At half-past five o’clock that same afternoon, heedless of the Countess Moltedo’s mysterious warning, I was standing1 by Lucie’s side at the long French window that opened upon the balcony. Below, hundreds of visitors, mostly dressed in white, as is the mode of Leghorn, were promenading2 in the little pine wood that lies between the roadway and the sea, while beyond stretched the broad glassy Mediterranean3 aglow4 in the fiery5 rays of the Tuscan sunset, the mystic islands showing dark purple on the far-off horizon.
It was the hour when all Leghorn was agog6 after the siesta7, that period from two o’clock till five, when all persiennes are closed, the streets are silent and deserted8, and the city dazzlingly white lies palpitating beneath the blazing sun that blanches9 everything—the hour for the evening bath, and the stroll and gossip before dinner.
Perhaps nowhere else in all Europe can be seen such a living panorama10 of beautiful girls as there, upon the Passeggio at Leghorn on a summer’s evening at six o’clock, those dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome-featured children of the people walking in twos and threes, with figure and gait perfect, and each with her santuzza, or silken scarf of pale blue, mauve, pink, or black, twisted around her head with the ends thrown carelessly over the shoulders.
As the white veil is part of the costume of the Turkish woman so is the santuzza part of that of the merry, laughing coral-pickers, milliners and work-girls of Leghorn. It enhances their marvellous beauty and is at the same time the badge of their servitude.
Of all the people in the whole of proud old Tuscany assuredly none were so easy-going and vivacious11, none so light-hearted and full of poetry as those Livornese people passing to and fro below us. The more I had dwelt among the Tuscan people the more I loved them. There is surely no other people on the face of the earth so entirely12 lovable, even with their many sad faults, as they; none so gregarious13, so neighbourly, so courteous14, kindly15 or poetic16, none so content upon the most meagre fare that ever held body and soul together.
Your popolano even in his rags will bring a flower to a woman with the air of a king, and he will resent an insult with a withering17 scorn to which no regal trappings could lend further dignity. It is the land where Love still reigns18 just as supreme19 as it did in the days of La Fiammetta, of Beatrice, of Laura, or of Romeo—the Land of Amore—the sun-kissed land where even in this prosaic20 century of ours men and women live and die—often by the knife-thrust, be it said—for “amore,” that king who is greater and more powerful even than good Vittorio Emanuele himself.
At Lucie’s side I stood in silence, gazing down upon the gay scene below. In those people’s eyes were always dreams, and in the memories there was always greatness.
A writer has asked with deep truth, who, having known fair Tuscany, can forsake21 her for lesser22 love? Who, having once abode23 with her, can turn their faces from the rising sun and set the darkness of the Pisan mountains betwixt herself and them?
Yes. I had been back again in Tuscany for those few brief hours only, yet the glamour24 of Italy had again fallen upon me, that same glamour that holds so many of the English-speaking race—irrevocably compelling them to return again and again to those amethystine25 hills and mystical depths of seven-chorded light—the land that is grey-green with sloes and rich with trailing vines, the land of art and antiquity26, of youth and of loveliness.
“And your father went on from Pisa?” I said at last, turning to my neat-waisted little companion. “He did not come home with you?”
“No. He has some urgent business down in Rome, and sent me back here to wait for him.”
“When does he arrive?”
“He does not know. His business is very uncertain always. Sometimes when he goes away he’s absent only three days, and at other times three months. Dear old dad is awfully27 tiresome28. He never writes, and Marietta and I wait and wait, and wonder what’s become of him.”
“Is he staying with friends in Rome?”
“With Dr Gavazzi, a great friend of ours.”
“You left Studland very suddenly,” I said.
“Because of a telegram. We left at once, with hardly an hour to pack up. But how did you know we had gone to Italy?”
“I called after you had left, and your aunt told me. I wanted to speak to you, Miss Miller29,” I added, turning to her seriously. “I came here to Leghorn purposely to see you.”
