THE VILLA SERGIO
Spring—April, the month of the flowers, on the blue, sunny Adriatic.
Along that ruggedly beautiful coast, one of the most picturesque in
the whole world, with its green palm-clad islands, its winding inlets,
sharp, rocky promontories, and steep, brown cliffs, there is surely no
place more delightful nor more full of interest than grey, old-world
Ragusa.
Back behind a long, green, rocky island, it nestles at the foot of the
steep slopes of Monte Sergio, once an important port in the days of the
Republic of Venice, but now silent and almost forgotten, save by those
who have recently begun to know and enjoy the glorious natural beauties
of the Adriatic, in preference to the gambling, landscape gardening,
and unhealthy life of the now played-out Mediterranean shore.
Zara, whence comes the maraschino, Spalato, and Lussimpiccolo are
quaint, charming little places, rapidly gaining public favour with
Austrians and Hungarians, but are as yet practically unknown to English
people. Yet of them all Ragusa is assuredly the most pleasant and the
most interesting.
Peaceful, undisturbed by traffic, and entirely mediæval, it reminds
the traveller who knows his Riviera of one of those old towns on the
Italian side—those unfashionable ones that you only visit if you chance
to motor from Monte Carlo along to Genoa.
Difficult it is to realise that this sleepy, antique little place,
where everybody speaks Italian, was the port of the Balkan hinterland
in those brilliant days when Venice was queen of the sea. To-day, it is
a tiny decaying town of cyclopean walls, of narrow streets and queer
crooked byways. Across its dry moat and through its ponderous gateway
with the crumbling coat of arms carved in the stone, carriages are
unable to pass. Hence there is an absence of bustle which one finds
in other towns. Quaint Bosnian, Dalmatian and Montenegrin costumes
are worn by many of the people, the shops sell genuine antique
embroideries, old silver and old arms. While almost as soon as one
enters the main street by the Porta Pille or land-gate, one seems out
again at the water-gate.
The stranger who strolls about those small piazzas, inspecting the
Duomo, the sixteenth century churches, with their long flights of steps
and their celebrated Madonnas, the fine Renaissance Rector’s Palace,
the splendid old mediæval fountain and the rest of the relics of an
age bygone, will be struck by the peaceful air of it all. The world
has progressed with rapid strides these last three centuries, but it
has passed Ragusa by unaltered. The same to-day as in the seventeenth
century, the town within its huge walls still remains, a place of deep
shadows with glimpses of bright blue sea at the ends of dark crooked
alleys.
Here may the wandering Englishman linger and reflect, for is it not
full of historic associations; is not that beautiful, palm-clad island
of Lacroma opposite, the gem of the Adriatic, associated indisputably
with the heart of Richard Cœur de Lion?
And if the traveller, retracing his steps along the Corso to the Porta
Pille and crossing the dried-up moat to the splendid avenue of mulberry
trees outside the walls—the quarter of the villas and hotels—chances
to glance upward at the green hillside behind, he will notice,
dominating the town, a huge white villa in Italian style, with red roof
and two long rows of green-painted sun-shutters standing embowered in
its palms, roses and tangles of climbing geraniums. By a single glance
it will be recognised as the finest villa on all that beautiful coast,
more palatial, indeed, than that of a certain royal personage which
stands on the mulberry-lined boulevard below.
If inquiry be made of the owner’s name, the traveller will be told in
Italian that it belongs to a great foreign signore, a signore “molto
ricco”—the Cavaliere Sundt.
The fine steam yacht, with its yellow funnel and white hull, lying
yonder beyond the molo and flying the bargee of the Royal Norwegian
Yacht Club, is his, while you will also hear stories of the Signor
Cavaliere’s colossal wealth and lavish hospitality to the great people
who sometimes stay at the Villa Sergio as his guests. Ragusa knows
nothing of the source of the great signore’s income, and cares less.
That bright sunny afternoon Thyra, in a white gown girdled with pale
grey, was seated alone in a long wicker chair upon the marble terrace,
her sad eyes fixed away upon the green, picturesque island, and the
blue sea beyond, its calm surface ruffled only now and then by the
slight flower-scented zephyr from the land.
How different were those surroundings—that glorious garden, with its
luxuriant vegetation, its agaves, cypresses and palms, its violets,
carnations and roses, and that calm sapphire sea—to those of her own
home in the far-off Arctic! Here, surely, was paradise itself.
Yes, she lay back with her head upon the great cushion of pillow silk,
and gazed thoughtfully with half-closed eyes out to sea. She was
thinking—ever thinking. Her father had put to her a question three
days ago—a question which she had not yet answered.
