Sometimes in the midst of her sad thoughts Castellani would strike a chord on the piano at the other end of the room, and then a tender strain of melody would steal out of the darkness, and that veiled tenor voice would sing some of the saddest lines of Heine, the poet of the broken heart, sadder than Byron, sadder than Musset, sad with the sadness of one who had never known joy. Those words wedded to tenderest melody always moved Mildred Greswold to tears. Castellani saw her tears and thought they were given to him; such tears as yielding virtue gives to the tempter. He knew the power of his voice, the fascination of music for those in whom the love of music is a part of their being. He could not foresee the possibility of failure. He was already admitted to that kind of intimacy which is the first stage of success. He was an almost daily visitor; he came upon the two ladies in their walks and drives, and contrived, unbidden, to make himself their companion; he chose the books that both were to read, and made himself useful in getting library parcels sent from Milan or Paris. He contrived to make himself indispensable, or at least thought himself so. Pamela’s eagerness filled up all the gaps; she was so full of talk and vivacity that it was not easy to be sure about the sentiments of her more silent companion; but César Castellani’s vanity was the key with which he read Mildred’s character and feelings.
“She is a sphinx,” he told himself; “but I think I can solve her mystery. The magnetic power of such a love as mine must draw her to me sooner or later.”
Mr. Castellani had a profound belief in his own magnetism. That word magnetic had a large place in his particular creed. He talked of certain fascinating women—generally a little passée—as “magnetic.” He prided himself upon being a magnetic man.
While César Castellani flattered himself that he was on the threshold of success, Mildred Greswold was deliberating how best to escape from him and his society for ever. Had she been alone there need have been no difficulty; but she saw Pamela’s happiness involved in his presence, she saw the fresh young cheek pale at the thought of separation, and she was perplexed how to act for the best. Had Pamela been her daughter she could not have considered her feelings more tenderly. She told herself that Mr. Castellani would be a very bad match for Miss Ransome; yet when she saw the girl’s face grow radiant at the sound of his footsteps, when she watched her dullness in his absence, that everlasting air of waiting for somebody which marks the girl who is in love, she found herself hoping that the Italian would make a formal proposal, and she was inclined to meet him half-way.
But the new year was six weeks old, and he had not even hinted at matrimonial intentions, so Mildred felt constrained to speak plainly.
“My dearest Pamela, we are drifting into a very uncomfortable position with Mr. Castellani,” she began gently. “He comes here day after day as if he were your fiancé, and yet he has said nothing definite.”
Pamela grew crimson at this attack, and her hands began to tremble over her crewel-work, though she tried to go on working.
“I respect him all the more for being in no haste to declare himself, Aunt Mildred,” she said, rather angrily. “If he were the kind of adventurer you once thought him, he would have made me an offer ages ago. Why should he not come to see us? I’m sure he’s very amusing and very useful. Even you seem interested in him and cheered by him. Why should he not come? We have no one’s opinion to study in a foreign hotel.”
“I don’t know about that, dear. People always hear about things; and it might injure you by and by in society to have your name associated with Mr. Castellani.”
“I am sure I should be very proud of it,” retorted Pamela; “very proud to have my name associated with genius.”