"Ah, love how quickly fades the rose,When after sunshine come the snows,So joys may change to cruel woesThro' Cupid's treason.But roses will their bloom renew,And snows fall not from heavens blue,So hearts like ours will still be true,Through every season."
"Ah, love how quickly fades the rose,When after sunshine come the snows,So joys may change to cruel woes
Thro' Cupid's treason.But roses will their bloom renew,And snows fall not from heavens blue,So hearts like ours will still be true,
Through every season."
It certainly would be difficult to find a more charming residence than the Villa Tagni. Standing on the extreme verge of a low rocky promontory, which ran out some distance into the tideless waters of Lake Como, it appeared like some fairy palace as it nestled amid the cool green of its surrounding trees and reflected its delicately ornate façade in the still mirror of the water.
Like most Italian houses it had a somewhat theatrical appearance, with its bright pink-coloured walls and vividly green shutters, set in broad frames of snow-white stone. Then again, these walls being decorated with arabesque designs in various brilliant tints, the general effect at a distance was that of cunningly wrought mosaic, while above this bizarre combination of colours sloped the roof of dull-hued red tiles; the picturesque whole standing out in glowing relief from the emerald background of heavily-foliaged trees of ilex, tamarisk, chestnut and cypress. High above towered a great mountain, with its grey scarred peak showing suddenly through its green forests against the clear blue of an Italian sky. More than half-way down, the highway ran along the slope like a sinuous white serpent, and below nestled the villa by the water's edge. Bright, fanciful, jewel-like, it was the very realization of a poet's dream, the magic outcome of some Oriental phantasy, such as we read of in those strange Arabian tales where the genii rear visionary palaces under the powerful spells of Solomon ben Daoud.
A broad stone terrace ran along the front of the villa, on to which admission was given from the house by wide French windows, generally masked by their venetian shutters, which excluded the glare of the sun from the inner apartments. A double flight of steps descended from this terrace sheer into the cool water upon which floated the graceful pleasure boat belonging to the villa, and on either side grew dense masses of sycamore, fir, oak and laurel sloping down to the verge of the lake, their uniform tints broken at intervals by the pale grey foliage of olive trees. Radiant in the sunlight glowed the rosy blossoms of the oleander, sudden amid the shadow flashed the golden trails of drooping laburnams--here, like the fabled fruit of Hesperides, hung golden oranges, there the pallid yellow ovals of scented lemons, and deep in the faint twilight of glossy leaves glimmered the warm white blossoms of the magnolia tree, ivory censers from whence breathed those voluptuous perfumes which confuse the brain like the fumes of opium smoke.
And then the flowers! Surely this was the paradise of flowers, which here grew in a prodigal profusion unknown in the carefully-cultured gardens of chill northern lands where the fruitful footsteps of Flora pause but a moment. In this favoured clime, however, the goddess ever remains, and adorns her resting place with lavish bounty of her fast-fading treasures.
Here deeply-flushed roses scattered their showers of fragrant leaves, yonder bloomed the pale amethystine heliotrope, fiercely amid the verdure burned the scarlet blossoms of the geranium, and, in secluded corners, slender virginal lilies hinted at the pale mysticism of the cloister, while red anemones, grey-green rosemary, blue violets, still bluer gentian, many-tinted azaleas, snowy asphodels, and yellow hawkweeds all grew together in a confused mass of brilliant colours, and every vagrant wind ruffling the still surface of the lake sent a rich breath of fragrance through the drowsy air. Over all, the deep azure of the cloudless sky, from whence shone the fierce sun on the lofty encircling mountains, the arid plains, the clustering villages huddled round the slender whitecampaniliof their churches, the glittering waters of the lake, the brightly coloured villas, and on the brilliant profusion of flowers which almost hid the teeming bosom of the green earth in this garden of the world.
It was late in the afternoon, and the cool breeze of the coming night was already commencing to make its welcome presence felt, when Guy Errington and his wife, the present occupants of Villa Tagni, came out on to the terrace to enjoy this most delightful hour of the Italian day. The servants arranged some Turkish rugs on the tesselated pavement, placed thereon three or four comfortable lounging chairs of wicker work, and set forth a small round table, on the white cloth of which stood a tea service, with a small silver kettle hissing merrily over a spirit lamp, some plates of cake and fruit, a few tall thin-stemmed glasses, and a straw-covered flask of red Chianti wine.
These arrangements being completed they retired, and Lady Errington making her appearance sat down in one of the chairs, while Sir Guy, looking cool and comfortable in his white flannels, perched himself perilously on the balustrade of the terrace with a cigarette between his lips. And surely nothing could be more charming than this peaceful scene, with the exquisite view of the lake, the fragrant coolness of the breeze, the romantic-looking terrace, the pleasant evidence of hospitality, and this young Adam and Eve to give life to the whole.
Aged twenty-eight, with a sunburnt face, a fair moustache, merry blue eyes and a stalwart figure, Sir Guy was certainly a very handsome young man, the very type of a well-born, well-bred Englishman, and a greater contrast to his lusty physique could hardly have been found than that of his wife, with her fragile frame, her pale serious face, and smooth coils of lustrous golden hair. In her loose tea-gown of dead white Chinese silk unrelieved by any tint, she looked almost as wan and colourless as the perfumed knot of snowy lilies at her breast, and the great fan of white ostrich feathers she wielded in her slender hand was rivalled by the pallor of her face. The dreaming look in her calm, blue eyes, the slight droop of the thin red lips which gave a touch of sadness to her mobile mouth, and the exquisite transparency of her complexion, all added to the fragile look of this fair pale woman, whose spirituality was enhanced by the faint shadows which now began to fill the warm air.
Guy Errington, sturdy and practical, did not as a rule indulge in any fanciful musings, but something in the peculiar delicacy of her expression seemed to strike him suddenly, and throwing away his cigarette he bent over his pale wife with an air of the utmost solicitude.
"I hope you have not felt the heat too much, dear," he said, anxiously touching the faint rose tint of her cheek with a gentle finger, "you look as white as a ghost."
Lady Errington smiled languidly and put her fan up to her lips with a low laugh.
"I'm afraid I must be a very deceptive person," she replied lightly, "for I feel perfectly well. I am always pale, and I obtain a great deal of undeserved sympathy under false pretences."
