“He is a man I could never trust,” she said.
“No more could I,” replied Pamela; “but O, how exquisitely he sings!” and excited at the mere memory of that singing, she ran to the piano and began to pick out the melody of Heine’s “Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten,” and sang the words softly in her girlish voice; and then slipped away from the piano with a nervous little laugh.
“Upon my word, Aunt Mildred, I am traurig myself at the very thought of that exquisite song,” she said. “What a gift it is to sing like that! How I wish I were César Castellani!”
“What, when we have both agreed that he is not a good man?”
“Who cares about being good?” exclaimed Pamela, beside herself; “three-fourths of the people of this world are good. But to be able to write a book that can unsettle every one’s religion; to be able to make everybody miserable when one sings! Those are gifts that place a man on a level with the Greek gods. If I were Mr. Castellani I should feel like Mercury or Apollo.”
“Pamela, you frighten me when you rave like that. Remember that, for all we know to the contrary, this man may be a mere adventurer, and in every way dangerous.”
“Why should we think him an adventurer? He told me all about himself. He told me that his grandfather was under obligations to your grandfather. He told me about his father, the composer, who wrote operas which are known all over Italy, and who died young, like Mozart and Mendelssohn. Genius is hereditary with him; he was suckled upon art. I have no doubt he is bad, irretrievably bad,” said Pamela, with unction; “but don’t try to persuade me that he is a vulgar adventurer who would try to borrow five-pound notes, or a fortune-hunter who would try to marry one for one’s money,” concluded the girl, falling back upon her favourite form of speech.
CHAPTER XIV.
LIFTING THE CURTAIN.
The charity concert afforded César Castellani just the necessary excuse for going to Enderby Manor House as often as he liked, and for staying there as long as he liked. He was now on a familiar footing. He drove or rode over from Riverdale nearly every day during the three weeks that intervened between Mr. Cancellor’s sermon and the afternoon concert. He made himself the curate’s right hand in all the details of the entertainment. He chose the music, he wrote the programme, he sent it to his favourite printer to be printed in antique type upon ribbed paper with ragged edges: a perfect gem in the way of a programme. He scoured the country round in quest of amateur talent, and was much more successful than the curate had been in the same quest.
“I’m astounded at your persuading Lady Millborough to show in the daylight,” said Rollinson, laughing. “You have the tongue of the serpent to overcome her objection to the glare of the afternoon sun.”