CHAPTER XXI
IT was a wonderful drive. Beppo, who acted as chauffeur, was skilful and daring—the unkind would have called him reckless. He took the old, almost worn-out, motor-car where most drivers would have feared to venture, but Lily, physically, was very brave, and once or twice when the Marchese uttered a word of remonstrance she was surprised, and a little amused.
She was still absorbed in what had happened, and in going over and over again every word of her strange talk with the woman who now sat, absolutely silent, by Beppo Polda's side.
Certain passages of the conversation remained far more vividly in Lily's mind than others. Thus, while she hardly gave a thought to the question to which the Marchesa attached such tremendous importance—the question of how Aunt Cosy procured the money which she now and again sent or gave to her son—the English girl kept thinking of what the other woman had said about her, Lily Fairfield, and Beppo.
She felt a good deal disturbed, and at the same time thrilled and moved. Was Beppo really in love with her? Certainly his manner was very, very different when they two, by chance, found themselves alone, even for a few moments. He then either became at once ardent and deferential—or coaxing, affectionate, and delightfully confidential.
This last had been his attitude during the drive he had taken her the day before yesterday, and it was the mood in which she liked him best. When he gazed with burning eyes into her face, the while paying her outrageous compliments, she felt shy, and very ill at ease. At such moments he seemed to be trying an experiment—trying, that is, to rouse in her a feeling her whole being denied him the right to exact. And yet—and yet she did find him an exciting and stimulating companion, and she could not help being glad he was staying on in Monte Carlo....
All at once the motor began to slow down. They were going over the yellow, marshy piece of rough road where they had stopped during the first drive Lily had taken with Beppo and his friends.
The Marchese exclaimed in his careful English: “It is a spring under the earth. Never dry here!”
Once they were safely across the marshy place, Beppo began driving along what was little more than a path cut through a big olive grove, which brought them, far sooner than Lily expected, to the front door of La Solitude.
“There is no short cut around here that I do not know,” the young man said, as he helped her down; and almost at the same moment the Marchesa called out: “I cannot do myself the pleasure of coming in to see the Countess, for a friend is coming to tea. Will you return to dinner to-night, and then accompany us to the Club, Lily?
“I've promised to dine with M. Popeau. But I believe”—she hesitated—“that he is going to take me into the Club.”
“Then we shall meet once again—so? I am glad!”
•••••
To Lily's relief, Aunt Cosy made no objection at all to her spending the evening with M. Popeau and Captain Stuart. In fact, she seemed pleased rather than otherwise that the girl should be going to do what must yet seem to Continental ideas a very unconventional thing.
But perhaps because she now knew that her son intended to stay on for a little longer in Monte Carlo, the Countess's manner was extraordinarily effusive. She seemed excited, unlike herself—indeed, her air of contentment, almost of joy, was in curious contrast to Cristina's overcast countenance. The old woman looked nervous, unhappy, and ill at ease; and when fastening tip Lily's pretty evening frock she gave a long, convulsive sigh.
“Is anything the matter, Cristina?”
“No, Mademoiselle. There is nothing more the matter than there has been for a very long time,” was the cryptic answer.
At a quarter to eight M. Popeau called for Lily, and during the rapid drive down into Monte Carlo he observed suddenly:
“The Countess does not look like herself to-night. I wonder what has happened to so excite and please her? Have you any idea of the reason?”
He asked the question in a very peculiar tone, and Lily, surprised, answered: “Beppo is staying on in Monte Carlo. He may even come to La Solitude for a few days. That is quite enough to account for Aunt Cosy's good humour.”
“Are the Pescobaldi's leaving to-morrow?”
“Yes, and it's because Beppo can't get the room he wants at the Hidalgo Hotel that he is thinking of honouring his mother by paying us a short visit!”
Lily could not help a sarcastic inflection coming into her voice. She liked Beppo very much, but she had no sympathy with his love of luxury, and of having everything “just so” about him. After all, what was good enough for his father and mother—to say nothing of herself—ought to be good enough for him!
“So, so,” said M. Popeau thoughtfully. “The young Count is not going away?”
Lily looked around quickly. M. Popeau spoke in a singular, preoccupied tone.
