On a sunny afternoon in March of the following year, Toni Rose sat alone
on the slope of an Italian hill-side overlooking the blue Mediterranean,
which lay stretched beneath her like a sheet of living turquoise.
The air was delightfully warm and still, and scented with the fresh
breath of myriads of violets which dotted the short, soft turf here and
there like a multitude of tiny purple stars. Everywhere the almond
blossom was in its full beauty of rose and cream, and the sight of an
orchard away on the hill-side, with the faint blue sky above the
pink-and-white branches, and the bluer sea behind, gave to the beholder
the effect of a delicate Japanese water-colour painting.
The Bay of Naples fully deserved its world-wide reputation for beauty on
this bright spring afternoon. Across its waters rose hill upon hill, the
sombre giant Vesuvius brooding like some dark monster over the ruined
countryside at its base, the lovelier, more hopeful snow-crowned peaks
behind rising like a fairy army beneath whose beneficent gaze the ogre
was--for the time--vanquished and impotent.
The bay was full of craft, as usual. Big liners, tramp steamers, a grey
battleship or two, looked scornfully down on the little Italian boats,
some piled high with yellow fruit, others less imposing, little pleasure
craft manned by youthful boatmen with swarthy brown faces and ears
ornamented with huge golden rings.
Land and sea alike smiled in the glorious sunshine. It was a day on
which life seemed a very sweet and desirable opportunity; but in Toni's
face there was no hint of gladness, none of her former almost pagan
delight in the beautiful out-of-door world around her.
Although her skin was delicately warmed and coloured by the genial
Southern sun, the becoming tan could not hide the thinness of the once
rounded cheeks, nor disguise the hopeless droop of the lips which had
been used to smile so readily. Toni looked, indeed, the ghost of her
former self as she sat gazing out over the Mediterranean; and it was
very evident that whatever had been the result of her flight to those
she had left behind, her own happiness had suffered a disastrous
eclipse.
After all, her disappearance had been easily arranged. On that foggy
night when she had fled from Leonard Dowson, terrified by the spectre of
a future life which his words had evoked, she had run, without in the
least realizing her direction, straight to the railway station; and the
idea of London had at once presented itself to her mind. A train was
just starting, and Toni hastily took a ticket and jumped into a carriage
without giving herself time to think.
Arriving at the terminus she had a momentary indecision as to her next
step. As she stood on the platform she felt herself to be desperately,
hopelessly alone; and for one wild moment she wondered how Owen would
receive her if she went back and flung herself on his mercy.
But something in her, perhaps the sturdy, independent blood of her
Yorkshire ancestors, seemed to forbid such a course. She could not
return, creep back to the shelter of the home she had abandoned; and
even Toni's youthful optimism could not promise her a very hearty
welcome when the truth of her flight should be known.
If only she had gone alone ... if there had been no man in the case to
complicate matters and compromise the situation--in that first moment of
despair Toni hated Leonard Dowson, loathed herself for imagining it
would be possible to go away with him; and at the same time realized
that whatever happened she would find it almost impossible to explain
the man's introduction into the affair in any way save that which, were
the story known, would be taken, perhaps naturally, for granted.
Suddenly the thought of Italy flashed into her brain, and with the
thought came instant resolution.
She had still twelve pounds in her purse--more than enough to take her
to Naples; and once there she could surely discover some friend of the
bygone days to whom she might apply for advice as to her future
maintenance.
In Italy she could live frugally, as the peasants lived; and all at once
Toni felt a great nostalgia for the glowing South, with its sunshine and
hot blue skies, its orange-groves, its languorous noons and warm,
scented nights.
The Italian blood in her--the blood transmitted to her by her mother,
spoke in its turn; and suddenly Toni felt that in that land of warmth
and colour she could find the rest and peace for which her sorely-driven
soul cried out....
And then the miracle happened.
Later that evening she was standing on the platform of another great
station, waiting her turn to approach the booking-office where she might
obtain her ticket to Italy--and home--when a wail in a thin foreign
voice fell upon her ear, and she turned round to face a dark and
agitated-looking young woman, neatly dressed, who was bewailing herself
in the fluent Italian of the lower classes.
"What is it? Can I help you?"
Toni spoke impulsively, sorry for the young woman even in the midst of
her own numbing grief; and the other turned round in astonishment at
hearing her own tongue.
"Oh, Signorina!" She evidently took Toni for a compatriot. "Such a
misfortune has overcome me--I do not know what is to be done. I am here
with my charges"--two sleepy-looking English children stood yawning
beside her--"on the way to Naples, and behold, the English Signora--the
governess, you understand--who was to have come with us to deliver the
children safely to their parents is at the last moment unable to come."
