XXXII
THEY went out at half-past five and joined the dense sauntering throng under the arcade of the Via Venti Settembre. All Genoa turns out at this hour with apparently no object but to amble and stare. The two girls, particularly Ora, who appeared to be the only blonde in the city, were almost mobbed. Every other man spoke to them, or rolled his eyes and twirled his moustache. But they preserved a lofty and blank demeanour, and were practically unmolested. The Genoese works almost as hard as the American during a few hours of the day and haunts the afternoon throngs only to amuse himself indolently. If one woman ignores him he passes on philosophically to the next.
“Lord, but I’d like to get a move on!” exclaimed Ida. “Why don’t theywalk? Is this what they call exercise? And I wouldn’t mind their ogling and speaking if they only wouldn’t pinch. I’ll give this side a rest, anyhow.” And she dexterously changed places and drew Ora’s other arm through her own.
“I love them, pinches and all,” said Ora, warmly. “They are like children in one way, and yet they really know how to rest and enjoy themselves, which is more than our men ever do. Even the working-class enjoys life over here. I wonder why they emigrate?”
They had passed round the corner of the arcade and entered the Piazza Defarrari, working their way toward the Via Roma. Ora stopped before one of the cantinas behind the statue of Garibaldi. “Look at those men drinking their cheap wine and gossipping. They look as if they hadn’t a care in the world.”
“Give me the hustling American,” said Ida contemptuously. “I don’t call this life. They’re just drifting along waiting for the Angel Gabriel to blow his trump. What makes them so lazy and contented? They know they cango just so far over here and no farther. Ancient history made classes and masses, and while they have fun, some of them, thinking they’re socialists, they know that most of them will stay put. But the only real fun in life is getting ahead of the next fellow and knowing that your chance is as good as any.”
“What a truly American sentiment!”
“I’m American, all right, and that’s the reason I want to get back to Butte, where things hum every minute, and there’s no real poverty. Fancy calling these left-overs ‘middle-class’ like our miners. Every one of those looks forward to being President of Amalgamated one of these days, or striking it rich in the mountains.”
“There are different varieties of happiness, fortunately for several billions that are seeking it.”
“Do you know,” said Ida, abruptly, as they turned into the Galleria Mazzini from the Via Roma, “it’s queer, but I feel more at home in Italy than I have anywhere else over here, although I had a really better time in England and Germany and Austria. I don’t hit it off much with Italians, but—well—I have a more settled-down feeling.”
“That’s odd!”
“Why?”
“Oh, I’ve been romancing about you a bit, fancying you a reincarnation of one of those fascinating abominable women of the Renaissance, who had innumerable lovers and poisoned their husbands, or rivals. You would look quite wonderful in those long velvet or brocaded gowns, with sleeves that come down over the hands, and pearls twined in your hair.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I was, although I don’t see myself with lovers or thinking anybody worth swinging for. Several American reincarnations must have changed my habits; but I don’t mind looking the part. Good idea—when we get back to Paris I’ll have several of those Renaissance costumes made. They won’t go out of style, either. Greg can fork over the pearls later.”
“You’ll be a picture. I wish I had thought of it before. Don’t you think you are capable of jealousy?”
“Nixie. To be jealous you’ve got to have a fearful crush; and thank the lord I don’t love anybody but myself and never shall.”
“That is often the secret of love for some man—of mostmen’s love for a woman, I imagine! Perhaps it creates the most powerful delusion of all.”
“Well, none of it in mine. Me for the great society act. I’m going to be the grandest dame in Montana, and when I’ve wrung that dry I’ll move on to New York. Greg says he won’t, means to live and die in Montana, but I guess he’ll manage to stand it if I desert him occasionally. If he’s got a hill full of copper he won’t know whether I’m in Butte or the Waldorf-Astoria. You look better, Ora; you ought to stay out of doors more and watch these funny old crowds. You’ve got a nice colour, and smile as if you meant it—Oh! that’s it, is it? Well, thank goodness, I’ve got a front seat——”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Pretending you haven’t seen him? I like that!”
