II.
Nicholas Vane's library overlooked the garden of Palazzo Beldoni. The dimensions of the room, the windows curtained with vines in the month of April, the glowing sunlight that forced its way in between swaying branches, all spoke of Italy; but New England comfort held a cozy reign within doors; husband and wife were occupied together before the great-study table covered with plans of fortifications; she in making extracts from books of reference, he in working out the minor details of a design.
"How odd that I should have forgotten!" Mary said suddenly, pausing in her work with a look of surprise and recollection. "Flora charged me to tell you that Lady Sackvil has written to say that she is coming here. She will arrive this afternoon in all probability, and I was to have told you of it yesterday. However," she added after a pause, "you don't seem to take much interest in my great piece of news, so the delay has done no harm."
"Amelia Grant is coming—Lady Sackvil, I mean!" Nicholas said slowly, but without pausing in his work. "Very well, I hope you will like her."
"It never occurred to me not to like her," Mary answered. "In the first place, she is Flora's sister; in the second place, she is a very fascinating woman; in the third place, she is a riddle I hope to solve; in the fourth place—"
"In the fourth place," exclaimed Vane, throwing down his pencil with one of those short laughs that quench enthusiasm and kindle wrath at the same moment; "in the fourth place, my beloved Œdipus, she is a sorceress who will read you at sight. Amelia Grant is the mirror of the person she is with; when you fancy you are deciphering her, you will be simply gazing at a reflection of yourself—no unpleasant sight, I acknowledge," he added kindly, seeing that his rough answer had brought the color to her cheeks; "but it will not solve you the riddle. Look here, child. I am sorry Lady Sackvil is coming here. She is a worldly, heartless woman; full of ability, full of attraction; but let me tell you this: if eating your little innocent heart could afford her an afternoon's entertainment, she would not hesitate to do it."
He paused, rose and went to the window. Mary remained at the table, making sketches upon the baize cover with her pen-handle.
"She must play for us, though," said Captain Vane, coming out of a brown study and returning to his seat. "She was the cleverest amateur I have ever heard; and they say Lord Sackvil indulged every whim and carried her from Leipsic to Weimar, and from Weimar to Berlin, as her fancy suggested. She went through a conservatory course at Leipsic, and graduated most creditably. Yes, she is astonishingly clever, beyond dispute, and capable of great self-devotion to her art. Of all the persons I have known, men or women, she is the most impressionable, mobile, sympathetic, dramatic." And again he merged into a reverie, while Mary continued the ungrateful task of drawing on the table-cover.
"Miss Grant had a great many lovers, I suppose," she said at length.
"I don't know—yes—probably—perhaps not. Just look at plan four, and give me the length of line A-Q."
"One inch—three inches—six feet. If you don't answer my question, I shall not answer yours," said Mary, laying her head down on the table.
Vane laughed, and looked out the reference himself.
"She was married at twenty, you goose; so it is not probable that she had many declared lovers."
"What sort of man was Lord Sackvil?"
"Lift up your head and go to work and I will tell you—there. Lord Sackvil was a clever, kindly man of about forty-five, rich but fond of diplomatic life. He came to Washington on a special mission. Amelia met him in society, mirrored his cleverness, and kindliness, and diplomacy, and married him after an engagement of three weeks."
"Was the marriage a happy one?"
"I don't know—I never asked—I don't care. Stop asking questions; I'm sick of the subject."
"I verily believe she has come. I hear voices in the garden," cried Mary, springing from her seat and running to the window. "Yes; it must be Lady Sackvil, talking with Flora under the trees. There, she turned and looked at me. Oh! do come here; she is very lovely."
"Mary, come here," said Vane sharply. "Don't stand staring at what does not concern you. There, I've upset the inkstand. Now you must come and help me."
"If you had upset the universe, I should leave you to wipe it up yourself. Why, my dear, I never expected to know a live countess. I really must look at her."
"Mary, come to me," said Vane sternly, rising from his seat.
She came slowly toward him, and stood looking up in his face with an expression half of fun, half of amazement.
