CHAPTER IX.
LOOKING BACK.
Lady Lochinvar offered to drive Mrs. Greswold to St. Jean that afternoon. Her villa was half-way between Nice and Villefranche, and half-an-hour’s drive would have taken them to the Bout du Monde; but Mildred preferred to make her explorations alone. There was too much heart-ache in such an investigation to admit of sympathy or companionship.
“You are all goodness to me, dear Lady Lochinvar,” she said, “and I may come to you again for help before I have done; but I would rather visit the scene of my husband’s tragedy alone—quite alone. You cannot tell how sad the story is to me, even apart from my love for him. I may be able to confide in you more fully some day, perhaps.”
Lady Lochinvar kissed her at parting. She did not care for commonplace troubles; she could not sympathise with stupid family quarrels or shortness of money, or any of the vulgar trivialities about which people worry their friends; but a romantic sorrow, a tragedy with a touch of mystery in it, was full of interest for her. And then, Mildred was a graceful sufferer, not hysterical or tiresome in any way.
“I will do anything in the world that I can for you,” she said.
“Will you let me bring my husband’s niece to see you?” asked Mildred. “She has a dull time with me, poor girl, and I think you would like her.”
“She shall come to me this evening, if she has nothing better to do,” said Lady Lochinvar. “I am fond of young people, and will do my best to amuse her. I will send my carriage for her at half-past seven.”
“That is more than kind. I shall be glad for the poor girl to get a glimpse of something brighter than our perpetual tête-à-tête. But there is one thing I ought to speak about before you see her. I think you know something of an Italian called Castellani, a man who is both musical and literary.”
“Yes, I have heard of Mr. Castellani’s growing fame. He is the author of that delightful story Nepenthe, is he not? I knew him years ago—it was in the same winter we have been talking about. He used to come to my parties. Do you know him?”
“He has been a visitor at Enderby—my husband’s house—and I have seen something of him in Italy of late. I am sorry to say he has made a very strong impression upon my niece’s heart—or upon her imagination—but as I know him to be a worthless person, I am deeply anxious that her liking for him should—”