CHAPTER VIII
Wardhad handed over the details of the dinner to his Japanese butler, Ishigaki, who presided over the town house of the millionaire.
In spite of her dislike of him and reluctance to accept favors, Carlota felt a thrill of almost childish excitement over the novelty of it all as she entered the upper salon which had been turned into a private banqueting-hall for the occasion.
The walls were hung with dull-gold, Oriental draperies, weighted down with embroidery. A glow from hidden shaded lights left the room in a twilight haze of amethyst and saffron. The air was fragrant with faint, strange perfumes. Brazier lamps burned somberly in stone lanterns half revealed behind red and gold lacquered screens. On the surface of a pool sunken in the center of the teakwood dining-table, half-opened lotus buds floated, and curious, iridescent-plumaged waterfowl stood amongst them, dazed and hesitating, goldfish darting at their feet, and tiny turtles scrambling aimlessly up the sides of the pool.
“I hoped it might amuse you,” Ward said when he found Carlota bending over the tablein delight. He had never seen her in evening dress before, and Maria had spared no pains or thought for this that might be her night of conquest.
“You shall be Juliette in her triumph,” the old singer had said. “Cloth of silver with a veil of lace from the Colonna wedding chests. And the very cap of seed pearls which your grandmother bought from the old antique dealer in Verona near the bridge as you leave the palace. And just a girdle of filigree silver, set in pearls with tassels of them. But for your throat, nothing at all. It is encircled by beauty quite enough. First I thought to let you wear her chain of rubies with the black cross. Then the necklace of opals. She loved them. It came from Russia and was part of the great Catherine’s treasure. One of the Orloffs gave it to Paoli. I would not have you wear anything to-night that might bring the evil eye upon you.”
Carlota had laughed at her earnest insistence. She felt no interest in Ward himself, only a deep-rooted resentment against the circumstances which forced her to accept his hospitality when she disliked him. Even now she merely smiled at his words, and turned eagerly to greet the old Marchese. The latter’s gray eyebrows arched with approval when he beheld the result of Maria’s costuming.
“So soon you grow into your kingdom, mia carina,” he exclaimed half teasingly, half musingly. “Behold, yesterday, Mr. Ward, it was a child whom I cajoled with chocolate almonds. I do assure you, she was the utter gourmand for them, rummaging into my pockets like a squirrel, and now we bow to her sovereignty, is it not so?”
“The bloom fulfills the promise of the bud,” Ward answered gravely, and Carlota’s eyes held a startled wonderment as he gazed down at her. It seemed to-night as if his glance even held a covert challenge that aroused every element of resentment in her nature. Throughout the dinner she was reticent and unresponsive. The Marchese, as always, was so absorbed in his little anecdotes and sallies of wit that Ward’s attentions escaped him. Maria observed, but gave no sign of annoyance; rather, she was filled with pride at the influence of her beloved child over so great a man as Ward. Jacobelli ate and drank as a connoisseur, paying little attention to the conversation about him, but relaxing under the mellowing influence of Ward’s wines and Ishigaki’s solicitous ministrations. Finally he caught Carlota’s refusal to sing as her host urged her after they rose from dinner.
“It is no time to-night to show caprice, caramia,” he exclaimed pompously. “Come, I would have you sing and prove to Mr. Ward how soon you will triumph at the Opera.”
Carlota’s eyes sought the Marchese’s in swift appeal, but he merely nodded to her encouragingly above the lifted rim of his glass of old Amontillado.
“Miss Trelango is only afraid that you will put her through your professional paces, Jacobelli,” Ward interposed easily. “Show the Marchese and Signora Roma those new photographs in the east gallery of the excavations at Rhodopis. You will find the emeralds we took from the royal mummies there also. Ishigaki will open the case for you.”
Jacobelli smiled understandingly, and led the way. The Japanese moved noiselessly about the salon, turning off a light here and there until only those in the stone lanterns gave a nebulous glow. When they were alone, Ward moved one of the lacquered screens from its place, disclosing a tall panel of solid gold embroidery set in ebony. Flamingoes moved through sunlit marshes.
