'Tis very easy to make love;A smile--a pressure of the hand.A reference to the stars above,A "fly with me to some far land,"A sigh as soft as coo of dove,A kiss--the rest she'll understand.
'Tis very easy to make love;
A smile--a pressure of the hand.
A reference to the stars above,
A "fly with me to some far land,"
A sigh as soft as coo of dove,
A kiss--the rest she'll understand.
Mr. Gelthrip, thinking no one but himself knew anything, had contradicted his clerical superior on some point connected with the introduction of printing into England, and the vicar in great wrath had carried off his dogmatic curate to the library in order to prove his case. The two elder ladies were talking about Sir Rupert as Mrs. Valpy had met him a few months previously, and Mrs. Belswin was trying to find out all about her quondam husband, in order to strengthen her position as much as possible. At present she knew that she was entirely at the mercy of Sir Rupert, so if she could discover something detrimental to his character it might serve as a weapon against him. The scheme which she hoped to carry through with the assistance of Ferrari, was a dangerous one; and moreover, she was doubtful if the Italian would consent to aid her; therefore she was anxious to try all other methods of coercing her husband before resorting to the last and most terrible expedient. She was a clever woman, was Mrs. Belswin, and the instinct for discovery, which she inherited from her savage grandparents, made her wonderfully acute in cross-examining simple Mrs. Valpy, who not comprehending the subtlety of her companion, told all she knew about the baronet in the most open manner. The result was not gratifying to Mrs. Belswin; for with all her dexterity in twisting, and turning and questioning, and hinting, she discovered nothing likely to compromise Sir Rupert in any way.
"It's no use," she thought, with a feeling of despair in her heart, "Rupert has it all his own way, and I can do nothing--nothing except----"
She smiled significantly, and simple Mrs. Valpy, seeing that the companion was looking at Toby and her daughter, who were amusing themselves at the piano, misinterpreted the smile, and therefore spoke according to her misinterpretation.
"They'll make a very happy couple, won't they, Mrs. Belswin?"
Mrs. Belswin, thus being appealed to, started, smiled politely, and assented with much outward show of interest to the remark of the old lady.
"It's so nice for Toby to have his home here," pursued Mrs. Valpy, with much satisfaction; "because, you know, our place is not far from the vicarage, so I shall not be parted from my daughter."
The other woman started, and laid her hand on her breast, as if to still the beating of her heart.
"Yes; it would be a terrible thing to part with your only child," she said in a low voice. "I know what the pain of such a separation is."
"You have parted from your child, then?" said Mrs. Valpy, sympathetically.
Mrs. Belswin clutched her throat, and gave an hysterical laugh.
"Well, no; not exactly;" she said, still in the same low voice; "but--but my little daughter--my little daughter died many years ago."
It was very hard for her to lie like this when her daughter was only a few yards away, chatting to Maxwell at the window; but Mrs. Belswin looked upon such necessary denial as punishment for her sins, and accepted it accordingly.
"I'm very sorry," observed Mrs. Valpy, with well-bred condolence. "Still, time brings consolation."
"Not to all people."
"Oh, yes, I think so. Besides, now you have that dear girl, Kaituna, and she seems very fond of you."
"Yes."
She could say no more. The strangeness of the situation excited her to laughter, to that laughter which is very near tears, and she was afraid to speak lest she should break down.
"And then Sir Rupert will be so glad to find his daughter has such a good friend."
The mention of the hated name restored Mrs. Belswin to her usual self, and with a supercilious glance at the blundering woman who had so unconsciously wounded her, she answered in her ordinary manner--
"I hope so! But I'm afraid I shall not have an opportunity of seeing Sir Rupert at once, as I go to town shortly, on business."
"But you will return?"
"Oh, yes! of course I shall return, unless some unforeseen circumstances should arise. We are never certain of anything in the future, you know, Mrs. Valpy."
"No, perhaps not! At all events I think you will like Sir Rupert."
Mrs. Belswin sneered.
"Oh, do you think so?"
"I'm certain. Such a gentlemanly man. Quite young for his age. I wonder he does not marry again."
"Perhaps he had enough of matrimony with his first wife," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly.
"Oh, he was devotedly attached to her."
"Was he, indeed?"
"Yes! Simply worshipped her. She died in New Zealand when Kaituna was a baby, I believe, and Sir Rupert told me how this loss had overshadowed his life."
"Hypocrite!" murmured Mrs. Belswin, between her clenched teeth.
The conversation was becoming a little difficult for her to carry on, as she dare not disclose herself yet, and did not care about exchanging complimentary remarks on the subject of a man she detested so heartily.
At this moment Toby struck a chord on the piano, and Tommy burst out laughing, so, with ready wit, Mrs. Belswin made this interruption serve as an excuse to break off the conversation.
"The young people seem to be merry," she said to Mrs. Valpy, and rising to her feet, "I must go over and see what the joke is about."
Mrs. Valpy nodded sleepily, feeling somewhat drowsy after her dinner, so Mrs. Belswin, seeing she did not mind being left to her own devices, walked across to the piano and interrupted the two lovers, for which interruption, however, they did not feel profoundly grateful.