"Do you mind my smoking?"
"Not in the least. Why did you throw away your cigarette?"
"I thought it annoyed you."
His wife looked at him with a slightly mocking smile on her lips.
"I wonder if you will always be so ready to sacrifice your pleasures to my unexpressed desires."
"Always! always!" replied Guy fervently, kneeling beside her chair. "Your slightest wish will always be my law, Alizon."
"Till the honeymoon is over, I suppose," said Alizon a trifle sadly, as she passed her fingers through his hair.
"I'm afraid the honeymoon is over--in the eyes of the world at least," responded Errington ruefully. "We've been three months married, you know, and to-day is our last one of solitude, for Eustace and his friend will soon be here--are you sorry?"
"Oh, yes, very sorry," she replied, indifferently, suppressing a yawn; "these last three months have been charming."
Errington looked slightly disappointed at her lack of fervour, and to make up for it commenced to vehemently declare that he did not want to see anyone, that he could live for the next century with her alone, she was all the world to him, the one thing he lived for, etc., etc. in fact gave glib utterance to all the fond rhapsodies which constantly pour from the mouths of adoring lovers and newly-married men.
Kneeling beside her, his face glowing with passionate feeling and his blue eyes fixed adoringly on the face of his divinity, Guy Errington looked gallant, handsome and fervid enough to have satisfied the most exacting woman. Yet, strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this wife of three months appeared slightly bored by his erotic enthusiasm.
"You are the pearl of husbands, my dear Guy," she observed idly when he ceased his protestations, "but confess now, on your knees as you are, that you feel a trifle weary of this perfect bliss--this society of two--and long for your dogs, your horses, and your coverts."
At this accurate divination of his real feelings, Errington looked somewhat disconcerted, for despite the ardour of his protestations he did feel slightly weary of this monotonous tranquillity, and in his secret heart longed for the things she mentioned.
"Well, you know I'm not a bit romantic," he said apologetically, as if he were confessing to some crime, "and I am a little tired of churches and pictures. Besides, I am anxious for you to see the Hall, and there's such a lot of things to be looked after, and--and----"
"And this is somewhere about the twelfth of August," said Lady Errington slily, cutting short his excuses, whereat he laughed in a somewhat embarrassed manner.
"Ah, you've found me out," he observed with a smile. "Well, yes, dear, I confess it is true, I was thinking about the coverts--it ought to be a good year for the birds. Besides there are the stables, you know. I am going to get a new hunter for next season. Baffles tells me there's a good one to be picked up--belongs to some Major Griff or Groff--don't know the name--and I've got my eye--Good gracious, Alizon," he added, breaking off--"What is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing!" she replied, trying to smile although she looked singularly disturbed, "only that name you mentioned, Major Griff."
"Yes, what about him?"
"Nothing at all--only he was--I believe, a friend of my father's."
"Oh! don't trouble your head about those things, dear, all that sort of thing is past and done with," said Guy fondly, who knew what she had suffered at the hands of her father, "your life will be all sunshine--if I can make it so."
Alizon bent forward and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.
"You're a good, dear fellow, Guy," she said softly, "and if I do sometimes remember the bitterness of the past, I always thank God for the sweetness of the present, and for the husband He has given me. We will go back to Errington Hall whenever you like. I am anxious to see our home."
This last phrase sounded delightful to the ears of Guy, and in a sudden access of tenderness he bent his head and kissed the cool slim hand which lay so confidingly in his own. Alizon's momentary fit of emotion being past, she withdrew her hand with a slight laugh at his action.
"How foolish you are, Guy," she said gaily, "you must have graduated at the court of Versailles, but do something more sensible and tell me all about the Hall, so that I may not be too ignorant on my arrival."
He had done so hundreds of times before, but the recital never lost its charm for him, and he thereupon entered into a long and minute description of his ancestral home with the greatest zest. He described the quaint old building where so many generations of Erringtons had been born, lived and died, the well-timbered park with its mighty oaks, ferny glades and ancient beech-trees, the shooting, which was said to be the best in the county, the characteristics of the different people who lived around, to all of which Alizon listened with praiseworthy attention, although truth to tell her thoughts were far away and she was in her own mind contrasting this gallant, tender husband, with her selfish, vicious father.
Gabriel Mostyn had been a thorough Bohemian in every way, regarding the world at large as his special property, and always at home wherever he chose to pitch his tent. Some unknown strain of gipsy blood which had been in abeyance for several generations, had suddenly developed in him with overpowering force, and impelled him to restless wanderings which he was quite unable to withstand. The semi-barbaric life of Russia had been as well-known to him as the refined civilization of London, and it was all the same to him whether he wintered at Rome, passed the summer in Norway, or explored the wild recesses of the Andes. Owing to this indulgence of his nomadic instincts he had developed within himself all the vices inseparable from such a primeval existence, and became a man accustomed to exist by the law of might against right, taking as his own whatever came to his hand, preying on the weaknesses of his fellow creatures, and binding himself by no law of honour or kindness so long as his own selfish desires were gratified.
With such a father it was hardly to be wondered at that Alizon had small respect for the masculine sex, and, foolishly no doubt, judged everyone else by the only standard she had known. During those four terrible years when her father had been dying inch by inch, and disputing every inch with the inexorable Angel of Death, she had learned a great deal of his previous existence, and the knowledge of such a foul life had appalled her gentle soul. The idea of marriage with a man resembling her father even in the most distant manner was repellent to all her ideas, and she certainly would never have become the wife of Guy Errington, had not her position with her relatives been made so disagreeable in every way that with many misgivings she consented to marry a possible Caliban.
To her surprise, however, she was agreeably disappointed in finding in her husband a straightforward, honourable man, with the truest instincts of a gentleman. He did not pass his life like a modern Cain in restless wanderings round the world, at war with society and shunned by all as an outcast, a pariah, a leper, beyond the pale of human love and companionship. No, he loved his birth-place, his position, his good name, and knew that he had duties to fulfil in life, both towards himself, his friends and his tenants. Remembering the vices of her father, Errington's every-day virtues seemed those of an angel, and although she did not love him when she became his wife, yet it was possible that love might be born of genuine admiration and respect, and subsequently develop into the stronger passion.
