All this time Jim Schuyler's motor had been waiting. It was strange to
go out into the sunshine and see the smart chauffeur in his place,
placidly reading a newspaper.
"Won't you come with me to Monte Carlo?" Peter asked. "We may find Mary
at a hotel."
"I will come," Vanno said. "Her letter was posted there, yet I feel she
has gone. She used to talk about Italy, but I don't think she would go
to the house Hannaford left her. She couldn't bear the idea of living in
his place."
"Let's go straight to Mrs. Winter's and ask her advice," Peter
suggested. "She told me all about the Château Lontana last night."
They sat silent as the motor carried them swiftly along the white road.
Peter longed to talk, but all the things she most wished to say were
impossible to put into words. How Marie had checkmated them! It was like
her, Peter thought; but she did not doubt the truth of that thing the
Princess had said. There are some looks, some tones, which cannot lie.
Peter did not see what other course they could have taken, instead of
that which they had chosen quickly, without discussion, accepting the
inevitable. She believed, and she thought Vanno believed, that Marie
would have kept her word and killed herself if they had persisted in
telling Angelo what she was and had done. She had begged them to "wait a
little while," but it was not only a question of waiting. Marie, as
usual, had done well for herself. Vanno could not in cold blood, after
months had passed and Marie was the mother of his brother's child, tell
Angelo the story. At least, Peter was sure he would not bring himself to
do that. Even she, who detested Marie now with an almost tigerish
hatred, could not imagine herself pouring out such a tale when the first
fire of rage had died--no, not even in defence of Mary; for Mary would
be the one of all others to say, "Do not speak." Yet it filled Peter
with fury to think that now no one could fight for Mary--sweet Mary, who
was not by nature one to fight for herself. The great wrong had been
done. Vanno could not forgive his brother's injustice. The two would be
separated in heart and life while Marie lived. All this through Marie's
sin and cowardice in covering it. Yet even those she had injured could
not urge her on to death.
Suddenly, just as the motor slowed down near the Monaco frontier, Peter
cried out, "There's Mrs. Winter, walking!"
She touched an electric bell, and the chauffeur stopped his car.
Rose was taking her morning exercise. She looked up, smiling at sight of
Peter and Vanno getting out of the automobile to meet her.
"Where's Mary?" she asked, then checked herself quickly. She saw by the
two faces that something was wrong. "Mary's not ill, I hope?" she
amended her question.
Peter left the explanation to Vanno. It concerned his family, and how
much he might choose to tell she did not know.
"There's been a misunderstanding," he said. "I came back this morning to
find Mary gone. I'm afraid my brother and sister-in-law were not kind to
her, and nothing can ever be the same between us again because of that.
But the one important thing is to find Mary. She has--thrown me over, in
a letter, and it does not tell me where she is. Do you think she can be
in Monte Carlo?"
"No, I don't," Rose replied with her usual promptness. "What a shame I
was out when she called the other night. Perhaps she would have confided
in me. Now I see why she took her jewellery. Maybe she needed money. If
we'd been at home, we'd have made her stay with us. Do you know, I
shouldn't wonder if she'd gone to the Château Lontana?"
"I thought of that," Vanno said, "but she didn't want to live in
Hannaford's house."
"With you! But now she's alone and sad, poor child. If we could only be
sure, you could telegraph, not to waste time. I'll tell you what! If she
went there, she probably drove instead of taking a train. Wait a minute,
while I ask the hunchbacked beggar if he saw her. They were great chums;
and it was talking to him I came across her first."
Rose began running to the bridge, where the dwarf, in his shady hat and
comfortable cloak, was engaged in eating his luncheon on a newspaper,
kept down on the parapet with stones. Vanno and Peter followed quickly,
but before they arrived Rose had extracted the desired information. "He
did see Mary three nights ago, in a carriage, driving in the direction
of Italy," she announced in triumph. "He was just starting for home.
What a good thing he hadn't gone!"
"There was another lady in the carriage with my Mademoiselle," added the
beggar in bad French, his mouth full of bread and cheese.
"Another lady!" Rose echoed. "Who could it have been?"
"A dark lady, young but not a girl," the hunchback cheerfully went on.
