One morning a week or so after the conversation described at the end of
the previous chapter, Godfrey Henderson found lying on the table in the
studio a long, blue envelope, the writing upon which was of a neat and
legal character. He did not own a halfpenny in the world, so what this
could mean he was not able to imagine. Animated by a feeling of
curiosity he opened the envelope and withdrew the contents. He read the
letter through the first time without altogether realizing its meaning;
then, with a vague feeling of surprise, he read it again. He had just
finished his second perusal of it when Fensden entered the room. He
glanced at Godfrey’s face, and said, as if in inquiry:
“Anything the matter? You look scared!”
“A most extraordinary thing,” returned Godfrey. “You have heard me talk
of old Henderson of Detwich?”
“Your father’s brother? The old chap who sends you a brace of grouse
every season, and asks when you are going to give up being a starving
painter and turn your attention to business? What of him?”
“He is dead and buried,” answered Godfrey. “This letter is from his
lawyer to say that I am his heir, in other words that Detwich passes to
me, with fifteen thousand a year on which to keep it up, and that they
are awaiting my instructions.”
There was a pause which lasted for upward of a quarter of a minute. Then
Fensden held out his hand.
“My dear fellow, I am sure I congratulate you most heartily,” he said.
“I wish you luck with all my heart. The struggling days are over now.
For the future you will be able to follow your art as you please. You
will also be able to patronize those who are not quite so fortunate.
Fifteen thousand a year and a big country place! Whatever will you do
with yourself?”
“That is for the Future to decide,” Godfrey replied.
That afternoon he paid a visit to the office of the firm of solicitors
who had written to him. They corroborated the news contained in their
letter, and were both assiduous in their attentions and sincere in
their desire to serve him.
Four days later it was arranged that Godfrey and Fensden should start
for the Continent. Before doing so, however, the former purchased a neat
little gold watch and chain which he presented to Teresina, accompanied
by a cheque equivalent to six months’ salary, calculated at the rate she
had been receiving.
“Don’t forget me, Teresina,” he said, as he looked round the now
dismantled studio. “Let me know how you get on, and remember if ever you
want a friend I shall be only too glad to serve you.”
At that moment Fensden hailed him from the cab outside, bidding him
hurry, or he feared they would miss their train. Godfrey accordingly
held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said, and though he would have given worlds to have
prevented it, a lump rose in his throat as he said it, and his voice was
so shaky that he felt sure she must notice it.
Then, bidding her give the key to the landlord when she left the studio,
he went out into the street, and jumped into a cab, which next moment
started off for the station. How was he to know that Teresina was lying
in a dead faint upon the studio floor?
When they left England for the Continent Godfrey had only the vaguest
notion of what they were going to do after they left Paris. Having spent
a fortnight in the French capital they journeyed on to Switzerland, put
in a month at Lucerne, three weeks in Rome, and found themselves, in the
middle of November, at Luxor, looking upon the rolling waters of the
Nile. Their sketch books were surfeited with impressions, and they
themselves were filled with a great content. They had both visited the
Continent on numerous occasions before, but this was the first time that
they had made the acquaintance of the “Land of the Pharaohs.” Godfrey
was delighted with everything he saw, and already he had the ideas for a
dozen new pictures in his head.
“I had no notion that any sunset could be so gorgeous,” he said one day,
when they sat together watching the ball of fire descend to his rest on
the western horizon of the desert. “The colours have not yet been
discovered that could possibly do it justice. For the future I shall
come out here every year.”
“Don’t be too sure, my friend,” said Fensden. “There was a time when
such a thing might have been possible, but circumstances have changed
with you. You are no longer the erratic Bohemian artist, remember, but a
man with a stake in the country, and a county magnate.”
“But what has the county magnate to do with the question at issue?”
Godfrey inquired.
“Everything in the world,” retorted his companion. “In virtue of your
new position you will have to marry. The future Mrs. Henderson, in all
probability, will also have a stake in the country. She will have great
ideas, moreover, connected with what she will term the improvement of
the land, and, beyond a trip to the Italian lakes at long intervals,
will not permit you to leave the country of her forefathers.”
“What a strange fellow you are, to be sure!” replied Godfrey. “To hear
you talk one would think that the possession of money--and, by Jove,
it’s a very decent thing to have when you come to consider it--must
necessarily relegate a man to the region of the commonplace. Why
shouldn’t I marry a girl who is fond of travelling?”
“Because, as a rule, Fate ordains otherwise,” Fensden replied. “I think
I can describe the sort of girl you will marry.”