At present, however, she had not got beyond her first stage of surprise, but simply admired, respected, and honoured Errington as a man possessed of a just, kind, straightforward nature, and who was anxious to make her happy by every means in his power. There have been worse marriages than this consisting of love on one side and admiration of good qualities on the other, therefore Guy had every prospect of being happy in such a union as he deserved to be by his inherent good qualities and his honourable desire to do right in every way.
While Alizon was letting her thoughts run on in this fashion, Guy had become so excited in his narration concerning Errington Hall and their future life of happiness, that he had risen to his feet, and was now striding up and down the terrace giving full reins to his imagination.
"We'll have an awfully jolly time of it," he said blithely, "and you'll soon forget all your past worries in looking after things; there's everything to make life happy at the Hall, only I do wish there was a little more money."
"Money's the root of all evil," observed Alizon smiling.
"And the want of it's the whole tree," retorted Guy, laughing at his own mild witticism. "You see, my father hadn't much idea about things, and muddled a good deal, so the consequence is that there is a mortgage on the estate which I must pay off, so we'll have to live quietly for some years."
"I'm sure I don't mind."
"But I do. I'm not going to have you waste your sweetness on the desert air," replied Errington vehemently, "but at present I don't see how it can be helped. I need a large sum of ready money, but won't get it, unless--unless Aunt Jelly dies."
"I don't think that probable," said Alizon lightly, "Miss Corbin looks strong enough to outlive Methusaleh."
"And I daresay she will, the tough old party, but if she does die I'm sure to come in for her money unless she leaves it to Eustace."
"Well, why shouldn't she?"
"Because in the first place she doesn't like him as much as she does me, and in the second he's got lots of money already, and no wife to support."
"Lucky man," observed Lady Errington mischievously.
"Lucky woman to have escaped him, you mean," retorted Guy sagely; "he's the most exacting man you ever met."
"I've never met him to speak to, but I do know him by sight."
"And that's quite enough. He's such a fastidious chap--an angel out of Heaven wouldn't satisfy him."
"Probably not. I don't think angels are desirable wives as a rule."
"Oh, yes they are, dear," said Errington fondly, pausing near her, "you are an angel."
"A very prosaic angel, I'm afraid."
"Good enough for me anyhow."
"Isn't that rather a doubtful compliment?"
"Do you think so? Well, now I come to think of it, perhaps it is a little doubtful. But I haven't got the gift of tongues like Eustace; you should hear him talk, Alizon."
"If his talk is like his books I don't think I shall like it."
"Eh!--why not? I haven't read them, but I hear they're deuced clever."
"Too much so, cynical and bitter."
"That's just like his own character. Eustace is the most pessimistic man I know."
"I'm certain I shall not like him," asserted Lady Errington calmly.
Her husband chuckled a little before replying.
"Don't be too sure of that. Eustace is a very fascinating sort of man."
"More so than you?"
"Oh, I'm not fascinating."
"You're very modest, at all events."
"Do you think so? Wait till you hear me tell shooting stories about my prowess."
"Is that your special weakness?"
"By no means--you are."
"Thank you for a very pretty compliment, but I'm afraid this conversation is becoming frivolous," said Alizon, with a faint pink colour creeping into the pallor of her cheeks, "however, it's ended now, for here come your friends."
"Better late than never," remarked Guy, turning round to salute his cousin, who advanced along the terrace, followed by Otterburn. "How do you do, Eustace?"
"Quite well, thank you Guy," replied Eustace, gravely shaking hands. "This is Mr. Macjean--my cousin, Sir Guy Errington."
"Glad to see you, Mr. Macjean," said Errington bluffly, "and now let me introduce both you gentlemen to my wife, Lady Errington. Alizon, this is my cousin Eustace and Mr. Macjean."
Lady Errington bowed with a charming smile, and the whole party, sitting down, proceeded to make themselves comfortable.
"It's difficult to hold a conversationWith three or five, odd numbers are a bore,For some one's sure to besansoccupation,So talk should always be 'twixt two or four.One can't gain any secret information,If there should be a single person more:But four's a pleasant number without doubt,Because there's not a chance to be the 'odd man out.'"
"It's difficult to hold a conversation
With three or five, odd numbers are a bore,
For some one's sure to besansoccupation,
So talk should always be 'twixt two or four.
One can't gain any secret information,
If there should be a single person more:
But four's a pleasant number without doubt,Because there's not a chance to be the 'odd man out.'"
It was certainly a very pleasant little party which was seated on the terrace of the Villa Tagni, talking social nonsense under the clear glow of the sunset sky. Behind the solemn hills the sun had disappeared, leaving the sky filled with soft rosy tints, against which the serrated outline of tall peaks stood clear and distinct. Slender clouds of liquid gold floated in the roseate western sky which resembled in its pale flushing the delicate tints of a rose-heart, softening off by degrees into a cold blue, which in its turn gave place towards the darkening east to faint shadows and throbbing stars glimmering in the aerial gloom of coming night.
But the four people on the terrace took no notice of the wonderful gradations of colour, but chatted gaily over the cakes and tea provided by the hospitality of Villa Tagni. All the gentlemen, tired of the thin wines of Italy, had taken tea, and Otterburn was especially enthusiastic as he drained his cup with keen relish.
"I'm a perfect old woman for tea here," he said, handing back his cup for a second supply. "A don't know why, as I never bothered much about it at home."
"That's because you can't get a decent cup here," observed Eustace drily, "man always longs for the impossible."
"I long for a decent dinner," retorted Otterburn with a hollow groan. "I'm not a particularly greedy sort of chap--don't laugh, please, Lady Errington, I assure you I'm not--but these Italians haven't the slightest idea how to cook."
"Well you see their ideas of cooking differ from yours, Mr. Macjean," said Alizon, smilingly handing him back his cup.
"Yes, that's true enough. I daresay they give a fellow the best they can, but look at their victuals; bread that's all full of holes, some yellow mess they call polenta, skinny chickens and sour wine, you can't make a square meal of such stuff."
"Some people could," said Errington, who was listening to the boy's remarks with an amused smile, "but I agree with you about the roast beef of old England."
"Or the wholesome parritch of Scotland," observed Eustace satirically. "As a North Briton you surely forget that, Master."
