XII
It was nine o’clock in the morning—early September.
The last of the summer trippers had gone, reluctant to leave all this beauty behind them and pledged to a prompt return … With their hands filled with bulky bouquets of garden flowers, graciously bestowed by longtime servants who seemed sincerely regretful over their departure, they had edged along the slippery seats of the station bus to make room for the tardy, scurrying back from one last look at the blue bay from the terrace wall. They would go down the hill to Bellagio, cross the bay to Menaggio, and take a funny little funicular over the mountain en route west—and home.
The Villa Serbelloni was very quiet, this morning … Not that it was at any time a rackety place, even when filled to its small capacity. There was something about the ineffable tranquillity of the old mansion that slowed one down to its leisurely tempo; that mellowed the voice and blurred the vision.
Its atmosphere seemed strangely sedative, giving a curious unreality to the whole region. One felt one’s self walking about through a Corot. The changing cloud-shadows on the mountains and the bay, synchronized with warming wisps of autumn breeze, played unaccountable tricks with one’s estimates of distances and hours. One never knew certainly whether it was Tuesday or Thursday—or cared.
Somebody had declared it was as if the picture were blurry … out of focus. There were no sharp, angular outlines either to the purple hills or the turquoise lake below. The very pebbles on the carriage drive were unreal, each wrapped with a tiny, shimmering aureole of pale opal … Each grape, in the shapely clusters dependent from the trellis sheltering the breakfast nook, was encircled by an amber nimbus as if glowing with some inner radiance … An excellent place for daydreaming.
To appreciate it properly, however, the guest must bring to the little arbour a quiet, unworried mind, else the timeless calm of the place would only accentuate the internal tumult … Unless one were at peace with himself, here, he could be more desperately lonely and depressed than in a desert.
The arbour was all but deserted. Except for the elderly English couple at the last table in the row against the low terraced wall, absorbed in their letters, groping occasionally for the handles of their coffee cups, Helen Hudson had the place to herself. She was so lonesome she watched with comradely concern the antics of an ambitious bee that disputed her right to the little jar of honey.
It might never be determined where was the next to the loveliest spot in the world … La Jolla? … Lake Louise? … The Columbia River Highway? … Royal Gorge? … Grand Canyon?
During her three years abroad, Helen had successively shifted her allegiance from the Grand Canal under a full moon to the Upper Corniche Road, the Amalfi Drive, the Neckar glimpsed through the treetops from the crumbling balconies of Heidelberg Castle.
But there never could be any doubt about the loveliest scene in the world. She faced it—Lake Como—from the little arbour flanking on the east the Villa Serbelloni, on the hillcrest overlooking Bellagio … looked at it without seeing it today; for her eyes were preoccupied.
Her morning mail had practically confirmed certain harassing suspicions. It was reasonably sure now that Monty had been manipulating her estate to her serious disadvantage. How to protect herself against grave misfortune—if indeed that misfortune had not been already guaranteed—without plunging her family into disgraceful publicity, was too intricate a problem to be solved.
Not at any time since her commitment of all her affairs to Monty, upon his renewed persuasion, a year ago, had his remittances been in full of her expectations.
When, in January, he had written that Northwestern Copper was in the midst of a “reorganization” which was temporarily depressing its value and reducing its dividends, she had been disposed—albeit puzzled—to accept his statement as correct. She made no pretence of understanding the explanation he offered with an infinitude of befuddling detail phrased in a jargon utterly incomprehensible. The situation troubled and inconvenienced her, but she had tried to believe what Monty said. There was nobody at hand to query; no one she cared or dared to consult by correspondence. She had made Monty her business agent with full power of attorney. She was in his hands to do with as he pleased. It was most disturbing.
In mid-July, he had written lengthily his deep regret and disappointment that Northwestern Copper was making so slow a recovery; still in a tangle over “reorganization” difficulties, “refinancing” problems, and “the tiresome delays of senseless litigation”—Monty was gifted with an extraordinary capacity for redundant ambiguities. In short, Northwestern Copper had passed its semiannual period of accounting to its stockholders without declaring any dividend at all … He was sorrier than he could say—but, of course, it wasn’t his fault.
Stunned to the realization that she was alone in a foreign country without income or any assurance that it might be restored, she had spent whole days fretting about her next move in this awkward predicament.
