‘Oh, nonsense! Men don’t fall in love without a little encouragement; and I’m not blind—I’ve been watching you. If you want my honest opinion, I think you’ve been pretty unfair with Paul.’
‘I know it,’ Marcia said miserably; ‘you can’t blame me any worse than I blame myself. But you just can’t love people if you don’t.’
‘I’m not blaming you for not loving him; it’s for his loving you. That, by using a little foresight, might have been avoided. However, I don’t know that I’m exactly the person to preach.’ Eleanor dropped into a chair with a short laugh, and leaned forward with her chin in her hand and her eyes on Marcia’s face. ‘I have a theory, Marcia—it’s more than a theory: it’s a superstition,—that some day we’ll be paid in our own coin. I’m twenty-eight, and a good many men have thought they were in love with me, while I myself have never managed to fall in love with any of them. But I’m going to, some day—hard—and then either he’s not going to care about me or something’s going to be in the way so that we can’t marry. It’s going to be a tragedy. I know it as well as I know I’m sitting here. I’m going to pay for my nine seasons, and with interest. It makes me reckless; the score is already so heavy against me that a few more items don’t count. But I know my tragedy’s coming, and the longer I put it off the worse it’s going to be. It’s a nice superstition; I’ll share it with you, Marcia.’
Marcia smiled rather sorrily. It was not a superstition she cared to have thrust upon her just then. She was divining it for herself, and did not need Eleanor to put it into words.
‘As for Paul, you couldn’t do anything else, of course. You’re not fitted to each other for a moment, and you’ll grow more unfitted every day. Paul needs some one who is more objective—who doesn’t think too much—some one like—well, like Margaret, for instance. In the meantime, you needn’t worry; he’ll manage to survive it.’ She rose with another laugh and stood over Marcia’s chair. ‘It’s over and done with, and can’t be helped; there’s nothing to cry about. But mark my words, Marcia Copley, you’ll be falling in love yourself some day, and then I—Paul will be avenged. Meanwhile there are several years before you in which you can have a very good time. Come on; we must go downstairs. The people will be leaving in a little while. Bathe your eyes, and I’ll fix your hair.’
Marcia went downstairs and laughed and danced and talked again, and once she almost stopped in the middle of a speech to wonder how she could do it. It was finally with heartfelt thankfulness that she watched the people beginning to leave. Once, as she was bidding a group good night, she caught sight of Sybert in the hall bending over the contessa’s hand. She covertly studied his face, but it was more darkly inscrutable than ever. She slipped upstairs as soon as the last carriage had rolled away; it was not until long after the sunlight had streamed into her windows, however, that she finally closed her eyes. Eleanor Royston’s pleasant ‘superstition’ she was pondering very earnestly.
CHAPTER XX
The ball ended, the guests gone, Villa Vivalanti forgot its one burst of gaiety, and settled down again to its usual state of peaceful somnolence. The days were growing warmer. White walls simmering in the sunshine, fragrant garden borders resonant with the hum of insects, the cool green of the ilex grove, the sleepy, slow drip of the fountain—it was all so beautifully Italian, and so very, very lonely! During the hot mid-days Marcia would sit by the ruins of the old villa or pace the shady ilex walks with her feelings in a tumult. She had seen neither Paul Dessart nor Laurence Sybert since the evening of her birthday, and that moment by the fountain when the three had faced each other silently was not a pleasant memory. It was one, however, which recurred many times a day.
Of Sybert Marcia heard no news whatever. In reply to her casual question as to when he would be at the villa again, her uncle had remarked that just at present Sybert had more important things to think of than taking a villeggiatura in the Sabine hills. But of Paul Dessart and the Roystons most unexpected news had come. Paul’s father had had an ‘attack’ brought on by overwork, and they were all of them going home. The letters were written on the train en route for Cherbourg; a long letter from Margaret, a short one from Eleanor. The latter afforded some food for reflection, but the reflection did not bring enlightenment.