"No, I don't," retorted Macjean. "I got too much of that when I was young."
"Being so aged now."
"Isn't that shabby?" said Otterburn good-humouredly, turning to Lady Errington. "He's always making fun of my age--as if youth were a crime."
"It's a very charming crime at all events," replied Alizon pleasantly; "don't you mind Mr. Gartney, he is a poet, and poets are always praising--and envying--youth."
That's true enough, said Eustace with a sigh, "all the poets from Mimnurmus downward have ever lamented the passing of youth. What a pity we can't always remain young."
"And why not? I don't count age by years, but by experience," said Lady Errington quietly. "One may be old at twenty and young at fifty."
Eustace, knowing what her experience had been, looked curiously at her fair placid face as she said this, and she must have guessed his thoughts, for a flush burned in her cheeks under his searching gaze.
"That's what I say," cried Guy, referring to his wife's remark. "If a fellow's got health, wealth and a good temper, the world's a very jolly sort of place."
"The best of all possible worlds, according to Voltaire," remarked Eustace, leaning back with a disbelieving smile, "but you've left out one ingredient which some people consider very necessary."
"And that is----?"
"Love!"
"Ab, I've got that," said Guy turning a fond eye on his wife.
"Lucky man, other people are not so fortunate."
"No," observed Otterburn with a huge sigh, having finished a very decent meal, "it's so difficult to procure the genuine article."
"Hark to the cynic of one-and-twenty," cried Gartney.
"It's your example, Eustace," observed Guy, producing a cigarette case, "but don't for Heaven's sake start a philosophical discussion on happiness. Why should the children of the king go mourning when the soothing weed is within reach? Have a cigarette, Macjean."
"Thank you--if Lady Errington----"
"Oh, I do not mind. Guy has habituated me to smoke. Light your cigarettes by all means."
Whereupon Otterburn accepted the small roll of paper and tobacco with much satisfaction, and was soon puffing away contentedly, Guy following his example.
"These are jolly good cigarettes," he said emphatically. "You can't get decent tobacco in Italy, so I smuggled these past the Customs at Chiasso. I suppose it's no use offering you one, Eustace?"
"Not in the least," responded Gartney smiling. "It's a pity to spoil this perfect fragrance with tobacco smoke."
"Ah, that's so like you poets--always sacrificing the comforts of life for the sake of its illusions. Well, we won't spoil your esthetic feelings on the subject, Come, Macjean, let us leave these two to continue the conversation, and we'll walk up and down till we finish our smoke."
Angus glanced enquiringly at Lady Errington, who smilingly gave the requisite permission, and was soon strolling up and down the terrace with Errington, talking sport, upon which subject both gentlemen were quite in accordance.
Left alone with Lady Errington, Eustace lay back in his deep chair gazing dreamily at her as she sat silent and pensive, fanning herself slowly with an absent expression in her blue eyes.
The charm of the scene, the influence of the hour, the presence of this pale, beautiful woman, and the delicate fragrance of the flowers which permeated the still air, all touched the poetical part of his nature, and he could not help wondering in his own mind how such a spiritual nature as that of Alizon Errington's could tolerate such a matter-of-fact man as her husband, who could leave her so calmly to talk sport with a shallow-minded boy. In this, however, Eustace Gartney was entirely wrong, as love is not to be measured by sentimental talk or silent adoration, and a man who loves a woman in an honest respectful fashion does not need to be constantly on his knees to prove the sincerity of his passion. But then Eustace, who believed in this exaggerated fashion of love-making, was a poet, and poets have whimsical ways of manifesting their sentiments.
From these musings he was aroused by the voice of his hostess, who had suddenly awakened to the fact that Eustace was silent, and feared she had neglected her social duties.
"You are singularly silent, Mr. Gartney!"
Eustace started suddenly as her voice struck on his ear, and looked idly at her with a vague smile on his lips.
"The influence of the hour and the scene, I suppose," he said idly; "one is always silent in Paradise."
"I should think that depended upon the absence or presence of Eve," replied Alizon demurely.
"Or of the serpent. Confess now, Lady Errington, the serpent was a charming conversationalist."
"And a bad companion--for a woman."
"No doubt Adam thought so--after the Fall."
"What a pity there should have been a Fall," said Lady Errington after a short pause. "It would have been a charming world."
"Humph! consisting of what the French call asolitude à deux."
"Oh, but I was supposing the Garden of Eden became populated. It would have been a world without sin or temptation."
"I beg 'your pardon. The trees of knowledge and life would still have been flourishing to tempt the primeval population nor do I suppose the wily serpent would have been wanting."
"Satirical, but scarcely true."
"Ah, but you see we're both talking the romance of what-might-have-been," said Gartney smiling, "so my view of the subject is no doubt as probable as your own. However this Italian Paradise with all its faults, consequent on our present-day civilization, has exquisite scenery, and if one were to live here for some years I daresay he would arrive at the nearest approach to primeval happiness possible in this world."
"I'm afraid we shall not have an opportunity of testing the truth of your assertion. We leave here in a fortnight, for Guy is longing for England and the country."
"A nostalgia of the coverts, I presume?"
"Exactly! 'It's a fine day, let us go and kill something.'"
Eustace laughed at this reply, as the neatness of it satisfied his somewhat cynical sense of humour.
"Don't you feel nostalgia yourself, Mr. Gartney?" asked Lady Errington, arranging the lilies at her breast.
He turned his expressive face towards her with a sad smile.
"Not of this earth! I am like Heine,un enfant perdu, and have a home-sickness for an impossible world."
"Created by your own fancy no doubt."
"Yes! Though I dare say if my fancy world became a real one it wouldn't be so pleasant as this one. After all, Chance is the most admirable architect of the future. When men like Sir Thomas More, Plato, Bulwer Lytton and the rest of them, have indulged in paper dreams of ideal worlds, they have always committed the fatal mistake of making the inhabitants insufferable bores, who have attained perfection--and when perfection is attained happiness ceases."
"How so?"
"Because the greatest pleasure in life is work, and when perfection renders work unnecessary, life becomes a lotos-eating existence."
"Well surely that is a very pleasant thing."
"To the few Yes, to the many No! Some men need constant excitement to make them enjoy life. I can quite understand Xerxes offering a reward to the man who could invent a new pleasure, for if Xerxes had not attained the perfection of debauchery, he would not have found existence a bore."