"She looked out at me, then threw herself back as if she did not want me
to see who she was. Perhaps because she did not wish to spare me a
penny, and was ashamed. Some people are stingy."
"Did you know the lady's face?"
"No, I never saw it before that I can remember. It was not a sweet face
like Mademoiselle's. That lady would laugh while a beggar starved. I
always know at the first look. I have trained myself to judge. It is my
métier."
He spoke with pride, but no one was listening.
"A dark woman," Vanno repeated. "What has become of the Dauntreys? Do
you know, Mrs. Winter?"
"I heard yesterday that they'd disappeared, owing every one money."
"Miss Maxwell, will you let me go now at once to Italy in your car?"
Vanno asked.
"Yes," Peter said. "It's not my car, but it belongs to my best friend.
He and I will both be glad, but you must take me with you."
Rose looked wistful, but she did not ask to go. The others were not
thinking of her.
"Do you know the Château Lontana?" she inquired of Schuyler's chauffeur.
"And have you got your papers for Italy?"
The man, who was English, touched his cap. "Yes, Madam, I know where the
place is. And everything is in order."
As a last thought, Vanno went to the beggar and put two gold pieces into
his knotted hand. The little man's red-rimmed eyes glittered with joyful
astonishment. He bit first one coin, then the other.
* * * * * * *
Peter had expected Jim in the afternoon, but Rose promised to telephone.
Neither the girl nor Vanno thought of lunching. They went on without a
pause except for the formalities at the Italian frontier, and it was
early in the afternoon when the car slowed down before the closed gates
of the Château Lontana. The chauffeur got out and tried to open them,
but they were locked. He turned to the Prince for instructions. "What
are we to do, sir? There is no bell." His tone was plaintive, for he was
hungry and consequently irritable.
Vanno jumped out and tried the gates in vain. The chauffeur looked at
the ground to hide his pleasure in the gentleman's failure. Peter peered
from the car anxiously. "Perhaps Mary didn't come here after all, or
else she's gone away," the girl suggested. "It would have meant a horrid
delay, trying to find the cabman who drove her from Monte Carlo, but
after all it might have been better."
Vanno was ungallant enough not to answer. He was hardly conscious that
Peter was speaking. The iron gates, set between tall stone posts, were
very high. On the other side an ill-kept road overgrown with bunches of
rough grass wound up the cypress and olive clad hill. At the very top
stood the house which somewhat pretentiously named itself a château. It
was built of the beautiful mottled stone of the country, brown and gray,
veined and splashed with green, purple, yellow, and rose pink. There
were two square towers and several large balconies and terraces with
windows looking out upon them; but the windows in sight were closed and
shuttered. The thick flowering creepers which almost covered the walls
as high as the windows of the second story--roses, bougainvillea,
plumbago, and convolvulus--were tangled and matted together, great
branches trailing over the shut eyes of the windows. Cypresses and
olives were untrimmed, and there was a straggling wilderness of orange
trees. The place had a sad yet poetic look of having been forgotten by
the world.
Vanno knew little of its history, except that an elderly French woman,
a great actress long before his time, had bought and lived in the house
for many years, letting the whole property fall into decay while her
money was given to the Casino.
It seemed impossible that Mary could be there behind those shuttered
windows, but he was determined not to go away without being sure. Rose
Winter had said half jestingly that Lady Dauntrey was a woman who might
"look on her neighbour's jewels when it was dark." And Vanno had taken a
dislike to the hostess at the Villa Bella Vista. He had been glad to
take Mary out of her hands, to put her in charge of Rose Winter. As he
stood and stared at the high, locked gates he remembered what the beggar
had said about the dark woman who threw herself back in the carriage as
if she did not wish to be seen.
"Shall I blow my horn and try to make some one come?" asked Schuyler's
chauffeur.
"No, I think not," Vanno said on reflection. "I have an idea that if
people are there, they won't come down for that. I can get over all
right if you'll back the car close to the gates."
