Читать книгу The Pretender - Robert William Service - Страница 11

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Alas and alas! I am engaged—an engagement according to Hoyle, sanctioned by poppa and sealed with a solitaire—irrevocably, overwhelmingly, engaged.

Who would have dreamed it? But in the great round-up of matrimony, isn't it always the unexpected that happens? I was run down, roped, thrown, before I knew what was happening to me. And the brand on me is "Guinivere Chumley Grace."

She is the youngest, the open-airiest, the most superstrenuous of the sporting sisters. She slays foxes, slaughters pheasants, has even made an air-flight. I have no doubt she despises poor, ordinary women who cook steaks, darn socks and take an intelligent interest in babies.

And this is the girl I am going to marry, I who hate horse-flesh, would not slay a blue-bottle promenading on my nose, admire the domestic virtues, and hope that a woman will never cease to scream at the sight of a mouse. Can it be wondered at that I am in the depths of despair?

And it is all the fault of Italy?

Naples sprang at me, and, as we say, "put it all over me." Such welters of colourful life! Such visions of joy and dirt! Such hot-beds of rank-growing humanity! Diving boys and piratical longshoremen; plumed guardians of the police and ragged lazzaroni; whooping donkey drivers and pestiferous guides; clamour, colour, confusion, all to bewilder my prim Manhattan mind.

What a disappointment that had been; to stand there one exultant moment with the Trail of Beautiful Adventure glimmering before; the next, to be hemmed in by the jubilant Chumley Graces, and hurried to the haughtiest of hotels, where poppa insisted on cashing my cheque for five hundred dollars.

But resignation to one's fate is comparatively easy in Naples. There, where villa and vineyard dream by an amethystine sea, where purple Capri and violet Vesuvius shimmer and change with every mood of sun and breeze, the line of least resistance seems alluringly appropriate.

There were days in which (accompanied by Miss Guinivere Chumley Grace) I roamed the Via Roma, stimulated by the vivid life that seethed around me; when I watched the bronze fishermen pull in their long, sea-curving nets; when the laziness of the lazzaroni fell upon me.

There were evenings in which (accompanied by Guinivere Chumley Grace) I sat on the terrace of the hotel, caressed by the balmy breeze, listening to the far-borne melody of mandolins, and gazing at the topaz lights that fringed the throbbing vast of foam and starlight.

There were nights when (accompanied by Guinivere) I watched the dull reflection of fiery-bowled Vesuvius, dreaming of the richly storied past, and feeling my heart stir with a thousand sweet wonderings of romance.

Can it be wondered, then, that some of this rapture and romance found an echo in my heart? Here was the time, the place, and—Guinivere. Only by a violent effort could I have saved myself, and violent efforts in Naples are unpopular. No; everything seemed to happen with relentless logic; and so one afternoon, looking down on the sweeping glory of the bay the following conversation took place:

She: Isn't it ripping?

I: Yes, it's too lovely for words. Why cannot we make our lives a harvest of such golden memories?

She: Yes, it would be awfully jolly, wouldn't it?

I: If we cannot make the moment eternal, let us at least live eternal in the moment.

She: But how can we?

I wasn't sure how we could, nor was I sure what I meant; but the freckled face was looking up at me so inquiringly, and the crisp-lipped mouth was pouted so invitingly that I sought the solution there. She, on her part, evidently found it so satisfactory that I laid considerable emphasis on it, and I was still further accentuating the emphasis when on looking up I found myself confronted by the stony, spectacled stare of poppa.

Anathema! Misericordia! After that there was nothing to do but ask for his blessing. I could not plead poverty, for he is a director in most of the railways in which I hold shares. The god of fools, who had so often moved to save me, had this time left me on the lurch. So it came about that I spent three hundred dollars out of my five in the purchase of a diamond ring; and there matters stand.

Well, I shall have to go through with it. If there is one idea more than another I hold up to myself it is that of The Man who Makes Good. I have never been untrue to my promises; and now I have promised Guinivere a cottage at Newport and a flat in town. Life looms before me a grey vista of conventional monotony and Riverside Drive.