"You can hardly call such an ignoble height perfection," said Lady Errington quietly. "I should call it satiety."
"No doubt you are right. But what does it matter what we call it? the thing is the same."
"That sounds as if you spoke from experience, and at your age that can hardly be the case."
"I remember," observed Eustace a trifle satirically, "that a short time ago you said you measured youth by experience not by age. It is the same with me, I am only thirty eight years of age, yet in that short time I have exhausted all that life has to give."
"Surely not!"
Eustace Gartney laughed in a dreary, hopeless manner that showed how truly he spoke.
"I'm afraid it is," he remarked with a sigh. "I have been all over the world and seen what is to be seen. I have mixed with my fellow creatures and found the majority of them humbugs. I've been in love and been deceived. I've published books and been abused, in fact I've done everything possible to enjoy life, and the consequence is I'm sick of the whole thing."
"Your own fault entirely," said Lady Errington warmly, "as you have denied yourself nothing you now reap the reward of such indulgence and enjoy nothing. Your present satiety is the logical sequence of your own acts. Why not therefore try and lead a nobler and better life? Go among the poor and give them the help they so much need. Look upon your fortune as money entrusted to you, not to squander on unsatisfying pleasures, but to use for the benefit of humanity. Do this, Mr. Gartney, and I assure you the result will be satisfactory, for you will find in such well-doing the new pleasure which Xerxes desired but never obtained."
With a sceptical smile on his massive features Eustace listened to her earnest speech, and at its conclusion laughed softly in his own cynical manner.
"A most delightful view of one's duties to the world at large," he said satirically, "but hardly satisfactory. That recipe for happiness has been given to me before, Lady Errington, and is, I think, more charming in theory than in practice. Suppose I did take this advice you give me in the goodness of your heart, and went out into the world to play the thankless part of a philanthropist, what would I gain--only a more intimate knowledge of human selfishness and human iniquity. If I assisted A, a most deserving person from his own point of view, I've no doubt A would become my bitterest enemy because I had not done enough for him. I might rescue B from the workhouse, and B would consider me shabby if I did not support him for the rest of his natural life. As for C, well, I need not go through the whole alphabet, in order to illustrate my views of the matter, but I assure you, Lady Errington, if I employed my money in alleviating the distresses of my fellow creatures, I would get very little praise and a great deal of blame during my life, and when I died no doubt a short paragraph in a newspaper as 'an earnest but misguided philanthropist!' No! believe me I have thought deeply about the whole thing, and the game is not worth the candle."
"You look at things in a wrong light."
"In the only possible light, I'm afraid. Rose-coloured spectacles are not obtainable now-a-days."
"Still such a pessimistic view----"
"Is forced upon us by circumstances. This is the nineteenth century, you know, and we have no illusions left--they went out with religion."
"Well, I must try and convince you of the falsity of your views some other time," said Alizon closing her fan with a sigh, "but at present I see Guy and Mr. Macjean are coming to interrupt our conversation."
She rose to her feet as she spoke, a tall, slim, white figure, that seemed to sway like a graceful lily at the breath of the evening breeze. Eustace, ever prone to poetical impressions, made this comparison in his own mind as he left his chair and advanced with her to meet Guy and Angus.
"I say Alizon," cried Errington gaily as his wife came up, "just fancy! Aunt Jelly's ward, Miss Sheldon, is staying at the Villa Medici."
"Miss Sheldon," said Lady Errington reflectively, "is that the pretty girl I met at Miss Corbin's?"
"Yes! you remember. On the day we went to see Aunt Jelly and ask her blessing," replied Guy eagerly.
"Who is she with?" asked Lady Errington; "surely Miss Corbin----"
"Oh no," interrupted Eustace, mirthfully. "You might as well expect to meet the Monument abroad as Aunt Jelly. I asked Miss Sheldon all about it, and it appears that ever since her arrival from Australia she has been anxious to come to the Continent, so as a friend of Aunt Jelly's was making what she calls the 'grand tower' with her husband, this young lady was placed under their mutual protection."
"I wish she was under mine," said Otterburn audibly, on whom the charms of the young lady in question had evidently made a deep impression, "she's so awfully pretty."
"I'm afraid it would be a case of the blind leading the blind," remarked Eustace drily.
"By the way," observed Guy, "who is Miss Sheldon? I asked Aunt Jelly, but she told me, sharply, to mind my own business."
"Wasn't that rather severe?" said Alizon mildly.
"Not for Aunt Jelly," retorted her husband. "Aunt Jelly's a huffy old party, but she's got a weakness for Eustace, who doesn't object to be sat upon, so perhaps he knows about this young lady."
"I think I've got a hazy idea," assented Eustace leisurely, "she comes from the City of Melbourne, Australia, and her name is Victoria, called after our gracious Queen, or the Colony, I forget which. Sheldonpèrewas an admirer of our mutual aunt in the old days when she was flesh and blood instead of iron. He went out with a broken heart to the Colonies because Aunt Jelly wouldn't marry him--fancy any man breaking his heart for such a brazen image! Well, at all events, he made a large fortune out there, got married, became the father of one little girl, and then, his life's work being done, died, leaving his fortune to his daughter Victoria, and his daughter Victoria to dear Aunt Jelly, who cherishes her for the sake of the one romance of her youth."
"How cruelly you tell the story," observed Lady Errington in a rather disapproving tone. "I've only seen Miss Corbin once, but I think she's got a kind heart."
"Most people are said to have that, who possess nothing else," retorted Eustace grimly. "However, you now know who Victoria Sheldon is, and I won't deny she's pretty, very pretty."
"Very pretty," echoed Otterburn, with a sigh.
"You ought to marry her, Macjean," said Eustace, "she has plenty of money."
"I wouldn't marry a girl for her money alone," remonstrated Angus indignantly.
"Then take the American advice," said Sir Guy gaily, "never marry a girl for money, but if you do meet a nice girl with any, try and love her as hard as ever you can."
"I think I'll call and see Miss Sheldon," observed Alizon, after a pause, "for, as she is a ward of your Aunt's, I shall very likely see a good deal of her. Are the people she is with pleasant?"
