CHAPTER III.

THE WANING OF THE HONEYMOON.

"Ah, love how quickly fades the rose, When after sunshine come the snows, So joys may change to cruel woes Thro' Cupid's treason. But roses will their bloom renew, And snows fall not from heavens blue, So hearts like ours will still be true, Through every season."

It certainly would be difficult to find a more charming residence than the Villa Tagni. Standing on the extreme verge of a low rocky promontory, which ran out some distance into the tideless waters of Lake Como, it appeared like some fairy palace as it nestled amid the cool green of its surrounding trees and reflected its delicately ornate façade in the still mirror of the water.

Like most Italian houses it had a somewhat theatrical appearance, with its bright pink-coloured walls and vividly green shutters, set in broad frames of snow-white stone. Then again, these walls being decorated with arabesque designs in various brilliant tints, the general effect at a distance was that of cunningly wrought mosaic, while above this bizarre combination of colours sloped the roof of dull-hued red tiles; the picturesque whole standing out in glowing relief from the emerald background of heavily-foliaged trees of ilex, tamarisk, chestnut and cypress. High above towered a great mountain, with its grey scarred peak showing suddenly through its green forests against the clear blue of an Italian sky. More than half-way down, the highway ran along the slope like a sinuous white serpent, and below nestled the villa by the water's edge. Bright, fanciful, jewel-like, it was the very realization of a poet's dream, the magic outcome of some Oriental phantasy, such as we read of in those strange Arabian tales where the genii rear visionary palaces under the powerful spells of Solomon ben Daoud.

A broad stone terrace ran along the front of the villa, on to which admission was given from the house by wide French windows, generally masked by their venetian shutters, which excluded the glare of the sun from the inner apartments. A double flight of steps descended from this terrace sheer into the cool water upon which floated the graceful pleasure boat belonging to the villa, and on either side grew dense masses of sycamore, fir, oak and laurel sloping down to the verge of the lake, their uniform tints broken at intervals by the pale grey foliage of olive trees. Radiant in the sunlight glowed the rosy blossoms of the oleander, sudden amid the shadow flashed the golden trails of drooping laburnams--here, like the fabled fruit of Hesperides, hung golden oranges, there the pallid yellow ovals of scented lemons, and deep in the faint twilight of glossy leaves glimmered the warm white blossoms of the magnolia tree, ivory censers from whence breathed those voluptuous perfumes which confuse the brain like the fumes of opium smoke.

And then the flowers! Surely this was the paradise of flowers, which here grew in a prodigal profusion unknown in the carefully-cultured gardens of chill northern lands where the fruitful footsteps of Flora pause but a moment. In this favoured clime, however, the goddess ever remains, and adorns her resting place with lavish bounty of her fast-fading treasures.

Here deeply-flushed roses scattered their showers of fragrant leaves, yonder bloomed the pale amethystine heliotrope, fiercely amid the verdure burned the scarlet blossoms of the geranium, and, in secluded corners, slender virginal lilies hinted at the pale mysticism of the cloister, while red anemones, grey-green rosemary, blue violets, still bluer gentian, many-tinted azaleas, snowy asphodels, and yellow hawkweeds all grew together in a confused mass of brilliant colours, and every vagrant wind ruffling the still surface of the lake sent a rich breath of fragrance through the drowsy air. Over all, the deep azure of the cloudless sky, from whence shone the fierce sun on the lofty encircling mountains, the arid plains, the clustering villages huddled round the slender white _campanili_ of their churches, the glittering waters of the lake, the brightly coloured villas, and on the brilliant profusion of flowers which almost hid the teeming bosom of the green earth in this garden of the world.

It was late in the afternoon, and the cool breeze of the coming night was already commencing to make its welcome presence felt, when Guy Errington and his wife, the present occupants of Villa Tagni, came out on to the terrace to enjoy this most delightful hour of the Italian day. The servants arranged some Turkish rugs on the tesselated pavement, placed thereon three or four comfortable lounging chairs of wicker work, and set forth a small round table, on the white cloth of which stood a tea service, with a small silver kettle hissing merrily over a spirit lamp, some plates of cake and fruit, a few tall thin-stemmed glasses, and a straw-covered flask of red Chianti wine.

