Francesca Halstead: a tale of San Remo

Front matter

A TALE OF SAN REMO BY REGINALD ST. BARBE Xonfcon DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 1 8, Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. Go JOHN HENRY SHORTHOUSE I DEDICATE THIS BOOK n Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines a-row; While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day." William Morris,

Prologue

" T T ARK ! The signorina is singing ! " ejaculated A A Pietro Cornelio, fisherman, of San Remo. "The Saints protect her!" he added, sitting down by the wayside. The Villa Castelli, from whence the sound pro ceeded, was not on the direct route from San Remo to Ospedaletti, and Pietro must have strayed con siderably, or changed his mind about the journey he had set out with the intention of making. " Madonna mia ! How weird is her song ! " he muttered, beginning to hum the air. Ah ! Pietro. But the story of the signorina — is it not written in this Tale of San Remo, wherein you yourself played no little part ? Of your wisdom did not the " English stranger " learn many things ? And for your wit does he not hold you in pleasant remembrance ? Yes, it is true, Pietro ; and the story of your beautiful Eccellenza is here set down, lest recollection of your words grow dim, " Or long time take their memory quite away."

There was something deep and searching, which touched Pietro's heart and stirred his soul, in the voice that reached him through the leaves of the olive-trees. He repeated the fragment of a prayer, and crossed himself devoutly. Pietro possessed an aged relative in the village of Ospedaletti, where it was his custom to go two or three times every month, taking with him the choicest of the fish chance had sent to his net As the sheen of a few of these could be seen in the basket on the ground at his side, presumably he originally intended they should reach the usual destination. It was within the range of possibility that they would do so even now ; although Pietro, beneath the acacias, found procrastination an ex ceedingly pleasant vice. In his mind, fate and the evil spirit were identical, and he often stoutly averred, amid ironical jeers from his rough-headed, dark-skinned fellow -toilers of the deep, that the world despitefully used him.

But he was not thinking of these things now, only listening to a very sweet singer, whose voice floated to his ears through the silent night. He looked at the white gates that marked the entrance to the grounds of the Villa Castelli, and peered through, following the sweep of the drive till it curved into a grove of orange trees, and was lost to view. Above the trees the Villa itself rose, clearly defined in the ivory moonlight. Pietro knew it well. Two giant palms, motionless sentinels in the still air, stood at each angle of the elaborately adorned front that overlooked the sea. The Villa, standing on a little knoll, was ap proached through groves of thickly -planted orange and myrtle trees. Behind it, the wooded slopes stretched, with their undulating masses of varied hues of green, climbing upwards to the snow crowned Alpes Maritimes.

To the south, facing the sea, terrace upon terrace rose from the blue water. Orange, lemon, and olive trees, mingling with the trailing vine, covered the hillsides in careless profusion. Near to Pietro, a clump of sombre-hued cypress trees contrasted with the brighter tints around it. Rising in the midst, the white marble of an exquisitely fashioned balustrade gleamed brightly in the moon's rays. This miniature plantation concealed a bare and precipitous rock, on the summit of which, and nearly on a level with the tallest of the cypresses, the stone-flagged walk that led from the Villa Castelli opened into a broad terrace. In the garden, orange trees in bloom and sweet scented myrtles overshadowed the broad walks, casting welcome shade when the brilliant sunshine turned the yellow fruit golden with its dazzling rays.

But to-night the air was heavy with the perfume of many flowers, the petals of which, laden with unshed dew-drops, glistened in the moonlight ; and the sighing of the gentlest of zephyrs in the leaves of a casuarina tree filled the night with mysterious whispers and witchery. Pietro pulled a short pipe out of his pocket, and filled it meditatively. He held it in his hand, and then transferred it to his mouth, but did not light it ; and was much surprised, some minutes later, when he discovered his pipe was still unlit. He leaned back against the stem of a tall palm tree, and gazed thoughtfully into space. Whether the sound of the voice that had attracted his attention was the cause of his abstraction, it would be idle to speculate. It became, however, increasingly evident that the intended recipient of his scaly gift would long ago have retired to rest.

