The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping

by Warwick Deeping

  Next moment he was out of his hollow and shadowing the man in the green through the chestnut woods, treading warily, his eyes set in a stare, his mouth a hard line. Von Mirenbach was going down towards the pool in the valley, his fowling-piece under his arm, his hat tilted over his eyes. He went no farther than the outer fringe of chestnut trees, and stood leaning against one of the dark trunks, his green figure almost invisible under the heavy shadows.

  Trevanion turned away to the left and pushed on until a gap in the foliage gave him a view of the Satyr’s Pool, and in an instant he understood the meaning of von Mirenbach’s movements. A slim, white figure, showed there in the sunlight, a figure poised upon a flat rock that dipped into the blue water. It was Rosamunda at the pool.

  Now Trevanion was something more than a vagrant and a scholar. There was much of the Bayard in him, and not a little of the St. Francis. He loved trees and wild things, innocence, and good books, and beauty wherever he found it, but he was no fool. He could handle a duelling sword with any man, shoot straight, ride a vicious horse, and was hard and tough as a frontiers-man.

  He retraced his steps, sighted von Mirenbach still gloating behind his tree, walked down to within ten paces of him, and stood waiting. The ground was mossy here, and the Austrian had heard nothing. Some minutes passed before he happened to turn his head and awoke to the fact that he was not alone.

  He faced sharply round, and stood with head up, like some proud beast, angry at being caught at a disadvantage, and for a minute or so these two men looked at each other without speaking a word. Then Trevanion walked straight at von Mirenbach, stopped within a yard of him, and stared him straight in the eyes.

  It was an accusation, a challenge, and a warning. No words went with it; neither man uttered a sound. And Trevanion walked out into the sunlight, and down to the Satyr’s Pool where Rosamunda was lacing her dress and shaking out the wet splendour of her hair.

  Her eyes lit at the sight of him, for the child wisdom in her had hailed the playmate and the good comrade, yet to Trevanion her delightful and precious innocence had become a thing of difficulty and danger. Pan was alive and in the flesh, skulking red-mouthed in the woods up yonder.

  Posed and challenged, the man in him chose simplicity, and threw away the scabbard. Of a sudden he loved this child, as he had never loved any living thing, and in this love of his he found an answer to all that troubled him.

  “I have kept my promise. It was very easy to keep.”

  “And why was it easy, signor?”

  “Because I gave you the promise.”

  She smiled and let him have her hand to kiss.

  “I like you,” she said, “are all Englishmen the same?”

  “In what way, Rosamunda?”

  “Your eyes look straight at me, and they tell me I have nothing to fear. What is it that I fear? I cannot tell. But that other day, when you had gone, that other man came.”

  Trevanion still held her hand, and she made no movement to withdraw it. Moreover it was good that Otto von Mirenbach should see what he was seeing.

  “What man, Rosamunda? Not Otto von Mirenbach?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I met him riding through the woods. And he did not please you?”

  She answered quite simply.

  “I ran away. He made me afraid. Why did he make me afraid?”

  Trevanion looked straight into her eyes.

  “Because he is evil and you are good. Because he is ugly and you are beautiful.”

  Her exquisite face was lost in a moment’s seriousness, the questioning, wondering seriousness of a child.

  “Am I beautiful?”

  “You have only to look into the pool. But this man came to the villa?”

  “Fra Tolomeo brought him. He spoke with my father about books, and some day father is to go to Castella Nero to see the man’s library, but I shall not go.”

  “You are right, Rosamunda. The Austrian is evil, and no good friend for your father.”

  He had thought to try and tell her of von Mirenbach’s spying upon her while she bathed, but her innocence made him keep silent, and his heart disliked the telling of it.

  His seriousness touched her. There was no Atalanta spirit in her that day, and she went slowly up the steps with him as though some new emotion were stirring in her heart. She had never had a lover, and hardly knew the meaning of the word, but this tall man with the kind and shining eyes brought a new note into her life.

