CHAPTER TWO
TOLD IN THE NIGHT
Sylvia Pennington! The face, the name, those wistful, appealing eyeshaunted me in my dreams that night.
Why? Even now I am at a loss to tell, unless--well, unless I hadbecome fascinated by that strange, mysterious, indescribableexpression; fascinated, perhaps, by her marvellous beauty, unequalledin all my experience.
Next morning, while my man Lorenzo was waiting for me, I told him tomake discreet inquiry regarding the pair when in the steward's room,where he ate his meals. Soon after noon he came to me, saying he haddiscovered that the young lady had been heard by the night-porterweeping alone in her room for hours, and that, as soon as it was dawn,she had gone out for a long walk alone along the lake-side. It wasapparent that she and her father were not on the very best of terms.
"The servants believe they are French, sir," my man added; "but itseems that they tell people they are English. The man speaks Englishlike an Englishman. I heard him, half-an-hour ago, asking thehall-porter about a telegram."
"Well, Lorenzo," I said, "just keep your eyes and ears open. I want tolearn all I can about Mr. Pennington and his daughter. She hasn't amaid, I suppose?"
"Not with her, sir," he replied. "If she had, I'd soon get to know allabout them."
I was well aware of that, for Lorenzo Merli, like all Italians, was agreat gossip, and quite a lady-killer in the servants' hall. He was adark-haired, good-looking young man whose character was excellent, andwho had served me most faithfully. His father was farm-bailiff to anItalian marquis I knew, and with whom I had stayed near Parma, whilebefore entering my service he had been valet to the young Marchese diViterbo, one of the beaux of Roman society.
When I reposed a confidence in Lorenzo I knew he would never betrayit. And I knew that, now I had expressed an ardent desire forinformation regarding the man Pennington and his daughter, he wouldstrain every effort to learn what I wanted to know.
The pair sat at their usual table at luncheon. She was in a neat gownof navy blue serge, and wore a pretty cream hat which suited heradmirably. Her taste in dress was certainly wonderful for anEnglishwoman. Yet the pair always spoke French together, and presentedno single characteristic of the British whatsoever.
Because of his epicurean tastes, the stout, bald-headed man receivedthe greatest attention from the waiters; but those splendid eyes ofhis daughter betrayed no evidence of either tears or sleeplessness.They were the same, wistful yet wonderful, with just that slightesttrace of sadness which had filled me with curiosity.
After luncheon he strolled along the broad palm-lined terrace in thesunshine beside the water's edge, while she lolled in one of the longcane chairs. Yet, as I watched, I saw that she was not enjoying thewarm winter sunshine or the magnificent view of snow-capped mountainsrising on the far horizon.
Presently she rose and walked beside her father, who spoke to herrapidly and earnestly, but she only replied in monosyllables. Itseemed that all his efforts to arouse her interest utterly failed.
I was lounging upon the low wall of the terrace, pretending to watchthe arrival of the little black-and-white paddle-steamer on its way toRiva, when, as they passed me, Pennington halted to light a cigar.
Suddenly he glanced up at me with a strangely suspicious look. Hisdark eyes were furtive and searching, as though he had detected andresented my undue interest in his daughter.
Therefore I strolled down to the landing-stage, and, going on boardthe steamer, spent the afternoon travelling up to Riva, the prettylittle town with the tiny harbour at the Austrian end of the lake. Theafternoon was lovely, and the panorama of mountain mirrored in thewater, with picturesque villages and hamlets nestling at the water'sedge, was inexpressibly grand. The deep azure of the unruffled waterstood out in contrast to the dazzling snow above, and as the steamer,hugging the shore, rounded one rocky point after another, the scenewas certainly, as the Italian contadino puts it, "a bit of Paradisefallen from heaven upon earth."
But, to you who know the north Italian lakes, why need I describe it?
Suffice it to say that I took tea in the big hall of the Lido PalaceHotel at Riva, and then, boarding the steamer again, returned toGardone just in time to dress for dinner.
I think that Pennington had forbidden his daughter to look at me, fornever once during dinner the next evening, as far as I could detect,did she raise her eyes to mine. When not eating, she sat, a prettyfigure in cream chiffon, with her elbows upon the table, her chin uponher clasped hands, talking to her father in that low, confidentialtone. Were they talking secrets?
Just before they rose I heard him say in English--
"I'm going out for an hour--just for a stroll. I may be longer. If I'mnot back all night, don't be anxious. I may be detained."
"Where are you going?" she asked quickly.
"That is my affair," was his abrupt reply. Her face assumed a strangeexpression. Then she passed along the room, he following.