These arrangements being completed they retired, and Lady Errington making her appearance sat down in one of the chairs, while Sir Guy, looking cool and comfortable in his white flannels, perched himself perilously on the balustrade of the terrace with a cigarette between his lips. And surely nothing could be more charming than this peaceful scene, with the exquisite view of the lake, the fragrant coolness of the breeze, the romantic-looking terrace, the pleasant evidence of hospitality, and this young Adam and Eve to give life to the whole.

Aged twenty-eight, with a sunburnt face, a fair moustache, merry blue eyes and a stalwart figure, Sir Guy was certainly a very handsome young man, the very type of a well-born, well-bred Englishman, and a greater contrast to his lusty physique could hardly have been found than that of his wife, with her fragile frame, her pale serious face, and smooth coils of lustrous golden hair. In her loose tea-gown of dead white Chinese silk unrelieved by any tint, she looked almost as wan and colourless as the perfumed knot of snowy lilies at her breast, and the great fan of white ostrich feathers she wielded in her slender hand was rivalled by the pallor of her face. The dreaming look in her calm, blue eyes, the slight droop of the thin red lips which gave a touch of sadness to her mobile mouth, and the exquisite transparency of her complexion, all added to the fragile look of this fair pale woman, whose spirituality was enhanced by the faint shadows which now began to fill the warm air.

Guy Errington, sturdy and practical, did not as a rule indulge in any fanciful musings, but something in the peculiar delicacy of her expression seemed to strike him suddenly, and throwing away his cigarette he bent over his pale wife with an air of the utmost solicitude.

"I hope you have not felt the heat too much, dear," he said, anxiously touching the faint rose tint of her cheek with a gentle finger, "you look as white as a ghost."

Lady Errington smiled languidly and put her fan up to her lips with a low laugh.

"I'm afraid I must be a very deceptive person," she replied lightly, "for I feel perfectly well. I am always pale, and I obtain a great deal of undeserved sympathy under false pretences."

"Do you mind my smoking?"

"Not in the least. Why did you throw away your cigarette?"

"I thought it annoyed you."

His wife looked at him with a slightly mocking smile on her lips.

"I wonder if you will always be so ready to sacrifice your pleasures to my unexpressed desires."

"Always! always!" replied Guy fervently, kneeling beside her chair. "Your slightest wish will always be my law, Alizon."

"Till the honeymoon is over, I suppose," said Alizon a trifle sadly, as she passed her fingers through his hair.

"I'm afraid the honeymoon is over--in the eyes of the world at least," responded Errington ruefully. "We've been three months married, you know, and to-day is our last one of solitude, for Eustace and his friend will soon be here--are you sorry?"

"Oh, yes, very sorry," she replied, indifferently, suppressing a yawn; "these last three months have been charming."

Errington looked slightly disappointed at her lack of fervour, and to make up for it commenced to vehemently declare that he did not want to see anyone, that he could live for the next century with her alone, she was all the world to him, the one thing he lived for, etc., etc. in fact gave glib utterance to all the fond rhapsodies which constantly pour from the mouths of adoring lovers and newly-married men.

Kneeling beside her, his face glowing with passionate feeling and his blue eyes fixed adoringly on the face of his divinity, Guy Errington looked gallant, handsome and fervid enough to have satisfied the most exacting woman. Yet, strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this wife of three months appeared slightly bored by his erotic enthusiasm.

"You are the pearl of husbands, my dear Guy," she observed idly when he ceased his protestations, "but confess now, on your knees as you are, that you feel a trifle weary of this perfect bliss--this society of two--and long for your dogs, your horses, and your coverts."

At this accurate divination of his real feelings, Errington looked somewhat disconcerted, for despite the ardour of his protestations he did feel slightly weary of this monotonous tranquillity, and in his secret heart longed for the things she mentioned.