The chauffeur's expression withdrew itself like a snail within its
shell, but suddenly he became interested enough to forget his hunger. He
had supposed that the young lady wished to pay a mere call at a time of
day inconvenient to him: but evidently there was something under the
surface of this excursion. He had not stopped the engine, and turning
the motor with the bonnet toward France, he carefully backed against
the iron grating. In a moment Vanno had climbed on to the top of the
car, had swung himself over the gate, and dropped down on the other
side. The chauffeur, who, like most of his countrymen, hated to be made
conspicuous, rejoiced that this was accomplished when the road was
empty. He would not have enjoyed being stared at even by a peasant in a
cart.
Peter was out in the road, watching Vanno's manoeuvres. "I wish I could
do that!" she exclaimed.
"I'll let you in, or send some one to unlock the gates if possible," he
promised. Then as he walked swiftly up the avenue his thoughts rushed
far ahead, and he forgot Peter.
The motor moved a little away from the gates, and waited. It waited a
long time and no sign of life showed on the blank face of the house. For
many minutes Peter stood in the road, looking up, hoping to see Vanno,
or a servant coming with a key. But nothing happened, and when she had
grown very tired of standing, she reluctantly went back to the car. She
sat leaning forward, her face at the window, gazing at the house; and at
last she began to be angry with Vanno. Surely he might come or send,
knowing how anxious she must be to hear of Mary. It was too
inconsiderate to leave her there in suspense!
Vanno hoped that he might find Mary in the garden; for mounting from
lower to higher levels, above the cypresses and olives which formed a
wind screen for upper terraces near the house, he saw viewpoints
furnished with seats of old, carved marble, pergolas roofed with masses
of banksia, and one long arbour, darkly green, with crimson camelias
flaming at the far end like a magic lamp. At any moment a slender white
figure might start up from a marble bench, or gleam out like a statue
against a background of clipped laurel or box. He began to feel so
strongly conscious of a loved and loving presence, that he was as much
surprised as disappointed when he reached the steps leading up to the
house-terrace without having seen Mary. If he had been willing to
harbour superstitious fancies then, he would have believed that Mary had
sent her spirit to meet him in this mournfully sweet garden; but less
than at any other time would he listen to whispers of superstition.
Vanno pulled the old-fashioned bell of the front door, and heard it ring
janglingly with that peculiar plaintiveness which bells have in empty
houses. It seemed to complain of being roused from sleep, when waking
could give no promise of hope or pleasure.
Twice Vanno rang, and then there came the sound of unlocking and
unbolting. A handsome and very dark young woman of the peasant class
looked out at him questioningly, with eyes of topaz under black brows
that met in a straight line across her forehead. The eyes lit when Vanno
spoke to her in Italian, and she beamed when he inquired for Miss Grant.
"The beautiful Signorina!" she exclaimed. "The gracious Signore is a
relative who has come for her?"
"We are to be married," he answered with the frank simplicity of
Italians in such matters.
"Heaven be praised!" the woman cried. "Will the Signore step into the
house?"
"She is here, then?" Vanno asked, entering the vestibule that opened
into the white coldness of the hall.
"She has been here for three nights and two days."
"Thank God!" Vanno muttered under his breath. An immense relief, like a
bath of balm, eased the pain of suspense. He felt that he had come to
the end of his trouble. After all, what did Angelo or any one in the
world matter, except Mary? He trusted himself to make her realize this.
A few minutes more and she would be in his arms, on his heart, and her
scruples would be burnt to ashes in the fire of his love.
"Will you tell the Signorina that Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has
come?" he said.
The woman threw out her hands in a gesture of apology and regret.
"The Signora will not let me go into the room," she answered, and a look
of sullen ferocity opened a door into depths of her nature where fire
smouldered. She lifted her eyes to Vanno's, and for a long instant the
Prince and the peasant gazed fixedly at each other. At the end of that
instant Vanno knew that this woman hated the "Signora" and her commands;
and Apollonia knew that this man would protect her through any
disobedience.
"Why does the Signorina keep her room?"
"It seems that she is not well."
"When did you see her last?"
"Yesterday morning, Principe. I went then to her room to prepare her
bath, and to take her coffee with bread which I had toasted."
"Was she not well then?"
"When I inquired after her health she said she had not slept. And the
night before it had been the same. She was pale, very pale, and there
were shadows under her eyes, but she did not complain of illness. While
I was there the Signora came and since then the young lady has not been
out of her room."
