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