“Then do so, by all means,” said Godfrey, “I’ll smoke another cigar
while you are arranging it.”
“In the first place she will be tall. Your idea of the ludicrous would
not let you marry a small woman. She will have large hands and feet, and
the latter will be heavily shod. That is how in London I always pick out
the girls who live in the country. She will be handsome rather than
pretty, for the reason that your taste lies in that direction. She will
not flirt, because she will be in love with you. She will be an
admirable housewife of the solid order, and while I should be prepared
to trust to her judgment in the matter of dogs and horses, roots, crops,
and the dairy farm, finer susceptibilities she will have none. Do you
like the picture?”
“Scarcely,” said Henderson; “and yet, when all is said and done a man
might do worse.”
There was a pause, during which each man knew what the other was
thinking about. Godfrey was recalling Teresina’s beautiful face, and
Fensden knew that he was doing so.
“By the way,” said Fensden, very quietly, “I noticed this morning that
you received a letter bearing an Italian post-mark. Would it be
indiscreet if I inquired your correspondent’s name?”
“I don’t see why there should be any mystery about it,” Henderson
replied. “It was from Teresina.”
“From Teresina?” said the other, with a look of surprise.
“Yes, from Teresina,” his friend answered. “I made her promise before we
left home that should she leave England she would let me have her
address, and, if she were in need of anything, she would communicate
with me. You can see the letter if you like. Here it is.”
He took the letter in question from his pocket and handed it to his
companion. It consisted of only a few lines and gave the writer’s
address with the hope that the time might soon come when she would again
be allowed to sit to “her kind patron.”
Victor, having perused it, handed it back to Godfrey, who replaced it in
his pocket without a word.
Two days later they returned by steamer to Cairo, where they took up
their abode at the Mena House Hotel. Godfrey preferred it, because it
was some distance from the dust of the city, and Fensden because he
averred that the sneer on the face of the Sphinx soothed him more than
all the luxuries of Cairo. As it was, he sat in the veranda of the hotel
and made impressionist sketches of dragomen, camels, and the
backsheesh-begging Bedouins of the Pyramids. Godfrey found it impossible
to work.
“I am absorbing ideas,” he said. “The work will come later on.”
In the meantime he played polo in the Ghezireh, shot jackals in the
desert, flirted with the charming tourists in the verandas of the hotel,
and enjoyed himself immensely in his own fashion. Then one day he
received a telegram from England announcing the fact that his mother was
seriously ill, and asking him to return without delay.
“I am sincerely sorry,” said Fensden, politely. Then he added,
regretfully: “I suppose our tour must now, like all good things, come to
an end. When do you leave?”
“By to-morrow morning’s train,” he answered. “I shall pick up the mail
boat at Ismailia and travel in her to Naples. If all goes well I shall
be in England to-morrow week. But look here, Victor, when you come to
think of it there’s not the least necessity for you to come, too. It
would be no end of a shame to rob you of your holiday. Why should you
not go on and finish the tour by yourself? Why not come with me as far
as Port Said, and catch the steamer for Jaffa there?”
“It’s very good of you, my dear Godfrey,” said Fensden, “but----”
“Let there be no ‘buts,’” the other returned. “It’s all arranged. When
you come home you shall describe your adventures to me.”
Needless to say, in the end Fensden agreed to the proposal, and next day
they accordingly bade each other good-bye on the promenade deck of the
mail steamer that was to take Henderson as far as Naples. Fensden was
beginning to realize that it was by no means unpleasant to have a rich
and generous friend. Poverty was doubtless romantic and artistic, but a
well-filled pocket-book meant good hotels and the best of wines and
living.
While the boat ploughed her way across the Mediterranean, an idea
occurred to Godfrey, and he resolved to act upon it. It was neither more
nor less than to utilize what little time was given him in Naples in
seeking out Teresina and assuring himself of her comfort in her old
home. He had quite convinced himself by this time that any affection he
might once have felt for her was now dead and buried. For this reason he
saw no possible danger in paying her a visit. “Victor made more of it,”
he argued, “than the circumstances had really warranted. Had he not said
anything about it, there would have been no trouble, and in that case
Teresina would still be in London, and sitting to me.”
As soon as the vessel was in harbour, he collected his luggage and made
his way ashore. A cab conveyed him to an hotel he had patronized before;
and when he was safely installed there, and realized that he could not
proceed on his journey until the next morning, he resolved to set out in
search of Teresina. Producing her letter from his pocket-book he made a
note of the address, and then started upon his errand, to discover that
the signorina Cardi’s home took some little finding. At last, however,
he succeeded, only to be informed by an intelligent neighbour that the
signora was not at home, while the signorina had gone out some fifteen
minutes before. Considerably disappointed, he turned to descend the
steps to find himself face to face with Teresina herself as he stepped
into the street. She uttered a little exclamation of astonishment and
delight at seeing him.