  “Tell me,” she said to him, “why do you live in Italy, and travel so far? Maria says it is only the rich people who travel.”

  He was touched and amused.

  “Are you sorry for me because you think I am poor, Rosamunda?”

  “It is not a sin to be poor. And you look so strong and happy.”

  He laughed, and loved her more and more.

  “And so I am. And now I thank God for my strength and a clean life; but I am not poor, Rosamunda.”

  “It does not matter whether you are poor or rich. I hardly know what money is, and I am happy.”

  They reached the terrace, and saw Cæsare coming towards them, his flute under his arm. He looked rather madder and more dishevelled than before.

  “Ah, it is the Tin Man, the scholar from Oyster Island! Hail, brother scholar! Get you in, child, and see to the wine.”

  He took Trevanion by the arm with an air of moonstruck solemnity, and began to walk him up and down the terrace.

  “You did not believe me, sir, but the mystery is there, the great mystery. In three days we have the full moon.”

  Trevanion had a glimpse of Rosamunda looking at him.

  “What is it that I do not believe, signor? And what of the full moon?”

  “I am about to see the great god, sir, the great god Pan. For thirty years I have waited and never seen him. But yesterday I heard the pipes.”

  Trevanion gave him a quick and almost fierce glance.

  “The pipes of Pan?”

  “Yes, sir, the pipes of Pan. He is here, he is there, and on the night of the full moon he will come to the pool.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And my daughter, sir, shall be there to do honour to the great god.”

  Trevanion faced round, caught Cæsare by the shoulder, and his other hand was ready for the old man’s throat. But he mastered himself and that moment of anger and disgust, and stood there looking grimly into Cæsare’s face, and wondering what to make of him.

  “You are quite mad, signor,” he said very quietly.

  Cæsar blinked in his face.

  “Mad, am I? We shall see, when the moon is full, and the god steals down.”

  Trevanion dropped his hand from the madman’s shoulder.

  “Yes, we shall see, signor,” he said; “we shall see. These mysteries are not to be trifled with.”

  He had realized Cæsare’s hopelessness, and the perilous futility of trying to reason with him or to warn him. He thought of von Mirenbach haunting those chestnut woods and watching the pool. What if the Austrian had stolen the key of the old man’s madness and had guessed how to use it?

  But old Lombardi clung like a pestilence, sensing nothing of the Englishman’s angry yet pitying scorn. They went in to their wine, and Rosamunda left them together when her father began to babble of the classics and to bring out his books. Trevanion was patient with him. The old fool needed subtle handling, and Trevanion gave him his voice, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  The full heat of the day was upon them when Trevanion escaped and wandered out on to the terrace. He looked about him in the glare and heard Rosamunda calling him.

  “Nigel! Nigel!”

  She gave the name in soft Italian, and a smile came into his eyes. There was a little stone belvedere at the end of the terrace, overshadowed by a great pine and half hidden by trailing vines, and there Trevanion found her, sitting on an old bench carved out of chestnut wood, combing her hair.

  “My father is very strange thes
e days.”

  He bent over her.

  “May I sit here beside you, Rosamunda?”

  “Why—yes. Are we not friends?”

  “I want to speak to you of your father, and it is not easy. Do not do all that he bids you do.”

  “But I do not understand.”

  “You are too good and too beautiful to understand some things, child. The time of the full moon will be dangerous for your father. And tell me, have you no friends near?”

  “Friends? There is Maria; but Maria is always talking of Fra Tolomeo, and I do not like Fra Tolomeo.”

  “Yes.”

  “There are Sandro and Catarina at the farm. Sandro is a good man, and I love them very much.”

  “Where is the farm?”

  “Down yonder, at the end of the valley.”

  Trevanion told himself that he would go and see Sandro and Catarina.

  Her exquisite face had grown serious and a little sad.

  “Why should the full moon be dangerous for my father?”

  “Your father is not as other men, Rosamunda. Much learning has made him strange, and sometimes such men dream strange dreams.”