“It’s surely a long way to travel,” she said, turning her soft dark eyes upon mine and regarding me with wonder.
“Yes. But the reason I am here is to consult you regarding something which very closely concerns myself—regarding Ella.”
“Ah! It was strange that she left us so suddenly,” she remarked, “and stranger still the events of that night. I wonder who attacked her? She recognised her assailant, otherwise she would have said something to me. I’ve thought over it several times. The whole thing is an utter enigma30. She evidently left us because she feared that her assailant would either call to see her, or perhaps make another attempt upon her.”
“Then she said nothing to you?”
“Absolutely not a word, even though when she came in she was half fainting. I naturally concluded that you and she had had some words, and therefore I made no inquiry31.”
“We had no words, Miss Miller,” I said, in a low, serious voice. “Our hearts were too full of tragedy for that.”
“Of tragedy?” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“Ella is already engaged to be married.”
“Engaged?” she cried. “Why, I thought she was to be yours? I was congratulating you both!”
“No,” I answered, my heart sinking. “Though we have come together again after that long blank in both our lives, we are yet held apart by a cruel circumstance. She is already engaged to be married to another man.”
“But she will break it, never fear. Ella loves you—you can’t doubt that.”
“I know. I know that. But it is an engagement she cannot break. She will be that man’s wife in a month.”
“You absolutely amaze me. She told me nothing of this, but on the contrary led me to believe that she was still free, and that you were to be her affianced husband.”
“There is some reason—some secret reason why I cannot be,” I said. “It was to discuss this point with you that I have travelled from London. I must ask you to forgive me, Miss Miller, for troubling you with my private affairs, but you are, you know, Ella’s most intimate and most devoted32 friend.”
“You are not troubling me in the least,” my companion declared. “We are friends, you and I, and if I can help you, I will with pleasure do so.”
“Then I want to ask you a few questions,” I said eagerly. “First, tell me how long you have known Mr Gordon-Wright?”
“Oh! ever since I was quite a little girl. He used to give me francs and buy me bon-bons long ago in the old days in Paris. Why?”
“Because I had an idea that he might perhaps be a new acquaintance.”
“Oh, dear no. My father and he have been friends for many years. He comes here to stay, sometimes for a couple of months at a time. He has bad health, and his London doctor often orders him abroad.”
“Who is he?”
“A gentleman. He was in the Navy on the China station, I think. He’s a most amusing companion, full of droll33 anecdotes34, and seems to know everybody. Dad says that he’s one of the most popular men about London. He has a splendid steam yacht and once or twice he has taken us for cruises. It was in port here for a week at the beginning of the year.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Half Moon Street in London.”
“Has he a country place?”
“I never heard of it.”
Then she was unaware35, I saw, that he lived on the Cornish border. Her father, of course, knew the truth, and kept it concealed37 from her. The fact that he came there to hide for months at a time, and that he travelled about in a steam yacht were sufficient to show that he was one of the clever and ingenious band who had, during the past ten years, effected certain coups38 so gigantic that they had startled Europe.
“When I met him how long had he been staying with you at the Manor39?”
“Only one day. He came on the previous morning, and he left an hour after you did. He wished to consult my father about something—some securities he contemplates40 purchasing, I think.”
“Was Ella acquainted with him?”
“No. Ella never saw him. He was upstairs in his room, you remember, when we brought her home, and she left in the morning before he was up.”
“You don’t think that it was he who met her in the park after she left me?” I suggested.
She looked at me strangely, as though endeavouring to read my innermost thoughts.
“No, I hardly think that. Why should he, of all men, attack a woman who was a perfect stranger to him?”
“But was Ella a perfect stranger?” I queried41. “How do you know that?”
“Of course we can’t say so. He might have met her somewhere else before,” the dark-eyed girl was forced to admit.
“Do not the circumstances all point to the fact that she fled, fearing to face him?” I said.
