At half-past five o'clock that same afternoon, heedless of the Countess
Moltedo's mysterious warning, I was standing by Lucie's side at the long
French window that opened upon the balcony. Below, hundreds of
visitors, mostly dressed in white, as is the mode of Leghorn, were
promenading in the little pine wood that lies between the roadway and
the sea, while beyond stretched the broad glassy Mediterranean aglow in
the fiery rays of the Tuscan sunset, the mystic islands showing dark
purple on the far-off horizon.
It was the hour when all Leghorn was agog after the _siesta_, that
period from two o'clock till five, when all _persiennes_ are closed, the
streets are silent and deserted, and the city dazzlingly white lies
palpitating beneath the blazing sun that blanches everything--the hour
for the evening bath, and the stroll and gossip before dinner.
Perhaps nowhere else in all Europe can be seen such a living panorama of
beautiful girls as there, upon the Passeggio at Leghorn on a summer's
evening at six o'clock, those dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome-featured
children of the people walking in twos and threes, with figure and gait
perfect, and each with her _santuzza_, or silken scarf of pale blue,
mauve, pink, or black, twisted around her head with the ends thrown
carelessly over the shoulders.
As the white veil is part of the costume of the Turkish woman so is the
_santuzza_ part of that of the merry, laughing coral-pickers, milliners
and work-girls of Leghorn. It enhances their marvellous beauty and is
at the same time the badge of their servitude.
Of all the people in the whole of proud old Tuscany assuredly none were
so easy-going and vivacious, none so light-hearted and full of poetry as
those Livornese people passing to and fro below us. The more I had
dwelt among the Tuscan people the more I loved them. There is surely no
other people on the face of the earth so entirely lovable, even with
their many sad faults, as they; none so gregarious, so neighbourly, so
courteous, kindly or poetic, none so content upon the most meagre fare
that ever held body and soul together.
Your _popolano_ even in his rags will bring a flower to a woman with the
air of a king, and he will resent an insult with a withering scorn to
which no regal trappings could lend further dignity. It is the land
where Love still reigns just as supreme as it did in the days of La
Fiammetta, of Beatrice, of Laura, or of Romeo--the Land of _Amore_--the
sun-kissed land where even in this prosaic century of ours men and women
live and die--often by the knife-thrust, be it said--for "_amore_," that
king who is greater and more powerful even than good Vittorio Emanuele
himself.
At Lucie's side I stood in silence, gazing down upon the gay scene
below. In those people's eyes were always dreams, and in the memories
there was always greatness.
A writer has asked with deep truth, who, having known fair Tuscany, can
forsake her for lesser love? Who, having once abode with her, can turn
their faces from the rising sun and set the darkness of the Pisan
mountains betwixt herself and them?
Yes. I had been back again in Tuscany for those few brief hours only,
yet the glamour of Italy had again fallen upon me, that same glamour
that holds so many of the English-speaking race--irrevocably compelling
them to return again and again to those amethystine hills and mystical
depths of seven-chorded light--the land that is grey-green with sloes
and rich with trailing vines, the land of art and antiquity, of youth
and of loveliness.
"And your father went on from Pisa?" I said at last, turning to my
neat-waisted little companion. "He did not come home with you?"
"No. He has some urgent business down in Rome, and sent me back here to
wait for him."
"When does he arrive?"
"He does not know. His business is very uncertain always. Sometimes
when he goes away he's absent only three days, and at other times three
months. Dear old dad is awfully tiresome. He never writes, and
Marietta and I wait and wait, and wonder what's become of him."
"Is he staying with friends in Rome?"
"With Dr Gavazzi, a great friend of ours."
"You left Studland very suddenly," I said.
"Because of a telegram. We left at once, with hardly an hour to pack
up. But how did you know we had gone to Italy?"
"I called after you had left, and your aunt told me. I wanted to speak
to you, Miss Miller," I added, turning to her seriously. "I came here
to Leghorn purposely to see you."
"It's surely a long way to travel," she said, turning her soft dark eyes
upon mine and regarding me with wonder.
"Yes. But the reason I am here is to consult you regarding something
which very closely concerns myself--regarding Ella."
"Ah! It was strange that she left us so suddenly," she remarked, "and
stranger still the events of that night. I wonder who attacked her?
She recognised her assailant, otherwise she would have said something to
me. I've thought over it several times. The whole thing is an utter
enigma. She evidently left us because she feared that her assailant
would either call to see her, or perhaps make another attempt upon her."
"Then she said nothing to you?"
"Absolutely not a word, even though when she came in she was half
fainting. I naturally concluded that you and she had had some words,
and therefore I made no inquiry."
"We had no words, Miss Miller," I said, in a low, serious voice. "Our
hearts were too full of tragedy for that."
"Of tragedy?" she cried. "What do you mean?"
"Ella is already engaged to be married."
"Engaged?" she cried. "Why, I thought she was to be yours? I was
congratulating you both!"
"No," I answered, my heart sinking. "Though we have come together again
after that long blank in both our lives, we are yet held apart by a
cruel circumstance. She is already engaged to be married to another
man."
"But she will break it, never fear. Ella loves you--you can't doubt
that."
"I know. I know that. But it is an engagement she cannot break. She
will be that man's wife in a month."
"You absolutely amaze me. She told me nothing of this, but on the
contrary led me to believe that she was still free, and that you were to
be her affianced husband."
"There is some reason--some secret reason why I cannot be," I said. "It
was to discuss this point with you that I have travelled from London. I
must ask you to forgive me, Miss Miller, for troubling you with my
private affairs, but you are, you know, Ella's most intimate and most
devoted friend."
"You are not troubling me in the least," my companion declared. "We are
friends, you and I, and if I can help you, I will with pleasure do so."
