Two months had elapsed.
Rob Nugent and I had had a pleasant time up the Rhine and among the
Swiss lakes, and both acknowledged ourselves greatly benefited by the
change. We were in Genoa, having broken our journey between Lugano and
Rome, intending to remain only a couple of days, but finding so much of
interest in the old city of Paganini and Columbus, we had already
remained there a fortnight; and neither of us felt any inclination to
travel further south.
We had taken up our quarters at the Hotel Isotta, in that handsome
thoroughfare the Via Roma, of which the Genoese are so justly proud, and
though debarred from sight-seeing in the daytime by reason of the
blazing autumn sun, we thoroughly enjoyed those cool balmy evenings when
jalousies are thrown open, and the light-hearted Ligurians stroll up and
down the Via Carlo Felice and the Via Assaroti, or sit outside the cafes
taking their ease in the _bel fresco_.
Nugent's vacation was at an end, for he had received a letter which
necessitated his almost immediate return to London. I had neither the
desire nor intention of quitting Genoa just yet. The cause of this was
not very far to seek, and of course Bob suspected the position of
affairs from the first; yet when he signified his intention of
departing, and I said I should remain another week or so, his surmise
was confirmed, and he could not refrain from indulging in a little
good-humoured chaff at my expense.
The fact was that at the hotel there was also staying an exceedingly
pretty young lady, named Vera Seroff, under the guardianship of her
uncle, and accompanied by her French maid. The first evening we met at
_table-d'hote_ I was fascinated with her beauty, and my admiration had
not diminished as we sat opposite one another on the eve of Nugent's
departure.
The hotel was not full, and the number dining that evening did not
exceed twenty, though the long table, glittering with its choice glass
and plate, would have accommodated a hundred.
My _vis-a-vis_ was about twenty-three, with a face as to which there
could be no adverse opinion. She was dark, with fine eyes, serious and
penetrating, a delicate little nose, and a well-formed mouth, which
showed, when she smiled, two rows of pearly teeth. She was brisk,
vivacious, with a charming ingenuousness in her flawless face; a figure
slim and graceful, and a voice silvery and sympathetic.
In contrast to her was her uncle, who sat by her side, a short, stout
old gentleman, with sharp features, a prominent nose, and scanty white
hair, who seldom entered into conversation with any one, and who always
appeared ill-humoured, grumbling constantly at the heat.
She spoke English with a pleasant accent, and was conversing with Bob
and myself, to the apparent annoyance of the old gentleman, who could
not understand a word. She was relating her impressions of one of the
galleries she had visited that day, and displayed such a wide knowledge
of pictures as to astonish Nugent, himself the art-critic of the
_Evening Comet_. We both had become friendly with her, for, besides
meeting daily at the hotel, we had several times run across one another
at those places of interest the tourist always visits. Her uncle,
Monsieur Hertzen, rarely went out, and her maid usually accompanied her
on such expeditions; however, when only taking a short walk, she was
frequently alone.
On one of these latter occasions I met her in the Piazza Principale, and
offered to escort her to the hotel, to which proposal she made no
objection. The distance was not great, but it sufficed to break the
conventional ice between us, and when we parted I was more than ever
fascinated. Never before had I met a woman so beautiful, so charming,
so near my ideal of perfection.
When the meal had ended, and we rose, I said to her, "This is my
friend's last evening in Genoa. He returns to England to-morrow."
"And do you go also?" she asked, with an intonation--as I flattered
myself--of disappointment.
"Well; no," I replied; "I shall remain a few days longer."
The shadow of anxiety which had rested momentarily upon her face,
vanished at once, as she turned to Nugent, saying, "I am sorry you are
leaving, and must wish you _bon voyage_. I hope, some day, we may meet
again, for our dinner-table discussions have been exceedingly pleasant."
"Thanks, Mademoiselle," replied Bob, grasping the tiny white hand she
held out to him. "My business calls me to London, otherwise I should
not return just yet. However, I hope you will prevent my friend, here,
from getting into any scrapes with the bloodthirsty Italians after I'm
gone."
She laughed merrily as she answered, "He's quite old enough to take care
of himself. I cannot undertake the responsibility. Good-bye," and she
tripped away up the stairs to her own apartments.
"Old fellow," exclaimed Bob, after she was out of hearing, "if you feel
inclined to pitch yourself into the matrimonial net, there's your
chance; and I wish you every success."
"Well, there are more unlikely things than my enlistment in the ranks of
Benedicts," I replied, laughing, as we sought our hats and went out to
spend our last evening together.
Early the following morning Nugent departed for Turin, _en route_ for
England, and I was left alone to amuse myself as best I could. Truth to
tell, I was not sorry Bob had gone, for now I felt free to devote myself
to the beautiful woman who held me under her spell. I lost no time in
carrying out my object, for meeting her in the drawing-room before
dinner, I obtained permission to escort her on her evening walk.
It was already dusk when the tediously long meal was brought to a
conclusion, and we left the hotel, strolling along the Galleria Mazzini
towards the public gardens of Aqua Sola, the most charming promenade in
Genoa. It is situated upon a picturesque cliff overlooking the port and
the Mediterranean beyond, while at the rear rise the tall vine-covered
Appenines, with romantic-looking villas peeping out here and there from
amongst the olives and maize. The shadow of its great old trees form a
delightful retreat from the scorching noon-day sun; but at night, when
the people refresh themselves after the heat and burden of the day, its
gravelled walks are thronged by the _elite_. Fashionable Genoa enjoys
herself with mad but harmless frolic, and under the deep shadows
fire-flies flit and couples flirt.
Upon an old stone seat near a plashing fountain we sat listening to the
sweet melancholy strains of the _Sempre Vostro_ waltz, performed by the
splendid band of the National Guard. On the right the many-coloured
fairy lamps of the gardens attached to the Caffe d'Italia shone through
the dark foliage; on the left the ripple of the sea surged softly far
below. Away across the moonlit waters flashed the warning beacon of the
port, and the air was heavy with the sensuous odour of orange blossom
and roses.
For upwards of an hour we sat talking; she _piquante_, bright, and
amusing; I lazily enjoying a cigar, and watching her beautiful face in
rapt admiration. I told her of myself--how the interest in my sole
object in life had been suddenly destroyed by affluence--and my present
position, that of a world-weary tourist, with no definite purpose
farther than killing time.
All my efforts to learn some events of her past life or her place of
abode were unavailing. "I am plain Vera Seroff," she replied, "and I,
too, am a wanderer--what you call bird of passage. I have no country,
alas! even if I have patriotism."
"But you are Russian?" I said.
"Quite true--yes. I shall return to Russia--some day." And she sighed,
as if the mention of her native land stirred strangely sad memories.
"Where do you intend going when you leave here?" I asked.
"I have not the slightest idea. We have no fixed abode, and travel
whither it suits my uncle--London, New York, Paris; it matters little
where we go."
"You have been in England; have you not?"
"Yes; and I hate it," she replied, abruptly, at once turning the
conversation into another channel. She appeared extremely reticent
regarding her past, and by no amount of ingenuity could I obtain any
further information.
When it grew chilly, we rose and walked along past the forts, and out
upon the Spezzia road, where a refreshing breeze blew in from the sea.
In her soft white dress, with a bunch of crimson roses at her throat, I
had never seen her looking so beautiful. I loved her madly, blindly,
and longed to tell her so.
Yet how could I?
Such a proceeding would be absurd, for our acquaintance had been of so
brief a duration that we scarcely knew anything of one another.