It had occurred to her that something might be liquidated of her holdings at Brightwood. She was aware that her inherited stock in the hospital had no market value. It was not at all like ordinary commercial or industrial securities. The income was small and uncertain; the stock itself being worth just what some philanthropic purchaser might be willing to pay for it.
Moreover, there was a sentimental value attached to it in her mind. Under no circumstances, short of actual pressing need, would she have consented to part with it. But, sentiment or no sentiment, she would have to live. Her funds were very low.
After a month of worry, she had written to Nancy Ashford. Rejecting, after some debate, the thought of confiding the exact state of her affairs, she limited her inquiry to the possibility of converting her Brightwood stock into cash at the earliest moment a purchaser could be found. Mrs. Ashford would be surprised and disappointed, doubtless, but she would have to think what she liked about it. The real reason could not be divulged.
“Now—I wonder exactly why she wants to do that?” Nancy had said to Doctor Merrick, upon receipt of it. “Surely she has enough to live on … The income on her Northwestern Copper can’t be a penny less than six thousand a year … Preferred stock … sound as Gibraltar … Do you suppose somebody has been defrauding her? She knows so little about business.”
“Who’s handling her affairs while she is gone?”
“Nobody—so far as I know … There’s nothing very complicated about her business … I think she said her brother—her cousin, rather—would assist her in making out her income tax report.”
“D’you know anything about him?”
“Not a thing … Might he be handling her money?”
“Unlikely … Why should he? … Unless she gave him carte blanche to buy and sell; and she wouldn’t do that.”
“What shall I say to her, Bobby?”
“How much is her Brightwood stock worth?”
“Conservatively?” Nancy grinned.
“No—optimistically!—a Micawber appraisal!”
“About twenty thousand, I should think … Want it?”
“Yes … You tell her you have contracted to dispose of her Brightwood stuff for—for twenty-five thousand dollars … Tell her the man wishes to pay for it in twenty-five monthly instalments … That will insure her against being broke, over there; and meantime …”
“Yes? … Meantime?”
Doctor Merrick moved toward the door.
“Oh—I don’t know—I’m sure … It’s her affair.”
Again Helen took up the long letter she had just received from Mrs. Ashford with its lifesaving enclosure and the definite promise of more to come. The possession of it filled her with misgivings. She had snapped an important tie connecting her with Doctor Hudson’s most cherished interest. It was like closing a door on something he had lived for.
There was no reproach in the letter, either direct or implied … Easy to detect a note of anxiety, however.
“I hope this disposal of your Brightwood stock does not mean that your income from other sources is in any way depleted … Is there anything you would like to have us look after for you?”
Following the briefly clear statement of the deal she had made, and the terms of the sale, Nancy Ashford had served up a potpourri of local news … You wouldn’t know Detroit! … New clubs, new theatres, swagger hotels, metropolitan shops! … Even the hospital was adding a new unit. Plans already drawn.
“Young Doctor Merrick is with us now. Or perhaps you knew that. Of course it is a delight to me to see the rapid progress he is making, for I’ve always been interested in him … Naturally he has a great advantage over the typical intern because, having known from the first day of his medical course that he was going in for brain surgery, he comes here with more specialized knowledge and experience than any other young doctor who ever joined our organization … Already Doctor Pyle is treating him with a deference that amuses me. (Doctor Pyle is so short with the cubs.) … Bobby got permission to fit up a little laboratory of his own. There was a small alcove—perhaps you recall—just off the main solarium on the top floor. We had it partitioned. You should see the apparatus he has installed. It’s more of a physical than a chemical laboratory, I think … Glass-blowing! … A forge! … A blast-furnace! … All manner of electrical things! … You can’t get any information out of him … I was in there yesterday, and asked him if he was making a new radio set, and he said, ‘Something like that.’ … But that doesn’t mean much when he says it, except that he wishes you wouldn’t bother him.
“Oh—I never had a bigger thrill in my life than at his graduation! I had hoped so much for him, all along … And when it came to the big day … with his name starred on the Commencement programme (he hadn’t said a word to me about his taking second honours!) well, I just sat there and wept silly tears … His mother couldn’t come, so I pretended I was his mother … And you should have seen his grandfather! Proud? When the class marched across the platform for their diplomas, dear old Mr. Merrick stood in his seat, trying to wave his handkerchief and blow with it at the same time, until somebody pulled him down by the coattails.”