Pietro was a creature of impulse and very forget ful ; unless the fates intervened, the fish in his basket would never encounter the frying - pans of Ospedaletti. It was pleasant to be idle, and Pietro considered, no doubt, when he first stopped in his walk, that he deserved a short rest, for the night was warm and the white dust had settled on his lips. To enjoy that rest and fill his pipe he must needs put his basket down, and having turned his back upon his burden, there was nothing to remind him of his original intention. Meanwhile he gave himself up to blissful contemplation, totally unmindful of the flight of time. It was perhaps well for Pietro that he was, at the moment, so harmlessly occupied, for it was not always so with him. Assuming a sort of chieftain ship over his fellows — an assumption constantly challenged — he was often engaged in disputes which, on several occasions, had entailed grievous con sequences.

As, however, he was, in a sense, a re tainer of the Villa Castelli, he had at times been saved from the temporary loss of freedom by the prompt action of its kind-hearted inmates ; for he was an excellent sailor and high in their favour. Pietro had heard the signorina sing when the night was still, out there upon the deep waters where the moon was shedding a broad line of silvery light upon the dark surface of the sea, and he thought he had never heard anything so heavenly. Again, to-night, he had heard the enthralling voice ; this was unfortunate for the aged dweller in Osped aletti. Pietro remained contentedly seated, absorbed in reflection. After a short silence, broken only by the murmuring sea on the distant beach, he raised his head quickly, and held his breath. 'La Signorina' was singing once more.

Through the window, opened wide to admit the cool air of night, the soft light fell slanting on the smooth lawn that spread its green carpet close to the lamp-lit room. Within, the yellow-shaded lamps cast a warm glow upon two of the reddest of red roses, daintily en sconced in the raven hair of a young girl, who was playing and singing an old ballad. The brow of the singer was broad and white. The flush of health made more lovely a face of exquisite beauty. The head, poised upon a white neck, perfectly moulded, was thrown a little back. A tender smile hovered on the red lips in sympathy with the words of the ballad, as the delicate hands moved lightly over the keys. Freedom from restraint distinguished every movement of the graceful figure. The last bar of the music died away, and pre sently the singer rose and walked towards the open window.

Her dark eyes, with a thoughtful ex pression in their liquid depths, looked out upon the still night. The sand-laden mistral, which had blown in inter mittent gusts during the day, had long since sunk to rest. The blustering noonday had given place to the most perfect calm. The cypresses reared their stately plumes unbending. The perfume of the jasmine and orange trees, with many other sweet flowers, floated around the motionless girl enveloping her in its scented folds. Far down below, the rippling waves broke white against the shore, and over all, set up on high, the queen of night, in full orbed beauty, reigned supreme. " Francesca ! Francesca ! " cried a voice that appeared to issue from the cushioned depths of an extremely comfortable chair. The name was called softly, and the rich cadence of the tone was very like Francesca's. The latter turned slowly in the direction whence the voice proceeded.

" Did you call me, Cara mia ? " she enquired, glancing from a matronly-looking well-preserved woman, with olive complexion and reposeful ex pression, to the grey-headed butler who stood at a respectful distance. " It is Pietro once more," said Lady Halstead, in the very slow delivery that dignified her ladyship's most trivial utterance. " In the clutch of the law again, I suppose," remarked Francesca, parenthetically. "Well, not exactly, this time," replied her ladyship, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. " I understand from Blake here that Pietro's much belauded boat, the Doria, has received her final coat of paint, and that he is anxious we should no longer be deprived of the use of the most perfect craft in the bay." Blake smiled discreetly behind his hand. Pietro's failings were matter of common know ledge ; but making allowance for the superlative degree invariably employed by him when estima ting the good points of his little vessel, the fact remained that she was both trim-looking and roomy.