“How is it that you are here, signor?” she inquired, when they had
greeted each other. “I did not know that you were in Naples.”
“I only arrived this afternoon,” he answered. “I am on my way to
England.”
“To England?” she said, and then uttered a little sigh as if the very
name of that country conjured up sad memories. “It is cold and wet in
England now; and do you remember how the studio chimney smoked?”
This apparently irrelevant remark caused them both to laugh, but their
mirth had not altogether a happy sound.
“I am going to give up the studio,” he answered. “I expect that for the
future I shall do my work in the country. But you are not looking well,
Teresina!”
“I am quite well,” she answered, hurriedly. How was he to know that for
many weeks past she had been eating her heart out for love of him? If
the whole world seemed dark to her now it was because he, her sun, no
longer shone upon her.
“And your mother, the signora, how wrong of me not to have inquired
after her. I trust she is well?”
“Quite well, signor,” she replied. “She often talks of you. She is at
Sorrento to-day, but she may be back at any minute. She would have liked
to have seen you, signor, to have thanked you for your great goodness to
us.”
“Nonsense,” said Henderson, hurriedly. “It is the other way round. My
thanks are due to you. Had it not been for your face, Teresina, my
picture would never have been such a success. Do you know that several
ladies, great ladies in England, said that they would give anything to
be so beautiful? I don’t think I shall ever do a better piece of work
than that.”
He had just said this when he noticed that a young man, tall, slim, and
very dark, had approached them unperceived, and was now glaring angrily
at him. Teresina had also become aware of his presence, and was visibly
affected by it. Whereas only a moment before she had been all sunshine
and delight at seeing Henderson once more, now she was quite the
reverse.
“Is this man a friend of yours?” Godfrey asked, in English. “He seems
to be put out about something.”
“It is only Tomasso Dardini,” she answered, as if the explanation were
sufficient. “He is quick-tempered, but he means no harm.”
“Then I wish to goodness he’d go away; he glares as if he would like to
eat me. If I may hazard a guess, Teresina, I should say that he is in
love with you.”
“He is very foolish,” she answered, and a flush spread over her face.
“Some day, if he is not very careful, he will get into trouble.”
“I should not be at all surprised to hear it,” Godfrey replied.
Then, turning to the man in question, he signed to him to be off about
his business. For a moment the youth seemed inclined to refuse, but
presently he thought better of it, and marched off down the street,
looking back now and again as if to see whether the Englishman and the
girl were still conversing together.
“And now, Teresina, I have a little plan to propose to you,” said
Godfrey, when the other had turned the corner. “As I told you just now,
I am on my way to England, and therefore, shall only be able to spend
to-night in Naples. From the announcements I see they are playing
‘Faust’ at the Opera-House. Why should not you and your mother dine with
me, and go there afterward? It would be a pleasant way of spending the
evening, and we could talk of old days.”
Teresina clapped her hands with delight. In her love of the Opera she
was a genuine Neapolitan.
“It would be lovely,” she cried. “My mother will come, I feel sure. It
is kind of you, signor.”
It was thereupon arranged that they should meet at a certain place,
dine, and then go on to the Opera together. Having settled this,
Henderson returned to his hotel, whiled away the time as best he could,
and when the hour arrived, set off to the rendezvous.
Punctual to the moment he put in an appearance at the place. It was a
restaurant not unlike that in which he had first met Teresina and her
mother. He could not help recalling that memorable evening as he waited
on the pavement outside, and his one wish was that Fensden could have
been there to have shared the entertainment with him. When the signora
and her daughter arrived, it was plain that they regarded the occasion
an important one. They were both attired in their best, and, so far as
colour went, the signora herself was not unlike a bird of Paradise.
Teresina was more soberly clad, but Henderson noticed that a necklace
with which he had once presented her, as a memento of a certain piece of
extra work she had done for him, encircled her slender throat. As he
looked at it, he thought of the day on which he had given it to her, and
as the remembrance occurred to him, he wondered whether it was wise on
his part to play with fire for a second time. The signora greeted him
with southern volubility, and, as soon as he could get in a word,
Henderson suggested that they should enter the restaurant. Having done
so, they seated themselves at one of the small tables, and he gave his
orders. It was a banquet that was destined to be remembered with
pleasure by two of the party, and also by a third, for another and less
romantic reason.