“I had occasion to-day to look through the private telegrams which have arrived at Monte Carlo in the last twelve hours” he hesitated, and then added slowly, significantly: “and I saw a telegram which I believe contained news which more than accounts for the Countess being so joyous to-night.”
“Really?” said Lily uncomfortably. “How very strange.”
Somehow it shocked her very much that M. Popeau should have the right to look at private telegrams sent through the Post Office. It seemed to her a very improper thing to happen! No doubt the telegram concerned the Countesses mysterious money matters—those money matters concerning which the Marchesa Pescobaldi had shown such intense interest and curiosity.
“Do you know anything of such a telegram?” asked the Frenchman.
He asked the unexpected question very gravely, and as Lily shook her head, a look of relief came over his face.
“I'm glad of that!” he said. “Somehow I did not believe that you had seen the telegram I have in my mind. But I regard it as almost certain that the Countess will show it you either to-night, or to-morrow morning.”
Lily was rather taken aback by these mysterious words. But she regarded M. Popeau as being rather fond of saying mysterious things and of making mysterious allusions, so she remained silent; and soon she was far too much absorbed in the amusing, brilliant scene in which she found herself at once a spectator and an actress to give any thought to what he had said.
The Old Casino—as habitués of Monte Carlo have fallen into the way of calling it—has now been given over for some years to the ordinary tourist. Not so the so-called Sporting Club. To the Club any man can obtain admission who can prove that he is a member of a reputable club in whatever may be his own country.
Lily was astonished to see the grandiose way in which everything was conducted there. All the diners in the restaurant of the Club wore evening dress, and the great rooms had a palatial splendour about them, while the decorations were in very much better taste than those of the rooms at the Casino.
They had found Captain Stuart waiting for them, and after they had finished dinner the three went off and looked on at the already high play going on at the tables.
The Club was far more Lily's original idea of a famous gambling resort than had been the Casino. The people about her looked, too, of a different class from those she had seen in the other place.
After they had strolled about from table to table, Monsieur Popeau now and again risking a sovereign or two, Lily saw Beppo Polda and the Marchesa Pescobaldi coming slowly towards her.
When the necessary introductions had been made, the Marchesa began to talk eagerly to the Frenchman, whom she at once remembered having met before the war.
Angus Stuart, with something like a scowl on his face, moved away from the two couples, but he was still near enough to hear Beppo Polda murmur: “I have never seen you in evening dress before, Lily—how lovely you look!”
“What a cad the man must be to say such a thing!” Angus Stuart almost said the words aloud.
Lily laughed nervously. “I have never known anyone pay so many compliments as you do, Beppo! If any of my old friends heard the things you sometimes say they would think you were making fun of me”
“They would be fools! You do look beautiful to-night—so beautiful that I am not going to risk my luck at the tables. I should be sure to win, and if I won I should be in despair!”
Of course Lily knew that Beppo meant to imply that the gambler who is lucky at play is unlucky in love. Again she laughed nervously, but in spite of herself she felt that there was something alluring in her companion's deep voice and absorbed ardent gaze.
“I can think of many good reasons why you should not play, Beppo!”
She uttered the simple words coquettishly, and Angus Stuart bit his lips. This was a side of Lily Fairfield he had not known was there, and a sudden, passionate wave of anger and disgust swept over him. But instead of moving away, as he would have been wise to do, he moved just a little nearer to the tall, distinguished-looking foreigner and the fair, flushed, English girl, whose delicate beauty was certainly set off to great advantage by her pale grey gown and quaint-looking evening cloak.
The young Scotsman heard Beppo Polda say in a very low voice: “You know that from to-morrow I stay at La Solitude?”
“I'm glad of that,” Lily said smiling.
“Is that really true? Your words make me so happy—happier than you know, Lily!”
Beppo was gazing down eagerly into her face, and Angus Stuart felt a wild impulse come over him—if only he could knock the fellow down.
“I'm glad you're coming to La Solitude, because I know it will please Aunt Cosy. You know that I have always thought it unkind of you to have gone to the Hidalgo Hotel when she was expecting you to stay with her,” and this time Lily spoke quite seriously.