"That," observed Eustace calmly, "depends greatly on individual taste. The Honourable Henry Trubbles is the most egotistical specimen of misshapen humanity I have ever met with, and his wife, whom he married for her money, is a modern edition of Mrs. Malaprop with a dash of Sary Gamp and a flavouring of the Sleeping Beauty."
"What a mixed description," said Errington laughing. "How does she resemble the Sleeping Beauty?"
"Only in sleeping."
"You make me quite curious to see her," cried Alizon smiling. "And if--well, I won't promise anything about what I intended yet."
"What did you intend?" asked her husband.
"To have a small dinner party, and give Mr. Macjean a real English dinner, but I'll first see how I like this extraordinary couple, and then--well, we'll see."
"It would be awfully jolly," said Otterburn, whose stock of adjectives was limited.
"I know it's 'awfully' late," remarked Eustace, in a tone of rebuke, "and we have just time to get back to dinner."
"To what they call a dinner."
"It's better than nothing at all events--well, goodbye, Lady Errington; thank you for a pleasant afternoon."
"Don't forget your way to the Villa Tagni," said Alizon as she shook hands, and the two gentlemen, having vowed warmly that they would not, made their adieux, leaving Sir Guy and his wife alone on the terrace.
"Well, Alizon," said Errington, jocularly, "and what do you think of my cousin, Eustace?"
"I think," replied Lady Errington slowly, "that he is the most unhappy man I ever met with in my life."
"Charming, no doubt, her face is fair.As dark as night, her curling hair,Her eyes--two stars, her lips--a rose,Whoever saw a prettier nose?Charming indeed,--but Fate to vex,Has given her faults like all her sex,Believe me, she's not worth regret,She'll break your heart, the vain coquette."
"Charming, no doubt, her face is fair.As dark as night, her curling hair,Her eyes--two stars, her lips--a rose,Whoever saw a prettier nose?Charming indeed,--but Fate to vex,Has given her faults like all her sex,Believe me, she's not worth regret,She'll break your heart, the vain coquette."
What a number of charming old romances begin at an inn. Did not M. Gil Blas commence his adventurous career by being swindled in one? and Don Quixote, blinded by fanatic chivalry, mistake the inns for mediæval castles? Tom Jones became involved in a network of intrigue at a hostelry; the heroes of Dumas invariably meet their enemies of King and Cardinal at the same place, while Boccaccio generally brings about the complications of gallant and donzella at some gay Florentine "osteria." Without doubt all the elements of romance are to be found at these resting places of man and beast; and the most incongruous characters, the most dissimilar ranks of society's adventurers, gallants, priests, bona robas and virtuous ladies all pass and repass, enter and exeunt, under the hospitable signs of inns.
Birds of passage rest momentarily at inns before continuing their flight to the four quarters of the world, and during such rest meet other birds of passage with sometimes curious results. Mr. A, a gentleman of swallow-like tendencies, on his way to the warm south, may linger for a night at an hotel where Miss B, due in some northern latitude, is also resting, with the result that Mr. A will delay his flight for an indefinite period; nay more, the juxtaposition of the two may end in A and B both continuing their journey as man and wife, which is the termination of all romance. Strange that a chance meeting at a place of public resort should alter two lives, but then life is made up of strange events, and a good many people date their happiness or misery from an accidental meeting at an inn.
Gartney was letting his thoughts run on in this somewhat whimsical vein, as he smoked an after dinner cigarette over his coffee on the terrace at Villa Medici.
Before him, huge and indistinct, arose the grand façade of the hotel, glimmering whitely in the moonlight, with its innumerable windows, its broad arcade, and its myriad lamps shining brilliantly on groups of gaily-dressed people who strolled to and fro amongst the pink-blossomed oleanders, or sat chatting gaily round small marble-topped tables, where white-cravated waiters, lithe and active, attended to their wishes.
Beyond lay the lake, dark and solemn, under the shadow of the sombre mountains, at whose base gleamed orange-coloured points of light, telling of the presence of distant villages, while high above in the cold, blue sky, glowed the yellow orb of the moon and the glimmering stars. Through the leaves of sycamore, tamarisk, and magnolia sighed the soft breath of the night-wind, filling the air with cool odours, and the sound of music, rendered thin and fairy-like by distance, floated across the still waters from some slow-moving boat.
An historic place this Villa Medici, with its palatial halls, its innumerable chambers, and its stately flights of white-marble steps; for it was here that the great Emperor intended to rest for a time in his victorious career, an intention never carried out, although everything was prepared for his reception, and the hotel guests now dine in the small saloon hung round with yellow damask stamped with the imperial 'N' and kingly crown.
Then again it was here that unhappy Caroline of Brunswick, who became Queen of England in name only, kept her state as Princess of Wales, and tried to find in the calm seclusion of Como that peace denied to her in the land of her adoption. Ah, yes, the Villa Medici is connected with the lives of some great personages, but now that they all have vanished from the world's stage, whereon they played some curious parts, the Villa is turned into an hotel, and strangers from far America, and still further Australia, reside in the many chambers, and wander with delight through the enchanting gardens which Nature, aided by art, has made a paradise of beauty.
"Poor Caroline," murmured Gartney to himself, as he thought of all this, "no one has a good word to say for her, and yet, I daresay, she was a good deal better than the first gentleman in Europe. It was just as well she died, for George would never have given her any rights as queen-consort. No doubt she passed some of her happiest days here, although she always hankered after the forbidden glories of Windsor and Buckingham Palace."
His meditations were interrupted at this point by a gay laugh, and on looking up he saw Victoria Sheldon coming towards him escorted by the Master of Otterburn, who was evidently telling her some funny story, judging from the amusement his conversation seemed to afford her.
She was certainly a very pretty girl, one of those feminine beauties who strike the beholder at first sight with a sense of indescribable charm. A brilliantly tinted brunette, overflowing with exuberant vitality, she had all the intense colouring and freshness of a southern rose at that time when the cold rain draws its perfume strongly forth in the chill morning air.