If only she cared for any of the things I do! But no! She is one of the useless daughters of the rich, who expect to be petted, pampered and provided for in the way they have been accustomed, forgetting that the old man struggled a lifetime to give them that limousine and the house on Fifth Avenue. She is one of the great army of women who think men should sweat that women may spend. I have always maintained that it was a woman's place to do her share of the work; and here I was, marrying a pleasure-seeker, an idler.

Better, I thought, some daughter of democracy; yea, even such a one as but a little ago tidied my apartment, that dark-haired damsel with the melancholy mouth and the eyes of an odalisque.

As I pretended to work I had often watched my charming chambermaid; but my interest was purely professional, till one day it was stimulated by an unusual incident. There was a villainous-looking valet-de-chambre who brought me my coffee and rolls in the morning, and who presided over a little pantry from which they seemed to emanate. Passing this pantry, I witnessed a brisk scuffle between the chambermaid and the valet. He made an effort to kiss her, and she repulsed him with evident disgust. From then on I could see the two were at daggers drawn, and that the man only waited a chance to take his revenge.

After that, it may not be deemed strange that I should have taken a more personal interest in my handmaid; that I should have practised my Italian on her on every opportunity; that I should have found her name to be Lucrezia Poppolini, and that of her tormentor, Victor. A spirit of protection glowed in me; I half hoped for dramatic developments, pitied her in her evident unhappiness, and vowed that if she were persecuted any more I would take a hand in the game.

In a rhapsodic vein I had begun an article on Naples, and ranged far and wide in search of impressions. It was one evening I had pleaded work to escape from Guinivere (who was getting on my nerves), and I had sought the quarter of the town down by the fish-market. Frequently had I been moved to remark that in Naples there seemed to be no danger of depopulation, and the appearance of a good woman approaching strengthened my conviction. Then as she came close I saw that she was only a girl, very poor, and intensely miserable. But something else made me start and stare: she was the exact counterpart of my interesting chambermaid.

"Perhaps they are twin sisters," thought I. "This girl's trouble would account for the worry and sadness on the face of Lucrezia. Here is material for drama."

So taken was I by my twin-sister theory, that I ended by half-convincing myself I was right. Then, by a little play of fancy, I allowed for the following dramatis personæ:

"Victor, the Villainous Valet.

Lucrezia, the Chaste Chambermaid.

Twin Sister in trouble.

False Lover of Twin Sister.

Aged Parent."

Thus you will see how my little drama was interesting me. On her daily visits to my room, I watched my poor heroine with sympathetic heart. What was going to happen? Probably Aged Parent would stab False Lover, and Villainous Valet, who happened to witness the deed, would demand as the price of his silence the honour of Chaste Chambermaid. How I began to hate the man as he roused me at eight o'clock with my steaming Mocha! How I began to pity the girl as dreary and distraught she changed my towels! Surely the dénouement was close at hand.

Poppa and I shared a parlour from which opened out respective bedrooms. It had outlook on the bay, and often the girls would sit there with their father instead of in their own salon. I was not surprised, then, on my return from a copy-hunting expedition to hear the sound of many voices coming from within.

But I was decidedly surprised, on opening the door, to find quite a dramatic scene being enacted. The backs of the actors were to me, and they did not see me enter. In the centre of the stage, as it were, were Victor and Lucrezia. Behind them the fat little manager of the hotel. To the right poppa and Guinivere. To the left Edythe and Gladys, the elder sisters.

Lucrezia looked pale as death, and cowered as if some one had struck her. Facing her, with flashing eyes and accusive digit was the vengeful Victor. The little manager was trying to control the situation, while poppa and offspring, staring blankly, were endeavouring to follow the Italian of it.

"Baggage! Thief!" Victor was crying. "I saw her. I stole after her! I watched her enter the signor's room. There on the dressing table it was, the little purse he had so carelessly left. She draws near, she examines it ... quick! She pushes it into her blouse—so. Oh, I saw it all through the chink of the door."