"What is that Signora's name?" Vanno asked.
"I do not know, Principe, I have not been told, and I do not understand
the sound of English words, though I have learned a little French."
"Is the lady's husband here?"
"Oh, yes, a very sad, tired-looking gentleman who seems to be ill
himself; but he is a doctor. I know that, for when I offered to make a
tisane of orange flowers for the Signorina to soothe her nerves and
bring her sleep, she thanked me, but said the Signore had got her a
sleeping draught made up the day before, when he went back over the
French frontier. She told me that he was a doctor, and had prescribed
for her."
"A doctor!" Vanno repeated, suddenly puzzled. He had been confident that
the "Signore and Signora" were Lord and Lady Dauntrey. But he had never
heard that Dauntrey had studied medicine and practised in South Africa.
"Where is the Signore now?" he asked quickly.
"He was with his wife in the room of the Signorina a short time ago."
"Take me to the door of that room, and I will talk with one of them."
"Oh, with the greatest joy, Principe. I have not been happy leaving them
alone with her, but what could I do? I am only a servant."
"Why were you not happy leaving them alone with her? Did you think they
might do her harm?"
Apollonia shrugged her shoulders, and tears sparkled in her eyes, yellow
as the eyes of a lioness. "How can I tell, Principe? She said they were
her friends. And the Signore has not a bad face. But it is his wife who
rules. And something in myself tells me she is wicked, and does not
truly love the Signorina. I have been a wondering whether I should go
into that room in spite of those two, and force them to leave her. I
would not have minded frightening them with a big knife I keep in the
kitchen for cutting bread, only that would have alarmed the Signorina.
And perhaps they are not bad after all. Then I should have been wrong. I
have thought so much yesterday and to-day about this thing that I seem
to have wheels spinning in my head. I thank the blessed saints who have
sent the Principe."
"We will go now to the Signorina's door," said Vanno.
"At once, Principe; but we will find it locked."
"How do you know that?"
"I have tried it, softly, more than once, both to-day and last night.
Never once have the two left the Signorina alone. Always one was with
her. Through the night the Signora was there--with the key turned. One
only has come for meals."
"The gate, too, has been locked," said Vanno. "Is that a custom here?"
"No, Principe, it has always been open since I came to serve the Captain
Hannaford. It is the only way of entrance, and there is no gate-bell.
Not that people often come. But since the Signorina and her friends
arrived, it has been locked. It is the Signora who has the key. She
seemed to be afraid of thieves, though we have nothing here which
thieves can take, unless she herself has brought it. I wondered at first
how the Principe had got in, but as soon as he told me he was the
betrothed of the Signorina, I knew he would not be stopped by a locked
gate."
"I climbed over," Vanno admitted, simply. "Those people must have heard
me ring the doorbell, I suppose?"
"It is likely. The Signorina's room is far away, but the bell makes a
great noise."
As they talked in low voices which the echoes could not catch and
repeat, Apollonia was conducting Vanno upstairs, through an upper hall,
and along a corridor. At the end of this passage she paused, without
speaking, and indicated a door. The Prince went close to it, and called
in a clear tone: "Mary, it's I, Vanno. I've come to find you and take
you away."
There was no answer; but it seemed to him that there was a faint rustle
as of whispering on the other side. He tried the handle. It did not
yield; and Apollonia's yellow eyes sent out a flash of excited
expectation. She looked an amazon, waiting the signal to fall upon an
enemy.
"Lady Dauntrey, I ask that you will open the door," Vanno said.
Almost immediately a key turned in the lock, the door opened quickly,
letting Eve Dauntrey step out, and was closed again by her husband. It
would also have been locked, but before Dauntrey could turn the key,
Vanno twisted the handle round violently, pushed the door back and
thrust his foot into the aperture.
"Take care, Prince," Lady Dauntrey said softly. "You mustn't frighten
her. I assure you we're acting for her good."
Her voice was so calm, so gentle and even sincere that in spite of
himself Vanno was impressed. He ceased to push against the door, but
kept his foot in the opening.
"We were so hoping you'd come," Eve went on, "and I wanted to send for
you, but Mary refused. She said that even if you came she would not see
you, because she had broken off the engagement, and never wished to meet
you again."
