Читать книгу The Serpent In The Garden - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 6

Table of Contents

It was the chilly breath of the rising mistral that roused him at length. He raised himself on his elbows, still feeling numb and powerless. The sun had gone, and an orange afterglow spread across the sea, paling to yellow at the sky line. The wash of the meeting currents still came to his ears. It was not very far below him. As he knelt slowly up he had a glimpse of the turbulent, foaming waters that had so nearly overwhelmed him, and again he felt the chill of the wind that blew from the sunset. In another hour or two it would be warm again, but he was shivering now and he could not stay inactive any longer. He must find some means of escape while the light lasted.

Still on his knees, he peered around the jutting corner of his shelter. The ledge continued to slope steeply upwards, but from that angle he could not be sure whether it took a turn or ended in a sheer drop. There was nothing for it but to climb up and see. He braced himself for the effort and got rather unsteadily to his feet.

In that moment, coming from somewhere not far above him, he heard a voice—a husky, protesting voice that spoke in English, swiftly—with strange pauses, as though speech were not easy.

“Gaspare! She is young—innocent. I could not have her here. This place—the atmosphere—it is all wrong. And if she should ever come to suspect—it—it would simply kill me.” There was almost a wail in the last words.

A man’s voice made answer lightly, mockingly. “I have heard that before, my Lucia. You have died a thousand deaths already—and still you survive. As for this youth and innocence you speak of, does it exist nowadays? I thought the new generation was born old and wise.”

“You don’t understand,” the woman’s pleading voice made rejoinder. “She is pure—untainted. I have kept her so. She has not even been to school. Only an English vicarage—in the heart of the country—with a few other children—a place apart—not like this!” A shudder seemed to follow the sentence.

It was followed immediately by the man’s laugh. “Lucia—Lucia mia—is it such a hell? You are shivering. Come close to me! Ah, but you are thin! You are getting bony. I do not like to feel your bones.”

There followed a brief pause, and then the woman’s voice again. “Gaspare mio, beauty may pass—but love—lasts forever.”

“I worship—only beauty,” said the man, and silence fell again.

“Confound it!” muttered Peter. “A damned awkward situation!”

Nevertheless, since he was shivering and extremely uncomfortable, he decided to risk intruding himself and began with great caution to negotiate the rocky shelf that sloped up before him. It was very rough to his unaccustomed feet and progress was necessarily slow, but when he reached the previous limit of his vision he was rewarded by the discovery of a hairpin bend by which he could still make his precarious way upwards. Stumbling up the steep ascent with the water washing and gurgling below, he came at length upon a flight of steps crudely hewn in the rock and winding upwards to a stony passage which swallowed him so completely that the sea was cut out.

It was very deeply shadowed here, and he could barely discern the path before him, but it still wound steeply upwards with now and then a step or series of steps which stubbed his feet before he realized their existence in a fashion that sorely tried his temper.

The rocky walls were no longer bare but draped with festoons of creeping plants that gave forth strange, aromatic odours to the night. Warily he felt his way until a faint gleam ahead told of an opening at no great distance. He had evidently reached one of the famous terraces that looked out to sea and he saw the dim outline of a stone balustrade hung with some dark flowering creeper on his right, while on his left there showed something massive, too shadowed by palms to be clearly discernible, which he took to be a summerhouse.

He was on a flight of regular stone steps when he made this discovery and he stopped short before reaching the top with an instinctive desire to remain undiscovered. He was sheltered from the wind that sighed through the trees above him. The wash of the sea below sounded soft and remote, so that the very danger from which he had extricated himself seemed artificial, even mythical. It was nearly dark, and stars were beginning to gleam in the wide arch of the sky like jewels on velvet. Perhaps if he waited for a few minutes he would be able to make his escape unseen and return to his hotel!

It was at that moment while he stood hesitating that there came to him the throb of a motorboat close inshore, and the thought of Pierre suddenly flashed through his mind. Had he already organized a search for him? If so—he supposed he ought to go back and announce his safety. But at the instant that this idea occurred to him he heard the man’s voice again, speaking close to him.

“What fool is that, I wonder, sailing so near to the rocks? He will probably kill himself, and it will be a good riddance.”

“Gaspare!” protested the woman.

“Well, why not?” There was irritable humour in the rejoinder. “There are too many people in the world. We can do without the fools.”

“Couldn’t you shout a warning?” pleaded the woman. “It is such a dangerous spot.”

A half-angry laugh answered her. “I will neither shout a warning nor go to help him when he crashes. You may sing a requiem if you like, my Lucia, though that husky voice of yours would not travel very far. Like the rest of you, it seems to be shrivelling. You will soon be—a mere mummy of womanhood.”

She made reply as if in tremulous apology. “I was always older than you, Gaspare.”

“Nevertheless, you are still capable of amusing me.” There was arrogant self-assertion in the response. “The fire of evening is sometimes redder than the rose of dawn.”

“But if that also should fail?” she said uncertainly.

He made a sound of disdain. “In that case I must seek—another rose—another fire. But I am satisfied for the present. You are—a good comrade and you understand my needs.”

“Say rather—a good servant, mio conte!” she said in a different tone—a tone that throbbed with a kind of passionate insistence.

He laughed again as though in careless acknowledgment of a debt. “Basta! Have I not said it? The fire has not yet gone out.”

The churning of the engine below had begun to recede. The boat seemed to be rounding the point. The danger was past.

“He is safe,” said the woman in a tone of relief.

The man laughed again derisively. “The fools are always safe. Why worry about them? Is not my danger infinitely greater? And I am not a fool.”

He spoke bombastically, as one who would challenge the world; but the woman’s voice came quickly on his words.

“Gaspare! Hush! We may be overheard. There are spies everywhere. This place—this garden—there may be someone hiding close to us even now.”

The man’s laugh rang out anew. “Ha! That is amusing, that. Some super French detective creeping among the bushes to listen and report! No, no, carissima! They will not trap Gaspare di Voltano on his own ground. He is too old a fox for that. Let them try—if it amuses them! A shot from this would soon scatter them.”

“Oh, put it away—put it away!” entreated the woman. “I hate to think you carry firearms. Let us go in, Gaspare! We will dine on the loggia together and then we will come out again when the moon is shining over the sea.”

“Quien sabe? There is enchantment in the moonlight. Perhaps we shall become lovers again!” The man’s voice had a light, taunting note, and then his feet sounded upon the stones as he rose.

A moment later he sauntered forth on to the terrace, and Peter, instinctively crouching on the steps, saw him for the first time—a man of medium height with a certain arrogance in his gait that gave an impression of power. His face was invisible in the dimness as he swaggered across to the stone balustrade and stood looking out to sea.

Suddenly he swung round. “Well? What about this Gabrielle of yours from her English vicarage? This place is not good enough for her, you say. Bueno! What do you wish to do with her?”

“It is I—really—who am not good enough,” came the mournful reply, and with the words another figure moved forward almost soundlessly out of the shadows. “I have been wanting—so much—to talk to you about her. But—you are so occupied with other matters. I have hesitated to intrude——”

He threw back his head and scoffed. “The rest of the world can wait for once. What is it you want? If she must not come here, then I suppose you want to go to her.”

“Yes, Gaspare, yes!” The woman’s figure, equal to his own in height, but so slight that it looked almost wraithlike, drew closer to the man’s with a supplicatory gesture. “You have been so good—all these years. I shall never forget your goodness. But now—now that she is grown up——”

“Grown up!” He interrupted her upon the word. “I thought that she was a bambina. You always said so.”

“That was ten years ago, Gaspare.” There was a piteous quiver of laughter in the words. “My baby has grown into a woman. She is nineteen now.”

“Ten years!” He interrupted her again. “Is it ten years since I stole you from your prison with that English fool? Is it possible?”

“It is fact, Gaspare.” There was still a quiver in her voice—but it sounded near to tears. “I have only seen her twice in all that time. But now—I feel I must go to her—for a little while. She has outgrown her surroundings. She is eager to make her own way in the world. Would it be possible for me to be with her just for a few weeks until—until something can be arranged for her future? She is old enough now to support herself and she so wants to begin. I am—so anxious for it to be—a right beginning, Gaspare.”

The man made a scornful sound. “You mean you are anxious to secure—the right husband, my Lucia. Well, there will be no peace for me until you go. I see that clearly. Bueno, you have my permission. You will keep me informed of your movements; and the allowance shall continue.”

He took a cigarette case from his pocket with a flourish and proceeded to light a cigarette.

The woman remained by his side in silence for a few seconds, seeming to watch him. At length, “For how long, Gaspare?” she asked in a low voice.

He jerked one shoulder. “For how long would you trust me to remain faithful to you?” he said curtly.

She made a vague gesture that seemed to indicate weariness rather than any active emotion. “That is for you to say,” she said.

“Is it?” He turned towards her with an imperious movement. “You would place me on my honour, would you? Then let me tell you this! If I had greater faith in your sex, you would not have reigned alone for so long. But it has suited me to keep you and it has not been in your own interest to betray me. I have been too generous for that.”

“You are always generous,” she said.

“It has answered my purpose,” he rejoined. “But you will be wise not to count too much upon my generosity. There are limits to everything, and I am growing tired.”

“Tired!” She echoed the word with a curious, subdued passion. “Ah well, Gaspare, perhaps the limit is nearer than you think. We are rather apt to forget that our destinies are not always in our own hands. It is God’s world, after all.”

“What do you mean?” he said, staring at her.

She made a gesture that was somehow ironical. “Oh! I was forgetting. You do not believe in God. Yet it is curious—when we are drawing near to the darkness beyond which none can see—how we come to know that He is there all the time.”

He interrupted her roughly. “Women’s talk! Well, I conclude that you will be going through Paris to meet this young neophyte of yours. We will make use of that. You shall deliver a message for me to an address that I will give you.”

“Oh, Gaspare!” A low note that was almost like horror sounded in the woman’s voice. “Must I do that? Couldn’t you employ—the usual means? I—might be taken ill. Anything might happen.”

“How true!” He answered her derisively. “My envoy might be shot, might he not? But they will not shoot you, my Lucia—a blameless woman going to see her young daughter! Stay! I have a better thought. The girl shall meet you in Paris and you shall show her the town. That will lend colour to the expedition. I believe in colour—plenty of it. It conceals so much; and the message will be one of importance.”

She made a tragic gesture. “Gaspare! I am not fit. Don’t—I beg of you—ask this of me! It’s impossible. I cannot be the medium of these communications. I know too much as it is—far too much for my peace of mind.”

The man moved abruptly, flung an arm around her. “Carissima, the less fit you are, the better are you suited to my purpose. Here is an opportunity for you to repay my kindness of the past! Come! We will go up to the villa where we shall be safe from all these invisible watchers and listeners whom you fear so much. I must work out this scheme of mine. You are tottering. Lean on me! I shall ask very little of you, and you will not find failure easy. Come, my Lucia, come!”

He was urging her towards the further end of the terrace. They moved away together, and Peter, cautiously peering above the top of the steps, saw that the woman went slowly and haltingly, as though impelled only by the supporting arm of the wiry figure at her side.

The early chill of the evening was passing, the warm southern night was drawing on. Very carefully Peter crept upwards until at length he was able to obtain a view of the pagodalike summerhouse from which the two had emerged and of the whole stretch of the terrace itself to the balustrade that overlooked a sheer drop into the sea a hundred feet or more below.

The only light was that which came from the swiftly-fading afterglow and the brightening array of stars, but he saw that the place was empty. The sound of voices and even of footsteps had died away.

“The devil!” he murmured to himself as he looked around him. “I seem to have put my foot into a hornet’s nest. And now the point is how to get out again without being stung.”

The silence around him offered no solution, but after a few minutes of stealthy reconnoitring he discovered that at the further end of the terrace there was a flight of steps which led both up and down. He took the downward course, and ere long he found himself upon a path that wound among pines just above the still stretch of water through which he had swum before reaching the currents at the end of the headland. This was exactly what he had hoped for. He left the path and scrambled down between the tree stems until he reached an outjutting rock. Then with a clean dive he plunged down into the quiet depths.

When he came up again, he saw the lights of the town and he struck out for the beach with strong, even strokes.