“And so you are returning to England, signor?” said the signora, when
the first pangs of her hunger had been assuaged. Then, remembering the
circumstances connected with the latter portion of their stay in London,
she added, pathetically: “I think if it were possible, I should not be
sorry to return--even though the winter is so cold and it rains so
often.”
“If you feel as if you would like to return, why do you not do so?”
asked Godfrey, with a quickness that caused Teresina to look up at him
in surprise, and then to look down again with equal celerity. “I am sure
Teresina could get plenty of employment. I would do all I could to help
her. For my own part, I never could understand why you left so quickly.”
If he had reflected for a moment, he would probably have been able to
arrive at an understanding of the reason that had prompted her
departure. He was too modest a man, however, to think of such a thing.
Nevertheless, he changed the conversation by making inquiries as to
their present life in Naples, and then went on to talk of Fensden, who
at that moment, could they have seen him, was fast asleep in a railway
carriage, on his way from Jaffa to Jerusalem. The signora had never been
partial to the impressionist artist and poet, and she had a vague idea
that it was to that gentleman’s agency that they owed the flight of the
owner, and the consequent cessation of Teresina’s employment at the
studio. She was too prudent, however, to say anything on that score to
Godfrey. She knew the friendship that existed between the two men; and
she was also aware that her daughter, who was the possessor of a quick
temper, and a tongue that she could use when she liked, would brook no
disparagement of either Mr. Henderson or his friend.
“As to returning to England, we must think it over,” she said,
complacently, when Godfrey had filled her glass with champagne for the
fourth or fifth time. “It would make another great change in our
affairs, but Teresina is young, and there is nothing for us to do in
Naples. I could wish that she should marry, signor, but she will not
hear of it. I tell her the time may come when it will be too late. But
girls do not listen to their elders nowadays.”
Godfrey glanced at Teresina’s face to find that it had suddenly become
very pale. He hastened to render her assistance without delay by
twitting her mother as to the number of sweethearts she herself had had,
much to that lady’s delight. This crisis having been smoothed over, he
paid the bill and they left the restaurant.
Darkness had fallen by this time, a fact which may have accounted for
the young man’s uncertainty as to whether he did or did not recognise
the figure of a man who was watching the doorway from the other side of
the street. It certainly looked as if it belonged to Tomasso Dardini;
but he said nothing on this point to either of his guests. He would be
leaving Naples in the morning, he argued, and no necessity existed for
making a fuss about it. If the silly young man were jealous, the morrow
would remove the cause; and after that it would not matter very much
whether he were aware of their visit to the Opera or not. With Teresina
beside him and the signora on the other side, they entered the theatre
and took their seats. The house was crowded, and the Opera itself was
received with that critical appreciation so characteristic of the
Neapolitan theatre-goer. Whether Godfrey enjoyed it as much as his
neighbours is a question that admits of some doubt. He certainly found
pleasure in studying the expressions that flitted across Teresina’s face
as she watched what went on upon the stage; but I scarcely think it
went further. When it was over, he escorted them back to their dwelling,
and bade them good-bye upon the threshold.
“Good-bye, Teresina,” he said. “It may not be very long before we meet
in London. Do you remember the little place where I first saw you? I
think, when I get back, I must dine there once more, if only for old
association’s sake.”
“Good-bye, signor,” she said, giving him her hand after the English
fashion. “It was kind of you to think of us, and to give us such
pleasure as you have done to-night.”
“I have enjoyed it,” he replied, and then, bidding her return soon to
London, he left her, and made his way down the narrow, evil-smelling
street toward the quarter in which his hotel was situated. He was still
fifty yards from the corner when a figure emerged from a doorway and
hurried quickly after him, keeping on the dark side of the street.
Leaving the thoroughfare in which Teresina’s house was located, he
employed a short cut with which he had become acquainted that afternoon.
He had scarcely entered this, however, before he became aware of a light
footstep behind him. Turning quickly, he found a man, whom he
immediately recognised, within a few feet of him. Muttering something in
Italian, he raised his arm, and Godfrey saw that he held a poniard in
his hand. With the quickness of a practised athlete, he seized the
uplifted wrist with his left hand, while with his right he delivered a
blow that took the would-be assassin beneath the chin and sent him
sprawling upon his back in the road. Picking up the dagger that the
other had let fall, he placed it in his pocket, saying, as he did so: “I
will keep this, my friend, as a memento.” Then, having made sure that
the other had no intention of following him, he continued his walk,
little dreaming how strangely that incident was to affect his future
life.