"That was all a mistake," Vanno said. "I must see her."
"I quite understand how you feel," Lady Dauntrey agreed, soothingly,
"but don't you think, as she's resting for the first time in more than
thirty hours, you'd better let the poor child have her sleep out first?
I don't know if you are aware that my husband is a doctor; but he is,
and practised in South Africa, very successfully. He's with Mary now,
and has helped me watch over her. The dear girl begged us to come here.
She said there had been trouble between her and your brother and
sister-in-law, so she couldn't stay at their villa. Afterward she told
us about the broken engagement, and that explained the dreadful state of
nervousness she was in from the moment she came to us at Monte Carlo,
till she collapsed here, and became delirious. We have done our very
best--and I'm so thankful to have been with her, though it was most
inconvenient for our plans. We were just ready to start for England when
she appealed to us not to let her come to this dreary, haunted sort of
place by herself. I don't know what would have become of the poor
darling if she'd been alone with this dreadful woman--almost a savage
from the mountains, whom Captain Hannaford engaged as caretaker."
Eve talked rapidly and gravely, in a whisper. As she spoke of Apollonia,
she turned a look upon her; and the woman "made horns" with two pointing
fingers. Vanno knew well what this meant.
If Lady Dauntrey's story had begun to impress him, that glance thrown at
Apollonia brought back in a flash all his enmity and suspicion. It was a
murderous look. He knew that she hated the woman for having brought him
to the door of Mary's room.
He was silent for an instant when Eve ceased to speak. Then he said, "I
won't disturb Mary. I will go in quietly and look at her while she
sleeps."
"You may wake her."
"If she did not wake when I called, she won't wake at the sound of a
footstep."
"But my husband--we ought to consult him----"
Before she could finish, Vanno pushed open the door, by virtue of his
strength, which was far greater than that of Lord Dauntrey, who kept
guard on the other side. Noiselessly the young man entered the room; and
as Dauntrey realized that opposition would not avail, he gave way.
It was a large room, sparsely furnished, and so full of light that for a
second or two Vanno was confused, after the dimness of the corridor
outside. The huge window had no curtains, and the afternoon sunlight
poured through it upon the bed which stood near by, facing the door.
Mary's face lying low on the pillow was colourless as wax. The sun lit
up her hair, and turned it to living gold.
Vanno saw only the bed, and Mary lying there asleep. He did not once
look at Dauntrey, who stole out on tiptoe. Eve, waiting for her husband,
put a finger to her lips. As Apollonia peered anxiously into the room,
not daring to cross the threshold, Lord and Lady Dauntrey went softly
away together, as if they were afraid that a creaking board under their
feet might wake the sleeper.
It seemed to Peter that she must have been waiting in Schuyler's
automobile for an hour, when at last she saw a man and a woman walking
quickly down the avenue, toward the gate. She had never seen Lord and
Lady Dauntrey, but she knew that Rose Winter and Vanno believed them to
be Mary's companions. In the hand of the woman was a small, rather flat
bag of dark blue Russian leather, which might be a jewel-case or a
miniature dressing-bag such as women carry when motoring.
The pair had come into sight rounding a turn of the drive; and they saw
the girl looking up from the window of the waiting car at the moment
when her eyes fell upon them. For an instant they slackened their pace,
but the woman spoke to the man, and they came on steadily, walking as
briskly as before. The man unfastened the gate with a big key, which he
left in the lock, and the two stepped out into the road. They glanced
casually at Peter, her chauffeur, and the motor, as if they would pass
by, but on an impulse Peter leaned from the window and spoke. "Lord and
Lady Dauntrey?"
"Yes," the woman replied, stiffly. "I'm afraid I don't remember----"
"Oh, we've never met, but I knew you were both here, and I'm Mary
Maxwell, Mary Grant's best friend. I'll go in and find her and Prince
Vanno, now the gate's unlocked. I thought perhaps Mary was sending me
out her jewel-case, as I see you have it in your hand."
This was a shot in the dark. All that Peter knew of the jewel-case was
Rose Winter's description of it, when she told of Mary's arrival in her
absence, to take it away; but Lady Dauntrey's face said that the shot
had not gone wide of the mark.