As soon as they had gone my mind was made up. I scented mystery. Iascended in the lift to my room, got my coat, and, going outside intothe ill-lit road beyond the zone of the electric lights in front ofthe hotel, I waited.
The man was not long in coming. He wore a golf-cap and a thickovercoat, and carried a stout stick. On the steps of the hotel hepaused, lit his cigar, and then set off to the left, down theprincipal street--the highroad which led to the clean little town ofSalo and the southern end of the lake.
I lounged along after him at a respectable distance, all curiosity atthe reason why, in that rural retreat, he intended to be absent allnight.
He went along at a swinging pace, passing around the lake-front of thetown which almost adjoins Gardone, and then began to ascend the steephill beyond. Upon the still night air I could scent the aroma of hiscigar. He was now on his way out into a wild and rather desolatecountry, high above the lake. But after walking about a mile he cameto a point where the roads branched, one to Verona, the other toBrescia.
There he halted, and, seating himself upon a big stone at the wayside,smoked in patience, and waited. I advanced as near as I could withoutrisk of detection, and watched.
He struck a match in order to look at his watch. Then he rose andlistened intently. The night was dark and silent, with heavy cloudshanging about the mountains, threatening rain.
I suppose he had waited fully another quarter of an hour, whensuddenly, far away over the brow of the hill in the direction ofBrescia, I saw a peculiar light in the sky. At first I was puzzled,but as it gradually grew larger and whiter I knew that it came fromthe head-lights of an approaching motor-car. Next moment the hum ofthe engine fell on my ears, and suddenly the whole roadway becameilluminated, so suddenly, indeed, that I had only just time to crouchdown in order to avoid detection.
Pennington shouted to the driver, and he instantly pulled up. Then twomen in thick overcoats descended, and welcomed him warmly in English.
"Come along, old man!" I heard one of them cry. "Come inside. We mustbe off again, for we haven't a moment to spare. How's the girl?"
Then they entered the car, which was quickly turned, and a few momentslater disappeared swiftly along the road it had come.
I stood, full of wonder, watching the white light fade away.
Who were Pennington's friends, that he should meet them in so secret amanner?
"How's the girl?" Had that man referred to Sylvia? There was mysterysomewhere. I felt certain of it.
Down the hill I retraced my steps, on through the little town, nowwrapped in slumber, and back to the Grand Hotel, where nearly everyone had already retired to bed. In a corner of the big lounge,however, Pennington's daughter was seated alone, reading a Tauchnitznovel.
I felt in no humour to turn in just then, for I was rather used tolate hours; therefore I passed through the lounge and out upon theterrace, in order to smoke and think. The clouds were lifting, and themoon was struggling through, casting an uncertain light across thebroad dark waters.
I had thrown mys
elf into a wicker chair near the end of the terrace,and, with a cigarette, was pondering deeply, when, of a sudden, I sawa female figure, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, coming in my direction.
I recognized the cream skirt and the shawl. It was Sylvia! Ah! howinexpressibly charming and dainty she looked!
When she had passed, I rose and, meeting her face to face, raised myhat and spoke to her.
She started slightly and halted. What words I uttered I hardly knew,but a few moments later I found myself strolling at her side, chattingmerrily in English. Her chiffons exuded the delicate scent of Rosed'Orsay, that sweet perfume which is the hall-mark of the modernwell-dressed woman.
And she was undoubtedly English, after all!
"Oh no," she declared in a low, musical voice, in response to a fear Ihad expressed, "I am not at all cold. This place is so charming, andso warm, to where my father and I have recently been--at Uleaborg, inFinland."
"At Uleaborg!" I echoed. "Why, that is away--out of the world--at thenorthern end of the Gulf of Bothnia!"
"Yes," she declared, with a light laugh. "It is so windy and cold, andoh! so wretchedly dull."
"I should rather think so!" I cried. "Why, it is almost within theArctic Circle. Why did you go up there--so far north--in winter?"
"Ah!" she sighed, "we are always travelling. My father is the modernWandering Jew, I think. Our movements are always sudden, and ourjourneys always long ones--from one end of Europe to the other veryoften."
"You seem tired of it!" I remarked.
"Tired!" she gasped, her voice changing. "Ah! if you only knew how Ilong for peace, for rest--for home!" and she sighed.
"Where is your home?"
"Anywhere, now-a-days," was her rather despondent reply. "We arewanderers. We lived in England once--but, alas! that is now all of thepast. My father is compelled to travel, and I must, of necessity, gowith him. I am afraid," she added quickly, "that I bore you with thischronicle of my own troubles. I really ought not to say this--to you,a stranger," she said, with a low, nervous little laugh.
"Though I may be a stranger, yet, surely, I may become your friend," Iremarked, looking into her beautiful face, half concealed by the bluewrap.
