She sighed, without replying; then, in order to reassure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely—
“You know, Mary, that I will do my very best—for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that.”
He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary’s relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father’s peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father’s safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.
He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those old stornelli of the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of a contadino at Castellina a few days previously—
“Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia,
Non ti voglio amar più, non n’ho più voglia...
Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!”
And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.
Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina’s preoccupied look.
“I’m very tired, that’s all,” Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.
Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.
For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father—and if so, it meant ruin for them all!