The sheets trembled in Helen’s hands as she read.
The last line on that page—it was numbered eight—had been scratched out, but was still legible:
“The young doctor who received—”
The next page had been originally numbered twelve. That had also been ineffectually deleted in favour of nine.
On second thought, Nancy Ashford had omitted a considerable part of her letter.
“Here’s that draft for a thousand,” Bobby Merrick had said, as he stood by Nancy’s desk.
“Thanks. I’ve just finished writing to her. I’ll get it off today.”
“That’s good! … By the way—you said nothing about the Dawsons, did you?”
“Why—yes … Rather I’d not?”
“Leave it out … I don’t think she’d be interested much … and—well, I have a reason.”
“As you like,” said Nancy, hastily extracting the pages on which she had written:
“—first honours is Doctor Merrick’s closest friend … Damon and Pythias … the kind of a friendship you read about! They worked together throughout their medical course—same speciality. First honours now carry a prize offered by Mr. Owen Simmons (Simmons Turbine Co.)—a year in Vienna, all expenses, scholarship, liberal allowance, etc … The Dawsons were here last Thursday—the day your letter came. She was going to New York to see her husband off.
“Actually, the three of them were like brothers and sister. I couldn’t help being jealous. They were closeted here in my office for a whole hour, and when they came out, and I met them in the hall, Mrs. Dawson was all excited. She seemed so happy that I said, ‘You look like Christmas morning!’ ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she replied, laughing. ‘I’m going along!’ … ’To Europe?’ … ’Absolutely!’
“They have a dear little boy—going on four. I never saw a child so beautifully trained. Doctor Merrick went along with them to New York and brought little Jack back with him to stay at Windymere until Mrs. Dawson returns. I dare say old Mr. Merrick can be found, at this minute, leading the pony he has bought for him.” …
There was a letter from Joyce:
“No, darling, I’m sure you will take no pleasure in thinking or saying ‘I told you so.’ For that wouldn’t be you … Never a day passes that I do not scourge myself for the abominable way I used you that winter when you were trying so hard to step in between me and myself.
“I wasn’t fair to anybody through those days. Not even to poor Bobby. I never told you the straight of that. I meant to; but, you see, I telephoned to him the next morning and asked him to come and see me. I’d a hazy notion that he was—well—kind to me the night before, and I thought he might renew our friendship. He made some excuse. I was hurt and humiliated. I knew something had happened to cause an estrangement between you and Bobby, for—can you forgive me, darling?—I noticed a letter you had from him shortly afterward, and peeked into it. He wanted to be forgiven for causing you a lot of suffering. I knew that meant he hadn’t told you all the truth. You thought he was in that souse party at Gordon’s, and I just let you think so—after he refused to see me again. The honest fact was that he went there sober and fought everybody in the place to get me out when I was so blind drunk I didn’t really learn what it was all about for three days. I know Bobby means nothing to you and that you despise him, but it’s only fair to him that you should know how he happened to bring me home, that Thanksgiving night.
“No, darling, it’s not any better. It’s never going to be any better. I know that now. Tommy can’t help it. One night he comes home drunk, surly and obstinate; the next night drunk, silly and sentimental; the next night drunk, argumentative and critical; the next night drunk, savage and abusive—but always drunk. I can definitely count on that! I never know what mood he will be in—whether I am to be upbraided for imagined indifference to him and his work (little enough he does of it!) or pestered with pretences of an affection neither of us feels—but I can always be sure of one thing: he will be drunk!
“At first, he claimed he wrote better when stimulated, and I believed him; drank with him—all times of the day, in all sorts of places, with all kinds of people. He said it helped him to the local colour necessary to his story writing. I took his word for it. Then I saw that it was rapidly doing him up. He was losing his magazine market. His things began to come back with curt little notes. I hated to nag him, but the time came when I had to rebel against being dragged about with his greasy crowd of drunken pretenders to some sort of literary or artistic talent—would-be’s and has-beens!
“Now he is out on his own, doing little or nothing. Thank God, we don’t have to worry about the rent or where the next meal is coming from. Dear old dad saw to that. So long as they continue to mine copper in the Upper Peninsula, Tommy and I can go through the motions of living, but it’s a dull business and life has gone flat. I would leave him tomorrow if it were not that I feel under a sort of obligation. I’m as much responsible for his habits as anyone. What would you do in my place?”
