“I did nothing of the sort,” I answered, tartly. “I simply undertook to see her safely through the first stage of her journey.”
“And you will have the pleasure of seeing her back, I imagine; for as for my rascal of a boy, I mean to take him off home with me as soon as he arrives; and I can assure you that I have no intention of providing myself with a daughter-in-law in the course of the day.”
I began to feel not a little alarmed. “You cannot have the brutality to leave me here with a young woman whom I am scarcely so much as acquainted with on my hands!” I ejaculated, half involuntarily. “What in the world should I do?”
The old gentleman gave vent to a malevolent chuckle. “Upon my word, sir,” said he, “I can only see one course open to you as a man of honour. You must marry her yourself.”
At this I fairly lost all patience, and gave the Graf my opinion of his conduct in terms the plainness of which left nothing to be desired. I included him, his son, and the entire German people in one sweeping anathema. No Englishman, I said, would have been capable of either insulting an innocent lady, or of so basely leaving in the lurch one whose only fault had been a too great readiness to sacrifice his own convenience to the interests of others. My indignation lent me a flow of words such as I should never have been able to command in calmer moments; and I dare say I should have continued in the same strain for an indefinite time, had I not been summarily cut short by the entrance of a third person.
There was no occasion for this last intruder to announce himself, in a voice of thunder, as the Marchese Marinelli. I had at once recognised the original of the signorina’s photograph, and I perceived that I was now in about as uncomfortable a position as my bitterest enemy could have desired for me. The German old gentleman had been very angry at the outset; but his wrath, as compared with that of the Italian, was as a breeze to a hurricane. The marchese was literally quivering from head to foot with concentrated fury. His face was deadly white, his strongly marked features twitched convulsively, his eyes blazed like those of a wild animal. Having stated his identity in the manner already referred to, he made two strides toward the table by which I was seated, and stood glaring at me as though he would have sprung at my throat. I thought it might avert consequences which we should both afterward deplore if I were to place the table between us; and I did so without loss of time. From the other side of that barrier I adjured my visitor to keep cool, pledging him my word, in the same breath, that there was no harm done as yet.
“No harm!” he repeated, in a strident shout that echoed through the bare room. “Dog! Villain! You ensnare my daughter’s affections—you entice her away from her father’s house—you cover my family with eternal disgrace—and then you dare to tell me there is no harm done! Wait a little, and you shall see that there will be harm enough for you. Marry her you must, since you have ruined her; but you shall die for it the next day! It is I—I, Ludovico Marinelli—who swear it!”
I am aware that I do but scant justice to the marchese’s inimitable style. The above sentences must be imagined as hurled forth in a series of yells, with a pant between each of them. As a melodramatic actor this terrific Marinelli would, I am sure, have risen to the first rank in his profession.
“Signore,” I said, “you are under a misapprehension. I have ensnared nobody’s affections, and I am entirely guiltless of all the crimes which you are pleased to attribute to me.”
“What? Are you not, then, the hound who bears the vile and dishonoured name of Von Rosenau?”