"Well, you know I'm not a bit romantic," he said apologetically, as if he were confessing to some crime, "and I am a little tired of churches and pictures. Besides, I am anxious for you to see the Hall, and there's such a lot of things to be looked after, and--and----"

"And this is somewhere about the twelfth of August," said Lady Errington slily, cutting short his excuses, whereat he laughed in a somewhat embarrassed manner.

"Ah, you've found me out," he observed with a smile. "Well, yes, dear, I confess it is true, I was thinking about the coverts--it ought to be a good year for the birds. Besides there are the stables, you know. I am going to get a new hunter for next season. Baffles tells me there's a good one to be picked up--belongs to some Major Griff or Groff--don't know the name--and I've got my eye--Good gracious, Alizon," he added, breaking off--"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing!" she replied, trying to smile although she looked singularly disturbed, "only that name you mentioned, Major Griff."

"Yes, what about him?"

"Nothing at all--only he was--I believe, a friend of my father's."

"Oh! don't trouble your head about those things, dear, all that sort of thing is past and done with," said Guy fondly, who knew what she had suffered at the hands of her father, "your life will be all sunshine--if I can make it so."

Alizon bent forward and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

"You're a good, dear fellow, Guy," she said softly, "and if I do sometimes remember the bitterness of the past, I always thank God for the sweetness of the present, and for the husband He has given me. We will go back to Errington Hall whenever you like. I am anxious to see our home."

This last phrase sounded delightful to the ears of Guy, and in a sudden access of tenderness he bent his head and kissed the cool slim hand which lay so confidingly in his own. Alizon's momentary fit of emotion being past, she withdrew her hand with a slight laugh at his action.

"How foolish you are, Guy," she said gaily, "you must have graduated at the court of Versailles, but do something more sensible and tell me all about the Hall, so that I may not be too ignorant on my arrival."

He had done so hundreds of times before, but the recital never lost its charm for him, and he thereupon entered into a long and minute description of his ancestral home with the greatest zest. He described the quaint old building where so many generations of Erringtons had been born, lived and died, the well-timbered park with its mighty oaks, ferny glades and ancient beech-trees, the shooting, which was said to be the best in the county, the characteristics of the different people who lived around, to all of which Alizon listened with praiseworthy attention, although truth to tell her thoughts were far away and she was in her own mind contrasting this gallant, tender husband, with her selfish, vicious father.

Gabriel Mostyn had been a thorough Bohemian in every way, regarding the world at large as his special property, and always at home wherever he chose to pitch his tent. Some unknown strain of gipsy blood which had been in abeyance for several generations, had suddenly developed in him with overpowering force, and impelled him to restless wanderings which he was quite unable to withstand. The semi-barbaric life of Russia had been as well-known to him as the refined civilization of London, and it was all the same to him whether he wintered at Rome, passed the summer in Norway, or explored the wild recesses of the Andes. Owing to this indulgence of his nomadic instincts he had developed within himself all the vices inseparable from such a primeval existence, and became a man accustomed to exist by the law of might against right, taking as his own whatever came to his hand, preying on the weaknesses of his fellow creatures, and binding himself by no law of honour or kindness so long as his own selfish desires were gratified.

With such a father it was hardly to be wondered at that Alizon had small respect for the masculine sex, and, foolishly no doubt, judged everyone else by the only standard she had known. During those four terrible years when her father had been dying inch by inch, and disputing every inch with the inexorable Angel of Death, she had learned a great deal of his previous existence, and the knowledge of such a foul life had appalled her gentle soul. The idea of marriage with a man resembling her father even in the most distant manner was repellent to all her ideas, and she certainly would never have become the wife of Guy Errington, had not her position with her relatives been made so disagreeable in every way that with many misgivings she consented to marry a possible Caliban.

To her surprise, however, she was agreeably disappointed in finding in her husband a straightforward, honourable man, with the truest instincts of a gentleman. He did not pass his life like a modern Cain in restless wanderings round the world, at war with society and shunned by all as an outcast, a pariah, a leper, beyond the pale of human love and companionship. No, he loved his birth-place, his position, his good name, and knew that he had duties to fulfil in life, both towards himself, his friends and his tenants. Remembering the vices of her father, Errington's every-day virtues seemed those of an angel, and although she did not love him when she became his wife, yet it was possible that love might be born of genuine admiration and respect, and subsequently develop into the stronger passion.