"But why can't she come?"
"_Non lo so!_" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "She sends me but a
telegram to the waiting-room--an accident, illness--I know not--but she
does not come, and I must go alone with the two little ones, who are
both delicate and will be ill the whole journey through!"
A wild inspiration flashed into Toni's mind.
"You go to Naples?" she said. "I too wish to go, but hardly care to
undertake the journey alone. May I then come with you and help you with
the little ones?"
The Italian's quick mind grasped the idea at once; and she foresaw with
delighted gratitude that the journey might be shorn of half its terrors
if the plan were carried out.
She poured forth a stream of voluble explanations. She had already taken
the tickets for the party; and she was certain that her employer, a
wealthy English lady, would be only too grateful if the Signorina would
accept the fare in return for her help in the matter. A carriage had
been reserved for the party, and the whole journey might be taken in
complete comfort and security, since this so fortunate meeting with a
compatriot.
To Toni the idea came as a veritable boon. In her turn, she saw all the
personal benefits of the plan; and, after all, since she could be of
real, practical assistance, she saw no reason why she should scruple to
avail herself of the Italian nurse's offer.
Five minutes later the affair was arranged. The foreigner, Luisa by
name, was at first incredulous on hearing of her new comrade's mixed
nationality, but she readily accepted such explanations as Toni gave
her, and was quick to recognize the value of Toni's perfect English at
the present juncture.
Toni's lack of luggage puzzled her a little, but Toni murmured something
about a lost dressing-bag which satisfied the other woman; and when the
long train steamed out of the station at last Toni was comfortably
ensconced in a reserved first-class compartment, making friends with the
two little girls with whom she was to travel.
This fact explains the non-success of all inquiries at the railway
stations, or, later, on the boat. The authorities were on the look-out
for a young Englishwoman journeying alone; and never associated the
young Italian lady travelling, apparently, with her two children and a
nurse, with the solitary girl for whom they searched.
Toni's fur coat was by no means a unique garment. There were plenty to
be seen at this time of year; and in any case the girl, protected by her
unassailable bodyguard, was able to pass under the eyes of the very men
who were anxiously on the look-out for her.
The journey to which Luisa had looked forward with such apprehension
passed off well enough. Toni was obliged to rouse herself from her own
dejection to look after the children, who were both delicate and spoilt;
but luckily they took an instant fancy to the travelling companion so
strangely provided, and behaved with commendable good-temper throughout.
When at length the train ran into the railway station at Naples, Toni
suddenly found herself faced with another problem. The nurse had taken
her on trust, so to speak, and had been too grateful for her help to
seek to probe into her private affairs; but now that she must face the
mother of the pretty children, to whom she had become quite attached,
Toni realized that she would have to give some more plausible
explanation of her situation than that which had contented the impetuous
Luisa.
She got out of the carriage at last, her arms full of the children's
wraps and toys, with knees which shook under her at the thought of the
ordeal to come; but one quick look into Mrs. Moody's frank and kindly
face reassured her a little.
She soon found, moreover, that the lady was as ready to take her on
trust as the maid had been. When she had heard Luisa's voluble
explanation of the part Toni had played during the long and wearying
journey, Mrs. Moody turned to Toni with an expression of real gratitude
on her still pretty face.
"I really don't know how to thank you, Miss ... er ..." She hesitated,
and Toni quickly supplied her with the first name she could think of,
the name of her Italian mother's race. "Oh, but surely you are English?"
In her agitation Toni murmured something about an Italian father, not
meaning to deceive, but too tired out and confused to pay much heed to
her words; and Mrs. Moody put her hand kindly on the girl's arm.
"Well, English or not, you've been a god-send to Luisa and the chicks;
so if you have no friends waiting for you at this moment, you must come
home with me and let my husband thank you properly."
Somehow Toni found herself stepping into the beautifully-appointed
motor-car which waited outside the station; and ten minutes later she
was helped out of the motor and taken up a broad and palatial-looking
staircase to the large and lofty flat inhabited by her new friends.
Friends indeed they proved to be. Without the slightest hesitation they
accepted Toni's rather faltering story of an engagement in England which
had proved unsatisfactory; and on learning that her intention in
returning to Italy had been to look for another post, they looked at one
another in a meaning silence which was explained later, when Mrs. Moody
asked her quietly if she would care to undertake the post of
governess-companion to the two small children with whom she was already
on terms of friendship.
