Chapter XVI: On the Adriatic

The evening light was falling.

The freshness and sweetness of the calm sea ruffled only by the wake of the vessel vivified the air; all was peace, transparence, purity.

Thyra, in a perfect-fitting costume of blue serge with a blue beret, a cap which always became her, leaned over the rail of the long, spotless deck of the yacht with her back to the sunset, watching the sky grow pale, diaphanous, tender green like a delicate crystal, flecked with the night clouds now beginning to appear from over the land.

After long persuasion by her father she had consented to embark, and now they were hugging the broken coast, and threading their way in and out among the many green islands, some of them with white lighthouses standing high upon them.

Peter, in a smart yachting suit and white shoes, had been lounging at her side, pointing out the many objects of interest along that picturesque route. First the mouth of the Ombla which comes down out of Herzegovina, then the great bare rock rising sheer from the sea, the Daksa, the tiny town of Malfi in its deep bay, and Valdinoce, a picturesque cluster of houses among the olives and almonds on the green mountain side.

Beneath the great island of Calamotta they passed the incoming mail steamer from Trieste, the big old red-funnelled _Graf Wurmbrand_, the passengers of which crowded to the side to see the splendid yacht, and to wonder who might be its owner.

Thyra heard the man’s constant chatter in Norwegian, but to her it was without interest. Only once, indeed, did she ask a question.

They were passing what is known as the stag islands, the tiny islets of Jaklan, Giuppana and Mezzo, when, between the last-named and Calamotta he pointed out the narrow channel.

On either side of the strait rose the land, beautifully wooded, with here and there clumps of palms, and even from the yacht could be seen profusions of flowers.

“See, up there, yonder—that ruined fortress!” he was saying. “That’s the ‘Scoglio Sant’Andrea’, where Margherita Spoletano’s lover was imprisoned by the Ragusans.”

“And who was she?” inquired the girl-widow, gazing at the ruined walls perched high up on the cliff.

“A woman who sacrificed her life for the man she loved,” was his reply. “She lived on the island of Calamotta, and as her brothers forbade her to row across to meet her lover and took their boats away, she nightly swam across to visit him, and to take him news of what was transpiring in old Dubrovnik, as Ragusa was called at that time.”

“How romantic!” exclaimed the girl, glancing at the two islands and at the strong, swirling current running between them. “She must have been an expert swimmer.”

“The story is quite authentic,” Peter exclaimed. “For many weeks she swam to and fro, until one night she was discovered by her two brothers who, on her attempting to land, hurled her back into the stream, and she was carried away and drowned in the darkness.”

“How sad,” Thyra had remarked, and then the yacht, suddenly altering her course, steered to the Strait of Meleda, past the high lighthouse at the end of the island, and the ruined tower became hidden from view.

Within that belt of islands the water was almost as a millpond, while from the stern of the vessel lay out a long, widening wake for a mile or so behind.

Peter Sundt, smoking his cigar, had left her side to join her father, who was upon the bridge talking to the Norwegian captain. And now she was again alone to reflect and to ponder.

As the light fell over the land, the afterglow grew deeper. The ship’s bell tolled the hour, after which she raised herself from the rail and strolled slowly up and down the fine, long deck kept so spotless.

The vessel was truly a palatial one. Ocean-going in every sense of the word, with powerful engines and built for heavy seas, old Peter each year sailed down from Christiania, across the Bay of Biscay, up the Mediterranean, and through the Straits of Messina, returning north when the spring had ended. Fitted with every luxury and kept up in splendid style, he had purchased it five years before when its owner, a royal prince, had died, and he had since crossed the Atlantic in it on several occasions.

Thyra had seen it lying at the quay at Christiania and at Vardo, but had never been on board until at Trieste when they had descended from the sleeping-car that had brought them through from Calais, and embarked for Ragusa.

The deck chairs with the monogram “P. S.” upon them, the shining brasswork, the blue and gold deck saloon, with its flowers and silken lounges, which she entered a moment later to get her jacket, all betrayed immense wealth. The artistic taste had, of course, been that of the previous owner, for what artistic temperament could be expected of that ex-fisherman, who ruled the cod-liver oil and stock-fish market?

Having obtained her jacket Thyra sighed as she went forth on deck again. All that display of luxury, both on board the yacht and at the Villa Sergio, only irritated her. Old Peter’s red face and rasping voice jarred upon her. She wished she had been firm with her father, and refused her host’s invitation. The evening cruise did not interest her in the least.

She wished to be alone—alone amid the flowers, amid the sweet scent of those carnations in the garden, to think—and to reflect upon the past.

Old Jorgen called to her in his loud, nautical voice, and she was compelled to ascend to the bridge and join the two men who sat in deck chairs in the full enjoyment of their cigars.

They had run past Meleda, with its numerous chasms and gorges, and had come to an island whereon stood a lonely monastery, which Peter explained was the Benedictine house of Santa Maria, now turned into a forester’s residence.

Thence, with the girl leaning back against the rail, her hair blown out upon the wind as she chatted with feigned merriment, the vessel’s course lay through the narrow Canale di Curzola, between the fertile islands of Curzola and Sabbioncello, and out again towards Lesina, lying low and purple in the distance against the darkening afterglow.