So—nothing whatever ailed Northwestern Copper or Joyce would be having trouble with her dividends. She would write to Monty and press some serious questions. Had Monty volunteered to look after her business with the purpose of appropriating her income? Why had she not sought counsel before putting herself at his mercy? There were plenty of reliable trust companies … Perhaps there was an explanation … Well, he should have his chance to offer it … very soon, too! She would write today! … No—tomorrow. She wasn’t up to it today … So he was taking Brightwood by storm, was he? … Glass-blowing! … Whatever for? … What had surgery to do with glass-blowing? … Why hadn’t he told the truth about that episode at Gordon’s! … She was glad his letter of apology had been too vague for Joyce to understand … Poor Joyce!
Gathering up her mail, she arose from the table, smiled at old Martino as he drew back her chair, and strolled slowly down the winding carriage-drive. The gay little parasol refused to share her trouble, and brightened her face. She descended the narrow flight of steps to the next level of the mountain road that spiralled up from the village; followed a graceful arc of it to the second long flight which widened to a street flanked by picturesque little shops.
Yesterday she had promised herself that this morning she would make an excursion to the Villa Carlotta. Diagonally across the bay, on a heavily wooded shore of indescribable beauty, the famous home of an absentee prince was open to tourists … Some important Canovas, some rare orchids, a wide variety of exotics … She must see them. Everyone did.
There was no lack of attentive service as she stepped down into the red-and-blue canopied motorboat … It required many assistants at the little wharf in front of the Villa Carlotta to attend to her disembarkation. The diminutive parasol was handed up to the nearest member of the reception committee, the Baedeker in its leather cover was passed to another, the field-glasses on a strap were unslung from her shoulder; and, regretting with a gesture of dismay that there was nothing further to take off, she reached up both hands and permitted the envied pair who remained uncommissioned to help her over the gunwale.
Smilingly collecting her possessions, she ascended to the huge iron gates and into the coolness of the great hall—ceiled, walled, floored with white marble.
A young American woman, about her own age—possibly a little older—was seated on a graceful marble bench—the only place in the room where one might sit—intent upon the famous Cupid and Psyche. She was modish in a grey tailored suit with a close fitting grey hat fringed with tawny curls.
With a brief glance they took each other’s measure, nodded, smiled. Helen sat down beside her.
“It’s the best thing he did, don’t you think?” ventured the girl in grey.
“Exquisite!”
Well—she ought to know what things were exquisite, reflected Marion. The word described herself … Somewhere in this vicinity she expected to meet a young woman with blue eyes, long lashes, blue-black hair probably coiffed in what was known as a windblown bob, a smile as tantalizing as Mona Lisa’s, and a voice that made you think of a cello. (“Bobby—for Heaven’s sake!” she had protested. “Are you sure it isn’t like a heavenly harp?” … “Well—something like that,” he had agreed.)
“What else is there to see?” she inquired, after a long silence.
“I never was here before,” Helen replied. “The gardens, I think, and some foreign trees and ferns. Shall we look? You’re alone, aren’t you?”
“Quite—alone and lonesome.”
The patter of their heels echoed through the spacious corridor as they sought the autumn sunshine. On the terrace they hesitated, inquired of an attendant, and took the broad path northward through the artfully landscaped gardens.
“You came over from Bellagio?”
She had. Last night she had arrived from Lugano, and was stopping at a little hotel in the village … Thought she’d stay a week, perhaps.
“Oh—then you must move up to the Villa Serbelloni. I’d be so happy if you did!”
Immediately they had disclosed their identities, the budding friendship developed with all the rapidity natural to a meeting of two lonely fellow-countrymen in a foreign land. Young Mrs. Dawson’s story was quickly told.
“He’ll be all the better for not having me to bother with until he settles into his routine,” she explained. “And, anyway, it’s my first experience of Europe. I want to ramble about and see things.”
“Queer you should have come to Bellagio direct from Paris. I’m glad you did, of course; but there’s nothing here but an amazingly fine view … People don’t, you know. They go to—oh, down into the château country, or along the Riviera; Rome, Naples, Florence … How did you happen to come here?”
