt
unsettled.
One afternoon, when the warm hours dragged rather heavily and she was
tired of reading, she ordered a little _carozza_ and went off to hunt
antiques at Intra. She spent two dusty, pleasant hours of rummaging, and
returned with many parcels.
"Wait," she said to the _cocchiere_; "I will send some one to fetch
these things."
It was already dark, the violet dusk that is called "dark" in Italy. She
ran quickly up the two flights of stone steps leading to the terrace.
Some one was standing there, and came towards her as she appeared. She
thought it was Luigi at first.
"Luigi, please go----" she began. Then broke off short.
"Is it--you?" she asked in a low voice.
Something in this "you"--the way she said it--made Amaldi's heart go hot
for an instant. Then he answered quietly:
"Yes---- It's I."
"Ah ..." she breathed. "You--you startled me," she added as if in
explanation.
They were standing close together. The light wind blew her long veil
against his cheek. From it there came that faint fragrance of citron. He
was glad that it was so dark here on the terrace. He said, with an
effort:
"Luigi told me that you would be back shortly, so I waited."
"I ... I am glad," she said. Her heart was beating fast. It was because
he had startled her, she told herself. She had thought him in Rome. Now
he was suddenly here--close to her. She could think of nothing to say.
She felt awkward--shy.
"Won't you ... won't you stop to dinner?" she asked lamely, but her
voice sounded lukewarm. She was a little frightened again, because she
wanted him to stay so much. The Anglo-Saxon in her put this chill note
in her voice just because she so much wanted it.
"Thanks--no," he said. "It is very kind of you, but Baldi is waiting
dinner for me."
She said again, murmuring the words, slurring them together:
"I'm sorry."
"But I will stay a few moments if you will let me," said Amaldi,
hesitating a little.
"Yes--do," she answered, somewhat recovering herself. "I will just send
Luigi down for my parcels, and come back--it is cooler here." She did
not want to go into the lighted house with him just then. She still felt
that queer shyness.
"Let me call him," said Amaldi.
When he came back, she was sitting on one of the little stone seats
near the railing of the terrace. He longed to see her face more clearly,
yet he, too, did not want to go into the light just then.
"It was very hot in Rome," he said conventionally. "I'm glad to be back
again."
"Yes," said Sophy. "It is nice to have you back."