“If I had known who would be at La Solitude I should have come there straight,” Beppo answered.
And Angus Stuart again felt that hot, unreasonable rush of rage possess him. How dare this fellow talk in that intimate way to a girl of whom he had seen very much less than he, Stuart, had done? And why did Lily seem to enjoy those boldly turned compliments?
Captain Stuart told himself bitterly that women were all alike; also that he had made a mistake—that Lily was not the kind of a girl he had taken her to be. What would have been more easy than for her to snub Count Beppo? He remembered how she had snubbed dear old Hercules Popeau on their long journey from Paris, when the Frenchman, presuming on his age, had been perhaps a thought too familiar in his manner; and yet she allowed this—this bold brute to say what he liked to her!
“When I am at La Solitude,” went on Beppo in a low tone, “I shall be a good boy, and never come down to Monte Carlo! We will go up each morning to the golf club and have a round. In the afternoons I will take you drives among the mountains. I have already managed to hire a two-seater for a week.”
Lily felt a little startled by his eager, intimate tones; also she had caught a glimpse of Angus Stuart's face.
“I shan't be able to be idle all day long,” she said hurriedly. “I have asked the English chaplain here of he can't find me something to do. I've already had a month of complete holiday, and somehow I find that idleness doesn't suit me.”
Beppo Polda looked extremely surprised and, yes, displeased.
“What nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, but it isn't nonsense.” Lily was speaking very decidedly now. “There's a convalescent home for English soldiers near here, and I have already arranged to go there and help with some of the work. I'm quite looking forward to it!”
“Does mamma know of this foolish plan?” asked Beppo.
“No, I haven't told Aunt Cosy yet. But she and I quite understand one another.” Lily looked up at him a little defiantly. “She knows that I am an English girl, and that I am used to doing what I wish—and to going about by myself.”
At that moment the Marchesa Pescobaldi detached herself from M. Popeau and came smilingly towards them.
“I fear I must leave this charming scene,” she exclaimed, “for we make an early start to-morrow morning—my husband and I.”
She bent forward, and, to Lily's astonishment, kissed her warmly. “Good-bye, my little friend!” she said in French. “Perhaps next time we meet in Rome? Do not forget what I said to you to-day. You and I are friends—whatever happens—henceforth!”
Lily felt a sudden feeling of recoil from the beautiful woman. She wondered—wondered—wondered whether the Marchesa really had the Evil Eye? Feeling a little ashamed of herself, she made the curious little symbolic sign with her finger and thumb which M. Popeau had once told her was supposed to avert ill-luck.
Beppo bowed ceremoniously. “À demain, Lily,” he said quietly. And then he escorted the Marchesa out through the mass of slowly-moving people.
Lily watched them threading their way among the crowd; then she looked round, and felt a little bewildered and surprised to find herself close to a table where a big duel was going on between a small group of players and the bank.
Suddenly she saw that M. Popeau and Angus Stewart were standing apart near one of the now closely-curtained windows. They were talking earnestly, and Lily would have been very much surprised had she known what M. Popeau had drawn Angus Stuart aside to say.
“At the risk of offending you, I beg you to forget yourself, my friend. Believe me, she is in danger!”
“I am not thinking of myself,” said Angus Stuart in an angry tone, “and I am trying not to think of her! If Miss Fairfield is in danger, it is her own fault. How can she allow that fellow to make love to her in that open, impudent way?”
“She is a child, and, though intelligent, has no knowledge of life at all,” said M. Popeau slowly. “Let me remind you of the truest of our French proverbs: 'To know all is to forgive all.' I lay claim to know, I will not say everything, but a good deal that I do not feel I can say to you. I regard her as being in real danger of having her life wrecked by a number of cruel, selfish, and unscrupulous people, who care for her as much as I do for that piece of paper on the floor! I refer, of course, to the Count and Countess Polda; also, incidentally, to the Marchesa Pescobaldi, who, in this affair, is proving once again that even a heartless woman may be a sublimely unselfish lover. I did my best the other day to warn Miss Fairfield. I was, as they say in England, snubbed for my pains!” He laughed a little ruefully.