  “You make me afraid. And you will go away and leave me perhaps.”

  He bent and kissed her fingers.

  “No, on my oath. I shall be near you, near you so long as you bid me stop. That is a promise, Rosamunda.”

  “Dear friend,” she said, smiling. “I have known you but two days, and yet—I trust you.”

  “Go on trusting me,” he answered, “and I shall be proud and happy.”

  He was loth to leave her; she seemed very much a child to him, a little triste, and a little lonely, and his man’s tenderness went out to her.

  “I am so sad to-day, Nigel, and yet I cannot tell you why.”

  He touched her arm very gently.

  “Then, I am sad also. For you are the sunshine, Rosamunda, and when the sunlight is clouded——”

  “Why must you go?”

  “It is not for myself that I go, child. Some day I may tell you more of all this. And I will come to the Villa Lunetta to-morrow.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he was shy of her innocence, and this new, swift love of his was a white flame.

  “To-morrow.”

  “To-morrow,” she answered him.

  Trevanion made straight for the woods, and his path had a double end. He wanted no one to know of his going to Sandro’s farm, and remembered that von Mirenbach might still be loitering there, and that the Austrian was armed. However, he saw nothing of the man in green, even though he lay low awhile and watched.

  Half an hour later Trevanion came down through a grove of beech trees and sighted Sandro’s farm. The house lay in the valley, a low, white house half hidden by juniper, acacias, and a smother of vines. There were a few rough outbuildings round it; some grazing land lay between it and the stream, and a stretch of vineyard on the opposite slope of the hill.

  Trevanion noted all this with the keen eyes of a man who had fought and hunted. He saw a figure near the orchard wall, the figure of a big man in a white shirt and blue breeches, who was working amid the corn. The green stalks rose above the man’s knees. Trevanion guessed that this was Sandro. He walked round by the stream and across the grassland to the edge of the cornfield. The man went on working, not troubling to look up till Trevanion was close to him, although he had seen him long ago.

  “Good day to you, Farmer Sandro.”

  The man straightened himself and looked at Trevanion with a pair of grave, dark eyes. He was the old Roman type, eagle-nosed, square-chinned, hard as oak, reticent, practical, a good friend and a merciless enemy.

  “Good day to you, Tadeschi,” he said.

  Trevanion smiled.

  “I’m no Austrian, but an Englishman. It has been told me, padrone, that you are a good friend to the little lady of the Villa Lunetta. Is that so?”

  Sandro’s eyes narrowed a little.

  “That is so, stranger. And what of it?”

  “If you are her friend you will swear faith to her and to me.”

  “And who are you, stranger, that you ask me to swear oaths?”

  Trevanion spoke straight at him, judging his fibre.

  “Man, would it please you to see the little signorina in the hands of Otto von Mirenbach?”

  “God forbid!”

  “Then you are her friend, even as I am her friend. It is a strange household up there, padrone.”

  “Very strange, signor. But who are you?”

  “An Englishman who travels as he pleases. I lodge at Monte Verde in the house of Luigi the bookseller. In England I own a great house and many farms. And, man, if you want the truth from me, know that I think of that little lady as my wife. Her father is mad, and that damned Austrian sneaks in the woods to see her bathing. The Pool of the Satyr—there is some tale about it, some mystery?”

  Sandro grew dark as a thundercloud.

  “An old woman’s tale,” he said; “and yet—who knows! There are devils, signor, as well as men. Catarina, my wife, has worried about the little lady, because of that pool and her innocence.”

  “What is the tale, Sandro?”

  “It was like this, signor. Once upon a time a girl used to bathe in that pool, just as the signorina bathes there now. In the old days the pool was sacred to the goat-god of the woods, and on certain nights at the full moon this goat-god has the power to escape out of Hades and run wild as of old. They say he found this girl bathing by moonlight and loved her, and next morning she was dead, floating in the pool. And the old women say, signor, that the girl must be fair-headed and that the goat-god goes mad when he seizes La Bionda.”