“This will amuse you,” he said, stepping upon a convex spring set in the floor. The panel slipped silently up. “This is my favorite music-room.” He led the way through the narrow door into the interior. It was domed withstained glass, a fan fretwork above the Empire grand piano assuring perfect acoustics. The walls were in flat dull gold, with peacocks and gray apes in conventionalized designs, hand-painted. A rock crystal vase held irises, gold and purple. The light filtered cunningly through the stained glass in rays of twilight splendor. “I have kept this room for you the first time you should sing to me alone.”
Carlota closed her eyes as she seated herself at the piano, the memory of the little garret studio of Ames a vivid, poignant hurt to her pride. He to whom she had given all her faith and love, and he had held it so lightly, where to this man no effort was too great to win her favor.
“Jacobelli tells me you have gained. Sing what you love best yourself.”
And instead of choosing some grand-opera aria, she sang “O Sole Mio,” as she had learned it from Ames. Over their lunches in the studio, he would sing it to her, lunches of bread and fruit and salad, glorified by love and song. Out in the east gallery Jacobelli caught the air and frowned, but the Marchese inclined his head to listen contentedly. As the last notes ended, Ward bent over her suddenly, his arms around her, his lips seeking hers dominantly. Crushed in his powerful embrace, she strove to free herself,but Ward had waited two years for this moment, and she felt her strength leave her as he held her. The crystal vase crashed behind him as he tripped backwards over the slender stand, her hand holding his face from her.
“Maria!” she called. “Maria! Come to me!”
“Let her alone,” warned Jacobelli, placing himself at the door of the gallery. “She must learn poise and command of herself.”
Maria glared at him, infuriated.
“Mother of God, when the child needs me!” she cried, and sped along the salon to the inner room. The Marchese’s glance met that of the maestro with troubled questioning.
“Surely, he would not attempt anything to alarm her. You do not think—” The old Italian spread out his stout, expressive hands.
“I do not think when I am with such a man as Ogden Ward. He is a law to himself.”
Veracci’s expression changed instantly. From the easy, genial old diplomat there seemed to fall over his face the mask of the soldier.
“No man is that,” he answered. “I would hold him accountable if he has annoyed the child.”
Before Maria had reached them, Carlota had released herself. She turned to him with clenched hands, her face white with anger.
“Take me home, tanta!” she exclaimed. “I—I am not well.”
Ward regarded them both with amused speculation.
“You are temperamental, my dear, perhaps a trifle gauche also, too much the gamine in your play.” He held out one hand to show the scratch that ran like a scarlet thread along the skin. “Tell Jacobelli I say it is time to prepare for her début.”
Carlota stood with her back to the piano, her eyes filled with quick tears, Maria’s caressing hand on her arm to check her.
“I do not need your permission,” she said passionately. “I have the voice and I will go to Casanova myself, and tell him who I am. He will hear me. And I will pay you back everything. You do not know that I can easily. I have my grandmother’s jewels—”
“But, my poor foolish one,” cried Maria, “Casanova would not give you standing-room in his chorus if you went to him without the backing of money and patronage.”
“Then I will go back to Italy. Where is the Marchese, Maria?” She spoke with sudden quietness and dignity. “I am sorry, Mr. Ward. Doubtless the fault is mine. I do not seem to have learned my part according to the rôle expected of me.”
Ward bowed as she passed him, his own face tense with repression. Out in the long gallery Jacobelli waited, detaining the Marchese over the collection of emeralds. Carlota pleaded a sudden faintness to account for her departure and he accompanied them down to Jacobelli’s waiting car, returning for a final glass of his favorite cordial in Ward’s library.
“You are not only the art lover supreme,” the old gentleman said genially, ensconcing himself in a deep armchair, “but likewise you know how to select the rare, the unusual. Before I had the enjoyment of our personal acquaintance, I had heard of you as an eccentric, that you carried about in your pockets loose pearls worth thousands, merely to touch and gaze on them when you were in the critical moment of some great financial deal. Is it so?”
Ward smiled non-committally.
“I have collected pearls amongst other things.”
