RICHARD RICHARDCHAPTER ISTONY BROKE
RICHARD RICHARD
Eversince the “first breakfast,” groups of passengers had been trooping down the gang-plank, hurrying with guide-book and satchel to “do” Naples, Vesuvius, Pompeii, etc., before the steamer should sail again in the evening. An angular chap in proper steamernégligélounged contentedly on the starboard rail and watched them go. By eight o’clock he seemed to have the starboard rail to himself.
At that hour he was leaning heavily forward, presumably watching the ant-like stevedores loading and unloading the steamer, but he was quite aware of another lone passenger, slowly moving towards him. He had seen her come on at Genoa—anyone would have noticed the clean-cut, tailor-made figure—and on the journey from Genoa to Naples he had noted her once or twice striding the deck alone; but he did not know even so much as her name. He did not know her, but, as she came up to him and lingered at the starboard rail, he knew instinctively that he would borrow money from her.
She stopped beside him for a moment and observed the Italian workers. He did not once look up.
“Do you know how long we stay in Naples?” she asked.
Shipboard etiquette ignores introductions.
“We sail at nine to-night, the Captain says.” He turned his head slightly and smiled as if he had really known her. She lounged over the rail and helped him watch the workers. From the dock below this pair looked like familiar companions.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it now?”
“EightA.M.” He seem amused in a superior way.
“All day in this hot dirty place!” she exclaimed again.
“Itiswarm,” he admitted, “but not unpleasantly so. Dirty? Ye-es, on the wharf; but look back of you.” He hardly moved from his lounging posture. “Behold! The Bay of Naples. ‘See Naples and die’; that phrase is sure to be in your guide-book. There’s a lot of other poetry about it, too: ‘The blue Bay of Naples, cerulean blue——’”
“But it isn’t blue,” she objected. “It’s dirty grey and,”—she looked directly below for an instant—“and it’s oily—greasy, too.”
“Oh, yes, it is blue,” he contradicted firmly; “deep cerulean blue, the blue of sapphire shading off to mother-of-pearl.” As he talked he half turned towards her. He was tall—she was not; his face was bronzed, and furrowed with lines—hers was not; so without offence he could assume a schoolmasterly air of genial superiority.
“Quite blue—from the top of that hill.”
He pointed above the tiers of grey-tiled roofs to a pleasant prospect of trees. “The blue is there, but you must climb for it. You can’t expect the mostglorious panorama in the world to present itself to you without some effort on your part.”
“What’s the name of that hill?” she asked aimlessly.
“I don’t know. There’s a charming inn there, I suspect.”
“You suspect? Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you been there yourself?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know about the ‘glorious panorama’?”
“You get a similar sensation from the hill over there,” he flourished a hand; “a much smaller hill. So I drew the proper inference.”
“Have you ever been onthathill?” she flourished a hand in imitation of the man.
“No.”
“Well!”
“Well,” he smiled. “The view is there just the same—and the blue, too. If you don’t believe me, go up and see. I’m willing to stake my judgment to the extent of——”
He stopped so abruptly and smiled so mysteriously that she was attracted to say:
“To the extent of how much? You wouldn’t risk a dollar on your ‘glorious view’! Now, would you?”
He speculated for a moment. “No,” he admitted finally. “I wouldn’t risk a dollar on any of my views.”
“Ah!” she triumphed.
“A fog might come up,” he explained lamely.
“There!” said she. “Naples is over-advertised by sick poets. Look about you. It’s incredibly ugly—and smelly.”
“What’s wrong about the smells?” he inquired mildly.
She laughed. “Garlic, mostly,” she took a delicate sniff, “and paint.”
“Garlic, I admit,” he sniffed in turn, “and paint, and even tar; but they are merely the dominant notes. The overtones give this spot distinction. I’m a connoisseur on smells. It’s a lost art.”
“Thank goodness!”
“Not at all. We have lost the knowledge of odours; therefore a great part of life is lost. Do you notice now the smell of resin?”
“No.”
“They’re unloading resin in sacks from that schooner with the black sails. Think hard for a moment and you’ll get it. It is a delicious scent quite unlike anything else.”
“No,” she tried, “I don’t get it. But I smell oil, horribly.”
“That’s from the tanker,” he pointed. “It should strike your national pride. It’s U.S.A.—Standard Oil.”