  Trevanion look very grim.

  “Old Cæsare knows that tale, Sandro. He waits for the goat-god at the next full moon, and would make his child bathe there at midnight!”

  Sandro crossed himself.

  “It must not happen,” he said; “the old man is possessed by a devil. Even if no harm came of it, it is an infamy, for the little lady is an angel.”

  Trevanion held out his hand.

  “Padrone, we can trust each other. I shall watch that pool each night till the time is past, but Monte Verde is too far for me, nor have I any reason to think that the Austrian loves me over much. I could make a shelter in the woods, and if you could sell me food?”

  The Italian was more generous.

  “My house is yours, signor. You can be as secret as you please. No one need know that you are here. And when will you come?”

  “To-morrow. I must see Luigi, and get him to spin a tale for me—say I have gone to Rome.”

  “Good. Then to-morrow.”

  III

  Trevanion reached Monte Verde about dusk, just before the gates were closed, and since a couple of peasants were quarrelling with the guard, he passed through unnoticed. The via Flavia was very dark, and there was no light in the bookseller’s house, but Luigi was sitting on the stool among his books, listening and waiting.

  “So it is you.”

  He closed the door quickly behind Trevanion.

  “I wondered whether you would return, my friend. People are becoming interested in you here, so interested that von Mirenbach’s sbirri visited my house to-day.”

  “The devil! At what hour?”

  “Less than two hours ago. I lied to them, and said you had left, and had spoken of Rome.”

  Trevanion was greatly disturbed.

  “Luigi, I must not be meddled with by these fools. And von Mirenbach has his reasons.”

  “If you take my advice you will get out of the town to-night.”

  “But the gates are shut.”

  “I will show you a way out of the town. A little nerve is needed and a steady head; it is not that I am a coward, sir, but if you have offended the Austrian——”

  Trevanion was in no mood for tarrying.

  “Wait while I get my sword and pistols and put a few things into my h
aversack. You will have to hide what little is left, Luigi; the things are yours, and here is what I owe you.”

  “Tut, tut! never worry. I will wait here for you. The swine may come back any minute. It is their way.”

  Trevanion was with him again in less than five minutes, and Luigi led the way out into the garden. He stood listening a moment, and then moved forward into the darkness. The moon was not yet up.

  “Give me a hand with the ladder, friend. It is just long enough to get a man on to the city wall, but too short for the other side.”

  They carried the ladder to the end of the garden and reared it against the grey stones. Luigi went up first, bidding Trevanion wait a moment. A path ran along the top of the wall, linking up the old towers and bastions.

  “All is quiet. Come.”

  Trevanion joined him on the wall. They moved along it for about fifty yards till something dark and huge loomed up close to them. It was a big cypress tree that grew close to the wall, so close that its branches brushed against it.

  “There is your ladder. I have used it more than once; you jump well into the thick of the foliage, and get your arms round the trunk.”

  “Thanks, Luigi; you are a good friend.”

  “Have you any food?”

  “Enough for the morning; after that I shall manage. Tell them I have gone to Rome. Good-bye.”

  Half an hour later there came a knocking at the bookseller’s door. Luigi opened it, candle in hand, and with the air of a man who was sleepy and on the point of going to bed.

  “Who’s there?”

  A big fellow pushed in, and some half-dozen more were ready to follow him. He held a pistol at Luigi’s head and grinned cheerfully.

  “Not a sound, old man. We are going to search this house for the Englishman.”

  “I have told you that he left this morning, and spoke of travelling to Rome.”

  “Yes, no doubt; but he was seen at the Mola gate about dusk.”

  “Well, he is not here; I have not seen him.”

  The sergeant of the sbirri left a guard at both doors, and went up with Luigi and the rest of his men to search the house. They missed nothing, not even a cupboard-ful of old clothes and lumber, but they found no Englishman, and came down disappointed. The garden and the cellar were equally unsympathetic, and the sbirri did not happen to notice the ladder lying along a fence and half hidden by rank herbage and vines.