“Then perhaps you noticed the cap our sweet protégée wore to-night, the Juliette mode, a network of pearls? That is a bit of very delicate craftsmanship, sixteenth-century work. Margherita Paoli’s collection was thought marvelous in her day. Every piece has its own history. She left it intact for Carlota.”
“Where is it?” The unwinking, light grayeyes of the financier watched every shade of expression on his guest’s face.
“I was not in the confidence of the Contessa,” responded the Marchese suavely, almost regretfully, as he touched the ash from his cigarette tip and watched it fall on the curled leaf of gold repoussé.
Carlota leaned her head back on the suède cushion in Jacobelli’s car, gazing out at the Avenue’s lights as they flashed by. It had been raining, and they glowed through the wet glass in prismatic hues like in a spectrum. Maria’s arm was close about her, but she was silent, inwardly frightened and disturbed at the dénouement to the dinner. But Jacobelli was elated and highly amused. He occupied the uptown seat himself, and sat with a hand resting on each knee, complacent and benignant.
“Cara mia, I salute!” he exclaimed happily. “You are an actress as well as a singer. You could not possibly have entertained him better or interested him more piquantly.”
“I did not try to interest him,” Carlota replied, wearily. “I hate him and the look in his eyes.”
She drew in her breath sharply with a tremor of dread, and returned the quick, understanding pressure of Maria’s hand. But the maestromerely smiled at them both, smiled until his round, plump face seemed like a caricature of himself sketched in upturned half-moons of mirth.
“That is quite all right,” he assured her. “You should be proud that so great a man is attracted by your genius. So soon as you have signed your first contract, my dear, and made your début, then you may refuse to see him, if you like, if not before. What is the look in his eyes to you? Thousands will gaze at you so. You must learn to accept homage gracefully. Ward is a stepping-stone to success. To-morrow I shall see Casanova for you as he ordered.”
Carlota closed her eyes as the car drew up under the heavy porte-cochère at the Saint Germain apartments. Its rim of electric lights was the sole illumination on the dark side street at that hour.
“No, I shall not come up with you,” protested Jacobelli. “Do not tempt me, signora. I shall overeat if you set before me one of those delightful suppers of yours, and, besides, the child must rest. We may get a hearing to-morrow and she needs all her strength. Sleep well, Carlota. Remember, smother the emotion that cripples your work.”
She did not speak until they reached theirapartment, and Maria laid her hands on her shoulders to look closely into her eyes under the shaded lights.
“Ah, my dear one, they have hurt you to-night,” she sighed. “You are not ready yet, not old enough to manage these men. Some day it will be as nothing to you, their whims and notions, their mad passions and threats. A man in love is the most helpless, pitiful thing in all the world, never, never dangerous. You have him at your mercy. What did he say to you?”
Carlota slipped out of her velvet cloak tiredly.
“I hardly know. It was so sudden and horrible, the touch of his hands on my flesh, and his face close to mine. He was a dog to take advantage of my being there as his guest—”
“Oh, hush! What did he say to you?” urged Maria shrewdly.
“Nothing at all. He asked me to sing, and when I had finished he seized me in his arms and tried to kiss me.”
“I should not have left you alone. Opportunity makes the thief. It is Jacobelli’s fault. He must have known that Ward desired a chance of speaking to you. But it is all nothing, cara mia, nothing at all. It was certain he would fall in love with you. No man could helpit, but he must be taught some gems are priceless. He did not ask you any questions, then, about yourself, about the Paoli collection or the jewels you wore?”
Carlota looked at her wonderingly.
“Of course not. Why should he?”
“I do not want any one to know they are here in America, out of the Tittani vaults. Nobody is aware of it as yet excepting yourself and the Marchese. He helped me with the customs when we came in, he and the delightful Palmieri. But even to Palmieri they were merely jewels. He did not know their histories.”
Carlota watched her anxiously, a quick reaction of tenderness and solicitude for Maria sweeping over her, and making her forgetful of her own trouble.
“You’re worried, dear. Why?” she asked.
“Why?” Maria laughed. “Because I am doubtless a superstitious old fool. Paoli always said there was a curse about the rubies and pearls, rubies for the blood of the people, pearls for the tears they shed. I wish we had not brought them.”