For a moment she hesitated; then, halting in the gravelled path andlooking at me, she replied very seriously--
"No; please do not speak of that again."
"Why not?"
"Well--only because you must not become my friend."
"You are lonely," I blurted forth. "I have watched you, and I haveseen that you are in sore need of a friend. Do you deny that?"
"No," she faltered. "I--I--yes, what you say is, alas! correct. Howcan I deny it? I have no friend; I am alone."
"Then allow me to be one. Put to me whatever test you will," Iexclaimed, "and I hope I may bear it satisfactorily. I, too, am alonely man--a wanderer. I, too, am in need of a friend in whom I canconfide, whose guidance I can ask. Surely there is no friend betterfor a lonely man than a good woman?"
"Ah, no," she cried, suddenly covering her face with both her hands."You don't know--you are ignorant. Why do you say this?"
"Why? Shall I tell you why?" I asked, gallantly bending to her in deepearnestness. "Because I have watched you--because I know you are veryunhappy!"
She held her breath. By the faint ray of the distant electric light Isaw her face had become changed. She betrayed her emotions and hernervousness by the quick twitching of her fingers and her lips.
"No," she said at last very decisively; "you must abandon all thoughtof friendship with me. It is impossible--quite impossible!"
"Would my friendship be so repugnant to you, then?" I asked quickly.
"No, no, not that," she cried, laying her trembling fingers upon mycoat-sleeve. "You--you don't understand--you cannot dream of myhorrible position--of the imminent peril of yours."
"Peril! What do you mean?" I asked, very much puzzled.
"You are in grave danger. Be careful of yourself," she said anxiously."You should always carry some weapon with you, because----" and shebroke off short, without concluding her sentence.
"Because--why?"
"Well, because an accident might happen to you--an accident planned bythose who are your enemies."
"I really don't understand you," I said. "Do you mean to imply thatthere is some conspiracy afoot against me?"
"I warn you in all seriousness," she said. "I--well, the fact is, Icame out here--I followed you out--in order to tell you this insecret. Leave here, I beg of you; leave early to-morrow morning, anddo not allow the hotel people to know your new address. Gosomewhere--far away--and live in secret under an assumed name. LetOwen Biddulph disappear as though the earth had swallowed him up."
"Then you are aware of my name!" I exclaimed.
"Certainly," she replied. "But do--I beg of you for your ownsake--heed my warning! Ah! it is cruel and horrible that I--of allwomen--have to tell you this!"
"I always carry a revolver," I replied, "and I have long ago learnedto shoot straight."
"Be guarded always against a secret and insidious attack," she urged."I must go in--now that I have told you the truth."
"And do you, then, refuse to become my friend, Miss Pennington?" Iasked very earnestly. "Surely you are my friend already, because youhave told me this!"
"Yes," she answered, adding, "Ah! you do not know the real facts! Youwould not ask this if you were aware of the bitter, ghastly truth. Youwould not ask my friendship--nay, you would hate and curse meinstead!"
"But why?" I asked, amazed at her words. "You speak in enigmas."
She was silent again. Then her nervous fingers once more gripped myarm, as, looking into my face, her eyes shining with a weird, unusuallight, she replied in quick, breathless sentences--
"Because--because friendship between us must never, never be; it wouldbe fatal to you, just as it would be fatal to me! Death--yes,death--will come to me quickly and swiftly--perhaps to-night, perhapsto-morrow, perhaps in a week's time. For it, I am quite prepared. Allis lost--lost to me for ever! Only have a care of yourself, I beseechof you! Heed what I say. Escape the cruel fate which your enemies havemarked out for you--escape while there is yet time, and--and," shefaltered in a low, hoarse voice, full of emotion, "some day in thefuture, perhaps, you will give a passing thought to the memory of awoman who revealed to you the truth--who saved you from an untimelyend--the unhappy woman without a friend!"
"But I will be your friend!" I repeated.
"No. That can never be--_never_!" and she shuddered. "I dare not riskit. Reflect--and escape--get away in secret, and take care that youare not followed. Remember, however, we can never be friends. Such acourse would be fatal--yes, alas! _fatal_!"
Instinctively she put out her tiny white hand in frank farewell. Then,when I had held it for a second in my own, she turned and, drawing hershawl about her, hurried back to the big hotel.
Utterly dumbfounded, I stood for a few seconds dazed and wondering,the sweet odour of Rose d'Orsay filling my nostrils. What did sheknow?
Then suddenly I held my breath, for there I saw for the first time,standing back in the shadow of the trees, straight before me,motionless as a statue, the tall, dark figure of a man who hadevidently watched us the whole time, and who had, no doubt, overheardall our conversation!
Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Page 4