"I had not supposed you capable of such babyish conduct," he said, the blood rushing to his face.
"I have been very silly," Mary said. "O Nicholas! you don't know how silly I have been. I will never, never behave so again—or think such thoughts again," she added, looking at him with an expression of absolute sincerity and trustfulness. "I will all my life trust you as you trust me."
"Do no such thing," he answered hastily. "I am a man like half the men in the world, and women like you are very rare. My darling," he said tenderly, "I love you; and I revere you too—words which should be very precious to a wife. Love may pass, but reverence never. You are my preserver in this world; you are my strength, my patience, my all, God help me! When I look into those sweet, truthful, innocent eyes, they give me all the strength I need for life. Mary, never distrust me—never, never distrust me, for I love and honor you."
"Thank God for that!" she answered softly. "But please don't place your dependence on me. If I had strength to give you, you should have it if my very life had to pay for the gift. But you cannot live vicariously. You cannot receive strength through me. I do not regret behaving so foolishly to-day merely because I have displeased you. If I am silly, you had better know it. But I am afraid you will think that confessing my faults does me so little good that you will be less than ever inclined to confess your own."
"Make yourself quite easy on that point," said Captain Vane, smiling. "I will not judge things good in themselves by your malpractices. But let me speak to you very seriously, my dear child. I love you tenderly, and I love no one else in the world; but if your suspicions had been correct, you took the worst means in the world to mend matters. Suspicions are excessively irritating to a man, and none the less so, you may be sure, when they are well-grounded. And now I freely forgive you all your sins toward me, real and imaginary, and I think if Angelo were to come and wash away that pool of ink on the parquet, all traces of this terrible passage of arms might be effaced."
III.
LADY SACKVIL'S JOURNAL.
Flora came into the room to-day, while Josephine was dressing my hair. My cap was lying on the dressing-table. She took it up and examined it thoughtfully. "Milly," she said at last, "do me a favor. Give up wearing caps. I cannot bear to have your lovely hair covered. Besides, the usual time for wearing close mourning is passed; and I am convinced that common rules of etiquette should be followed in these matters. If you continue to wear black beyond the usual period, you will lay it aside some day because your grief is diminished, and that is not a pleasant idea."
Flora is a wise woman, within a very narrow range. And so the caps are laid aside. I do it with a kind of regret. I remember fancying, when I first adopted them, that I had assumed unworldliness with them. I do not wish to make the smallest sacrifice to duty, but no one enjoys feeling good more than I do. My hair is beautiful. It looks so nicely in great smooth rolls fastened with an ivory comb. I think I should go mad if I were ugly; if I were not sure of attracting any one I care to attract—except George Holston. But never mind his disapproval! It is pleasanter to be disliked than disregarded, at least to an egotist like myself. To-night we had good music. Only the Vanes were here, Flora, and I. It was interesting to introduce them to certain Schumann songs they had not seen; Franz songs of which they had never even heard; then Chopin, as the moonlight streamed in at the great window by the piano, making candles unnecessary. "More, more," said Mrs. Vane, when I paused. "No more of that kind," said Nicholas, laughing. "I need rebuilding at present." So we had glorious John Sebastian Bach, ending with an organ prelude and fugue arranged by Liszt. Vane listened, looking out of the window upon the canal. Mrs. Vane looked transfigured, like one who had found a great calmness and strength. I envied her, and yet what should I do with calmness and strength if I had them? Throw them into the great pool of life and watch the bubbles rise to the surface. Nothing can add to Flora's serenity. She rolled up her crochet work, laid it away in a blue velvet sarcophagus, and said, "Come into the other room and we will have chocolate." When we were alone, she asked, "Did you ever notice how beautifully Nicholas Vane's hair grows on his forehead? And he has the most expressive eye-lids I ever saw. You must look at them some time." I promised to do so.
I am arranging a Schumann quartette for the piano. I find that Mrs. Vane knows very little of his music. How enchanting transcription is! One finds in it, I am confident, some of the delights of creation. It is only eleven; I can have two good hours of work before going to bed.