THE FACE ON THE IVORY
When Gordon descended the stair he came upon a striking group at the
villa entrance. Shelley, with his wife beside him, confronted the
severe-faced syndic, who stood stolidly with the comfortably plump
_avocat_. A look of indignation was on his brow, and Mary’s face was
perturbed.
“Here he is,” said the functionary in his neighborhood _patois_, and
with satisfaction.
“You have business with me?” asked Gordon.
“I have. I require you to accompany me at once to Cologny on a matter
touching the peace of this canton.”
“And this matter is what?”
“You speak French,” returned the syndic tartly; “doubtless you read it
as well,”--and handed him a clipping from the _Journal de Belgique_.
Gordon scanned the fragment of paper, first with surprise, then with
a slow and bitter smile. He had not seen the story, but it differed
little from scores of calumnies that had filled the columns of less
credulous newspapers in London before his departure. It was a breath
fresh from the old sulphur bed of hatred, brought sharply to him here
in his solitude.
“I see,” he said; “this states that a certain English milord had turned
highwayman and deprived an honest Fleming of a wagon? How does it
affect me?”
“Do you deny that you have the wagon?” demanded the syndic curtly.
“_The_ wagon? I have _a_ wagon, yes. One bought for me by my servant.”
“In Brussels?”
“As it happens, in Brussels.” The paleness of Gordon’s face was
accentuated now, and his eyes held cores of dangerous flame. “And
because I am an English milord, and bring a wagon from Brussels, you
assume that I am a robber?”
“You were driven from your own country,” menaced the other. “Do you
think we hear nothing, we Swiss? This canton knows you well enough!
Stop those horses!” he snarled, for the great coach, ready for its trip
to the town, was rolling down the driveway. The syndic sprang to the
horses’ heads.
At the same instant the two strangers who had been in the overturned
boat, now with clothing partially dried, came from the house.
“There!” The syndic pointed to the ornate vehicle. “Do you deny this is
the wagon described in that newspaper, and that you absconded with it
from Brussels?”
The older of the two strangers turned quick eyes on Gordon, then on the
wagon. Before Gordon could reply, he spoke in nervous French:
“I beg pardon. I was the owner of that conveyance, and the one who sold
it.”
“Maybe,” said the functionary, “but you did not sell it to this person,
I have reason to believe.”
“No, yonder is the purchaser.” He pointed to a prosaic figure at the
steps.
“His valet!” Shelley thrust in explosively.
“I told you so,” grunted the man of law, and stared with the surprise
of recognition, as the syndic, ruffling with anger, turned on the
strangers with sarcasm: “Friends of the English milord, no doubt!”
The counsellor laid a hasty hand on his sleeve:
“Stop!” he said. “I think I have had the honor of meeting these
gentlemen in Geneva. Allow me to present you, monsieur, to Prince
Mavrocordato, minister of foreign affairs of Wallachia, and”--he turned
to the latter’s younger companion--“his secretary, Count Pietro Gamba,
of Ravenna.”
The sour-faced official drew back. These were names whose owners had
been public guests of the canton. This Englishman, evil and outcast
as he might be, he had no legal hold upon. He could scarcely frame a
grudging apology, for the resentment of self-righteousness that was
on his tongue, and stalked off up the terrace in sullen chagrin not
consoled by the chuckles of the attorney beside him.
Gordon saw them go, his hands trembling. He replied mechanically to
the grateful farewells of the two strangers as they entered the coach,
and watched it roll swiftly down the darkening shore road, a quivering
blur before his eyes. A fierce struggle was within him, the peace which
the tranquil poise of Shelley’s creed had lent him, warring against a
clamant rage.
Not only in England was he maligned. Here, on the edge of this mountain
barrier, defamation had followed him. The pair riding in his own
carriage knew who he was; the older had spoken his name and title. And
they had not elected to stay beyond necessity. Yet for their momentary
presence, indeed, he should be grateful. But for this trick of
coincidence he should now be haled before a bungling Genevan tribunal,
his name and person a mark for the sparring of pettifogging Swiss
officials!
These thoughts were clashing through his mind as he turned and walked
slowly down to the bank where Shelley’s Swiss servant had moored the
stranger’s rescued boat, bailed out and with sail stretched to dry. The
sunset, as he stood, flamed redly across the lake, its ray glinting
from the rim of a bright object whose broken chain had caught beneath
the boat’s gunwale. He leaned and drew it out.
It was an oval miniature backed with silver--the portrait of a young
girl, a face frail and delicately hued, with fine line of chin and
slender neck, with wistful eyes the deep color of the Adriatic, hair a
gush of tawny gold, skin like warm Arum lilies, and a string of pearls
about her neck. Evidently it had belonged to one of the two men with
whom the craft had capsized. It was too late now to overtake the coach;
he would send it after them that evening.
He turned the miniature over. On the back was engraved a name: “Teresa
Gamba.” Gamba? It had been one of the names spoken by the attorney,
that of the young count for whose rescue he had swum so hard.
He looked again at the ivory. His wife? No, no; innocence of life,
ignorance of its passions and parades were there. His sister? Yes.
The fair hair and blue eyes were alike. And now he caught a subtle
resemblance of feature. She was dear to this brother, no doubt--dear
as was his own half-sister to him, well-nigh the only being left in
England who believed in him and loved him.
He looked up at a hail from the lake. A boat was approaching, bearing
a single feminine rower. As he gazed, she looked over her shoulder to
wave something white at the porch.
“It is Jane. She has been to the post,” cried Shelley from the terrace,
and hastened down the bank.
Gordon thrust the ivory into his pocket as the skiff darted in to the
landing.