Chapter XV: The Villa Sergio

Spring—April, the month of the flowers, on the blue, sunny Adriatic.

Along that ruggedly beautiful coast, one of the most picturesque in the whole world, with its green palm-clad islands, its winding inlets, sharp, rocky promontories, and steep, brown cliffs, there is surely no place more delightful nor more full of interest than grey, old-world Ragusa.

Back behind a long, green, rocky island, it nestles at the foot of the steep slopes of Monte Sergio, once an important port in the days of the Republic of Venice, but now silent and almost forgotten, save by those who have recently begun to know and enjoy the glorious natural beauties of the Adriatic, in preference to the gambling, landscape gardening, and unhealthy life of the now played-out Mediterranean shore.

Zara, whence comes the maraschino, Spalato, and Lussimpiccolo are quaint, charming little places, rapidly gaining public favour with Austrians and Hungarians, but are as yet practically unknown to English people. Yet of them all Ragusa is assuredly the most pleasant and the most interesting.

Peaceful, undisturbed by traffic, and entirely mediæval, it reminds the traveller who knows his Riviera of one of those old towns on the Italian side—those unfashionable ones that you only visit if you chance to motor from Monte Carlo along to Genoa.

Difficult it is to realise that this sleepy, antique little place, where everybody speaks Italian, was the port of the Balkan hinterland in those brilliant days when Venice was queen of the sea. To-day, it is a tiny decaying town of cyclopean walls, of narrow streets and queer crooked byways. Across its dry moat and through its ponderous gateway with the crumbling coat of arms carved in the stone, carriages are unable to pass. Hence there is an absence of bustle which one finds in other towns. Quaint Bosnian, Dalmatian and Montenegrin costumes are worn by many of the people, the shops sell genuine antique embroideries, old silver and old arms. While almost as soon as one enters the main street by the Porta Pille or land-gate, one seems out again at the water-gate.

The stranger who strolls about those small piazzas, inspecting the Duomo, the sixteenth century churches, with their long flights of steps and their celebrated Madonnas, the fine Renaissance Rector’s Palace, the splendid old mediæval fountain and the rest of the relics of an age bygone, will be struck by the peaceful air of it all. The world has progressed with rapid strides these last three centuries, but it has passed Ragusa by unaltered. The same to-day as in the seventeenth century, the town within its huge walls still remains, a place of deep shadows with glimpses of bright blue sea at the ends of dark crooked alleys.

Here may the wandering Englishman linger and reflect, for is it not full of historic associations; is not that beautiful, palm-clad island of Lacroma opposite, the gem of the Adriatic, associated indisputably with the heart of Richard Cœur de Lion?

And if the traveller, retracing his steps along the Corso to the Porta Pille and crossing the dried-up moat to the splendid avenue of mulberry trees outside the walls—the quarter of the villas and hotels—chances to glance upward at the green hillside behind, he will notice, dominating the town, a huge white villa in Italian style, with red roof and two long rows of green-painted sun-shutters standing embowered in its palms, roses and tangles of climbing geraniums. By a single glance it will be recognised as the finest villa on all that beautiful coast, more palatial, indeed, than that of a certain royal personage which stands on the mulberry-lined boulevard below.

If inquiry be made of the owner’s name, the traveller will be told in Italian that it belongs to a great foreign signore, a signore “molto ricco”—the Cavaliere Sundt.

The fine steam yacht, with its yellow funnel and white hull, lying yonder beyond the molo and flying the bargee of the Royal Norwegian Yacht Club, is his, while you will also hear stories of the Signor Cavaliere’s colossal wealth and lavish hospitality to the great people who sometimes stay at the Villa Sergio as his guests. Ragusa knows nothing of the source of the great signore’s income, and cares less.

That bright sunny afternoon Thyra, in a white gown girdled with pale grey, was seated alone in a long wicker chair upon the marble terrace, her sad eyes fixed away upon the green, picturesque island, and the blue sea beyond, its calm surface ruffled only now and then by the slight flower-scented zephyr from the land.

How different were those surroundings—that glorious garden, with its luxuriant vegetation, its agaves, cypresses and palms, its violets, carnations and roses, and that calm sapphire sea—to those of her own home in the far-off Arctic! Here, surely, was paradise itself.

Yes, she lay back with her head upon the great cushion of pillow silk, and gazed thoughtfully with half-closed eyes out to sea. She was thinking—ever thinking. Her father had put to her a question three days ago—a question which she had not yet answered.

