Читать книгу The Interloper - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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Monica, descending the rocks with light and graceful footsteps, broke off in her song and peered downwards. Pietro stood in the road.

"The gracious signorina should hurry with me to the hotel," he enjoined. "The signor who promised to wait for her forgot. He sent me here. Behold, I have run all the way."

Monica reached the road with a final spring.

"Why should one hurry, Pietro?" she asked carelessly. "This twilight is gorgeous. I have been watching the lights come out on the plain."

"It is not safe to be here at this hour," the guide assured her, looking nervously around.

"Not safe?" she repeated, wonderingly. "Why not?"

"There are thieves who dwell in the hills above,—thieves who come out only in the darkness."

"Pooh!" Monica scoffed. "I'm not afraid of thieves. Hurry on down if you're afraid, Pietro. I want to watch these lights from the ramparts. Every moment a new one flashes out; a little point of fire being pushed through a purple cloak. Goodness gracious! Who's that?"

She pointed to where the figure of Francis was dimly visible. Pietro crossed himself fervently.

"Behold the Englishman," he whispered. "It is his night of prayer and fasting. At dawn they will open the gates of the monastery to him. He will be a holy man."

"Are you sure that he is English?" Monica queried.

"His father was English. His mother was the daughter of a vine grower in the valley.—Signorina," he went on, "I beseech you to hurry. It is not well to be here."

Monica found the situation, as well as the environment, interesting.

"An Englishman," she repeated. "Pietro, I think I will speak to him. He must be mad to think of burying himself for life—a young man, too."

Pietro was genuinely shocked. These English might be wealthy but they were without sentiment—worse, they were sacrilegious.

"Signorina," he urged, "you must not disturb him at his prayers."

Monica laughed softly.

"Why not? He will have plenty of time to pray later on. I believe you are thinking of those thieves all the time, Pietro. Go on, if you're afraid. I will catch you up presently."

"I am not afraid, but there are most certainly thieves in the neighbourhood," he mumbled. "I will take a glass of vermouth at the corner café. It is almost within sight. The signorina will not delay."

He hurried off. Monica glanced after him for a moment contemptuously. Then she moved under the shelter of a little clump of olive trees. At first she contented herself with gazing at the panorama below. Then she began to hum to herself, finally to sing. The light of mischief crept into her eyes. Her voice was not powerful but she knew how to make it thrilling. She sang of love—love, pagan, but beautiful. At the further end of the rampart, out of sight now, in the gathering darkness, the young man prayed.

Monica broke off in her song, disturbed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. She stared at the two men who had apparently appeared out of nowhere. She found the contemplation entirely unpleasant. They were dirty, distinctly of villainous appearance, and they smelled horribly of garlic.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

They had apparently no time to explain. Her hands were already seized. She felt rude fingers at the fastening of her pearl necklace.

"Help!" she cried.

The monosyllable was all that was permitted to her. It was enough, however. She was still struggling against the supreme indignity of the brown fingers holding together her lips, when help came. She had a sudden vision of one of her assailants rolling over and over in the dust—she heard the thud of bone against flesh as the other staggered backwards, with his hands to his face. There was the glimmer of steel; then a yell of agony as her rescuer seized the robber's wrist. A moment later a gleam of light flashed in the pool of darkness as the dagger was thrown over the rampart. The two men were crawling up the rocks like rats.

"Have they taken anything?" Francis asked quickly.

Monica felt her neck and wrists.

"Nothing at all," she replied. "Please don't follow them. I should hate to be left here alone."

The young man drew back a step or two.

"There is no longer any occasion for fear," he assured her. "You had better return at once to your hotel."

Monica looked doubtfully along the road. It seemed to have grown darker during the last few minutes.

"You couldn't walk down with me, could you?" she suggested with a smile which would have turned the heads of a great many young men who were bemoaning her absence in London.

"No."

It was a curt, distinctly a rude monosyllable. Monica, however, ignored its implied reproof.

"Why not? My father would like so much to thank you, and it is dark, isn't it?"

"I have—occupation here," he replied. "Pietro is awaiting you at the bend of the road. You will be quite safe thus far."

She seated herself on the edge of the rampart.

"Perhaps if I stay here," she said, "Pietro will come."

"It is time that you returned to your friends," he declared coldly. "You may not know it, but you are breaking the unwritten law of the place. These few yards are consecrate to me and my purpose."

Monica nodded.

"Yes, I know all about that," she admitted. "There's plenty of time, though, isn't there? I should like to talk to you."

"Signorina, I have nothing to say," he rejoined, a little wearily. "My conversations with my fellow creatures are passed. I beg you to leave me."

Monica pointed downwards to where the outline of the monastery was now scarcely distinguishable.

"Is it true that you are going there?" she asked.

"It is true," he assented. "Your presence here interferes with my devotions. These are my last hours before peace comes."

"Are you sure that you will find peace there?" she queried.

"I hope. No one can do more."

She gazed at him steadfastly as one seeking for understanding.

"But why do you seek peace?" she demanded. "You, a young man whose life lies all before you? Peace is the last goal of those who have fought and suffered, those for whom the end is at hand."

