At intervals, all day, he debated the advisability of sending flowers to the ship, and decided against it. She would probably consider it an impertinence. No—he had irretrievably cut himself off … All that he had left now was his mounting interest in his work, into which he plunged with renewed enthusiasm.
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