"Then I want to ask you a few questions," I said eagerly. "First, tell
me how long you have known Mr Gordon-Wright?"
"Oh! ever since I was quite a little girl. He used to give me francs
and buy me bon-bons long ago in the old days in Paris. Why?"
"Because I had an idea that he might perhaps be a new acquaintance."
"Oh, dear no. My father and he have been friends for many years. He
comes here to stay, sometimes for a couple of months at a time. He has
bad health, and his London doctor often orders him abroad."
"Who is he?"
"A gentleman. He was in the Navy on the China station, I think. He's a
most amusing companion, full of droll anecdotes, and seems to know
everybody. Dad says that he's one of the most popular men about London.
He has a splendid steam yacht and once or twice he has taken us for
cruises. It was in port here for a week at the beginning of the year."
"Where does he live?"
"In Half Moon Street in London."
"Has he a country place?"
"I never heard of it."
Then she was unaware, I saw, that he lived on the Cornish border. Her
father, of course, knew the truth, and kept it concealed from her. The
fact that he came there to hide for months at a time, and that he
travelled about in a steam yacht were sufficient to show that he was one
of the clever and ingenious band who had, during the past ten years,
effected certain _coups_ so gigantic that they had startled Europe.
"When I met him how long had he been staying with you at the Manor?"
"Only one day. He came on the previous morning, and he left an hour
after you did. He wished to consult my father about something--some
securities he contemplates purchasing, I think."
"Was Ella acquainted with him?"
"No. Ella never saw him. He was upstairs in his room, you remember,
when we brought her home, and she left in the morning before he was up."
"You don't think that it was he who met her in the park after she left
me?" I suggested.
She looked at me strangely, as though endeavouring to read my innermost
thoughts.
"No, I hardly think that. Why should he, of all men, attack a woman who
was a perfect stranger to him?"
"But was Ella a perfect stranger?" I queried. "How do you know that?"
"Of course we can't say so. He might have met her somewhere else
before," the dark-eyed girl was forced to admit.
"Do not the circumstances all point to the fact that she fled, fearing
to face him?" I said.
"Well, it certainly is a theory--but a very strange one," she answered,
her eyes fixed thoughtfully away to the distant horizon. "But what you
have told me is so extraordinary. Ella is engaged to be married in a
month. To whom? You have not told me that."
I was silent for a moment, wondering whether I should tell her. So
complete were the confidences now between us that I saw I need conceal
nothing from her. We entertained a mutual sympathy for each other--I
broken and despairing, and she a woman with the mark of fate upon her
countenance.
"She is to marry Gordon-Wright," I said in a low, hard voice.
"Gordon-Wright!" she gasped, drawing back and staring at me
open-mouthed. "Ella to marry that man! Impossible!"
"The fellow is compelling her to become his wife. He holds her in his
power by some mysterious bond which she fears to break. She is in
terror of him. Ella--my own Ella--is that man's victim."
"But--but you mustn't allow this, Mr Leaf!" she cried quickly, and from
the anxious expression in her countenance I saw that my announcement had
struck her a-heap in amazement. "Ella must never marry him!" she added.
"But are you sure of this--are you quite sure?"
"She had admitted it to me with her own lips."
"Then she must be warned--she cannot know."
"Know what?"
"Know the facts that are known to me. She is in ignorance, or she would
never consent to become that man's wife!"
"She has been entrapped. She admitted as much." My companion made no
answer. Her brows were knit in thought. What I had revealed to her was
both unexpected and puzzling. She evidently knew Gordon-Wright's true
character, though it was hardly likely she would admit it to me.
Yet I wondered, as I had lately very often wondered, whether she were
actually in ignorance of her father's true profession.
"If she has been entrapped, Mr Leaf," she said slowly, "then she must
find a way in which to extricate herself. We must never allow her to
become that man's wife."
"He is your father's friend, and yet you hold him in little esteem?" I
remarked.
"What I know is my own affair," was her hard response. "It is
sufficient for us to say that Ella is yours, and must be yours."
"Ah! yes," I sighed in despair, "if only she could be. Yet I fear that
it is impossible. This fellow for some mysterious reason holds her
future in his hands. She refuses to reveal anything to me, except that
to break away from him is impossible. Indeed, the real reason of her
flying visit to you at Studland was to consult him. She knew he was
visiting there, and slipped away from her father in order to call upon
you."
"But we had no idea that they were acquainted," Lucie declared.
"After she had gone to bed your father and Gordon-Wright remained up,
talking, she crept back downstairs, I believe, and overheard their
conversation."
"She did!" she gasped, her cheeks going pale. "She heard what they
said! Are you quite sure of this?"
"Yes."
"Then--then she really came to spy upon Gordon-Wright--to spy upon us
indeed!"
"Not with any sinister motive," I hastened to assure her. "She is
evidently endeavouring to discover something concerning this man who
holds her so utterly powerless in his hands. It is but natural, is it
not? It is only what you or I would do in similar circumstances."
My companion's face had changed. She was pale and anxious, eager to
learn all that I had ascertained.
"She told you this--how she had overheard my father talking to him?"
"No, Gordon-Wright himself charged her with eaves-dropping--and she
admitted it."
"Ah! Then if this be true, Mr Leaf, she had better marry him."
"Marry him!" I cried. "Why?"
"Because I have a suspicion that she knows something concerning my
father. What it is sorely puzzles me."
"I--I don't quite understand you," I said.
"Well--I thought I had spoken plainly enough," she answered. "You have
told me that she admitted to him that she overheard his conversation
with my father."
"Well, and what if she did?" I asked. "Was the consultation between
your father and his friend of such a secret nature?"