open windows, but on the whole it pleased her and, oh-blissful thought, no board bill would be presented for it! She hoped the Belmontes' rooms were near by. It would be awful to stay at night all alone in this "spooky" place, and sleep in that formidable four-post bed decked with moth-eaten plumes, that reminded her of a hearse. Fortunately there was a bell-cord with a fat, threadbare tassel. How delightful it would be if Madame Tardieu were a guest here also, and and that other one who was set apart who She gazed out of the window upon the vast stretch of mountains, and a wave of heartsickness and loneliness took possession of her, as she thought of how he would soon be upon the vast ocean, sailing farther and farther away, without even leaving her a hope of ever seeing him again. CHAPTER XIV THE MOON-LIT STAIR There is no love like my loving; None know but the young, the young! L. B. EDWARDS. After having bathed and slept Margaret felt refreshed and rested, and Lisa, the wife of Clemente, came to help her dress. Afterwards Lisa had conducted her through a labyrinth of passages, and stairs to where Fauvel was waiting. He stood inside the door of a once gorgeous saloon, having remnants of velvet and satin hangings, tapestried walls, large double doors with decorated panels, and rich but faded rugs upon the floor. He came forward to meet her, kissing her hand. She was even more attractive, he thought, than on the night at the opera, for then she had worn long gloves, while now her slender, round arms were bare, as well as her pretty neck and shoulders. Her childish face, though still sad, had lost the terrible, anxious expression that had so distressed him in Rome. "That is a very beautiful gown, Mademoiselle," he said; "its nondescript style makes it suitable for any era and particularly accords with these surroundings; all that is needed now to complete the picture is a young knight at your feet. But tell me, how do you like my mountain retreat?" "Oh, I like it, I like it!" she said. "I feel as if I were a character in a novel. It is all so strange and beautiful to me, and yet it must be very old?" The new can always be made to order, but only age can beautify like this. These saloons were done over during the Renaissance, and my poor friend Gastonet bought from dealers and private families old furniture and draperies of that period, so under his able hand they have been made to look as they did originally." Fauvel was standing in front of an ornate fireplace, in which smouldered a heap of pine-cones. It was the middle of June, but the night air here was often chilly, the ruddy sparks gave a cheerful aspect, also a pleasant, pungent odor. He was glancing lovingly and admiringly around the room, where dozens of wax tapers in gilt sconces furnished the light, casting a mellow glow over the dim and time-worn elegance of the spacious apartment. Margaret also glanced around. The Belmontes were nowhere to be seen, but at one side was a table covered with snowy linen and expensive glass and silverware, which was set for four; that at least was reassuring. Fauvel, the Belmontes and herself were to dine first, she supposed, before the arrival of their guests. She wondered what sort of people he could collect from the neighborhood, which had seemed to her composed only of shepherds' huts and peasants' hovels, but then she had slept as they approached the castle and for all she knew there might be fine villas near them. "I am having the dinner served in here for your benefit, Mademoiselle," he said. "You Americans like fire at all seasons, I believe, and I want you to be comfortable." "How kind and thoughtful you are, Monsieur, but perhaps it may be too warm for the Signora," she replied, thinking it odd that Fauvel should consider her tastes before those of the wife of his friend. "The Signora is of your nationality," he answered. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I am glad of that! Shall I meet her soon?" "Soon. But, Mademoiselle, I think you need something after your walk through these long corridors, which are cold after dark," and he filled two small glasses and handed her one. "We shall drink another toast when the Belmontes come," he said. "This is to you, to Mademoiselle la rayonette, that is what you remind me of a moonbeam, in your filmy white with its silver tracery." Margaret took the offered glass and drank it in smiling acknowledgment of the delicate compliment. Fauvel had merely tasted his, when Clemente entered, making a slight sign that he wished to speak privately with his master, so she sat down and glanced about again. There were two objects that especially attracted her attention. One was a large mirror, blurred and cracked, reaching nearly from floor to ceiling. The other was a crimson velvet curtain at the opposite end of the room. She was curious as to what was behind it. The cordial she had taken had a peculiar effect upon her; it was toning and invigorating, and yet intensely soothing. A great contentment stole over her; it did not appear at all unnatural for her to be sitting here, she was already quite at home in these unusual surroundings. Her thoughts drifted further and further into the past- the dreadful yet beautiful mediæval past, when life was so strong and fierce, and passions blazed so suddenly to the bad and to the good." Could it be really she, up-to-date Margaret Randolph, from practical common-sense New York, gone back, back into the realms of romance and knighthood? The conversation between Fauvel and his servant still continued in an undertone. Near her on a marble-topped table with curved gilt legs, stood a crystal bowl filled with red roses; their perfume reached her, fragrant, sweet and subtle. They were like the roses that Estori loved so well, and with the perfume came visions of him. The rich crimson mantling his cheeks, the very color of the flowers themselves, his freshness, his sweetness, his beauty that rivaled the richest rose among them. She did not notice that Clemente had left, nor that Fauvel was standing as if expecting his guests, for her eyes were riveted upon the mirror surely, surely it was a mirror - yet now the massive gilt woodwork framed a picture. Oh, had the cordial gone to her head, or had the idea of a young knight that Fauvel had suggested, taken shape in her brain? What was this? It was moving, moving. It was not a picture the old mirror was only doing its duty and reflecting a reality! She turned her head quickly toward the other end of the room, and saw Fauvel watching her. Was she in a trance, or was she dreaming? Standing where the crimson curtain had fallen into place behind him was in truth a knight in silk doublet and hose, with a long cloak draped over his shoulders, young, graceful and handsome, with hair as black as the raven's wing and features as perfect as those of a Greek god. He was entirely in white, the only color a red rose against the silken doublet. He stood at the top of three marble steps, with one hand still holding the folds of the curtain through which he had come, silent, immovable, gazing down into the room. Margaret's heart beat fast; what was there about those dusky curls that was like Estori's? Ah, because because his image was so photographed upon her mind that she could see nothing but him. The youth was looking at her — staring at her. She rose from her seat, he came down two steps and hesitated, almost staggered, then straightened himself again and passed a hand over his eyes as if to clear his vision. --- Margaret moved slightly forward, her whole body swaying like a reed, her hand pressed to her heart to stop its wild beating; then there was a flash of recognition, a cry of ecstatic joy, and forgetful of Fauvel, forgetful of everything, in a moment they were clasped in each others' arms. Margherita, Margherita!" he cried, after the first rapturous embrace," have you dropped from heaven?" "And you and you," she murmured, so overcome she could scarcely speak. |