“I read about it in a book … long time ago … Always wanted to come here!”
It was fun to search for mutual interests. Doctor Dawson had just finished the Medical School in June. His first honours had taken him to Vienna. Brain surgery—that was his speciality … Helen had had a letter, just this morning, from a friend in Detroit who knew intimately the young doctor taking second honours in that class. Without doubt, Doctor Dawson knew him well.
“Merrick?” Marion’s brows wrinkled in an attempt at remembrance. “Oh, yes—tall, serious chap, wasn’t he? But, you never met him—”
“I’ve seen him … I think that describes him—pretty well.”
“What a duck of a grotto! … Let’s go down!”
They descended into the mossy, fern-fringed enclosure and rested on the circular stone seat, facing a stucco Pan on a graceful pedestal.
“What did he have to be so serious about?” queried Helen. “Surely things should have come easy enough for him!”
“Do you think he looks serious? … Why—he’s the most roguish thing I ever saw! … Serious? … With that impish grin?”
“Oh—you mean Pan! … He’s a little devil!”
“And you were still thinking about young Doctor Merrick.” Marion pinioned her lower lip in an understanding smile and mysteriously half closed one eye. “Maybe he wasn’t serious, at all. He wouldn’t need to be. Awfully rich, isn’t he?”
They wandered on, occasionally coming upon delicious surprises—a short flight of worn steps by a wall mantled with Banksian roses descending to a shady water-gate—a little classic pavilion, the flagging strewn with fugitive yellow leaves. Marion loosed her imagination, prattling of romances and intrigues sheltered by these sequestered nooks, through the years.
“He’s at Brightwood now,” observed Helen, at the first full stop in her new friend’s rhapsody. “That was Doctor Hudson’s hospital; so—naturally—I’m interested.”
“Yes—you would be.” Marion smiled, cryptically.
It was far past noon now. The little boat that had brought Helen over was moored at the wharf. They were helped into it. Neither spoke for full five minutes—Helen regarding their silver trail on the placid water, Marion’s eyes held by the lovely terraces and gates of the Villa.
“I think,” said Marion dreamily, “that is the most wonderfully beautiful place I ever saw!”
“What I can’t understand”—Helen’s face was a study in perplexity—“is how they could have helped knowing each other—intimately … Taking the honours together … and specializing in the same thing … a very restricted field, too!”
Marion turned and regarded her with a slow smile.
“If I’d known I was ever to find somebody who was so interested in him, I’d have made it my business to get acquainted … Let’s poke about in some of those funny little shops before we go up … Want to?”
Marion Dawson went to her room that night—she had moved up to the Villa—with many troublesome misgivings. So far as the success of her mission was concerned, it was assured. Bobby had sent her to find out the whole truth about Helen’s financial misfortunes and to put him on the track of their possible remedy. He had confided that his interest was in the main philanthropic. Had Doctor Hudson lived, she would not have met this disaster; and Doctor Hudson’s death was more or less chargeable to him. At least, he admitted a heavy responsibility. Her welfare was his concern.
“Sure there isn’t any more to it than that, Bobby?” she had teased.
“I wish there was more to it,” he had confessed, “but there can’t be … I’ve quite put that idea out of my mind … Frankly—she hates the sight of me!”
It hadn’t required much feminine intuition to discover that Bobby’s estimate of Helen Hudson’s attitude toward him was exactly wrong … How she could delight him, if she wished, with an impressionistic report of today’s conversation … But that wouldn’t be fair … Precisely where was her allegiance in this matter? … It was traitorous enough to extract Helen’s confidence about her money difficulties—but that would be ultimately to her advantage. When she learned—if she ever did—how her financial anxieties were relieved, she would not question the method … But she would never forgive a breach of confidence about her interest in Bobby … Really, it was most unpleasant—being a spy.
All afternoon they had been together, rambling in and out of the crooked little streets; at four, grinding laboriously up the hill in the ancient fiacre with the high, steel-tired wheels; at seven, tarrying over their dinner in the arbour—each conscious of a friendship destined, they felt, to become very valuable. Helen had insisted upon her having a room next her own, on the south side where the big balconied windows looked out upon the bay … Tomorrow they were having an early breakfast so they could catch the little steamer on its first trip of the day to Como.