“Well, it certainly is a theory—but a very strange one,” she answered, her eyes fixed42 thoughtfully away to the distant horizon. “But what you have told me is so extraordinary. Ella is engaged to be married in a month. To whom? You have not told me that.”
I was silent for a moment, wondering whether I should tell her. So complete were the confidences now between us that I saw I need conceal36 nothing from her. We entertained a mutual43 sympathy for each other—I broken and despairing, and she a woman with the mark of fate upon her countenance44.
“She is to marry Gordon-Wright,” I said in a low, hard voice.
“Gordon-Wright!” she gasped45, drawing back and staring at me open-mouthed. “Ella to marry that man! Impossible!”
“The fellow is compelling her to become his wife. He holds her in his power by some mysterious bond which she fears to break. She is in terror of him. Ella—my own Ella—is that man’s victim.”
“But—but you mustn’t allow this, Mr Leaf!” she cried quickly, and from the anxious expression in her countenance I saw that my announcement had struck her a-heap in amazement46. “Ella must never marry him!” she added. “But are you sure of this—are you quite sure?”
“She had admitted it to me with her own lips.”
“Then she must be warned—she cannot know.”
“Know what?”
“Know the facts that are known to me. She is in ignorance, or she would never consent to become that man’s wife!”
“She has been entrapped47. She admitted as much.” My companion made no answer. Her brows were knit in thought. What I had revealed to her was both unexpected and puzzling. She evidently knew Gordon-Wright’s true character, though it was hardly likely she would admit it to me.
Yet I wondered, as I had lately very often wondered, whether she were actually in ignorance of her father’s true profession.
“If she has been entrapped, Mr Leaf,” she said slowly, “then she must find a way in which to extricate48 herself. We must never allow her to become that man’s wife.”
“He is your father’s friend, and yet you hold him in little esteem49?” I remarked.
“What I know is my own affair,” was her hard response. “It is sufficient for us to say that Ella is yours, and must be yours.”
“Ah! yes,” I sighed in despair, “if only she could be. Yet I fear that it is impossible. This fellow for some mysterious reason holds her future in his hands. She refuses to reveal anything to me, except that to break away from him is impossible. Indeed, the real reason of her flying visit to you at Studland was to consult him. She knew he was visiting there, and slipped away from her father in order to call upon you.”
“But we had no idea that they were acquainted,” Lucie declared.
“After she had gone to bed your father and Gordon-Wright remained up, talking, she crept back downstairs, I believe, and overheard their conversation.”
“She did!” she gasped, her cheeks going pale. “She heard what they said! Are you quite sure of this?”
“Yes.”
“Then—then she really came to spy upon Gordon-Wright—to spy upon us indeed!”
“Not with any sinister50 motive51,” I hastened to assure her. “She is evidently endeavouring to discover something concerning this man who holds her so utterly52 powerless in his hands. It is but natural, is it not? It is only what you or I would do in similar circumstances.”
My companion’s face had changed. She was pale and anxious, eager to learn all that I had ascertained53.
“She told you this—how she had overheard my father talking to him?”
“No, Gordon-Wright himself charged her with eaves-dropping—and she admitted it.”
“Ah! Then if this be true, Mr Leaf, she had better marry him.”
“Marry him!” I cried. “Why?”
“Because I have a suspicion that she knows something concerning my father. What it is sorely puzzles me.”
“I—I don’t quite understand you,” I said.
“Well—I thought I had spoken plainly enough,” she answered. “You have told me that she admitted to him that she overheard his conversation with my father.”
“Well, and what if she did?” I asked. “Was the consultation55 between your father and his friend of such a secret nature?”
She hesitated a moment, then lifting her eyes to mine, said:—
“I believe it was.”
“You believe,” I echoed. “You must know, if you are prepared to sacrifice Ella to that man!”
“He probably is in possession of some secret of hers,” she remarked slowly.
