The Vision of Desire | Page 2

out the crumpled
sheet of paper. Tearing it into very small pieces, he tossed them into the
garden below the veranda where he was sitting and watched them circle
to the ground like particles of fine white snow.
As they settled his face cleared. The tension induced by the perusal of
the letter had momentarily aged it, affording a fleeting glimpse of the
man as he might be ten years hence if things should chance to go awry
with him--hard and relentless, with more than a suggestion of cruelty.
But now, the strain lessened, his face revealed that charm of boyishness
which is always curiously attractive in a man who has actually left his
boyhood behind him. The mouth above the strong, clean-cut chin was
singularly sweet, the grey eyes, alight and ardent, meeting the world
with a friendly gaiety of expression that seemed to expect and ask for
friendliness in return.
As the last scrap of paper drifted to earth he stretched out his arms,
drawing a great breath of relief. His tea, brought to him at the same
time as the letter he had just destroyed, still stood untasted on a rustic
table beside him. He poured some out and drank it thirstily; his mouth
felt dry. Then, setting down the cup, he descended from the veranda
and made his way quickly through the hotel garden to the dusty white
road beyond its gates.
It was very hot. The afternoon sun still flamed in the vividly blue
Italian sky, and against the shimmer of azure and gold the tall, dark
poplars ranked beside the road struck a sombre note of relief. But the
man himself seemed unconscious of the heat. He covered the ground
with the lithe, long-limbed stride of youth and supple muscles, and
presently swung aside into a garden where, betwixt the spread arms of
chestnut and linden and almond tree, gleamed the pink-stuccoed walls

of a half-hidden villa.
Skirting the villa, he went on unhesitatingly, as one to whom the way
was very familiar, following a straight, formal path which led between
parterres of flowers, ablaze with colour. Then, through an archway
dripping jessamine, he emerged into a small, enclosed garden--an inner
sanctuary of flower-encircled greensward, fragrant with the scent of
mignonette and roses, while the headier perfume of heliotrope and
oleander hung like incense on the sun-warmed air.
A fountain plashed in the centre of the velvet lawn, an iridescent mist
of spray upflung from its marble basin, and at the farther end a stone
bench stood sheltered beneath the leafy shade of a tree.
A woman was sitting on the bench. She was quite young--not more
than twenty at the outside--and there was something in the dark, slender
beauty of her which seemed to harmonise with the southern scents and
colour of the old Italian garden. She sat very still, her round white chin
cupped in her palm. Her eyes were downcast, the lowered lids, with
their lashes lying like dusky fans against the ivory-tinted skin beneath,
screening her thoughts.
The man's footsteps made no sound as he crossed the close-cut turf, and
he paused a moment to gaze at her with ardent eyes. The loveliness of
her seemed to take him by the throat, so that a half-stifled sound
escaped him. Came an answering sound--a sharp-caught breath of fear
as she realised an intruder's presence in her solitude. Then, her eyes
meeting the eager, worshipping ones fixed on her, she uttered a cry of
dismay.
"You?--You?" she stammered, rising hastily.
In a stride he was beside her.
"Yes. Didn't you expect me? You must have known I should come."
He laughed down at her triumphantly and made as though to take her in
his arms, but she shrank back, pressing him away from her with urgent

hands.
"I told you not to come. I told you not to come," she reiterated. "Oh!"
turning aside with nervous desperation, "why didn't you stay away?"
He stared at her.
"Why didn't I? Do you suppose any man on earth would have stayed
away after receiving such a letter? Why did you write it?"--rapidly.
"What did you mean?"
She looked away from him towards the distant mountains rimming the
horizon.
"I meant just what I said. I can't marry you," she answered
mechanically.
"But that's absurd! You've known I cared--you've cared, too--all these
weeks. And last night you promised--you said--"
"Last night!" She swung round and faced him. "I tell you we've got to
forget last night--count it out. It--it was just an interlude--"
She broke off, blenching at the abrupt change in his expression. Up till
now his face had been full of an incredulous, boyish bewilderment, half
tender, half chiding. Within himself he had refused to believe that there
was any serious intent behind her letter.