The one objection Lady Halstead urged against sailing was the extreme narrowness, and therefore the liability to capsize, of so many of the craft in which she had been tempted to put to sea. She had inspected the Doria and pronounced her to be the one boat in which she could, with any feeling of security, brave the ' perils of the deep ' without the distressing pangs occasioned by fear of her own safety. Francesca laughed at the repetition of Pietro's eulogy. "Tell him," she said, addressing the solemn visaged butler, " that Lady Halstead is pleased to hear that the Doria is ready for sea, and thank him, Blake." Pietro, when he awoke from the brown study into which events had conspired with their usual heart lessness to leave him, was at first greatly astonished to find that his pipe remained unlit.

This small oversight he promptly rectified. It then occurred to him that it was getting late, and he realized, as he turned his head and glanced at that troublesome basket, that his visit to Ospedaletti would not be made. He passed his hand through his hair and remained plunged in ihought. An idea, which appeared to give him entire satisfaction, was the result of this prolonged effort. He slapped his thigh violently, then, snatching up the basket, quickly crossed the road, and entered the white gates immediately in front of the place where he had been sitting. Pre sently he found himself at the Villa, and there furnished Blake with the news which that dignified official had imparted to her ladyship. He waited patiently for the butler's return, and having received Lady Halstead's message, pressed his spoil of the sea upon her emissary, and then returned to the village, conscious that some after-thoughts were an improvement upon first intentions.

In the softly-shaded drawing-room Francesca again took up her station by the open window, for the room was warm, and Lady Halstead dozed over the pages of Goethe. Lady Margherita Halstead was an Italian by birth and a descendant of a noble Genoese house. The circumstances of her marriage with Sir Francis Hal stead, a merchant prince and a baronet of recent creation, were somewhat romantic. Many years ago Mr. Francis Halstead (then un titled), of the firm of Rensford, Halstead and Son, was sent to Genoa to negotiate certain matters then pending. It happened that the agent's house was situated in close proximity to an old marble palace upon which the ravages of centuries had created little impression. A loggia ran the whole length of the side, overlooking his modest residence and small vineyard.

Sir Francis was not so com pletely engrossed in the negotiations as to have no time at his disposal, and the vineyard became his favourite resort. Once every day, at the same hour, he found himself regarding the loggia with expectant interest, satisfied if he should catch a glimpse of the youngest daughter of the noble house, who walked there sometimes in the evening. The loggia faced westward, and the rays of the setting sun penetrated its precincts, painting the marble with shades of crimson and gold. B Time sped by. Sir Francis prolonged the de liberations by raising as many difficulties as would suffice to keep him in Genoa indefinitely, while reference home consumed much time. At last, after many days, the gentle face he had watched for so long appeared above him. The love-light shone in the dark eyes that looked down into his.

He called her name softly ; there was no response. Again he whispered " Margherita." This time a finger, raised to the lips he coveted, warned him to be silent, and then with a gesture of dismay the loved presence vanished. Sir Francis waited in a fever of ex pectancy until it was evening next day. When it was dark and the pillars of the loggia were shrouded in the folds of night, he looked up, and lo ! the face he loved was peering down, searching in the gloom perchance for him ! He crept near and whispered her name softly. The figure above him stepped backwards, startled but glad, and then returned and looked down once more. Sir Francis, taking heart, flung a rope over the marble rail and waited. Margherita, after some pretty hesitation, seized it, and made it fast to a pillar. It was love at first sight, but Sir Francis won his bride in face of all opposition of her father and family.

Lady Halstead and her daughter were much alike in appearance, except that Francesca was more slightly formed and a shade the taller. The olive complexion of her ladyship was modified in Francesca, and beautified by a delicately tinted rose beneath the satin skin. The lustrous dark eyes of the mother shone with added lustre in Francesca's shapely head, though the expression there was sadder and more thoughtful. At the present time Lady Halstead and her daughter happened to be alone at the Villa Castelli, Sir Francis having returned to England in order to attend the last few meets of the Gaysford Hounds. He loved hunting, and considered it a duty he owed to the county of his adoption to appear in the field, and doubtless his handsome subscription to the fund contributed to his popularity. In the summer of last year, Sir Francis had bought the country seat of Inglewick in Westshire.