Ida felt the arm within her own stiffen. “Valdobia! Don’t leave me for a moment.”
“I won’t, although, believe me, the rôle of gooseberry is no cinch.”
“I’ve played it for you often enough.”
“You have, and I’m a dead game sport. Lord! he looks more bad-tempered than ever. Probably every meal he’s eaten since you left has disagreed with him, including macaroni.”
“He’s not bad-tempered. Hot-tempered, no doubt, but I’m sure he’s kind and quite amiable. He’s rather grim, and of course he’s lived pretty hard and is disillusioned. That is all.”
“That’s right, stand up for him. Bad sign—or a good one! He’s seen us!”
Valdobia’s eyes flashed recognition, although he lifted his hat with unsmiling lips, and made no effort to push his way through the crowd. Ora favoured him with a glance of chill indifference as she returned his salutation, but she noticed that he made the young Genoese patricians look provincial. He not only was tall and gracefully built, his carriage military, but he had the air of repose and distinction, as well as the keen, tolerant, detached glance, of the man who has spent his life in the great world, and, on the whole, subordinated his weaknesses to his brain. It was evident that he was dressed from Conduit Street, and at first glance, in spite of his dark colouring and fine Roman features, his nationality was not obtrusive; helooked the cosmopolitan, the man-of-the-world, who might have made his headquarters in any one of her great capitals. As a matter of fact, while in the diplomatic service he had lived in several, including a short sojourn in Washington; but after coming into a large inheritance through the death of his father and of an energetic uncle who had boldly gone into business and prospered, he had travelled for a year in Africa and India and then settled in Rome.
If he was too indifferent or too wise to hurry he managed to make his way consistently toward them, although a crowd had formed about a bulletin board to read the latest news from the seat of war. He stood opposite them in three or four minutes and shook hands politely with both.
“At last!” he said. “I called at the Bristol, and have been looking for you ever since.” He had a warm deep voice but his tones and manner expressed less than his words.
“You don’t have to look far in Genoa,” said Ida, giving him a cordial smile and handshake to cover Ora’s chilling welcome. “If the whole town turns out for what it calls exercise, each quarter seems to keep to itself. We see the same faces every day.”
Valdobia fell into step beside Ida, who at once began to chatter questions about their common acquaintance in Rome. She grinned mentally as she rattled off titles, recalling the wiry little figure of her mother at the wash-tub, and her father with his “muck”-spattered overalls and blue dinner pail; but Valdobia, too accustomed to titles to note whether Americans were lavish in their use or not, replied naturally and refrained from glancing at the woman who had given his self-centred ego the profoundest shock it had ever received. He was now thirty-eight. In his early manhood he had loved with the facility and brevity of his race. Then for six years, after his return to Rome, he had been the lover of a brilliant and subtle woman ten years older than himself, who, for a short time, inspired in him the belief that at last he had entered the equatorial region of thegrande passion. This passed off, and she became a habit, which lasted until, with the decline of her beauty, she lost much of her finesse, as well as her control over both temper and complexion. It had taken him a year or more to regain his liberty, andwhen he did, after scenes that he fain would dismiss from his memory, he determined to keep it. His long experience with a woman of many characteristics and one or two noble qualities, before she gossipped and inflamed them to death, had thoroughly disillusioned him, and since his release his gallantries had been lighter than in his youth. When he first met Ora Blake he was attracted merely by her cold fairness, redeemed from classic severity by her brilliant seeing eyes, which so often sparkled with humour, and amused at her naïve and girlish attitude of happiness in temporary freedom; so successfully practised by herself and Ida. He had supposed her to be little more than twenty, and had wondered if her husband were even busier than the average American, to let her run away so soon. When she told him she was twenty-seven, and had been married seven years, he found himself speculating on the temperament of a woman whom time and life had left untouched. Shortly after, he received a biographical sketch of her from Mrs. O’Neil, also of Butte, who was wintering in Rome and entertaining such of the aristocracy as she met at her Embassy. It was some time since his thoughts had dwelt upon any woman when alone, and when he found himself sitting by his window in the evening dreaming over his cigar instead of amusing himself in the varied life of Rome after his habit, he was at first amused, then angry, finally apprehensive. He had no desire for another period of torment, followed by the successive stages that finished in impatience and satiety.
