A Woman's Will Part 67

"But you never could have known that I would marry him in Genoa then?"

"Oh, no; of course I didn't know about Genoa, I only knew you were bound to marry him somewhere."

"When did you know about Genoa?"

"Last week. Your cousin wrote me."

Rosina's face was a study, but finally she began to laugh.

"Molly, I have been tricked and deceived at every turn by those two men.

Just listen while I tell you all about it."

Molly listened and was told all about it, from the Isar to the Mediterranean, the roof of Milan's cathedral included.

"You wouldn't believe it, would you?" the heroine of all concluded when she paused, altogether out of breath.

"Yes, I would. Because really I never saw two people so tremendously in love before."

"And you thought I--cared for him when we were there in Zurich?"

"I didn't think; I could see it with my eyes shut."

"Really?"

"Sure! and as to him--" the signora shrugged her shoulders expressively.

Rosina threw her arms around her and kissed her.

"Oh, I am so delightfully glad to be so happy, and for you to be so happy at the same time."

"Yes, I like to be happy myself," Molly confessed.

"You _are_ happy, aren't you? You do like being married, don't you?"

"Pleasantest two days of my life," declared the bride, with apparent sincerity.

"Do you think your husband is as good-looking as monsieur?"

Molly started violently.

"_As good-looking!_ Why, my dear, didn't I tell you that he was the--Oh, if I _only_ had my locket!"

"Never mind," Rosina said soothingly; "you can think he's handsomest, if you like, I don't mind. At any rate, he isn't a great musician."

"No," said Molly proudly; "but he's a colonel, and a colonel ranks a genius anywhere, any day, in Europe."

"All right," said the _fiancee_ amicably; "but, dear, didn't you think that it was awful in Jack to tell me that he'd gone crazy, and frighten me half to death?"

"It must have been a terrible blow when you found that he hadn't cared enough to go crazy, after all."

"_Molly!_"

"And however are you going to exist with the _'temperament jaloux_'?"

"I never minded that a bit. Every time he is angry he is _so_ adorable afterwards. We shall have such lovely makings-up. Oh, I expect to just revel in his rages!"

Madame La Francesca's dimples danced afresh.

"And I," she said, "I was raised with a hot-headed Irish father and four hot-headed Irish brothers, and I've been engaged to one peppery Scotchman and to frequent red-peppery continentals, so I find my ideal in an Italian who is, as the French say, '_Doux comme un agneau._'"

"I thought it was '_Doux comme un mouton_,'" said Rosina cruelly, even while she was conscious of a real and genuine pity for her friend, under the circ.u.mstances.

"No, it's '_agneau_,'" the other replied placidly, and then she rose and shook out her stunning blue grenadine self. "I must go. I've been away a long time."

"You don't get a bit tired of him, do you?"

"Well, I haven't yet."

"Isn't it curious? I used to be so bored if I had to talk to the same man into the second hour, and then I never guessed what made me so contented to walk around with this one forever and ever."

"But you know now?"

"Yes, I know now."

"I shall see you to-night," Molly said, adjusting her hat before the pier-gla.s.s; "your cousin is going to give an especially magnificent dinner to just we five."

"I didn't know that he was going to give a dinner," Rosina exclaimed, starting up affrightedly. "Why, all my trunks are down on the steamer!"

"They aren't now," said Molly, "they're in the next room; and your gown is laid out on the bed, and on the table is a diamond star from your cousin, and a bracelet from my beloved and myself, and a perfectly ripping tiara from your beloved to yourself."

Rosina put two bewildered hands to her head.

"n.o.body tells me _anything_!" she wailed.

"No," said Molly mockingly; "you're so set on having your own way that it really seems wiser not to."

Then they threw their arms about one another, kissed, laughed, kissed again, and parted.

Chapter Eighteen

It was some ten or twelve days later, and the hour was half-past nine, and the scene a private salon in the Schweizerhof at Lucerne. It was early November, or very close upon it, and so a fire blazed on the hearth, and the looped-back curtains at the windows showed only a mirrored reflection of what was within. Beside the chimney-piece stood a wee table with a coffee service upon it, and scattered on the floor beside was a typical European mail,--letters, postals and papers galore; the "Munchener Jugend," the "Town Topics," a "Punch," a "Paris-Herald,"

the "Fliegender-Blatter," three "Figaros," and two "Pet.i.t-Journaux."

There was a grand piano across one corner of the room, and the priceless Stradivarius lay in its unlocked case beside it. Upon the music-rack was spread "Le Souvenir" of Vieuxtemps, with directions in pencil dashed across it here and there, and upward sweeps and great fortes and pianissimos indicated by the hand that was never patient with life, but always positive in the painstaking of perfection as to its art.

The artist himself lay in a deep chair before the fire, smoking and dreaming in his old familiar way; his wife sat on the floor beside him, her head leaning against the arm of his chair, her clasped hands hanging about his knee, and in her eyes and on her lips there rested a charm of utter joy as sweet as it was beautiful.