For a moment Toni hesitated. To stay on here, deceiving her employers,
representing herself, falsely, as an unmarried woman, would be a poor
return for their kindness and generosity; but to tell the truth was
surely impossible. Yet she could not bring herself to shut the door
which would open to her a new and honourable life in which she might
find, if not happiness, at least content; and poor Toni was torn between
conflicting emotions as she stood listening to her new friend's
proposals.
Mrs. Moody, reading her indecision in her face, bade her think the
matter over for a week while she remained with them as an honoured
guest; and Toni did so, coming at last to the conclusion that, much as
she longed to accept the post, to do so would not be fair to her
prospective employers.
She refused, therefore, but with so genuine a regret that the refusal
could not give offence. The Moodys, however, while recognizing the
girl's claim to independence of judgment, in their turn asserted their
claim to befriend her, and Toni was only too ready to accept their
advice and assistance.
Hearing that it was of importance that she should set about making some
money without delay, Mr. Moody secured for her a post as
assistant-librarian and secretary in a big library belonging to an
Italian friend of his own.
It was something of an irony that Toni's work should take her into an
atmosphere that could not fail to remind her of her husband and his
literary aspirations; and her heart used to contract pitifully within
her sometimes when she entered the big, lofty, book-lined room, which
was not unlike the stately library in the beautiful old house by the
river where her married life had come to so tragic a close.
She owed the post to her proficiency in Italian and English rather than
to any scholarly ability. To the end of her life Toni would never be
bookish. She would always prefer living to reading about life; and it
was fortunate that her work in this new library consisted largely of
translating, roughly, from books in Italian and English, or in typing,
from dictation, in either language.
She grew to like her employment in the quiet, mediæval-looking room. Her
employer, a gentle, sad-eyed elderly man with an invalid daughter,
treated her with the utmost kindness; and if it had not been that every
fibre in her being cried out incessantly for Owen, she might in time
have been content.
Her first friends, the Moodys, had settled her in rooms with an old
servant of their own who had married a little Italian bookseller, and
were unremitting in their kindness to her; but Toni desired only to be
alone in her leisure hours and refused many of the invitations which
Mrs. Moody sent her from time to time.
So the days passed, quietly and tranquilly enough; and though to Toni it
seemed that all the joy, all the happiness had fled from life, that the
"sweet things" had lost their sweetness, the sunshine its glory, the
flowers their perfume, she was not ungrateful for the peace which had
come to her so unexpectedly.
Of her husband, of Greenriver, she never dared to think. She guessed,
drearily, that Owen would feel bound, in humanity, to institute a search
for his missing wife; but by a fortunate chance she had been able to
cover her tracks and disappear effectually; and as the weeks glided by,
and discovery was apparently as far off as ever, she began to feel, with
a miserable certainty, that in time her husband would relinquish the
search, and settle down to forget the frivolous, uneducated girl who had
not known how to appreciate the honour he had done her in making her his
wife.
To-day, this glorious spring day when the violet-scented air held a hint
of summer's warmth in its breath, Toni was making holiday.
Her employer was from home, called to London by the hint of a wonderful
book sale to be held there the following week; and Toni's time was her
own for nearly eight days.
She had started early that morning on a pilgrimage to the little village
where, long ago, she had passed the first happy years of her life; and
had arrived, before noon, to find, as she had half-expected, that none
of her old friends remained to give her welcome.
Old Fiammetta was dead, as was, of course, the kindly Padre who had
befriended Roger Gibbs when the young widower had decided to stay on,
with his little daughter, in the home which his Antonia had made so
joyous. A few of the children with whom she had played lived here still,
but they had grown into sturdy, swarthy young men and women who had long
since forgotten the dark-eyed child whose Italian had been as fluent as
their own; and though she wandered disconsolately through the straggling
little village, she met with no single glance of recognition.
She did not know that some months previously urgent inquiries had been
made at the tiny post-office as to whether a young lady had arrived in
the village unexpectedly. It had struck Owen as possible that, in her
madness, Toni might have returned to her childhood's home; but although,
had she not met Luisa, Toni would probably have done so, that chance
meeting at the station had turned her feet into another path, and
naturally no one here knew anything of her whereabouts.
She had intended spending the whole of her holiday in the village; but
the absence of any welcome depressed her sensitive spirit, and she
decided to return to Naples in the evening and spend the days of her
freedom in exploring more thoroughly the fascinating streets and byways
of the picturesque and romantic town.
It was late when she arrived home, carrying her little valise; and old
Janet, who in spite of her long residence in Italy was still
uncompromisingly British, was surprised to see her lodger returning.