He tried flirting with her, making her talk about herself, focussing her mind on the years she seemed determined to ignore, in the hope of discovering that she was commonplace. But Ora, who found him more interesting than any man she had met in Europe, also a conquest to be proud of, continued to make herself interesting—and elusive—with a skill and subtlety that so closely resembled the frank ingenuousness of the West, that the man accustomed to the patented finesse of European women experienced the agreeable sensation of renewing his youth. He felt himself falling in love like a schoolboy, and meditated flight. He remained in Rome, however, and made a deliberate attempt to fascinate her. Then one day when Ida was pouring tea at the Embassy, chaperoned by Lady Gower, he found Ora alone, indisposed after asleepless night, and lost his head. Ora, who was in no mood to let him down gently and reserve him for conversational pleasures, dismissed him abruptly, and had not seen him since. She had regretted her impatience, for he was always worth talking to, her feminine liking for his type was very strong, and she had amused herself fancying that if she had not permitted another man to rule her imagination she might have found her fate in this one. But as he had presumed to follow her when she had banished him summarily, she greeted him with cool civility and resumed her study of the kaleidoscopic crowd.
Suddenly she moved her head in a fashion that suggested the lifting of one of the little ears that lay so close to her head and were not the least of her points. The ear was on the side next to her companion in arms. Could it be that Ida was flirting with Valdobia? Mrs. Compton’s manner and speech were as correct as her smartly tailored suit and hat of black velvet and the calm pride of her bearing, but she was talking with sweet earnestness to the Roman about himself and expressing her plaintive gratitude that he had cared to follow them to Genoa, where she at least was very lonely. It had not been possible for Ora to see the flash of understanding these two had exchanged after Valdobia’s first puzzled glance, but she did see many heads turn to look at the handsome and well-matched couple. Even the Italian women did not smile ironically as they so often did at the too obvious American tourist. Ida not only had delivered herself of every exterior trace of commonness, but would no more have appeared on the street looking the mere tourist than she could be betrayed into adopting the extreme of any new style by the persuasive Parisian. She saw Ora’s head come round her shoulder, and her voice deepened to the soft husky tones she reserved for decisive moments with her agitated admirers, then dropped so low that only the man, with his head bent, could hear the words. At this stage of the flirtation’s progress Ora noted that the approving glances of the sympathetic Italians were accompanied by significant smiles.
They had reached the end of the long Galleria for the second time and turned. The crowd was thin. The restaurants were filling. Shutters were rattling down overthe windows of the tempting shops. Said Ora abruptly,
“I think I’d like to dine in one of these cafés—the Milano. The Bristol dining-room is a little Ritz, and it’s a bore to dress.”
Valdobia leaned forward with a pleasant smile. “I should like nothing better, but you must dine with me.”
“Why not? What do you say, Ida?”
“I’d love it. The food is good and the crowd more interesting.”
They entered the bright café and seated themselves at one of the side tables, the two girls on the bench against the wall, Valdobia in the chair opposite. A number of the tables were already occupied, several by stout comfortable couples, but the majority by men with their hats on, playing dominoes or reading the evening papers. Opposite the door was a long table set forth with the delicacies of the season: raw meat, winter vegetables, oranges, and kicking lobsters.
Valdobia, assiduously waited upon by the proprietor himself (whose wife, surrounded by several of her children, smiled benignantly from the cashier’s desk), ordered a special dinner; a light soup (the table d’hôte soup was a meal in itself), spaghetti, inimitably cooked veal in brown butter, salad, freshly caught fish, ices, and a bottle of the host’s most precious Chianti.
“I never could have pictured you in a Bohemian restaurant,” said Ora, smiling brilliantly into the face of her host. “Have you ever been in a place like this before?”