Some time previous to this he had retired from the firm of Rensford, Halstead and Son, having amassed a considerable fortune. The firm now consisted of Richard Fairfax and his son Eric, as Sir Francis had completely severed his connection with the concern. A grateful country had recognised the latter's claim to distinction by the bestowal of a baronetcy, which being translated, means, that one of the parties in the State owed a portion of its success to an influential supporter. Sir Francis, before the customary migration of his family in the autumn of the previous year to the Villa Castelli, had invited his former partner, Richard Fairfax and his son Eric to Inglewick. The elder Fairfax felt obliged to decline. " Business," he wrote, "engages all my time and attention." The invitation was gladly accepted by Eric, who arrived for a few days' stay at Inglewick, immediately preceding the flight to the south.

It is not often a dweller in cities declines an invita tion to a country house about the end of August, always provided that the host and his family are people to be happy with, and possess a passable cook. Early autumn uses all her powers of persuasion to woo one to the country. The clustering fruit hangs red and golden on the over-weighted boughs. The thick hedges of dahlias are masses of bloom — scarlet and yellow flowers kissed by the lingering sunshine. There are few things sweeter or more complete, in their way, than an old English country house, and Inglewick was an ideal home. The tide of life rushed by outside. How much more pleasant, if it were possible, to watch the surging of that tide from this out -ofthe -world spot, than to struggle and perhaps be oneself overwhelmed in its waters.

When Eric Fairfax arrived in the evening at the little station of Gaysford, Sir Francis's groom stopped his interesting conversation with the station-master porter and general agent for the railway company, and, touching his hat respectfully, intimated that the dog-cart was waiting. Eric greeted Miss Halstead with a graceful com pliment, admired her brown horse — Prince — and the neat turn-out. His luggage having been lifted in, he took his seat by Francesca, and they sped merrily away through the pretty lanes, arriving at Inglewick in good time for dinner. An excellent understanding existed up to this time between Francesca and Eric, based on the memory of the friendly rivalry of those times when the alphabet presented well-nigh insuperable difficulties to both alike, until the affectionate Lady Halstead shed a sudden light upon their under standing by the production of some sweet confec tion.

Eric's subsequent university career was not event ful, except that his father, who was passionately fond of his only son, paid dearly for the latter's liberal education in certain mysterious cults which are not included in the curriculum of those institu tions. Once, indeed, he narrowly escaped being " sent down." Then, his education completed to his own satisfaction, able, thanks to the aid of a doting parent, to indulge his very expensive tastes, he had proceeded to do so. During the process, and upon Sir Francis's retirement, he was admitted as a junior partner in the firm of Rensford, Halstead and Son. Then it was that Eric, with the instinct of self-preservation, recognised the necessity of much circumspection. It appeared that his connection with the turf was to be severed, and he seemed to devote himself entirely to the prosaic occupation that had fallen to his lot.

Eric was, however, a born gambler, and, with the cunning of weak natures, had resort to a host of subterfuges to cover the dissolute existence in which absolute lack of prin ciple and a natural addiction to vicious habits had involved him. He had supported the perilous double role he was compelled to play so far, and as he sat at table with the Halstead family he seemed no more than an extremely well-informed City man, and, as such, delighted the worthy baronet — his host — who predicted a brilliant future for him. During his stay at Inglewick, Eric lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself in Sir Francis's good opinion, or rather maintaining the high estimation in which he was aware Sir Francis already held him ; this, however, was largely due to his being the son of Richard Fairfax and to the inherent personal qualities he was gratuitously credited with possessing.

Eric, whose vanity equalled his selfish ness, drew no such distinction. Yet, curiously enough, while Sir Francis's esteem for his visitor increased, Francesca's former friendly feeling vanished and gave place to a strange antipathy. Lady Halstead remained neutral. At the foot of the sandstone rock, upon which the manor house of Inglewick was built, a narrow river ran, dividing the estates of Lord Ferraby of Gays ford, from Inglewick. At the time of Eric's visit, owing to heavy rains, this usually placid stream was whirling a surging torrent past the gables of Inglewick and the battlemented towers of Gaysford. One evening, before it was dusk, while the white mist that lay over the broad expanse of flooded waters hung in a mass of cloud-like vapour, Eric stood on the river bank apparently listening to the swirl of the water at his feet.

