Sylvia Pennington! The face, the name, those wistful, appealing eyes
haunted me in my dreams that night.
Why? Even now I am at a loss to tell, unless--well, unless I had
become fascinated by that strange, mysterious, indescribable
expression; fascinated, perhaps, by her marvellous beauty, unequalled
in all my experience.
Next morning, while my man Lorenzo was waiting for me, I told him to
make discreet inquiry regarding the pair when in the steward's room,
where he ate his meals. Soon after noon he came to me, saying he had
discovered that the young lady had been heard by the night-porter
weeping alone in her room for hours, and that, as soon as it was dawn,
she had gone out for a long walk alone along the lake-side. It was
apparent that she and her father were not on the very best of terms.
"The servants believe they are French, sir," my man added; "but it
seems that they tell people they are English. The man speaks English
like an Englishman. I heard him, half-an-hour ago, asking the
hall-porter about a telegram."
"Well, Lorenzo," I said, "just keep your eyes and ears open. I want to
learn all I can about Mr. Pennington and his daughter. She hasn't a
maid, I suppose?"
"Not with her, sir," he replied. "If she had, I'd soon get to know all
about them."
I was well aware of that, for Lorenzo Merli, like all Italians, was a
great gossip, and quite a lady-killer in the servants' hall. He was a
dark-haired, good-looking young man whose character was excellent, and
who had served me most faithfully. His father was farm-bailiff to an
Italian marquis I knew, and with whom I had stayed near Parma, while
before entering my service he had been valet to the young Marchese di
Viterbo, one of the beaux of Roman society.
When I reposed a confidence in Lorenzo I knew he would never betray
it. And I knew that, now I had expressed an ardent desire for
information regarding the man Pennington and his daughter, he would
strain every effort to learn what I wanted to know.
The pair sat at their usual table at luncheon. She was in a neat gown
of navy blue serge, and wore a pretty cream hat which suited her
admirably. Her taste in dress was certainly wonderful for an
Englishwoman. Yet the pair always spoke French together, and presented
no single characteristic of the British whatsoever.
Because of his epicurean tastes, the stout, bald-headed man received
the greatest attention from the waiters; but those splendid eyes of
his daughter betrayed no evidence of either tears or sleeplessness.
They were the same, wistful yet wonderful, with just that slightest
trace of sadness which had filled me with curiosity.
After luncheon he strolled along the broad palm-lined terrace in the
sunshine beside the water's edge, while she lolled in one of the long
cane chairs. Yet, as I watched, I saw that she was not enjoying the
warm winter sunshine or the magnificent view of snow-capped mountains
rising on the far horizon.
Presently she rose and walked beside her father, who spoke to her
rapidly and earnestly, but she only replied in monosyllables. It
seemed that all his efforts to arouse her interest utterly failed.
I was lounging upon the low wall of the terrace, pretending to watch
the arrival of the little black-and-white paddle-steamer on its way to
Riva, when, as they passed me, Pennington halted to light a cigar.
Suddenly he glanced up at me with a strangely suspicious look. His
dark eyes were furtive and searching, as though he had detected and
resented my undue interest in his daughter.
Therefore I strolled down to the landing-stage, and, going on board
the steamer, spent the afternoon travelling up to Riva, the pretty
little town with the tiny harbour at the Austrian end of the lake. The
afternoon was lovely, and the panorama of mountain mirrored in the
water, with picturesque villages and hamlets nestling at the water's
edge, was inexpressibly grand. The deep azure of the unruffled water
stood out in contrast to the dazzling snow above, and as the steamer,
hugging the shore, rounded one rocky point after another, the scene
was certainly, as the Italian contadino puts it, "a bit of Paradise
fallen from heaven upon earth."
But, to you who know the north Italian lakes, why need I describe it?
Suffice it to say that I took tea in the big hall of the Lido Palace
Hotel at Riva, and then, boarding the steamer again, returned to
Gardone just in time to dress for dinner.
I think that Pennington had forbidden his daughter to look at me, for
never once during dinner the next evening, as far as I could detect,
did she raise her eyes to mine. When not eating, she sat, a pretty
figure in cream chiffon, with her elbows upon the table, her chin upon
her clasped hands, talking to her father in that low, confidential
tone. Were they talking secrets?