"No, no," the girl protested, in accents of terror and distress; "I took nothing, I swear by the Virgin, nothing. He lies. He would make for me trouble. I am innocent, innocent."

"I am no liar," snarled the man. "If you do not believe me, see—she has it now. Search her. Look in the bosom of her dress. Ah! I will ..."

He caught her roughly. There was a scuffle in which she screamed, and from her corsage he tore forth a small flat object.

"What did I tell you!" he cried vindictively. "Who is the liar now? Oh, thief! thief! I, Victor, have unmasked thee—"

Here he turned round and suddenly beheld me. His manner grew more exultant. "Ha! It is the signor himself."

Then I saw that what he held out so triumphantly was my little gold purse, and in the breathless pause that followed, cinema pictures were flashing and flickering in my brain. How vivid they were! Twin sister imploring aid—girl distracted—no money to give her—What's to be done?—Suddenly sees gold purse—Temptation: "I'll just borrow one little piece. The signor will never miss it. Some day I'll pay it back."

How she struggles, gazes at it like one fascinated, puts out a hand, shrinks back, looks round fearfully! Then at last she takes it in her hand;—a sudden noise,—impulsively she pushes it in the bosom of her dress. Then Victor's high pitched voice of denunciation, bringing every one on the scene.

All this I saw in a luminous moment, but—where did I come in? My heart bled for the poor girl so tried, so tempted. A quixotic flame leapt in me. There was the vindictive valet; there was the frail Lucrezia; there was the centre of the stage waiting for what?—me. Ah! could I ever resist the centre of the stage?

So I stepped quietly forward, and, to complete the artistic effect, the girl, who had been gazing at me with growing terror, swayed as if to faint. Deftly I caught her over my left arm; then with the other hand I snatched the purse from the astonished Victor, and deliberately pushed it back into the blouse of Lucrezia.

"The girl is innocent," I said calmly; "the money is her own. I, myself, gave it to her,—this morning."

Of the scene that followed I have no vivid recollection. I was conscious that poppa herded his flock hurriedly from the room; that Lucrezia disappeared with surprising suddenness; that the dumbfounded Victor was ordered to "begone" by an indignant maître d'hôtel, who, while extremely polite, seemed to regard me with something of reproach.

I was, in fact, rather dazed by my sudden action, so hastily packing the alligator-skin suitcase I paid my bill and ordered a carriage. Telling the man to drive in the direction of Possillipo, I there selected a hotel of a more diffident type, and, in view of my reduced finances, engaged a single room.

The day following was memorable for two interviews. The first, in the forenoon, was with poppa. He had no doubt found my address from the coachman, and had come to have it out with me. In his most puritanical manner he wanted to know why I gave the girl the money.

"I refuse to explain," I said sourly.

"Then, sir, I must refuse to consider you worthy of my daughter's hand."

My heart leapt. Escape from Guinivere! It seemed too good to be true. Lucrezia, I thank thee! Nor do I grudge thee twice the gold thy purse contains. Concealing my joy I answered:

"It shall be as you please, sir."

His church-deacon face relaxed a little. He had evidently expected more trouble.

"And I must ask you, sir, not to communicate with her in any way."

I summoned a look of sadness worthy of a lover whose heart is broken.

"As her father," I observed submissively, "your wishes must be respected."

He laid a small box on the table. "Guinivere returns you your ring." Then he hesitated a little. "Have you nothing at all to say for yourself? I too have been young; I can make some allowance, but there are limits. I don't like to think that you are an absolute scoundrel."

"If I were to tell you," I said, "that I gave the girl the money out of pure philanthropy, gave it to help a wretched twin-sister with an unborn babe,—what would you say?"

"I would say you were trying to bolster up your intrigue with a fiction. Bah! Young men don't give purses of gold to pretty girls out of philanthropy. Besides, we have discovered that your precious friend is nothing more or less than a hotel thief. A detective arrived just after you left and identified her."

"I don't believe it," I said indignantly. "These Italian women all look alike. Where's the poor girl now?"

He grinned sarcastically. "Probably it is I who should ask you that."