“About as often as I have weeks to my credit.” He looked steadily into her snapping eyes. “You have studied Italians to little purpose if you’ve not discovered their partiality for their native cooking. These plain little cafés are the last strongholds in our large cities. Even the restaurants where the business men go for luncheon are queer imitations of London or Paris.”
“We like to come here because the men pay no attention to us. It is men of your class that know how to make us thoroughly uncomfortable.”
“Quite so. Every class has its own code. In ours it may be said that the women set the pace. They demand open admiration and we are gallant enough to give it. This class bothers itself little about the unattainable, andmerely throws you the passing tribute they would throw to the Queen, or to a beautiful work of art.”
“Which they appreciate. Would that our working-classes did. On this side the masses are as likely as not to spend their holidays in a picture gallery or a museum. Ours can think of nothing better than a saloon.”
“That may be the fault of your great country. The crude mind is easily trained. Give your working-people more galleries and museums and fewer saloons—or cantinas with their light wines, and beer gardens, instead of rum and whiskey. But it is unfair to expect a new and heterogeneous—almost chaotic—country to compete with twenty centuries.” Two pairs of American eyes flashed, and he continued suavely. “I fear that the old standards of my own people are in danger of being demoralised by socialism and the new craving for raw spirits. That is becoming a serious question with us.” He turned to Ida. “It is far more odd to see you without your usual train of admirers—both of you. How do you stand it?”
“Oh, we’re merely recuperating,” said Ida lightly, and smiling into his admiring eyes. “We will return to the fray refreshed and more dangerous than ever.”
“How much longer shall you stay here?”
“A week or two. Then we go on to Paris. After that Egypt, Spain, or some other old place.”
“But not without seeing Monte Carlo? You must let me show it to you.”
“I suppose that is an old stamping ground of yours?”
“I go once a year, although, like a good many other pleasures, it has lost its irresistible fascination. But I shall enjoy seeing you catch the gambling fever.”
“I’m not very susceptible to microbes, but I don’t doubt Mrs. Blake will gamble the clothes off her back. That would be the good old Montana style.” And she told him something of life in Butte before it indulged in one of its spasms of exterior reform, and of the present life on The Flat.
“I must see your Butte,” he said enthusiastically. “An English friend of mine has a ranch in Wyoming, and I may go out there next year.”
Ora stood this until the fish had been removed; then she emerged conclusively from the cold and nervous apathy that had possessed her for several days, and began tosparkle. Ida was no match for her when she chose to exert herself, for that native product only really shone when able to employ her own rich vocabulary. She subsided with a smile and devoted herself to the excellent dinner, while Ora entertained their fastidious host with bright little stories of the adventures they never failed to experience, being two young women who travelled with their eyes and ears wide open. Valdobia, now satisfied that he had recaptured the interest of his lady and been in a measure forgiven, gave her all his attention; although not a man disposed to conversational exertion, he took pains to interest her in return. They discussed the news of the day and the latest books; and his deference to her opinions was very flattering, although he did not permit a flash of his eyes to betray his passionate delight at being once more with this woman whom he thought lovelier and more desirable than ever. Ora wore a blue velvet suit, not too dark, and a little hat of the same shade with a long feather that nestled in her warm ashen hair. Her cheeks were as pink as her lips, and she held her chin up as if drinking in the elixir of her native air. She looked very young and wholly without guile.
She continued to enchant him until they were in the Bristol, and the lift stopped at the first floor. Then she abruptly bade him good-night, and ascended to her room, while the others went into the smoking-room and ordered coffee at one of the smaller tables.
“Well?” said Ida, smiling. “I’m not the sort that talks in circles except when I’m on parade. I’m glad you’ve come. Ora was fearfully down about something. I believe she likes you better than any man she has met over here. A little flirtation will do her no end of good.”
Valdobia coloured. He was as practical as most Italians, but by no means given to the direct method of speech with women. Love simplifies among other things, however, and after a moment he put down his cup and looked her straight in the eyes.
“I think I shall take you into my confidence,” he said. “I know that you are honest and that I can trust to your discretion——”
“You bet.”
Ida relaxed her spine with her speech and settled herself comfortably.
