Delicately and precisely Maria placed each remaining piece in its separate velvet case, sighing heavily over her task. The burden of responsibility laid by the old Contessa upon her shoulders, weighed heavily in the present crisis. Love or ambition? Which pathway was the feet of girlhood to follow when genius had given wings for flight? It would be fatal for Carlota, on the threshold of her career, to marry as her mother had done, flinging all into the balance of romance. Yet there came a thrill to Maria’s Trentino blood as she realized how the old Marchese sympathized with such recklessness.
It was all quite simple, he had told her the previous night when they had returned and found Carlota gone, the jewels stolen, and Ishigaki caring for Ward. While Ward had smiled at her inscrutably as she wept and demanded the truth, the old Marchese had ignored him, and had calmed her gently.
“Whatever has happened, there is no cause for alarm. Youth and art, a boy and girl singing love duets together, pouf! What would they have come from such a tragedy, she and Jacobelli, and Mr. Ward himself? Compel a girl like Carlota to don gray and walk softly to set measures like some little novice, a girl with the Trelango and Paoli blood beating love’s tempo in her veins!”
“But her voice, her career?” she had protested wildly. “Is it nothing, all we have done and hoped for her?”
The Marchese had smiled tenderly.
“Jacobelli is a great teacher,” he said, “but there is one greater than he. His heartstrings are insulated copper wires, my dear Maria. And for the rubies—remember what the old Contessa herself used to say of them, that they were accursed, pearls for the tears of an oppressed people, rubies for the blood of the innocent? Regret them not. I have never craved such things myself, not while there is truth and beauty and love left to us to cherish.”
Carlota slept heavily, dreamlessly, the sleep of utter exhaustion of mind and body after the long night. Through her windows the late autumn sunlight poured an amber glow. A mellow stillness seemed to lie over the city as if the hush of Indian summer had already laid a finger upon the laughing lips of Manhattan. Even the ringing of the outer bell when the Marchese arrived failed to rouse her. He was smiling and debonair as ever, bearing his customary votive offering of flowers. Laying his gloves upon his hat on the piano, he beamed upon Maria’s anxious face.
“Cheer up, my friend,” he exclaimed. “The world is very beautiful this afternoon. Where is Carlota? So, asleep.” He lowered his voice. “That is better, for you and I, Maria, have seen life, have looked it in the face and not quailed, have we not, and we are not afraid, where she is very young and tender.”
“Ah, what now?” Maria whispered, her hands pressed to her temples. “He is not here?”
“He? Who, the boy Griffeth? No, no, my dear, he is not here. In fact, he may be quite safe behind prison bars by night. That would please you, yes?”