"I thought you were going to stay a few days," she said quite
reproachfully. "Now a real good change would have been the very best
thing for you, miss, and I'm right sorry to see you back."
"You're not very kind, Janet!" Toni smiled rather wearily, "I couldn't
stay ... all my friends were dead and gone ... there were only ghosts
left to welcome me, and I couldn't bear it!"
The old woman read the disappointment in the girl's tone and was sorry
for her.
"Well, come along in, miss, and I'll bring you some supper right away.
There's an omelette, and some lovely risotto I'm making for Pietro, and
a glass or two of Chianti will soon hearten you up--though for my part I
think a bottle of good English stout is worth all the thin wines in
Italy!"
When, later, she bustled in again with some excellent coffee, the old
woman brought a bundle of papers which had been left by Mrs. Moody
earlier in the day. There were various English and American magazines,
and a few weekly papers; and had doubtless been intended to lighten the
loneliness of Toni's holiday.
She sat sipping her coffee and turning the pages rather listlessly.
Somehow reading appealed to her less than ever nowadays. She was always
so fully occupied with her own miserable thoughts, that the imaginative
writings of other people could claim small share of her interest; but
she dipped into the magazines as she sat alone, and tried to forget
herself for an hour in the perusal of their pages.
Among the papers was a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_, sent to Mrs. Moody
occasionally by a sister in London; and Toni was idly turning the clumsy
sheets when a name she knew attracted her attention.
She scanned the paragraph hurriedly a little pulse beating in her temple
as she read.
"We learn on good authority that the famous portrait-painter Mr.
James Herrick, better known as Mr. Herrick Vyse, has accepted a
commission to paint the two beautiful daughters of Lord and Lady
Tregarthen at their historic home in Cornwall. The young subjects,
who are twins, are only nine years of age, but are ranked among the
loveliest of England's many beautiful children, and doubtless the
artist will do their childish beauty full justice. Mr. Herrick has
already left his picturesque bungalow on the Thames for Tregarthen
House, where he will be the guest of Lord and Lady Tregarthen
during the painting of the portrait."
The paper fell from Toni's hands and the light of a great inspiration
flashed into her face.
Lately she had longed, with ever-increasing intensity, for some
authentic news of Owen. She felt she would give all she had in the world
to hear that he was well, that her flight had not ruined his life; but
she had no means of finding out anything without running the risk of
giving away the secret of her own hiding-place.
She had sometimes thought of writing to Eva Herrick, binding her to the
strictest secrecy, and imploring her, for the sake of their old
friendship, to give her the information she craved. But there were so
many drawbacks to the plan. Her letter might easily fall into Herrick's
hands, and though the contents would be sacred to him, the Italian
postmark would be enough to betray her whereabouts.
But now, during Herrick's absence, she might surely risk sending Eva a
letter. She felt pretty certain that Mrs. Herrick would not give away
her secret. By this time Toni was quite able to appreciate the part Eva
Herrick had played in her unfortunate escapade; and she realised, very
plainly, that Eva's unhappy desire to ruin other lives as hers had been
ruined, had been at the bottom of her eager sympathy and pretended help.
Even now Eva would doubtless seek to prevent any real reconciliation
between husband and wife; and in any case Toni felt that she must take
the risk; she must have news, hear how Owen had taken her flight; and
surely Eva would not refuse to answer her letter.
She wrote it there and then. It was very short, only a few lines
imploring the recipient to give her all news of Owen, while keeping the
secret of the writer's hiding place. Of herself Toni merely stated that
she was at work and content; but the few scribbled lines breathed a
spirit of misery, of supplication which would surely melt even the
hardest heart.
Having signed her name, and seen that the address at the top of the
sheet was correct, Toni hastily procured an envelope, thrust in the
fateful letter, and immediately slipped out of the house to post it.
Up to this moment she had acted impulsively, without giving herself time
to think, with possibly a lurking fear at the back of her mind that if
she stopped to consider she would tear up the letter instead of posting
it. But when once it had left her hand, when she had heard the thud it
made in falling into the almost empty box, a great terror seized Toni,
and she stood trembling in the deserted street, feeling that she would
give all she had to rescind her impetuous action.
But doubts and misgivings were alike useless now. The letter had passed
out of her keeping, and she must abide by her own deed, trusting
fervently that no further misfortune would follow her precipitancy.
Realizing at last that regrets were futile, Toni turned away and went
home, there to spend a sleepless night torturing herself with all sorts
of premonitions and visions of ill-luck.
But in her wildest flights of imaginative terror over the receipt of her
letter, and its consequences, Toni never approached the truth.