From time to time he pulled his dark moustache thoughtfully. His visit was drawing to a close, and he was summing up the exact amount of pleasure he had derived from it. Suddenly the mist lifted, and struggling in mid-stream a small dog was visible borne along by the current. Eric wondered idly how long it would live in such a flood, when with a plunge a figure dashed into the river from the opposite bank, and with strong strokes speedily rescued the well-nigh exhausted animal. " What a fool ! " exclaimed Eric with a sneer, " to risk his life for a dog ! " Francesca, who had been watching the scene from the lawn above, interested and alarmed, approached the water's edge unobserved. She had overheard his remark, and turned scornfully towards him. Those few words seemed to give voice to the instinctive feeling of dislike and distrust she was beginning to be conscious of experiencing for Eric.

"Only a dog, did you say, Mr. Fairfax? Would you dare to say that to the man who has just risked his life to save one ? " " I thought at first it might be someone drowning," said Eric, lamely. " It happened so quickly, too ; I was taken by surprise, and did not think what I was saying." " I hope not," retorted Francesca, with a peculiar intonation that did not escape Eric. She turned away, and began to walk slowly towards the steep path that led to the house. Eric stood still, looking after her retreating figure. An evil light shone in his restless eyes, while he anathematized the slip of his too ready tongue. He had made a mistake ; and the knowledge galled the vain spirit of admiration for his own dubious talents, while it awakened a feeling of resentment against all connected with the humiliation his ill judged remark had drawn upon him.

Very soon after this event he terminated his visit to Inglewick, and his departure was quickly followed by that of Lady Halstead and Francesca to the shores of the Mediterranean.

Chapter I. The

last rays of the setting sun were lingering upon the crest of Monte Bignone, which towered majestically behind the Villa Castelli. The purple haze of evening hung above the pine woods, and the voices of the fishermen down on the beach, singing their barcarole, floated upwards to Francesca, as she rested and listened afar off among the olive tinted foliage. The winter of the south had passed, and spring, with its glorious breath of awakening nature, was already heralding the approach of summer. The air was laden with the fragrance that rose from the woods and from the sweet-scented flowers that had sprung into bloom when the south wind kissed the vast garden in which they dwelt, and whispered to them to come forth. Francesca found unending pleasure in this country, and each recurring visit made its charm for her still more irresistible.

She never wearied of the soft graces of the genial clime which made every trial of its beneficent sway increasingly difficult to curtail. Thus it often happened that the summer was well advanced before the Villa Castelli was filled with that desolation untenanted dwellings always suggest. Everything was eternally new, everywhere she found something to interest and charm her afresh— the people in their picturesque unmodernized dress ; the melodious tongue her mother sometimes used ; curious ways and customs ; all aroused her sympathy, and many a humble neighbour had reason to bless their " Excellencies " of the Villa Castelli. Often Francesca explored the ancient town of San Remo with its quaint clustering of lofty houses one above the other, its narrow streets, its flights of steps, and numerous arches which spanned the ways below.

In the open doorways, talking and knitting busily, sat olive-complexioned women, with head-covering of fanciful brightcoloured kerchief or, here and there, a graceful mantilla. Invariably, too, sitting upon the steps, could be seen the contemplative Italian, smoking the pipe of peace, amid the in cessant babel that rose around him. Francesca's appearance generally reduced the argumentative combatants to respectful silence. They looked ad miringly at the English girl — almost as dark as one of themselves — as she passed by, and chatted about her, when she had gone, to their neighbours sitting opposite across the narrow way. Lady Halstead, who sometimes awoke from her lethargic state, had, late that afternoon, summoned up energy enough to accompany Francesca on a visit of mercy to Pietro, who dwelt in the old town.