“Standard Oil?” she inquired eagerly and shaded her eyes to spell out the name on the side. “So it is! U-m-m!” she sniffed, “that smells good. I own Standard Oil Stock. U-m! Not much, of course—but—u-m!—enough.”
Yes, he would borrow; but now he knew he would not pay back; perhaps not. He let her chatter on while he listened gravely or added a word or question to set her going again. In a short while he knew the main points of her life and some of the details; and she believed—so perfect is the illusion of a one-sided conversation—that he had given as much in exchange. Tothe woman they seemed infinitely acquainted after the first half-hour. She was very young, one could be sure; she had the frankness, the unsuspicious frankness of twenty-five; which, nevertheless, is very artful and quite conscious of itself. The man did not misjudge her; he knew he was not dealing with a child, but with a thoroughly independent and responsible young person.
And he knew also that he was stony broke.
The half-hours sped as they talked. Two bells followed closely by a single stroke clanged suddenly from the fore part of the ship.
She made a brisk attempt to look at a watch.
“No use,” she put the watch back. “I have Paris time. Three bells is, let me see—‘eight’ is eight and ‘one’ is half-past eight——”
“It is half-past nine,” he helped, as if it did not matter how the day sped.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “Have we wasted an hour and a half just talking?”
“So it seems.”
“I won’t stay here all day. I’ve just got to get on land. Why, man, I’ve never seen Naples or Pompeii or—any of those places,” waving a hand about. “If I had my dog here I’d go it alone. I’ve been in worse places. Why, I believe there’s nobody on the ship but us!”
She looked around. It seemed so.
Smudgy-faced members of the crew appeared here and there, the sort that the passengers ordinarily never see on voyage; cooks, vegetable carriers and knife boys called across barriers to one another; and off in the distance an officer could be observed coatless and heavily suspendered.
“Why aren’t you going on shore?” she asked suddenly.
“I?” he parried. “Not interested.”
“Not interested in Naples and Pompeii?” she inquired incredulously. “Oh, you’ve been there before, I see.”
“No; I’ve never been there. I—uh—just prefer to—uh—stay here.... I like to be alone.”
“Thank you!” cheerily.
She looked at him expectantly.
He took some time before he said serenely, “I can’t say it.”
“What?” But she knew what.
“The obvious complimentary thing. A woman does that with amazing skill,” he mused. “She directs a conversation into a position where the man must make her a pretty speech. Oh, it’s all right; but it interferes shockingly.”
“Interferes with what?” This time she did not know what.
“With any rational conversation,” he explained calmly. “I don’t mind your company. In fact, I have enjoyed it. But I do like to be alone. I’ve spent most of my life alone. On this trip abroad I’ve fought my right to be my own travelling-companion. These are just facts, like the boat’s sailing to-night at nine; but a man can’t tell them to a pretty woman (“Thank you,” she slipped in) without her pretending to take them personally. So she says ‘thank you!’—only in jest, I know—and then I must say some foolish flattery, but the conversation is—well, it cannot go on with the same directness with which a man talks to a man.... You see I’m not complaining. This is just another fact. I’m really interested in it.... Men are forcedto treat women like pretty children. Why do women stand it?”
“They don’t always like it,” she wrinkled her forehead and puzzled over the matter, “but men are such ‘jolliers,’ you know.”
“Fancy a man flattering another man!” he went on. The idea interested him. He seemed to be forgetting the woman beside him; certainly he had completely forgotten the thought born of her first approach, that she was just the sort of person to have plenty of money—somebody else’s, a father’s or a husband’s—and to offer it, too. Of course he had not intended to ask for anything. He knew enough to know that she would lend. He had been in that precise predicament before. Money had always come to him. You see, if he had looked the part of poor-man, beggar-man, thief, the world would have turned coldly away; but he was built on mighty prosperous lines. One felt, at the first glance, that here was an athletic aristocrat. He was just that in reality; but he was mortgaged to the last hedge-row.
So the thought of taking her predestined offer of money slipped from him. He was not a scheming mind. The gods took care of such things. Let them! The important matter just now was the consideration of the droll picture of two males saying sweet things apropos of each other’s eyes and noses.
He chuckled. “Fancy trying to have a discussion with a man on the subject, say, of a possible life after death, and have him lean over, stare at the top of your head, and with a tremendous assumption of interest exclaim, ‘Jove, man, I do like the way you brushed your hair this morning! With the sun striking the brown edges it is absolutely stunning!’”