“I’d flick this job tonight,” wrote Marion, “and come straight home, if it wasn’t that I knew my detective work would benefit her. She’s been terribly lonely, awfully troubled; and she’s going to tell me all about it in the next few days. I won’t have to ask her a single question. She’s going to tell me of her own accord. But I do feel so mean, Bobby, with this deception. What an adorable creature she is! I never met anybody to whom I was so quickly drawn. Please don’t ever let her find out about my part in this. I don’t believe I could bear it if she learned I had cultivated her for a purpose!”
The shopkeepers in little Bellagio became quite accustomed to the sight of two remarkably attractive young American women on their streets, and the skippers of the pleasure craft, plying Lake Como, were proud to have them for frequent passengers. Every morning they breakfasted together in the arbour, every evening they strolled, arm in arm, through the lovingly tended gardens of the hotel.
There was very little about each other’s story that they did not know now. Their confidences had been tender, girlish, unreserved. It was no ordinary friendship. From the first moment, they had been irresistibly attracted, and made no effort to sustain the reticence each would have felt, naturally, toward a stranger.
All forenoon of that tragic Tuesday, which they were to remember with agony, they had hiked along a tortuous mountain road above Menaggio. Helen had laid bare her whole dilemma in the case of her business dealings with Monty, and was strongly counselled to wait a while and do nothing until her return to the States, seeing that her income was assured for the present … With the bars all down, she talked freely about Bobby too, confessing by her tone all that she hesitated to put into words.
It began to rain after luncheon. They agreed upon a siesta, and went to their rooms … An hour later, Helen, having wakened, decided to write some letters. She remembered she had left her guidebook in Marion’s room. Quietly turning the knob and finding the door unlocked, she tiptoed across the room, smiling at the sleeping face on the pillow, and took up her Baedeker from the writing-desk. Beside it, stamped and ready for mailing, was a bulky letter addressed to Dr. Robert Merrick, Brightwood Hospital, Detroit, Michigan, U.S.A.
She was stunned … as if someone had dealt her a blow over the heart. Scarcely able to breathe, she groped her way blindly out of the room, so fearful of rousing Marion that she left the door ajar rather than risk rattling the latch. For a long time she sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders bowed, hands listless on her knees. The world had caved in. With hot cheeks, she recalled some of the things she had whispered to Marion Dawson—confidences no Inquisition machinery could have twisted out of her … Doubtless all these impulsive confessions had been spread on paper to satisfy the curiosity of Bobby Merrick. It was clear enough now! … What an odd coincidence they had thought it—she and Marion—that they had been brought together in this accidental way, and found the dearest friendship either of them had ever known! … Coincidence—indeed!
Marion slept heavily until five and roused with the uneasy sensation that something unpleasant had occurred. It was raining torrents. The room was dark. A strong draught was blowing through. The door was open. She distinctly remembered having closed it.
Suddenly she gasped and clutched at her throat with both hands. She walked with short, reluctant steps to the desk. Helen’s Baedeker was gone! It would have been impossible for her to recover it without noticing the letter. She flung herself across the bed, swept with remorse.
A half hour later, frantically drumming on her temples with her fingers, she resolved to take the letter to Helen and beg her to read it. She would tell the whole story, and try to explain how she came to be involved in this benevolent treachery.
Heart pounding, face flushed, she tapped gently at Helen’s door and received no response; tried the latch and found it locked.
Returning to her room, she nervously dressed for dinner, and went slowly down the winding staircase; searched the lounge, glanced into the dining-room; finally summoned her courage to approach the desk of the concierge.
“Has Mrs. Hudson come down?” she asked, with a dry throat.
“She is gone, madame … You did not know?”
“Gone? … You mean she has left the hotel?”
“About four o’clock, madame.”
“But—where?”
“She left no address, madame … She said she would send for her trunks, later.”
Marion turned slowly away and retraced her steps spiritlessly to the foot of the stairs; then, after some hesitation, came again to the desk.
“Will you see if there is a message for me?”
Obediently he went through the motions of inspecting several pigeonholes on the wall behind him and thumbed a pack of letters, looking for something neither of them expected he would find.
It poured hard all night, and the Villa Serbelloni—if not the loneliest place in the world—was a close runner-up to the Continental Hotel in Milan, for that distinction.