Accordingly they had driven from the Villa Castelli as far as was practicable, and leaving their carriage in the square below, they ascended the steep street that forms the main thoroughfare. Very slowly they accomplished the ascent. Lady Halstead, dignified in all things, walked as with a preconceived notion as to the advisability of each successive step, which, if it allayed her ladyship's abhorrence of all appear ance of haste, did not contribute towards progress. At last, notwithstanding her very deliberate advance, Lady Halstead was fain to admit, half regret fully, that she " really could not walk so fast, and if Francesca wished she would sit down on one of the diminutive steps and wait her return." Francesca laughed good-humouredly at her mother. " Walk fast ! I am sorry ; I forgot," she said, apologetically.

" Never mind," observed her ladyship, " we will walk slowly now." By dint of continuous exertion Lady Halstead mounted higher and higher until she reached the steps that led to a subterranean dwelling-place. With a sigh of relief she descended into the ill lighted abode, followed by Francesca. The swarm of children playing around the doorway stopped in their play, and watched the great ladies who inspired them with awe. In the semi-darkness someone stepped forward to greet her ladyship. It was Bianca, Pietro's wife. "We are grateful, Excellencies," she said with simple courtesy. " How did it happen ? " enquired Francesca. " I will tell their Excellencies," cried a familiar voice from the further end of the room, as Bianca began to speak. "Very well, Pietro!" said her ladyship, in an indulgent tone.

Francesca murmured in an undertone to Bianca, " Let him tell his own tale, it will pacify him." " It was like this, Excellencies," said Pietro from where he lay, an unnatural pallor on his swarthy face, and an unusual tremor in his voice. " I have worked every day for your Excellencies," he con tinued, " because there is nothing I would not do. I have worked hard to prepare the Doria, so that you might sail upon the sea in the best boat, as every one knows, in San Remo. Well ! Excellencies, I had painted her, and she was quite ready to be put on the water " "Yes! yes!" said Bianca, irritably, "do not keep their Excellencies waiting." " Pardon, Excellency," muttered Pietro, discon certed at the interruption. " Well, Pietro ? " said Francesca, kindly, " we are listening." Then he burst out, his wrath kindling afresh at the recollection of his indignities.

" Last night, when I had left the Villa Castelli, I went down to the beach to examine the white paint on the Doria to see if it were dry, and some son of a fool had painted the boat black." Francesca bit her lip, and Lady Halstead looked gravely amused. The wound in Pietro's shoulder prevented him gesticulating, in lieu of which natural expression of his feelings his voice rose. " I was mad with anger, Excellencies, and I rushed to the Osteria of Calleno, and I swore I would be avenged on the scoundrel who had done me such wrong and insulted your Excellencies ; for everybody knows it is your boat," he added, with a half smile that passed unseen in the shadow in which he lay. " They laughed at me in the wine-shop — pardon, Excellencies — and said I was drunk, or that I was blind and could not tell black from white.

I told them they lied like a pack of knaves and cowards as they are, and one, Sebastiano, got up from his seat to put me out, saying I had forgotten what colour I had painted the Doria ; and then, I know not how, your Excellencies, I was thrown to the ground, and some more kind among them bound up my shoulder where I had been stabbed, and brought me here." Pietro concluded his narrative amid sympathetic murmurs. Quite casually, but adroitly, he had con nected Lady Halstead and Francesca with his misfortunes, and the logical conclusion he drew from that was the fact that he would not be allowed to suffer in their cause without compensation. Lady Halstead observed that it was very un fortunate, and he must have everything that was necessary ; to procure which she considerately contributed a quite sufficient sum.

She was dis tressed at the repeated occurrence of these brawls, in which Pietro invariably occupied an unenviably conspicuous position ; and now that the opportunity seemed favourable, she determined, under the in fluence of a strong feeling of indignation, to make it clear that the unpleasant notoriety his proceedings gained for him was not an unalloyed source of gratification to her. "You seem to be in perpetual trouble," she said, with the nearest approach to severity her voice could assume, "how much it is your own fault I cannot determine. Pietro once — Pietro always. Scarcely a week passes, but we hear of some discreditable occurrence in which you are concerned." Pietro hung his head penitently. " I know, Excellency, you have interceded on my behalf many times." Francesca watched her mother intently.