"It is Miss Grant's jewel-case, certainly," she replied. "She put it in
my charge. Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has insulted me and my husband,
and we are going at once; but I'm too fond of poor Mary to leave her
property at the mercy of the only servant in the house--a horrible
woman, who would murder one for a franc. She knows about the jewels, and
as the Prince won't look after them and Mary isn't able to, I meant to
take them back to Mrs. Winter."
"How good of you! I'll save you the trouble," Peter said.
Lady Dauntrey looked at her with narrow eyes, Dauntrey standing apart
listlessly. "I don't know you," Eve objected.
"You can ask Mr. James Schuyler's chauffeur about me," Peter suggested.
"Or if you won't accept his word, wait a little while, and I'll take you
both to Monte Carlo and Mrs. Winter's house, where I'm staying."
"I really think you had better trust this lady," Dauntrey said. He
looked at his wife with his sad, tired eyes. Eve shrugged her shoulders,
and handed Peter the bag. "Well, the responsibility is off my hands,
anyhow!" she cried. "That's one comfort. And it's much more convenient
for us not to go to Monte Carlo, on other people's business. Mary
Grant's jewels are nothing to us."
"Of course not," Peter agreed, pleasantly. "I hope Mary's well?"
"Then you'll be disappointed," Eve replied, her eyes very bright. "She's
far from well. My husband, an experienced doctor, has been treated
unbearably by the Prince. You can bear witness that he leaves his
patient only because he was insulted. I advise you, if you're fond of
Mary Grant, to get in some one else, or it may be too late. It's
impossible to know what she may have done, but my private opinion is
that her love troubles were too much for her, and she took
something----"
"Eve!" Dauntrey stopped his wife. "Be careful what you say."
"Well, it's no longer our affair, since the Prince has taken matters
into his own hands, and practically turned out Mary's best friends. Good
afternoon, Miss Maxwell."
They walked off quickly, without looking back, the two tall figures
marching shoulder to shoulder in the direction of Latte, the nearest
railway station.
"You oughtn't to have said what you did," Dauntrey reproached Eve.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "That girl nearly drove me mad. To think she's
got the jewels! Nothing to pay us for it all, except the money from the
cheque."
"Serves us right," Dauntrey said grimly. "I'd thank God we're out of it
at any price, if God was likely to be looking after us. Better thank
the devil."
"Don't talk like that," Eve implored him. "There's nothing against us,
nothing. I'm sorry I blurted out that about her taking some stuff, but
it can't do us any harm. You said yourself, nobody could find out
what----"
"They couldn't prove, but they might suspect. God! What hideous days! I
never thought the stuff would act on her like that, or I wouldn't have
let you persuade me----"
"I know you wouldn't," Eve cut him short. "It was my fault. You thought
there was only a slight risk----"
"Yes, but it acted differently from the beginning. I didn't suppose it
would send her to sleep. God knows I did everything I knew to wake her
up----"
"Well, we're out of it all now," Eve soothed him. "Remember, they can't
prove anything. Even if they send after us, and make us come back,
they'll have their trouble for their pains. We've been clever."
"You have!"
"Everything's for and nothing against us. Perhaps it's as well the
fellow came, after all. He's given us our excuse to go in a hurry. And
we've got money--in gold, no notes, thank goodness. Only--I shall dream
of those jewels at night."
"Best to be rid of them, as things have turned out. If she'd given them
to us, as you hoped, it would have been all right, but----"
"No use crying over spilt milk," Eve sighed. "Let's walk faster. There
ought to be a train for Genoa in twenty minutes, if your time-table is
right. That reminds me, I never posted her letter to the convent, but it
doesn't matter now."
* * * * * * *
Mary lay on her back between the pillows, her hair loose around her
face, a thick plait of it tossed out over the faded green silk quilt.
One arm supported her head, the other was hidden by the bed covering.
The bright light that streamed through the window was an illumination.
Suddenly it was as if an iron hand seized Vanno's heart and slowly
pressed the blood out of it. The thought had flashed into his head that
she was more than ever before like a gentle and lovely Juliet, but
Juliet in the tomb, her white beauty lit by many candles.