His meaning was so obvious I rose and smilingly opened the door. Off he went with a snort, and that was the last I ever saw of poppa.

But my second interview! It took place at ten in the evening. I was reading the Italian paper in bed when there came a soft knock at my door.

"Come in," I said, thinking it was the valet with my nightcap. Then, as if moved by a spring I sat bolt upright. With one hand I tried to fasten the neck button of my pyjamas, with the other to smooth down my disordered locks. I verily believe I blushed all over, for who should my late visitor be but—Lucrezia.

She was dressed astonishingly well, and looked altogether different from the slim, trim domestic I had known. Indeed, being all in black, she might have well passed for a charming young widow. Of course I was embarrassed beyond all words, but if she shared my feeling she did not show it.

"Oh, signor, how can I thank you?" she cried, advancing swiftly.

"Not at all," I stammered; "pray calm yourself. Excuse me receiving you in this deshabille. Please take a seat."

I indicated a chair some distance away, but to my confusion she seated herself on the bed. I reached for my jacket and wriggled into it; after which I felt more at ease.

"I have just found out where you were," she began. "I could not wait until to-morrow to thank you. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

Really she spoke remarkably well. Really she looked remarkably stunning. Her complexion had the tone of old ivory, and her eyes of an odalisque seemed to refract all the light of the room. I could feel them fixed on me in a distracting, magnetising way.

"Don't mention it," I answered; "there's nothing to forgive. It's very good of you to think of thanking me."

She begun to fumble with a glove button. "Tell me," she almost whispered, "tell me, why did you do it?"

"Oh, I—I don't quite know."

She threw out her hands with an impulsive gesture. Her black eyes glowed fiercely, then grew soft.

"Was it because you—you loved me?"

I stared. This was too much. Was the girl mad? I replied with some asperity:

"No, it was because I thought you must be in some desperate trouble. I was sorry for you. I wanted to save you."

"Ah! you were right. I was in great trouble, and you alone understood. You are noble, signor, noble; but you are cold. We women of the South, we are so different. When we love, we love with all the heart. We do not conceal it; we do not deny it. Know, then, signor, from the moment you came so bravely to my aid like some hero of romance I loved you, loved you with a passion that makes me forget all else. And you, you do not care. It is nothing to you. Oh, unhappy me! Tell me, signor, do you not think you can love me?"

I shrank back to the furthest limit of the bed-post. Again I thought: "Surely the girl is mad, perhaps dangerous as well. I've heard that these Neapolitan girls all carry daggers in their garters. I hope this young lady doesn't follow the fashion. I think I'd better humour her."

Aloud I said: "I don't know. This is so sudden I haven't had time to analyse my feelings yet. Perhaps I do. Give me to-night to think of it. Come to-morrow. But anyway, why should I let myself love you? I am a bird of passage. I have business. I must go away in a few days."

"Where is the signor going?"

"To Paris," I said cautiously.

Her strange eyes gleamed with tragic fire. "If you go to Paris without me," she cried passionately, "I will follow you."

"Well, well," I said soothingly, "we'll see. But now please leave me to think of all this. Don't you see I'm agitated? You've taken me by surprise. Please give me till to-morrow."

Her brows knit with jealous suspicion. I half thought she was going to reach for that dagger, but instead she rose abruptly.

"Oh, you are cold, you men of the North. Is there nothing I can do to show my gratitude?"

"Yes," I answered eagerly; "go quickly, before any one finds you here."

"Bah!" she exploded with fierce contempt; "what does it matter? But, signor, will you let me kiss you?"

"Certainly, if you wish." I extended one cheek.

She gave me a quick, smothering embrace from which I had difficulty in detaching myself. "To-morrow, then, without fail. But where and when?"

"I'll meet you at the Aquarium at eleven o'clock," I said.

"At the Aquarium, then. And you'll think of me? And you'll try to love me?"

"Yes, yes, I will. Please go out very quietly. Au revoir till eleven to-morrow."

But by eleven o'clock next morning I was exultantly on my way to London.