At present, however, she had not got beyond her first stage of surprise, but simply admired, respected, and honoured Errington as a man possessed of a just, kind, straightforward nature, and who was anxious to make her happy by every means in his power. There have been worse marriages than this consisting of love on one side and admiration of good qualities on the other, therefore Guy had every prospect of being happy in such a union as he deserved to be by his inherent good qualities and his honourable desire to do right in every way.

While Alizon was letting her thoughts run on in this fashion, Guy had become so excited in his narration concerning Errington Hall and their future life of happiness, that he had risen to his feet, and was now striding up and down the terrace giving full reins to his imagination.

"We'll have an awfully jolly time of it," he said blithely, "and you'll soon forget all your past worries in looking after things; there's everything to make life happy at the Hall, only I do wish there was a little more money."

"Money's the root of all evil," observed Alizon smiling.

"And the want of it's the whole tree," retorted Guy, laughing at his own mild witticism. "You see, my father hadn't much idea about things, and muddled a good deal, so the consequence is that there is a mortgage on the estate which I must pay off, so we'll have to live quietly for some years."

"I'm sure I don't mind."

"But I do. I'm not going to have you waste your sweetness on the desert air," replied Errington vehemently, "but at present I don't see how it can be helped. I need a large sum of ready money, but won't get it, unless--unless Aunt Jelly dies."

"I don't think that probable," said Alizon lightly, "Miss Corbin looks strong enough to outlive Methusaleh."

"And I daresay she will, the tough old party, but if she does die I'm sure to come in for her money unless she leaves it to Eustace."

"Well, why shouldn't she?"

"Because in the first place she doesn't like him as much as she does me, and in the second he's got lots of money already, and no wife to support."

"Lucky man," observed Lady Errington mischievously.

"Lucky woman to have escaped him, you mean," retorted Guy sagely; "he's the most exacting man you ever met."

"I've never met him to speak to, but I do know him by sight."

"And that's quite enough. He's such a fastidious chap--an angel out of Heaven wouldn't satisfy him."

"Probably not. I don't think angels are desirable wives as a rule."

"Oh, yes they are, dear," said Errington fondly, pausing near her, "you are an angel."

"A very prosaic angel, I'm afraid."

"Good enough for me anyhow."

"Isn't that rather a doubtful compliment?"

"Do you think so? Well, now I come to think of it, perhaps it is a little doubtful. But I haven't got the gift of tongues like Eustace; you should hear him talk, Alizon."

"If his talk is like his books I don't think I shall like it."

"Eh!--why not? I haven't read them, but I hear they're deuced clever."

"Too much so, cynical and bitter."

"That's just like his own character. Eustace is the most pessimistic man I know."

"I'm certain I shall not like him," asserted Lady Errington calmly.

Her husband chuckled a little before replying.

"Don't be too sure of that. Eustace is a very fascinating sort of man."

"More so than you?"

"Oh, I'm not fascinating."

"You're very modest, at all events."

"Do you think so? Wait till you hear me tell shooting stories about my prowess."

"Is that your special weakness?"

"By no means--you are."

"Thank you for a very pretty compliment, but I'm afraid this conversation is becoming frivolous," said Alizon, with a faint pink colour creeping into the pallor of her cheeks, "however, it's ended now, for here come your friends."

"Better late than never," remarked Guy, turning round to salute his cousin, who advanced along the terrace, followed by Otterburn. "How do you do, Eustace?"

"Quite well, thank you Guy," replied Eustace, gravely shaking hands. "This is Mr. Macjean--my cousin, Sir Guy Errington."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Macjean," said Errington bluffly, "and now let me introduce both you gentlemen to my wife, Lady Errington. Alizon, this is my cousin Eustace and Mr. Macjean."

Lady Errington bowed with a charming smile, and the whole party, sitting down, proceeded to make themselves comfortable.