She sat there a prey to puerile terrors and unwholesome thought. She
was wrapped in frozen shadows; a mysterious force drove her towards
a glacial atmosphere where all was dizziness and grief. Her vision
clouded, she seemed suspended in a twilight heaven, wafted towards some
unknown land, like those little white, drifting clouds before her, the
grey birds migrating without hope of rest.
Even this world of joy, of sunshine, of flowers, had become small,
melancholy, even tiresome. After a week its novelty had worn off; she
was no longer at her ease in it. She was thinking—thinking ever of the
tall Englishman who had raised her hand to his lips for the last time.
She was driven to confess herself a melancholy thing. It was not the
world that had changed. Ah, no; it was her own self.
On that evening of her return from Guilford with Dick Jervoise she had
charged her father with concealing from her the fact that Peter Sundt
was in London, and he had been compelled to plead guilty.
Next day, Peter had called upon them, and invited both father and
daughter to spend a week or two at Ragusa, and afterwards to return to
Christiania in the yacht, an invitation which, after some hesitation,
the girl-widow had accepted.
Her acceptance was, as a matter of fact, only on the point of economy.
Her father had pointed out that the expense of remaining in London much
longer would be too great for his slender purse, while if they went as
Peter’s guests, they would not only see a part of the world which they
had always longed to see, but also get back to Norway when the bright
weather commenced.
Therefore, two days later she had, in secret, taken a taxicab to Dick’s
flat, and there wished him farewell.
The scene between them had been both painful and touching. The sweet
scent of those carnations growing in profusion about her, greeted her
nostrils, and stirred a bitter memory. Upon his table that afternoon
there had been a small bunch. He had placed them there in honour of her
visit.
She recollected the strange, hopeless expression upon his face when
she announced her immediate departure. He had inquired whither she was
going, and she had told him.
Then his chin had sunk upon his breast, and for a long time he had
remained silent. With a sigh he crossed the room and arranged some
papers upon his open writing-table. It was because she should not see
the expression of pain upon his features. That she knew quite well.
At last he faced her and spoke frankly, his voice only faltering once.
She heard him to the end—to the bitter end.
Yet did he speak the truth? Were his words sincere? He had spoken, but
what proof had he? He could give her none—none! His excuse was but a
lame one, after all; yes, one unsupported by any single vestige of
proof. And so, after half an hour—perhaps the most painful half-hour in
all her life—she had risen from that big armchair by the fire to take
leave of him.
Now, as she sat alone staring at those slowly drifting clouds, she
remembered it all—the silence of that room at Barnes, unbroken save by
the whirr of a passing motor ’bus, the musical chimes of his clock, and
his hoarse earnestness when he had bent over her hand and kissed it for
the last time.
She was a fool for ever revealing Peter Sundt’s proposal of marriage.
She saw it now, alas! that it was too late. She had seen in the eyes of
Richard Jervoise such flow of tenderness, of regret, of dream, that
she had at first not the heart to rob him of it.
But the one dread thought had occurred to her—that same bitter thought
that had for so long oppressed her, that had held her apart from him
always. The words he had spoken were full of deep and tragic meaning.
Yet, in face of her better judgment, how could she believe him to be
in real earnest? No. She had effectually concealed her sadness and
disquiet, and in silence allowed him to kiss her hand in farewell.
A shout of laughter from the mulberry avenue below filled the perfumed
silence, awakening her to a sense of her surroundings.
Ah, yes. She recollected. His words had soothed her sick heart as a
balsam soothes a wound. And yet, a moment later, she had wished him
adieu, and passed down the stairs—and out of his life.
Did he still recollect her? she was wondering. Did he think of her—did
he ever recall the past?
These and other thoughts were fleeting through her mind when, of a
sudden, she heard a footstep, and turning saw her father approaching.
“Why, my child!” he cried, “why are you sitting here alone? We’ve been
hunting everywhere for you!”
“I thought you went out after luncheon, dad,” exclaimed the girl-widow,
rising to her feet with a slight sigh of weariness.
“So I did. But I was only away half an hour. Run and get a thicker
dress on, child. The weather is so good that Peter has decided to take
us to Lesina on the yacht. We shall dine on board, and be back by
eleven o’clock, or so. It will be a full moon, too.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t think I’ll go, dad. I can amuse myself quite well here. Will
you make excuses for me; say I’m not well, or anything,” she urged.
“But my dear child, why? It will be most enjoyable. You know how
pleasant it was when the yacht met us at Trieste and brought us down
here; you were delighted.”
“Yes. But—well now it is different.”
“Why? Tell me, child. Something is troubling you,” inquired the sturdy
old fellow. “Tell me what it is,” he added in a lower voice.
She was silent, her white, hard-set face turned from his.
“He has spoken to you again, eh?” asked the sturdy old fellow, in a
changed tone.
She held her breath, but her silence was to him sufficient indication
of the truth.