“And you could give me great assistance. I want to persuade your friend—may I call her Ora to you? It is a beautiful name and I have said it so often to myself——”
“Ora goes.”
“I want to persuade Ora to divorce her husband and marry me.”
“Aw—that is—Good Lord!” Ida sat up straight and nearly dropped her cup. “That’s a large order.”
“Rather. But I—now—want nothing less. I am sick of the other sort of thing, even if she were not too good for it. I want to marry—and she is the only woman I ever have wanted to marry.”
“Hm. You Italians haven’t the name of being the best husbands in the world. How long would you be faithful to her?”
“I have no intention of ever being anything else.”
“That’s what they all say—think, no doubt.”
“I shall be.” He spoke with intense conviction.
“Well, perhaps—you’ve lived your life. I should think you men would get mighty sick of dancing about and never coming to anchor. But divorce? There’s Mark, you know.”
“Her present husband?”
“Yes, and a rattling good fellow. He married Ora when she didn’t know which way to turn, and she is really grateful to him, and as fond of him as if he were her own brother. I don’t think she’ll turn him down.”
“Women have been known to desert their brothers before this! I mean to make her love me, and if I do—how she could love a man!—I fancy I can persuade her.”
“I like Mark and I don’t want to see him thrown down. He’s not what you might call in love with Ora—he got discouraged pretty early in the game. But he’s fond of her and proud of her, and he has ambitions. She could help him a lot.”
Valdobia lit another cigarette.
“Better have a liaison and get over it. Then he’ll never know, and what men don’t know don’t hurt them.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort. I mean to marry her. Will you help me or not?”
“Ora’d look fine all right in that old palace of yours. It would suit her a long sight better than Butte, or even Washington—let alone Helena; Mark wouldn’t mind a bitbeing Governor of Montana. Have you got a castle in the country?”
“I have several.”
“Fine! I’d visit you every year.”
“No one would be half as welcome.”
“I’ve been away from America so long and seen so much, and Butte seems so far away, that I’ve kind of lost my bearings. If you’d come over there and lay your siege, I guess I’d fight you to the last ditch.”
“Permit me to remind you that we are in Italy, a state several centuries ahead of yours in civilisation, even if we lack your facile divorce laws. I know something of Mr. Blake from Mrs. O’Neil. Can you picture Ora finishing her life with him?”
“No, I can’t, and that’s a fact. I wonder there hasn’t been a grand bust-up before this. It will come some day. Why not now?”
“Quite so.”
“And Mark could get a dozen girls to suit him better, make him nice and comfy. He’ll never get any real companionship out of Ora, fine as she’s always treated him. A man like that needs a running mate.”
“I shall waste none of my mental energy in sympathy for Mr. Mark Blake. American husbands, so far as I have been permitted to observe, are accustomed not only to being deserted for months and even years at a time, but to periodical divorce.”
“It’s not quite as bad as that, but Mark has the elasticity of an india rubber ball, and that’s a fact.”
“Good. Will you help me?”
Ida hesitated an instant longer, then, dimly conscious that her answer in a measure was dictated by a profound instinct she made no attempt to define, exclaimed, “It’s a go. I believe it will be all for the best. Shake.” And she gave his hand a hearty grasp.
“You are a brick,” he murmured, with a sensation of gratitude he had rarely experienced. “But there is one thing more. Please give her no hint of this, for the present at least. Tell her, and make her believe it, that I have not come here to trouble her, that she need never fear to trust herself alone with me. Tell her that I only want to enjoy her society and make things pleasant for her.”
“Right you are. Ora’s not the sort you can rush. Butdon’t overdo it and make her think you’ve altogether got over it. Sometimes that piques and works out all right and sometimes it don’t. She’s as proud as Lucifer and might get over her fancy for you while she was still mad.”
“You do know your sex! I’ll use all the art I’ve ever acquired.”
“Respectful devotion without humility, and pained self-control. That’s your lay.”
He laughed heartily. “We’ll drift for the present.”
“Well, now, drift out. I want to go up and sound her. I’m simply expiring to know what she’s thinking about at the present moment.”