Her eyes, hair, eyebrows and long lashes were dark as night; red as coral the lips, which when parted showed two rows of pearly teeth; full and soft the round of the cheeks, and a peach-like skin with a rosy glow of delicate colour under the velvety surface. She was the modern realization of that vivacious Julia whom Herrick describes so charmingly in his dainty poems. And as a matter of fact the skin of this young girl had all the brilliant colouring of the south, no doubt assimilated by her system under the sultry glow of Australian skies. Having an excellent figure, dainty hands and feet, with a perfect taste in dress, and boundless vivacity, there was no doubt that Victoria Sheldon was a feminine personality eminently attractive to the stronger sex.
As to her nature, it was quite in unison with her outward appearance--bright, sparkling, vivacious, albeit somewhat shallow, yet not without a certain veneer of surface knowledge. Eminently womanly, capricious in the extreme, witty, amusing, tireless, she had one of those attractive natures which charm everyone in a singularly magnetic fashion. Some men, eccentric in their likings, admire those semi-masculine women who have missions, support the rights of their sex on lecture platforms, emulate masculine peculiarities to the best of their abilities, and pass noisy lives in shrieking aimlessly against the tyranny of mankind. Those men who approved of such semi-masculine tendencies, certainly would not have admired the womanly characteristics of Victoria, but the connoisseur of feminine beauty, the judge of a brilliant personality, and the appreciator of a witty nature, would each see in her the realisation of an extremely difficult ideal.
The Master, young and rash, was just at that delightful age when every woman appears a goddess to the uncultured fancy of youth; judge then the effect produced upon his impressionable nature by this riant vision of strongly vitalised beauty. He did not even make an attempt at resistance in any way, but prone as god Dagon on the threshold of his temple, he fell before the powerful divinity of this young girl, and she produced on him the same effect as Phryne did on her judges when she displayed the full splendour of her charms in the Areopagus under the clear blue of Athenian skies. Mactab, severe, ascetic and self-mortifying, opposed to every form of admiration of the flesh, would have blushed for the grovelling idolatory of his quondam pupil; but no doubt the sunny climate of Italy aided in a great measure this worship of Venus, and Angus Macjean, Master of Otterburn, prostrated himself in abject worship before this outward manifestation of carnal beauty.
Eustace saw this, and was selfishly annoyed thereat, because he had taken a fancy to Otterburn, and thought that he (Otterburn) should agree with him (Eustace) in despising the sex feminine, which was foolish in the extreme on the part of such an acute observer of human nature; but then he was blinded by egotism, and that vice distorts every vision. Still he could not deny that physically she was wonderfully pretty, despite his feeling of animosity against her for coming between himself and his friend. Therefore he admired her greatly from an æsthetic point of view, while Victoria, with the keen instinct of a woman, scented an enemy and neither admired nor liked Eustace the cynic in the smallest degree.
"My dear Mr. Macjean," she said in answer to the remonstrances of Angus who wanted everyone to like his friend as much as he did himself. "Your friend is a pessimist, and I don't like that class of people; they always take a delight in analysing one's motives, which is disagreeable--to the person concerned. A flower is charming, but those who pull it to pieces in order to find out how it is made--are not. I don't like analysts--they destroy one's illusions."
This plain-spoken young lady's chaperone was enjoying an after-dinner nap; the Hon. Henry was talking Irish politics with an Irish M.P., who did not believe in Home Rule out of contradiction to the rest of his countrymen who did. So Victoria Sheldon, feeling in a most delightful humour, was chatting gaily with Otterburn, when they thus chanced on the melancholy Eustace, moralising on the mutability of human life.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Gartney," said Victoria, pausing before him with a gay smile on her lips.
"They're not worth it," replied Eustace, looking approvingly at the charming girl before him, in her dainty white dinner dress, with a bunch of vividly scarlet geraniums at her breast. "I'll sell them as bankrupt stock."
"Haw! haw! haw!" from the Master, who was in that pleasant frame of mind when everything seems to scintillate with wit--but then it was after dinner, and a pretty woman was at his elbow. Wine, wit, and feminine influence, really the worst-tempered man would feel pleasant with such a delightful trinity.
"My dear Master," said Eustace reprovingly, "your mirth is complimentary, but rather noisy--will you not be seated, Miss Sheldon?"
"Thank you," replied Victoria, sitting down in a chair under the shadow of a myrtle tree, the light from a distant lamp striking full on her piquant face. "I am rather tired."
"Of walking, or the Master?" asked the cynic gruffly.
She flashed a brilliant glance on him out of the dusky shadow, and spread her red feather fan with a grand wave of irresistible coquetry.
"Mr. Macjean," she said lightly as he sank into a chair opposite to her, and leaned his arms on the cold marble of the table, "What do you think?"
"Eh," observed the Master obtusely. "Oh, I think the same as you."
"Then," remarked Eustace, re-lighting his cigarette, "you cannot object to that diplomatic reply. Do you mind my smoking?'
"Not in the least. I hope Mr. Macjean will follow your example."
Mr. Macjean was only too happy to so far indulge himself. So the gentlemen sat and smoked with great enjoyment, while the feminine element of the party smiled serenely and impartially on both; smiles quite wasted on the misogamistic Eustace, but then Victoria, with that unerring instinct of coquetry implanted in every woman's breast, took a delight in behaving thus, simply because she saw Otterburn admired her. He on his part naturally began to grow jealous, and being without the self-control habitual to those who live long in society, would doubtless have shown his irritation very plainly, only Eustace, taking in at a glance the whole situation, and being by no means agreeable to gratifying Victoria's love of conquest, arrested the storm at once by beginning to talk with judicious diplomacy of the first thing that came into his mind.
"Tell me," he said, addressing himself to the volatile Victoria, "Do you not find our narrow English life somewhat irksome after the freedom of Australia?"
"Not so much as you would think," replied Miss Sheldon promptly, "for after all there is a good deal of similarity between home and the colonies."
"You still call England 'home,' I observe," said Eustace with a smile.
"We do, because most of the generation who emigrated are still alive, but even now the term is dying out, and in another fifty years I don't suppose will be in use."
"I should awfully like to go out to Australia," observed Otterburn languidly. "I'm sick of civilisation."
"Oh don't imagine you leave civilisation behind when you come out to us," retorted Victoria sharply, with rising colour, "that is a mistake many English people make. They think Australia is like the backwoods of America, but it's nothing of the sort. Melbourne is just as cultured and wealthy in its own way as London, with the additional advantage of having a better climate and being smaller."