“Seriously, Stuart, I have learnt something to-day which makes it quite clear to me that the Countess Polda—there is something sinister about that woman, I wish I could find out what it is—will make a tremendous effort to attach this English girl to her son. Should she succeed—I say it in all solemnity—that sweet child will soon be changed from a happy, joyous young thing into a grief-worn miserable woman! I speak of what I know. I am an old man, and I have become attached to you.
He paused, and Angus Stuart muttered something under his breath. Was it, “You're a good chap, Popeau”?
The Frenchman went on, speaking much more slowly than was his wont. “You have your chance to-day. Remember what Shakespeare says, 'There is a tide in the affairs of men.' That tide has come to you now. Take her back to La Solitude, my friend, and speak to her on the way. It is a fine night. Why should you two not walk up there, through the scented orange groves? I always look at a woman's feet, and to-night I noticed that Miss Lily was shod in good strong shoes. I was surprised, but glad,” he concluded quaintly.
“But what shall I say to her?” asked the other.
M. Popeau looked at him shrewdly.
“I do not press you to speak to her of your own feelings. That is a matter that every man must settle for himself. But I want you to put her on her guard. Beppo Polda is a charmer of women.” He saw that his words made the young Scotsman wince.
“It is a great mistake when one is thinking of things as serious as is this thing, to avoid looking at the truth. Beppo Polda, I repeat, is a charmer. And, unfortunately, he likes and admires Mis Lily. I go farther, I say that she is Beppo Polda's ideal of what a man's wife should be. But does that mean that he would be kind or faithful to her after the first few weeks of married life if temptation came his way?”
He paused—then answered his own question. “No, of course he would not be! He would always respect her, no doubt, but respect does not satisfy an Englishwoman, as it so often does a Frenchwoman or an Italian. Married to Beppo Polda,” concluded M. Popeau very solemnly, “our little Lily would wither like a flower put into a hot gas-oven.”
It was a quaint, almost a grotesque, simile, but somehow it impressed Angus Stuart deeply.
“From to-morrow,” went on M. Popeau, “Beppo Polda will be living at La Solitude. They will be together all day long, and he will make love to her all day long. His mother will help and abet him in every conceivable way possible.”
“But what am I to say to her? She will think me impertinent—and she will be right! I have no standing in this matter, Popeau—would to Heaven I had!”
“In your place,” said Hercules Popeau impressively, “I would sacrifice myself for her.”
“Heaven knows I am willing to do that!”
“Are you really willing, my friend? Are you willing to put your pride in your pocket? Are you willing to tell her that you love her, and that it is because you love her, even without hope, that you are entitled to warn her against this man? Though the Scotch, as I have found out many a time during the late war, think themselves in every way superior to the English (I do not say that they are, or that they are not, but that is their conviction), still you and she are bound by a common language. Implore her, above all, to do nothing in a hurry. Do not let Beppo Polda go back to Rome engaged to be married to Lily Fairfield.”
The matter-of-fact words made the young man feel sick with apprehension, anger, and jealousy. Why, Popeau spoke as if the matter was already almost settled!
“It has not occurred to you, I suppose, that Beppo Polda may be making love to her with no thought of marriage?” Angus Stuart said slowly.
“I, confess that was my first conviction. When I spoke to Miss Lily a few days ago I thought Beppo Polda was simply amusing himself—nothing more! But I have a very good reason for having changed by mind.”
As he uttered these words he walked across to where Lily was still standing watching the play, and feeling, deep in her heart, forlorn, and a little depressed.
“I have now to go off to see a friend on business at the Hôtel de Paris, so Captain Stuart will escort you home, Mademoiselle.”
M. Popeau spoke with a touch of rather unusual formality, and Lily looked round at him surprised. “I am entrusting you to the care of a good and faithful friend,” he went on in French. “Be kind to him to-night.”
Stuart was now slowly walking towards them, and his face, which had been set in grim lines, softened as his eyes rested on Lily.
The two walked out of the club in silence. She looked distractingly pretty, but also what Stuart had never seen her look before, that is, ashamed—ashamed as a child looks who knows she has done wrong, and yet, while longing for forgiveness, does not want to ask for it.