“And she on her part, it appears, is in possession of some secret of his.”
“And of my father’s.”
“What is it she knows?” I asked. “Come, give me some hint of it,” I urged. “A moment ago you were my friend, prepared to assist poor Ella to escape—yet now you declare that they must marry.”
“Yes,” was her hard response. “I did not know that she had acted the spy in my father’s house—that she was in love with Gordon-Wright and had come to see him while he was under our roof.”
“She’s not in love with him,” I protested. “She denies it. Unfortunately she is his victim.”
“She deceived you once, remember. Why do you still trust her?”
“Her deception56 was one for self-sacrifice—to save her father.”
“And my refusal to assist you in saving her from Gordon-Wright is from the same motive.”
“To save your father?”
“How do I know? I tell you I am puzzled.”
“Then the secret is perhaps a guilty one?” I said seriously.
“She must marry this man,” was all her response.
“And this from you, Miss Miller—you, who have always posed as her friend!” I exclaimed reproachfully, for her change of manner had utterly confounded me. I had relied upon her as my friend.
“I am certainly not her enemy,” she hastened to assert. “To see her the wife of Gordon-Wright is my very last desire. Yet it is unfortunately imperative57 for—” and she stopped short, without concluding her sentence.
“For what?”
“For—well—for my peace of mind,” she said, though I was sure that she had intended saying something else.
“You have already told me that this fellow is unfitted to be her husband,” I exclaimed. “Surely you, her oldest friend, will never allow her to commit this fatal error—to wreck58 her own happiness and mine, without lifting a finger to save her. Need I repeat to you what I told you at the riverside at Studland, with what a fierce passion I adore her, how that she is mine—my very life?”
“I know,” my companion said, in a voice slightly more sympathetic. “I admit that she ought to marry you—that she is yours in heart. Yet in her secret engagement to Gordon-Wright there is a mystery which makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what?”
She sighed, and moving forward rested her hands upon the balcony, gazing again towards the fiery sunset.
“Well—to put it plainly—that she is deceiving both of us.”
“Deceiving us! In what way?”
“Ah! that is what we have not yet discovered,” replied the girl. “Think of her ingenuity59 in coming to our house in order to see that man in secret, of how cleverly she made us believe that they were strangers—of her listening to my father’s words when he spoke54 with Gordon-Wright! All this proves to me that she is working with some mysterious end.”
“She has been endeavouring to effect her emancipation60 from that scoundrel,” I protested hotly. “She has been trying to break away from him, but in vain. Her motive, Miss Miller, is not an evil one as regards either your father or yourself, you may rest assured. She only desires freedom—freedom to live and to love, the freedom that you, if you will, can assist her to obtain.”
“I—” she cried. “How can I?”
“You know who this fellow Gordon-Wright really is. If you will, you can save her.”
“I can’t. That’s just where the difficulty lies.”
“Then if you will not, I will!” I cried, angry at her sudden withdrawal61 after all the sympathy I had shown her, and goaded62 by thoughts of my love’s martyrdom. “Fortunately I happen to know that Gordon-Wright alias63 Lieutenant64 Shacklock is wanted by the police of half a dozen different countries, as well as certain of his associates, and a word from me will effect his arrest.” She started, and her face went ashen65 pale. She saw that I knew the truth, and in an instant held me in dread66.
“You—” she gasped. “You would do this—you?”
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收听单词发音
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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2
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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3
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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4
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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5
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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6
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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7
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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9
blanches
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| v.使变白( blanch的第三人称单数 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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10
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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11
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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16
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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17
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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amethystine
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| adj.紫水晶质的，紫色的；紫晶 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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32
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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coups
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| n.意外而成功的行动( coup的名词复数 )；政变；努力办到难办的事 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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41
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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45
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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46
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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47
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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49
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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52
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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53
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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56
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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57
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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58
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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59
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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60
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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61
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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62
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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63
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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64
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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65
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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66
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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