All was so silent, so peaceful, so beautiful; not a sound reached the bridge save the low throbbing of the engines, as the vessel sped through the unruffled waters, straight for that distant island.

How different was the life on board the grimy old _Mercur_, and yet did she not prefer Captain Martin’s round, cheery face and blue, kindly eyes and those rough-and-ready days in the boisterous Arctic seas?

A smart steward came to announce that dinner was served. Then, descending to the saloon, they found the table laid with fine napery, splendid silver, and bright with flowers.

Carnations were among them. Their scent caused her to start—it brought the past to her vision and to her mind. The remembrance of that afternoon at Barnes when she had parted from the tall Englishman who had been her friend.

She was friendless now—utterly and completely friendless.

She took off her beret and jacket, and casting them upon a lounge, took the seat which the pimply-faced man offered her. She seated herself just as mechanically as she ate her dinner—just as mechanically as she joined in the conversation between her father and their wealthy host.

The meal, delicate and well-cooked, was served with a quiet seriousness that would have become the table of his royal highness, the previous owner. Indeed, Peter congratulated himself that several of the men who waited upon him had been royal servants who had afterwards entered his service. On the plates the princely crown still remained, and probably he was not at all anxious to remove it.

While at table the twilight darkened into night, and the vessel’s bows, when within a mile of Lissa, were turned and the return journey began outside the island, the route taken by the Austrian Lloyd mail boats. There was not much sea—not sufficient to cause either of those case-hardened sailors, or even Thyra herself, to notice it.

True, the vessel began to labour and roll a little ere they rose from table, but Thyra, when she ascended to the deck, saw that the moon was rising and that the night was one of those clear, brilliant ones so often experienced in the Adriatic in the springtime.

Old Jorgen and Peter sat in the fumoir, over their coffee and cigars, while she obtained her fur-lined travelling coat which her father had thoughtfully brought for her, and took a seat in one of the long chairs upon the deck.

She rested her chin upon her hand, and gazing straight across the moonlit waters, recalled the past. It had become a habit with her now—a habit that was gradually revealing itself traced upon her beautiful face, causing a darkness beneath her eyes and an unusual pallor upon her cheeks.

Those last words—that last wild appeal of Richard Jervoise—was still ringing in her ears. He loved her! Could she close her eyes to that most patent of all facts? Could she say within her own heart that he had lied to her?

He had confessed his love that afternoon, at the moment when she had told him of her departure. With her woman’s intuition she had guessed his secret from the first. Those words of his were wild and uncurbed as he had blurted forth the truth—words which had constantly recurred to her ever since.

Of Paul she was gradually ceasing to think. When she remembered him it was not with love—only with regret that he had not lived to allow her to discover the truth. She knew, alas! that he was not what he had pretended to be—that he had deceived her! Something that had come to her knowledge had in a single moment swept away her widow’s tears, had caused her to remember him only as a mysterious person, and not as lover or husband.

True, she bore his name by law. That was all. Her marriage had been a mere incident, which in a few hours had come to a termination.

Richard Jervoise—Dick, the quiet, studious, slow-speaking Dick—had come into her life at the very moment of her husband’s tragic death. Sometimes she reproached herself with having allowed him to seek her company so soon after widowhood. Yet was it not imperative—did he not hold the strange secret which she shared with him?

At first it had been mere friendship; now it was true, passionate affection. He had confessed his love to her. But had she been just in her disbelief? Had she been right in her refusal to hear him, knowing what she did?

Richard Jervoise loved her! He, of all men in the world!

“What greater tragedy could befall a woman than this that has befallen me!” she cried bitterly to herself, her great eyes fixed upon the waters as they rippled past in the clear moonlight. “Dick—Dick loves me! Do I love him? Ah!” she sighed. “Yet how could I ever marry that man? No, never, never! I will not sell my soul to the devil for love. Rather would I become the wife of this red-faced hog, who has invited me into the gilded cage he has already prepared. Rather let me become the chattel of this man older than my own father, than the wife of Richard Jervoise, the man who——”

She paused. Her face showed hard and white beneath the moonbeams. Her small, delicate hands were clenched as she stared straight before her, seated there rigid as a statue.

“Do I love Richard?” she asked herself aloud, for there was none to hear. “Ah! no!” she cried the next second. “I must not ask myself that question. I loved once, but may not love again. The Devil tempted me in London, and, thank Heaven! I had the strength to draw back. No, Dick and I have parted for ever. I will never consent to see him again—never in all my life! His wife! God! No; never could I become the wife of that man, even though we may love each other. His love-kisses would blister me.”

“Ah! why is my future so black, so utterly hopeless? Why must I suffer these agonies of conscience!” Then she paused for a moment, and added: “My duty is plain. It now lies towards my dear old father. I must protect myself from Richard Jervoise by—by consenting to marry the man I do not love! It is imperative, hateful though it be. I will make the sacrifice for my father’s sake, and also to save myself from Richard Jervoise. I must become the wife of this man I despise and hate—the man who, as Dick so very justly put it, will purchase my body and soul! How strange it all is! Surely no other woman had ever found herself forced to marry the man she detests, in order to save herself from the man she loves! But I must”—she whispered to herself hoarsely—“I must. I can never become the wife of Richard Jervoise. It would be too awful—an offence before God!”