They discussed flattery and women. The man slowlyforgot his reserve, while the woman, with subtle native flattery, listened. Four bells rang out sharply from forward, repeated far off in the engine-room below. Ten o’clock.
“Well!” the lady exclaimed. “Perhaps I should prefer to see Naples and Pompeii alone, but I haven’t the nerve. I’m willing to knock around in Paris or London, but when it comes to Italy I’m scared. The men look at me, especially the toughs, in a way that makes my flesh creep. Goodness knowsIwish men would forget I’m a woman, but they don’t seem to want to.... See here ... why can’t we take the trip together? Oh, I’d let you be practically alone,” she answered his quick uplook. “You’d just be there as a protection.... Will you?”
He turned his head and regarded her quizzically, like an amused elder brother. He was older. His clean-shaven face had a medley of lines in it which showed superior years.
“I should be delighted,” he remarked. His intonation carried precisely the information that his phrase was absolutely polite and absolutely non-committal.
“Oh, rot!” she laughed, but she showed impatience. “Don’t be so foolish and conventional. You do want to see the place. You said you did. And I want to go, too. It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s just the same as if I asked you to play shuffle-board. Honest, you do want to go; don’t you?”
“Yes,” he half-drawled, but made no effort to move from a convenient sprawl over the rail.
“Then let’s,” she begged. “This place is making me ill.... Oh, very well,” she took his silence for obstinacy. “I’ll stay.... No, I won’t. I’ll be hanged if I do. The heat is too much and the smellsare worse. I’ll risk it. I’ll go it alone....Whywon’t you go with me?”
He searched in his pockets carefully and finally presented a flat leather wallet.
“You force me to admit my very embarrassing position.” As he fumbled with the strap on the wallet she understood. The word “embarrassing” was in itself illuminating.
“Oh!” she gasped, shocked at her own stupidity. What an idiot! She had been gabbling to this man when all the while he had been warning her to keep off!
By this time he had opened the wallet and had drawn from its case a single five-dollar bill.
“Thatis why,” he remarked. “I am down to five dollars, which I must not touch until I land in New York. That five dollars is my sole anchor to windward. Fortunately meals and sleeping-apartment are paid for on board; but my ticket says nothing about side-trips. Therefore I should not dare step on that gang-plank. I consider myself lucky—mighty lucky—to arrive on board so safe financially as this. Forgive me for the confession; but you must admit that you forced it. Awfully sorry, too; for, now that you understand, I don’t mind telling you that this is the hottest, dirtiest, ill-smellingest spot imaginable. Would I like to go to the top of that hill and look my fill and breathe!” He straightened up suddenly. “Lord!”
“Then let’s go!” she cried. “Let’s! I’ve got money; heaps of it.” She dived into a bag she carried with her. “Look here!” she flashed a packet of various coloured bank-notes. In an inner compartment she showed him a mixture of sovereigns and gold louis. “The purser will give me Italian money. He said he would this morning. Wait! I’ll get a hat.”
She sped across the deck and around the corner before he could protest. To her stateroom she went first and added a veil about her hat, selected a parasol and donned long thin gloves. Then to the purser’s.
“What time do we sail to-night?” she asked as the official made the change of money.
“To-night?” he echoed. “We stay here until to-morrow morning. We sail at six to-morrow. There is a notice posted.”
“Thank you,” she said, and sped to the bulletin-board. In three languages the purser was verified. In a moment more she was back on the promenade-deck.
“Here!” she gave him a small purse. “You’ll have to do the spending. Come on! It’ll be a great lark. We still have time. There’s avoitureor whatever they call it. He’s looking up. He’ll take us somewhere. Come on! Oh, it’s all right! It’s on me. My treat. Come on! Don’t be foolish.... Now, what’s the matter?”
He had accepted the purse; but otherwise he had not moved.
“Wait a bit,” he spoke with quiet authority. “I can’t do this as your treat.”
“Let me hire you as a guide, then,” she ventured.
“No,” he laughed; “I——”
“Well, let’s Dutch it, then. We’ll divide expenses—you pay me in New York.”
“I won’t have anything in New York but five dollars.”
“Pay it back whenever you get it.”
“All right,” he agreed quietly. “But——”
“But what?”
“That may be a long while.”
“I don’t care. I want to see Naples.”
“I’m not over-careful about paying debts. I’m likely to repudiate,” he warned. “My memory is almost useless.”
