The abandoned farm, and Connie's mistake

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Why not?” was the sharp question, and Connie replied:

“It does not seem proper for two lone women to become the guests of Count Costello, when there are so many hotels and pensions in Genoa.”

“I shall not go as his guest, but as his wife,” was the rejoinder.

“His wife! You? Oh, Auntie!” and Connie sprang to her feet, and then sank pale and trembling into her chair.

She knew her aunt’s fondness for titles, and had seen her growing intimacy with the count, but had never quite believed that it would come to this, that her proud aunt would take one whom she had refused. It was strange, but like many another foolish woman, Mrs. Hart had been won by the glamor of a title and the oily tongue of the Italian, who boasted connection with some of the first families in Italy and Florence. He had a villa in the latter city and a palace in Genoa, and when his wife tired of these, there was her house in New York, where they could spend a portion of each year. Mrs. Hart was a handsome, well-preserved woman of forty-five. The count was only a year or two her junior. He had no bad habits that she knew of, and was very good tempered. He had been devoted to Connie, but had seen the folly of aspiring to the hand of one so young. Mrs. Hart, in her maturity, would suit him better, and be an ornament in the high circles to which he would introduce her. These and similar arguments prevailed, and after yards and yards of “red tape,” the marriage ceremony was performed in Geneva some time in October, and Mrs. Hart was the Countess Costello.

It was a very kind, fatherly air which Costello assumed towards Connie, who, if there had been a spot upon earth to which she could flee, would not have gone with the newly-wedded pair. But there was none except the farmhouse where she felt sure she would be welcome. But if she went to America she might lose her chance of hearing from him, and she had not yet given up all hope. She meant to stay in Europe and take her chance. The journey to Genoa was made very slowly, for the countess was not at all averse to showing herself as a countess to her countrymen at different hotels, and the count was in no hurry to reach his palace. He was very happy at Monte Carlo, where he played for high stakes, winning some and losing more, and asking his bride to pay his losses, as he was a little short of funds. She paid them, as well as some of their hotel bills, and said nothing. She was a countess. Her marriage had been heralded in the New York papers, and commented upon as one more instance of a fair American winning a title from all foreign competitors. Costello was a devoted husband, and she was happy and rather anxious to reach the palace of which she was to be mistress. The count had told her that it was a good deal run down and lacked the cheery air of American houses, and he would have given orders to have it repaired if he had not thought she would rather see to it herself. She was free to do whatever she liked.

What Mrs. Hart had in her mind she hardly knew. Certainly not the tall, gloomy house on one of the dark streets of Genoa, so narrow that as you look ahead the buildings seem almost to touch each other.

“Oh, is it here?” she whispered under her breath, as the carriage stopped at the door and the count said, very gayly:

“Here we are, my dear. Home at last.”

It was something that a lackey in faded livery came out to meet them, while old Annunciata, who had been in the family for years as head servant, curtesied nearly to the floor to her new mistress. It was November and the wind was blowing cold through the street, where no sunlight ever fell, and Mrs. Hart was chilled to the bones, while Connie was shaking from her head to her feet. But there were fires in the salon and in the bedrooms, and the count ordered hot tea and biscuits and claret to be sent to the ladies, whose disappointment he read in their faces.