"Do you think the latter quality an advantage then?" asked Gartney with ironical gravity.
"I should just think so, rather," said Miss Sheldon nodding her head emphatically. "London is a delightful place, I grant, but it's a terrible nuisance visiting your friends and going out to amusements."
"We have," observed the Master in an authoritative guidebook tone, "trains, tramways, carriages----"
"So have we--but even with them it takes a long time to get about London. We can get from one end of Melbourne to the other in a reasonable time, but it's like an African exploring expedition to start round London."
"London," remarked Eustace in a judicious manner, "is not one but several cities. There is the West End, which is devoted to wealth and pleasure, the East End, famous for work and poverty. The City of London proper, noted for its mercantile enterprise and its stock-broking fraternity, and finally the huge shipping town which forms the port of the Metropolis. Every person stays in the special city with which his business is connected, therefore there is no difficulty in getting about one's own particular local town, which is much smaller in the aggregate than Melbourne."
"I understand all that perfectly," replied Victoria, who had listened attentively, "but suppose you chose to live on the outskirts of London, so as to get a breath of country air. In that case if you want to go to a theatre you have to travel for over an hour to get to one."
"People who live as you say, are worshippers of Nature, and go to bed with the sun--they don't want the gas and glare of theatres."
"Oh, anyone can argue that way," said Victoria disdainfully, "so I have nothing to say in reply. Let us talk of something else."
"By all means--the weather."
"And the crops. No! I am not an agriculturist."
"Aunt Jelly," suggested Angus wickedly.
Miss Sheldon turned towards him with a mirthful smile in her bright eyes.
"What do you know of Aunt Jelly, Mr. Macjean?" she asked, putting her fan up to her lips to hide a laugh.
"I know nothing; absolutely nothing," he replied, with mock humility, "beyond the fact that Gartney and Errington have both mentioned her as an eccentric character, so I wish to know more about her."
If he did, his curiosity was not destined to be gratified at that moment, for, with the whimsical caprice of a woman, Victoria suddenly began to talk on quite a different subject, suggested by the casual mention of a name.
"Do you like Lady Errington?" she demanded, looking from one to the other.
"She is a very charming woman," said Eustace evasively. "She knows you, I believe."
"Slightly! I met her at Aunt Jelly's, when she called one day."
"And what is Aunt Jelly's opinion?"
The girl laughed, and then, composing her features into a kind of stern severity, spoke in a harsh, measured voice:
"Not what I approve of; limp! washed out, no backbone, but no doubt she'll make Guy a good wife. Not a hard thing for any woman to do seeing he's an idiot. So was his father before him, and he did not take after his mother, thank God."
"The voice is the voice of Miss Sheldon," murmured Eustace, delicately manipulating a cigarette, "but the sentiments are those of my beloved aunt."
"How mean you are," said Victoria, rewarding Otterburn with a bright look for having laughed at her mimicry. "I thought I did her voice to perfection.'
"Nothing but a saw-mill could do that," retorted the irreverent Eustace. "So that is Aunt Jelly's opinion. It isn't flattering."
"Neither is Aunt Jelly."
"I'm dying to know Aunt Jelly," declared Angus mirthfully, "she must be as good as a play."
"She is! tragedy."
"No! No! Miss Sheldon, excuse me, comedy."
"I should say burlesque, judging from your descriptions," said the Master, gaily. "How did you drop across her, Miss Sheldon?"
"I didn't drop across her," said Miss Sheldon, candidly, "she dropped across me. My father left me to her guardianship, and I was duly delivered in due course like a bale of goods."
"Why isn't Aunt Jelly fulfilling her guardianship by seeing you through the temptations of the Continent?" asked Eustace, severely.
"Oh, she placed me under the wing of Mrs. Trubbles."
"I'm glad she didn't place you under the eye of Mrs. Trubbles," observed Otterburn, with the brutal candour of youth, "because both her eyes are invariably closed."
"What a shame--I wonder where she is?"
"Asleep! don't disturb her," said Gartney, as Miss Sheldon arose to her feet. "Physicians all agree that sleep after dinner is most beneficial to people of the Trubbles calibre."
Victoria laughed at this remark, and as she showed a desire to stroll about, the gentlemen left their chairs and escorted her through the grounds, one on each side, the lady being thus happily placed between the sex masculine.
A good many of the promenaders had retired for the night, evidently worn out by the heat of the day; but some indefatigable pianist was still hard at work in the music saloon, and the steady rhythmic beat of the last new valse, "My heart is dead," sounded tenderly through the still night air, broken at intervals by the light laughter of young girls, the deeper tones of men's voices, and the melancholy sound of the waters washing against the stone masonry of the terrace. Beyond on the lake all was strange and mystical, filled with cold lights and shadows, vague and dreary under the gloom of the distant mountains; but here, by the garish lights of the hotel, the pulse of life was beating strongly, and the indescribable tone of idle frivolity seemed to clash with the silent solemnity of Nature.
Perhaps Eustace felt this incongruity as his eyes strayed towards the steel-coloured waters, for after a time the shallow conversation of Victoria jarred so painfully on his ears that with a hurried excuse he left the young couple to their own companionship, and wandered away alone into the fragrant darkness of the night.
"He's awfully fond of his own company," observed Victoria, indicating the departing Eustace. "Such a queer taste. I hate being left to myself."
"So do I," asserted Otterburn eagerly. "I always like to be with someone----"
"Of the opposite sex," finished Miss Sheldon, laughing. "Well, yes I women have always been my best friends."
"You answer at random."
"I dare say; one is incapable of concentrated thought on a perfect night."
"You are also growing poetical, then indeed it is time for a prosaic individual like myself to retire."
"No don't go yet, you can't sleep here if you go to bed early."
"Oh, that is your experience," said Miss Sheldon, as a bell from a distant campanile, showing white and slender against the sky, sounded the hour of nine o'clock. "Well, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, though I'm afraid Mrs. Trubbles will be dreadfully shocked."
They leaned over the iron balustrade of the terrace, and watched in charmed silence the dark waters rising and falling in the chill moonlight. The valse still sounded silvery in the distance, with its sad tone of regret and hopeless despair, and after a time Victoria began to hum the melancholy refrain in a low voice: