Читать книгу The Serpent In The Garden - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 9

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They dined together on the train. It helped to pass the time and, as Peter said, one never knew what might happen at the journey’s end.

He told her all about his English home, his beloved estate, his horses; and she in her turn described the quiet country vicarage in which the greater part of her life had been spent. But though they laughed and joked together, Peter was aware of a vague reticence about her that kept their acquaintance upon a strictly impersonal footing. She listened to all that he said with intelligent interest but she did not ask many questions. He wondered if he had given her any cause to suspect his genuineness, or if her reserve could be merely due to a natural shyness. But the more he saw of her, the more he was impressed by that subtle stateliness of demeanour that seemed to fence her round against all intruders. She looked so young, but her serious self-control was like a shield belonging to an older person. She displayed little of the impetuosity of youth. There was something about her that baffled him. She did not seem to be deliberately holding him at bay, but he had a feeling that he could not have passed her guard had he attempted to do so.

Conversation flagged during the last hour, and Peter had plenty of time for conjecture as to the type of dilemma that might await him when they reached the terminus. Whatever was in store for him, he must get a message through to Pierre before starting for the south.

The French family, who had subsided somewhat during the journey, became violently excited as they neared the end of it. There ensued much talk and gesticulation which helped to cover the silence between Peter and his protégée. Looking at her, he thought that she wore a slightly anxious expression, but she smiled when she met his eyes.

“I suppose the other train will be starting straightaway,” she said.

“That I don’t know,” he answered. “I shall have to find out and get you a sleeping berth if possible. You must be pretty tired.”

“Oh no, not really,” she said. “It’s all so new and interesting. I don’t mind about a sleeping berth in the least. I can go to sleep anywhere.”

“You’ve got to have a night’s rest,” said Peter with decision.

The train had begun to slow down. He got up and stood at the window as it ran into the great station.

“Now for it!” he said to himself.

The usual confusion and excited yellings ensued. The French family were hustling all their belongings together and calling for a porter with great gusto. The door swung open, and porters seemed to swarm into the compartment.

Peter grabbed his companion’s baggage and got out; then, as she also descended, he turned back for his own. They extricated themselves from the excited crowd and struggled to a comparatively quiet spot beyond the vortex.

“I think you’d better wait here if you don’t mind,” Peter said, “while I go and make enquiries about the south express. Will you be all right?”

“Of course!” she said, and he hurried away, leaving her with the suitcases at her feet, quite unperturbed in the general confusion, but pale and a little strained-looking, as if the jostling multitudes made her feel a stranger in a strange land.

He raced to a bureau to make his enquiries, with the idea of despatching a telegram to Pierre at the same time, but the congestion of travellers delayed him. A great many other people had questions to ask, and he stood chafing behind an unusually voluble Frenchwoman for nearly ten minutes before he could obtain the required information. Then he was told that to secure berths on the train for the south which was leaving in half an hour he would have to go to another bureau in a totally different quarter of the great terminus. Until this matter was settled he could not send his message to Pierre, and he decided to return to Gabrielle and let her accompany him rather than leave her to wait alone any longer.

He hastened back therefore, fuming at the obstacles in his path and wondering how her patience had stood the test.

He did not see her at first, for the figure of a man obstructed his view; and then, impetuously drawing nearer, he caught sight of her and saw that she was in conversation with the stranger.

A sharp thrill went through Peter, but he did not slacken his stride. Something seemed to impel him into the fray.

He raised his hat as he joined the couple, and the girl turned and regarded him with intently questioning eyes. Her companion—a man of medium height with an olive complexion and a slightly insolent air—turned also and gave him the benefit of a fiery, uncompromising stare. He was a person of indefinite age—he might have been anything between thirty and fifty—slim and arrogantly handsome after the fashion of an ancient Roman, aggressively self-assured. To Peter his bearing was an instant revelation. A vivid memory flashed upon him of the swaggering form that had sauntered across the stone terrace above the Point des Sirènes a few nights before, and he was immediately on his guard.

He addressed himself to Gabrielle without an instant’s hesitation. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”

A fierce exclamation broke from the man in question. He spoke with a sudden burst. “I am Voltano,” he announced aggressively. “Il Conte di Voltano! And may I know your name?”

“Of course!” returned Peter nimbly. “My name is Dunrobert, and I am escorting my cousin—Miss Dermot—who is on her way to join her mother.”

“Escorting!” The Italian repeated the word with a kind of furious incredulity. “And who gave you authority to escort her—if I may ask?”

“Ask anything you like!” said Peter without heat, wondering a little at his own glibness. “I am related to Miss Dermot and she is under my care.”

Voltano uttered a sort of choke of rage. He looked suddenly dangerous. Abruptly he turned to the girl. “Is this true?” he demanded.

Peter’s eyes went swiftly to her also, and in a moment her look met his. She was pale but quite composed, almost exaggeratedly so, as if she were putting strong restraint upon herself. She spoke as if to him. “Yes, quite true,” she said. “I am travelling with Peter Dunrobert, as I told you.”

Peter drew a sharp breath between his teeth and smiled at her. Voltano glanced from one to the other in savage interrogation. “He has brought you all the way from England—and I have never heard of him!”

Peter leapt in. “You don’t know her English relations, do you?” he said. “You see, I didn’t quite like the idea of her travelling alone. This is her first venture across the Channel.”

Gabrielle spoke again with grave decision. “I want to get to my mother as soon as possible. We are catching the next train to the south.”

“Sapristi!” exclaimed the Italian. “But it is I—I—who have come from your mother to meet you!”

“I know,” she said. “So I understand. And it is very kind of you. Thank you very much.”

He made a violent gesture. “But now you are in my care—mine! This—this English cousin can now go home.”

“Oh no!” said Peter, still smiling. “I’m going south in any case and I should like to see her to the end of her journey. You’d like me to come—Gabrielle?”

Her eyes flickered very slightly as she replied, “Yes, I should like you to come and I see no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Amazing!” broke in Voltano. “Do I understand that you do not wish to entrust yourself to me—when your mother expressly desired it?”

“Look here!” said Peter. “Isn’t all this rather a fuss about nothing? If we’re all travelling in the same direction, I can’t see any reasonable objection to our going together. And—by the way—there isn’t much time to lose. The train starts in under half an hour, and we’ve got to get tickets.”

“Ah!” snarled the Italian. “Why were you booked to Paris if you were going straight through? Answer me that!”

Peter saw the weak spot almost before the question was uttered but he covered it instantly. “It would have been better, I admit. But as originally Gabrielle’s mother was to have met her here, the arrangement was left unaltered. If we go straight on, there won’t have been much time lost.”

Voltano looked at him with eyes of blazing hostility. “There is something here which I find it very difficult to understand,” he said.

“It’s the same with me,” flung back Peter with sudden warmth. “I’m not accustomed to being questioned and treated with suspicion. My cousin and I are catching that train for the south tonight, and if you’re not wanting to come, we’ll go alone.”

“Basta!” ejaculated Voltano explosively. “Do you realize that this signorina’s mother is in my villa—under my protection?”

“That doesn’t entitle you to dictate to her daughter,” rejoined Peter.

“Ah! There you are wrong.” The Italian’s words came clipped and savage from between his teeth. “I have her mother’s precise instructions. They do not include you. I question if she has ever heard of you. She quarrelled with your family years ago.”

“I know all about that,” said Peter, “and I don’t care two imperial hoots for your instructions. This lady is travelling in my care, and I will see her to the end of the journey.” He turned to Gabrielle. “We had better be going.”

It was impulsively uttered, but he had a strong feeling that if he paused to consider he would lose the day. And there was something in the girl’s eyes which urged him forward. He realized that she had given her trust to him rather than to the dark-faced Italian whose presence there was actually more justifiable than his own.

She made a movement as if to comply with his suggestion, but the count turned swiftly upon her, checking her. “A moment!” he said. “I wish to know one thing. Do you place this—gentleman—first—before your mother?”

“What can you mean?” she said.

He held her by the arm. “You will answer me—if you are wise. Your mother is ill—at my villa. No one enters that villa without my consent.”

“But—you are impossible!” said Gabrielle, startled in spite of herself.

He smiled at her with very evil humour. “I am not impossible. I am very reasonable. You will be well advised, signorina, to place your mother first. She is in my care, remember. All who approach her must have my permission.”

“But—you could never keep me—her daughter—away from her!” gasped Gabrielle.

“I could shut the gates against you if I chose, signorina,” he said through his drawn-back lips, “and no one could open them.”

“But she is not a prisoner!” the girl protested, her voice quivering. “She could come out to me.”

“If she were well enough—bueno—she might,” he said.

Gabrielle turned from him with a gesture of desperation. “What is the matter?” she said to Peter. “What have we done?”

“Nothing—nothing,” Voltano assured her. “I will take you to her myself. But I will not have your friend. You part from him here and now.”

“That’s just what she doesn’t do,” began Peter; but she stopped him with a quick, almost agonized movement.

“Wait! I must think. I must get to my mother somehow—whatever happens afterwards. Perhaps—perhaps——” she broke off with an appeal in her voice to which she gave no words.

“I shall travel on the same train,” said Peter doggedly. “No one can prevent that.”

He had almost forgotten his mission in the exigency of the moment. He was determined that she should not be left to the sole care of this infuriating Italian.

She turned swiftly to the count. “You couldn’t possibly object to that. You see—my cousin and I have arranged to do this journey together.”

“And if I do object?” said Voltano. “If I say, I do not like the English and I will not have his company either for you or myself? If I say, I am deputed by your mother to take the place of guardian to you and I will share the charge with no one? What will you say then, signorina? Do you think you will be wise in persisting? I think not.”

She looked back at Peter, and he saw repugnance as well as entreaty in her eyes. “I think I shall have to give in,” she said in a low voice.

“Not with my consent,” he said firmly.

“Your consent,” said Voltano with sudden brutality, “is of no consequence. You have chosen the only wise course, signorina. Come!”

“You are not going!” interposed Peter quickly and sharply. “You shan’t go with him. I’m here and I mean to look after you. Tell him to clear out—go to the devil!”

His words had weight. She looked on the point of yielding. But in that instant Voltano executed his master stroke with overwhelming force.

“And leave your mother to die alone?” he said. “Have it so then! But do not blame me!”

That moved her. She caught her breath on a barely suppressed cry. “To die! She is not so ill as that!” She turned again to Peter, her face quivering with agitation. “I can’t risk that,” she said hurriedly. “I shall have to go with him. Can’t you see?”

“I see more than you do,” Peter told her. “Don’t believe him! Don’t listen to him!”

But for her the battle was over. He reflected afterwards that she was scarcely to blame, considering the manner of their meeting. If she did not trust Voltano, she had still less reason for trusting himself, and the stake was a high one.

“I can’t help it,” she said, and he thought he caught a note of pleading in her voice. “But I can’t argue any more. I’ve got to go with him. Thank you for all you’ve done. Good-bye!”

It was definite. He was worsted, and something about her checked any further altercation. He saw that he would gain nothing by pursuing the matter, especially as a little knot of railway officials had gathered near to watch the dispute.

He did not look at Voltano, who raised his hand in arrogant summons to a porter, but stooped and picked up his own suitcase with a brief: “Very well, if you wish it. Good-bye!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” she breathed.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he rejoined. “You’re acting for the best—whatever it may lead to. Good-bye!”

And with that he walked away with such dignity as he could muster. Never in his life had he longed more ardently to knock a man down than at that moment.