The castaway

When Gordon descended the stair he came upon a striking group at the villa entrance. Shelley, with his wife beside him, confronted the severe-faced syndic, who stood stolidly with the comfortably plump avocat. A look of indignation was on his brow, and Mary’s face was perturbed.

“Here he is,” said the functionary in his neighborhood patois, and with satisfaction.

“You have business with me?” asked Gordon.

“I have. I require you to accompany me at once to Cologny on a matter touching the peace of this canton.”

“And this matter is what?”

“You speak French,” returned the syndic tartly; “doubtless you read it as well,”—and handed him a clipping from the Journal de Belgique.

Gordon scanned the fragment of paper, first with surprise, then with a slow and bitter smile. He had not seen the story, but it differed little from scores of calumnies that had filled the columns of less credulous newspapers in London before his departure. It was a breath fresh from the old sulphur bed of hatred, brought sharply to him here in his solitude.

“I see,” he said; “this states that a certain English milord had turned highwayman and deprived an honest Fleming of a wagon? How does it affect me?”

“Do you deny that you have the wagon?” demanded the syndic curtly.

“The wagon? I have a wagon, yes. One bought for me by my servant.”

“In Brussels?”

“As it happens, in Brussels.” The paleness of Gordon’s face was accentuated now, and his eyes held cores of dangerous flame. “And because I am an English milord, and bring a wagon from Brussels, you assume that I am a robber?”

“You were driven from your own country,” menaced the other. “Do you think we hear nothing, we Swiss? This canton knows you well enough! Stop those horses!” he snarled, for the great coach, ready for its trip to the town, was rolling down the driveway. The syndic sprang to the horses’ heads.

At the same instant the two strangers who had been in the overturned boat, now with clothing partially dried, came from the house.

“There!” The syndic pointed to the ornate vehicle. “Do you deny this is the wagon described in that newspaper, and that you absconded with it from Brussels?”

The older of the two strangers turned quick eyes on Gordon, then on the wagon. Before Gordon could reply, he spoke in nervous French:

“I beg pardon. I was the owner of that conveyance, and the one who sold it.”

“Maybe,” said the functionary, “but you did not sell it to this person, I have reason to believe.”

“No, yonder is the purchaser.” He pointed to a prosaic figure at the steps.

“His valet!” Shelley thrust in explosively.

“I told you so,” grunted the man of law, and stared with the surprise of recognition, as the syndic, ruffling with anger, turned on the strangers with sarcasm: “Friends of the English milord, no doubt!”

The counsellor laid a hasty hand on his sleeve:

“Stop!” he said. “I think I have had the honor of meeting these gentlemen in Geneva. Allow me to present you, monsieur, to Prince Mavrocordato, minister of foreign affairs of Wallachia, and”—he turned to the latter’s younger companion—“his secretary, Count Pietro Gamba, of Ravenna.”

The sour-faced official drew back. These were names whose owners had been public guests of the canton. This Englishman, evil and outcast as he might be, he had no legal hold upon. He could scarcely frame a grudging apology, for the resentment of self-righteousness that was on his tongue, and stalked off up the terrace in sullen chagrin not consoled by the chuckles of the attorney beside him.

Gordon saw them go, his hands trembling. He replied mechanically to the grateful farewells of the two strangers as they entered the coach, and watched it roll swiftly down the darkening shore road, a quivering blur before his eyes. A fierce struggle was within him, the peace which the tranquil poise of Shelley’s creed had lent him, warring against a clamant rage.

Not only in England was he maligned. Here, on the edge of this mountain barrier, defamation had followed him. The pair riding in his own carriage knew who he was; the older had spoken his name and title. And they had not elected to stay beyond necessity. Yet for their momentary presence, indeed, he should be grateful. But for this trick of coincidence he should now be haled before a bungling Genevan tribunal, his name and person a mark for the sparring of pettifogging Swiss officials!

These thoughts were clashing through his mind as he turned and walked slowly down to the bank where Shelley’s Swiss servant had moored the stranger’s rescued boat, bailed out and with sail stretched to dry. The sunset, as he stood, flamed redly across the lake, its ray glinting from the rim of a bright object whose broken chain had caught beneath the boat’s gunwale. He leaned and drew it out.

It was an oval miniature backed with silver—the portrait of a young girl, a face frail and delicately hued, with fine line of chin and slender neck, with wistful eyes the deep color of the Adriatic, hair a gush of tawny gold, skin like warm Arum lilies, and a string of pearls about her neck. Evidently it had belonged to one of the two men with whom the craft had capsized. It was too late now to overtake the coach; he would send it after them that evening.

He turned the miniature over. On the back was engraved a name: “Teresa Gamba.” Gamba? It had been one of the names spoken by the attorney, that of the young count for whose rescue he had swum so hard.

He looked again at the ivory. His wife? No, no; innocence of life, ignorance of its passions and parades were there. His sister? Yes. The fair hair and blue eyes were alike. And now he caught a subtle resemblance of feature. She was dear to this brother, no doubt—dear as was his own half-sister to him, well-nigh the only being left in England who believed in him and loved him.

He looked up at a hail from the lake. A boat was approaching, bearing a single feminine rower. As he gazed, she looked over her shoulder to wave something white at the porch.

“It is Jane. She has been to the post,” cried Shelley from the terrace, and hastened down the bank.

Gordon thrust the ivory into his pocket as the skiff darted in to the landing.