She sat there a prey to puerile terrors and unwholesome thought. She was wrapped in frozen shadows; a mysterious force drove her towards a glacial atmosphere where all was dizziness and grief. Her vision clouded, she seemed suspended in a twilight heaven, wafted towards some unknown land, like those little white, drifting clouds before her, the grey birds migrating without hope of rest.

Even this world of joy, of sunshine, of flowers, had become small, melancholy, even tiresome. After a week its novelty had worn off; she was no longer at her ease in it. She was thinking—thinking ever of the tall Englishman who had raised her hand to his lips for the last time. She was driven to confess herself a melancholy thing. It was not the world that had changed. Ah, no; it was her own self.

On that evening of her return from Guilford with Dick Jervoise she had charged her father with concealing from her the fact that Peter Sundt was in London, and he had been compelled to plead guilty.

Next day, Peter had called upon them, and invited both father and daughter to spend a week or two at Ragusa, and afterwards to return to Christiania in the yacht, an invitation which, after some hesitation, the girl-widow had accepted.

Her acceptance was, as a matter of fact, only on the point of economy. Her father had pointed out that the expense of remaining in London much longer would be too great for his slender purse, while if they went as Peter’s guests, they would not only see a part of the world which they had always longed to see, but also get back to Norway when the bright weather commenced.

Therefore, two days later she had, in secret, taken a taxicab to Dick’s flat, and there wished him farewell.

The scene between them had been both painful and touching. The sweet scent of those carnations growing in profusion about her, greeted her nostrils, and stirred a bitter memory. Upon his table that afternoon there had been a small bunch. He had placed them there in honour of her visit.

She recollected the strange, hopeless expression upon his face when she announced her immediate departure. He had inquired whither she was going, and she had told him.

Then his chin had sunk upon his breast, and for a long time he had remained silent. With a sigh he crossed the room and arranged some papers upon his open writing-table. It was because she should not see the expression of pain upon his features. That she knew quite well.

At last he faced her and spoke frankly, his voice only faltering once. She heard him to the end—to the bitter end.

Yet did he speak the truth? Were his words sincere? He had spoken, but what proof had he? He could give her none—none! His excuse was but a lame one, after all; yes, one unsupported by any single vestige of proof. And so, after half an hour—perhaps the most painful half-hour in all her life—she had risen from that big armchair by the fire to take leave of him.

Now, as she sat alone staring at those slowly drifting clouds, she remembered it all—the silence of that room at Barnes, unbroken save by the whirr of a passing motor ’bus, the musical chimes of his clock, and his hoarse earnestness when he had bent over her hand and kissed it for the last time.

She was a fool for ever revealing Peter Sundt’s proposal of marriage. She saw it now, alas! that it was too late. She had seen in the eyes of Richard Jervoise such flow of tenderness, of regret, of dream, that she had at first not the heart to rob him of it.

But the one dread thought had occurred to her—that same bitter thought that had for so long oppressed her, that had held her apart from him always. The words he had spoken were full of deep and tragic meaning. Yet, in face of her better judgment, how could she believe him to be in real earnest? No. She had effectually concealed her sadness and disquiet, and in silence allowed him to kiss her hand in farewell.

A shout of laughter from the mulberry avenue below filled the perfumed silence, awakening her to a sense of her surroundings.

Ah, yes. She recollected. His words had soothed her sick heart as a balsam soothes a wound. And yet, a moment later, she had wished him adieu, and passed down the stairs—and out of his life.

Did he still recollect her? she was wondering. Did he think of her—did he ever recall the past?

These and other thoughts were fleeting through her mind when, of a sudden, she heard a footstep, and turning saw her father approaching.

“Why, my child!” he cried, “why are you sitting here alone? We’ve been hunting everywhere for you!”

“I thought you went out after luncheon, dad,” exclaimed the girl-widow, rising to her feet with a slight sigh of weariness.

“So I did. But I was only away half an hour. Run and get a thicker dress on, child. The weather is so good that Peter has decided to take us to Lesina on the yacht. We shall dine on board, and be back by eleven o’clock, or so. It will be a full moon, too.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t think I’ll go, dad. I can amuse myself quite well here. Will you make excuses for me; say I’m not well, or anything,” she urged.

“But my dear child, why? It will be most enjoyable. You know how pleasant it was when the yacht met us at Trieste and brought us down here; you were delighted.”

“Yes. But—well now it is different.”

“Why? Tell me, child. Something is troubling you,” inquired the sturdy old fellow. “Tell me what it is,” he added in a lower voice.

She was silent, her white, hard-set face turned from his.

“He has spoken to you again, eh?” asked the sturdy old fellow, in a changed tone.

She held her breath, but her silence was to him sufficient indication of the truth.