“Well, leave it to me in your will and—hurry!”
Five bells tolled off smartly. The lady strode forward and tugged at his arm. He laughed quietly and followed.
“Really,” he told her as they slid down the steep plank, “I’m awfully keen for this trip.”
“Oh, yes, you are—not,” she looked him over with a meaning glance. “But I don’t care. I couldn’t stay on that boat all day. There’s thatcocher. Quick, get him before he drives away. I love those old dinky carriages, don’t you? Hey!” she called and waved a parasol. “Ici!Come over here! We want to get in!”
The Italian understood perfectly. And where would madame and m’sieu wish to go? To the Italian all well-dressed foreigners are French.
“To the top of that hill first,” the madame commanded. M’sieu remarked, “We must not get too far away. We sail at nine to-night; and clocks are not very dependable in these parts.”
“Yes, we must be careful about the time,” she agreed, but offered no word of the more recent information she had received from the purser. “We can have one good glorious dinner somewhere and be back easily by half-past eight,” she told him.
They had turned a corner of the creaking winding road which gave suddenly a little glimpse of the Bay.
“Look!” she exclaimed. They turned their heads. “It is beginning to be blue already! U-m!” she sniffed. “Did you get that delicious scent? Whatis it? Lilac?... And look over there! Still bluer.”
“Cerulean blue, every yard of it guaranteed,” he remarked lazily; but there was no doubt he was taking it in as eagerly as she. To the lady this was one of many possible trips abroad. To the man it was a sight of Italy, almost withheld like the Promised Land from Moses of old, now made a reality; the promise fulfilled of seven years’ mean living.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed on one rise of ground; the assumption of indifference was hard to keep up. “By Jove!” he stared and breathed in the perfumed air. “This is paradise! And Italians come to America to clean the streets and sell fruit! How can they leave it? How ever can they leave it?”
The “dinky” carriage plodded slowly up the hill. The grey tile-topped roofs began to huddle together below them. Old Vesuvius grew to look less like a flat ash-heap. Far off in the background ranges of higher hills began to push solemnly skyward. And the Bay of Naples slowly expanded, and softened, and yielded up its velvet blue.
“Isn’t it great?” the lady said, gazing afar.
“Great!” the man replied. “Wonderful!”
So absorbed were they in their personal sensations of delight that it was not until they had arrived at the top and were moving on the level towards a “hotel with a view,” that the thoughts of luncheon coupled themselves somehow with the thought of names.
From a dangling bag the lady had produced a “steamer-list.”
“Don’t tell me yet,” she warned. “This is tremendously exciting. I am wondering if you could be, let me see—‘Abbott’—no,” she looked him over carefully—“younever would be an ‘Abbott.’ ‘Bacon,’ ‘Baker,’ ‘Boileau,’ ‘Crespi’—you might be that, especially when you spoke Italian to the driver. ‘Dr.’—you’re not a doctor, are you?” She showed some dismay.
“Guess on!” he played the game firmly.
“Well, there’s one thing you’re not,” she pointed to the “list.”
He leaned forward to read the name. The wagonette was stopping with a lurch at the spacious beflowered front of a hotel.
“‘Sir Richard Helvyn,’” she laughed.
“Why not?” he inquired mildly.
“Don’t scare me,” she laughed inquiringly. “Are you?”
The happy driver was waiting at the open door, whip in hand, smiling knowingly. A bride and groom, perhaps. The tip would betray them. Beside him a flunkey or two were ready to escort the pair into the hotel. A wizened beggar-woman raised silent-speaking eyes and extended a hand. The m’sieu opened a thin deep purse, obviously a lady’s—and extracted therefrom a gold coin and a smaller one of silver.
“That will be exactly right,” he nodded to the driver, who, after one glance, was now certain—they were veritable bride and groom.
Deftly, almost without looking, he dropped the silver coin into the palm of the beggar. It was done with skill; and it said, “Begone, my good woman; the sight of you arouses my pity, but do not, pray, take it to mean a soft heart; and whatever you do, breathe not my generosity to your pestilential fellows.”
The woman understood, smiled gratefully, and slipped away.
The smoothness of the two transactions was not loston the “bride.” There had been no noisy, staccato expostulations from the driver, nor any sickening whines from the beggar; the business was handled with the dispatch of accustomed skill. Could he be Sir What’s-his-name, after all? What a lark!