"Signorina," he urged, "I beg that you will leave me."

She took a cigarette from her little gold case, tapped it against the stone and coolly lit it. He watched her with displeased but fascinated eyes.

"If I disobey," she told him, "it is because I feel kindly towards you. You have shown that you are brave. You are a man. You are not like those shadowy abstractions down there—ghostlike creatures, with water in their veins for blood and a palsy upon their limbs. Surely it is a sin for one young and vigorous like you to desert before the trumpet call is sounded."

"Signorina, you speak with great ignorance," he assured her. "What do you know of my life and sufferings? I have lived for twenty-two years. Look at me. Is there no sorrow in my face?"

"You look as though you had had trouble," she admitted. "But trouble at your age should pass. You are English and you have done me a great service. My father would wish, I am sure, to thank you. Between us we might be able to suggest a more reasonable vocation for you."

"Signorina," he protested, "I do not wish to leave this place. I do not wish to walk for one yard by your side. I do not wish to meet your father. The time passes, and it passes ill for me. I beg that you will go."

"You're terribly obstinate," Monica sighed.

"I seem obstinate," he retorted, "because it pleases you to argue with me when you know nothing of my life or motive. I take orders to save myself from sin, but if it pleases you to know it, know this—that I shall carry down that path with me into my cell a passion which lives, and will live with me day and night; a passion which in this world has turned my life into a burning fever. It will take all the prayers of my empty days, all the holiness I can possibly find there, to cool the lust of anger which is in my heart."

"You have suffered some great wrong?" she ventured.

"Another has suffered it," he answered. "I am her son."

"I am sorry," she acknowledged gently. "Believe me, I am very sorry for you indeed, and yet—listen. What happiness will you gain down there, brooding, praying and wrestling with shadows? Have you never thought of the joy of life?"

"Joy?" he repeated doubtfully.

"Why not?" she demanded. "Joy is the heritage of youth. Didn't you hear me singing to you just now?"

"I heard a song," he replied harshly. "It disturbed my prayers."

She leaned a little forward. In the purple twilight her face seemed more than ever beautiful and alluring. There was a promise of passion in her compelling eyes.

"Don't you believe that you will hear the echoes of that song down there behind those grey walls as long as you are young and strong?" she persisted. "Do you think that you can close your ears to it? Why should you? It isn't a sin to be happy."

"Where in this world should I find happiness?" he asked bitterly.

She moved closer towards him. There was indeed something almost sirenlike in her expression, half pleading, half mocking, yet with a foundation of earnestness.

"From one of us," she whispered. "We were born to bring it to you. Why not come out into the world and seek the most wonderful thing in life?"

"The most wonderful thing in life?" he repeated. "What is that?"

"Love," she murmured.

"Pagan love," he retorted fiercely. "I think that the devil must have brought you here to-night, of all nights."

She laughed softly. Was it possible that victory was coming her way, after all?

"I can assure you that it was a very comfortable Rolls-Royce. Something went wrong with the magneto of my brother's two-seater so we had to spend the night here. Are you glad?"

"No," he declared fiercely.

"You should be. And I am not in the least a pagan. If I were, I should not be so sorry for those poor men down there who fancy that they can reach holiness by flying from temptation. I didn't think that sane people even considered such a thing nowadays."

He looked moodily downwards.

"I go there," he told her, "for a different reason. I go there because if I live in the world I shall commit murder."

"My dear man, why?" she asked.

"It is not your business," he answered coolly.

Monica learned then how much noise Pietro could make when he was no longer afraid. He came rushing up the hill, followed by two Italian policemen. He waved a thick stick in his hand and his ejaculations were bloodthirsty.

"The signorina is safe, then?" he cried. "Oh, how I have rushed to her aid. Which way did the thieves go?"

Monica looked at him with distaste.

"I really did not notice. All I know is that they would have had my jewellery if it had not been for this young gentleman."

"The scoundrels!" Pietro exclaimed. "Down there, whilst I was waiting, I fancied that I heard a cry. I rushed to where these two policemen were stationed. We tore up the hill."

"Wonderful!" Monica remarked sarcastically. "Since you are here, however, you can wait and escort me back."

She moved nearer to Francis. He had fallen once more on his knees and was murmuring a prayer to himself.

"Please listen to me," she begged.

He remained like a statue. His eyes were fast closed, the words came breathlessly from his lips.

"Just one moment," she pleaded.

He took no notice. The policemen, talking together angrily, pushed Pietro towards her. They made the sign of the cross.

"Gracious Signorina," the latter remonstrated. "He is now a man apart. He should not be disturbed."

"It is very sad," Monica murmured.

"Come away, Signorina," Pietro insisted. "My companions here, who helped to rescue you, will interfere if you do not. He must be left to himself. All through the night he stays like that. It is the custom of centuries."

"And afterwards?"

"With the dawn the gates of the monastery are opened. The fathers themselves will come and fetch him. The devout will watch from the city walls."

Monica turned sadly away.

"It is a great tragedy," she sighed.