I had come to the old town to study art; to search the blazoned manuscripts lying hidden in sacristy and convent, and learn from them their secrets of colour and design; to wander through frescoed church and palace, where walls and ceilings are brilliant still as when the hands which wove their gorgeous stories first laid the pencil down and thanked God for the great consoler--Art. I had come to watch the mists rising from the valleys, and wrapping the mountains in soft mystery of cloud--cloud which changes and shifts, and melts at last into the golden and purple, the opaline green of the sunrise; so that I might try to wrest from Nature a faint touch of her magic of shadow and light, of colour and form, and lay it at the feet of the one mistress I had ever known--Art.
What I was now studying was a woman's heart--and what I learned was--nothing. I do not think mine is an impressionable nature. I had spent thirty years in the world, and had never loved any woman until I saw Mary Mayne in the morning light sitting above that old gateway; yet in one short week I had grown to love her--well, as few women are ever loved.
At the end of that week came a letter from Willie Vereker, saying his yacht needed some repairs, and he would put in at Genoa for a few days if his mother could meet him there. He had been to the East, and she had not seen him for some time; so she decided on going back to Genoa; hoping the _Gwendoline_ might need more repairing than Willie thought, and keep him there longer than he expected. The evening of the day Mrs Vereker received that letter, I told her of my love for her niece, and asked permission to accompany them to Genoa.
She regarded me with an odd look of compassion. 'Have you spoken to Mary yet?' she asked.
I told her I had not; I wished to wait until we had known each other longer; I feared being too precipitate.
'Then,' said Mrs Vereker, 'I have no right to tell you anything of her story. It is a sad one, poor child! and I warn you, you have little chance of success. If you choose, you can come with us to Genoa; but if I were you, I should not do so. Save yourself while you can. You have known her a very short time. If you leave us now, you will soon forget her; later, you may find it a more difficult task.'