"Won't you sing something?" asked the companion, addressing Toby, "or you, Miss Valpy?"
"Oh, my songs are too much of the orthodox drawing-room' type," replied Miss Valpy, disparagingly. "Now Toby is original in his ditties. Come, let's have a little chin-music, Toby!"
"Wherever do you learn such slang?" said Mrs. Belswin, with a smile.
"Toby."
"I! Oh, how can you? I speak the Queen's English."
"Do you really?" said Tommy, laughing. "Well, I at present speak the President's American, so go right along, stranger, and look slippy with the barrel organ."
"If your mother hears you," remonstrated Mrs. Belswin, "she will----"
"Yes, I know she will," retorted Tommy, imperturbably; "but she's asleep and I'm awake, very much so. I say, Mrs. Belswin, where's Kaituna?"
"I think she's walking on the lawn with Mr. Maxwell."
"As a chaperon you should hunt them out," said Miss Valpy, mischievously.
"Suppose I give the same advice to your mother," replied Mrs. Belswin, dryly.
"Don't," said Toby, in mock horror; "as you are strong be merciful."
"Certainly, if you sing something."
"What shall I sing?"
"Anything," said Tommy, sitting down, "except that new style of song, all chords and no tune."
Toby laughed mischievously and began to sing--
"If I mashed her would she kiss me?No! no! no!If I bolted would she miss me?No! no! no!She knows I haven't got a rap;Besides, there is the other chap--At him, not me, she sets her cap;No! no! no!"
"If I mashed her would she kiss me?
No! no! no!
If I bolted would she miss me?
No! no! no!
She knows I haven't got a rap;Besides, there is the other chap--At him, not me, she sets her cap;
No! no! no!"
"Mr. Clendon," said Tommy, in a tone of dignified rebuke, "we don't want any music-hall songs. If you can't sing something refined, don't sing at all."
"I must collect my ideas first," replied Toby, running his fingers over the piano. "Wait till the spirit moves me."
Mrs. Belswin had resumed her seat near the sleeping form of Mrs. Valpy, and was thinking deeply, though her thoughts, judging from the savage expression in her fierce eyes, did not seem to be very agreeable ones, while Tommy leaned over the piano watching Toby's face as he tried to seek inspiration from her smiles.
Outside on the short dry grass of the lawn, Kaituna was strolling, accompanied by Archie Maxwell. The grass extended for some distance in a gentle slope, and was encircled by tall trees, their heavy foliage drooping over the beds of flowers below. Beyond, the warm blue of the sky, sparkling with stars, and just over the trembling tree-tops the golden round of the moon. A gentle wind was blowing through the rustling leaves, bearing on its faint wings the rich odours of the flowers, and the lawn was strewn with aerial shadows that trembled with the trembling of the trees. Then the white walls of the vicarage, the sloping roof neutral tinted in the moonlight, the glimmer of the cold shine on the glass of the upstair windows, and below, the yellow warm light streaming out of the drawing-room casements on the gravelled walk, the lawn beyond, and the figures of the two lovers moving like black shadows through the magical light. A nightingale began to sing deliciously, hidden in the warm dusk of the leaves, then another bird in the distance answered the first. The hoot of an owl sounded faintly through the air, the sharp whirr of a cricket replied, and all the night seemed full of sweet sounds.
Kaituna sat down on a bench placed under the drawing-room windows, and Archie, standing beside her, lighted a cigarette after asking and obtaining the requisite permission. The voices of the vicar and his curate sounded in high dispute from the adjacent library; there was a murmur of conversation from within, where Mrs. Belswin was talking to the other lovers, and at intervals the sharp notes of the piano struck abruptly through the voices, the songs of the nightingale, and the charm of the night.
"What I miss very much in the sky here," said Kaituna, looking up at the stars, "is the Southern Cross."
"Yes; I have seen it myself," replied Archie, removing his cigarette. "You know I have travelled a great deal."
"And intend to travel still more!"
"Perhaps."
"You don't seem very sure, Mr. Maxwell. What about South America?"
"I thought I had told you that I had changed my mind about South America."
Kaituna flushed a little at the significance of his words, and cast down her eyes.
"I believe you said something about putting off your journey till the end of the year."
"I'll put it off altogether, if a certain event takes place."
"And that certain event?"
"Cannot you guess?"
Duplicity on the part of the woman, who knew perfectly well the event to which the young man referred.
"No, I am afraid I can't."
"Miss Pethram--Kaituna, I----"
"Hush! Mr. Clendon is singing."
It was only to gain time for reflection, as she knew that a declaration of love trembled on his lips, but with feminine coquetry could not help blowing hot to his cold.
And Toby was singing a bold martial song, with a curious accompaniment like the trotting of a horse--a song which thrilled through the listeners, with its fierce exultation and savage passion.
On God and his prophet I seven times called me;I opened the Koran--the omen appalled me;I read it--thou wast to be bride to another;I knew my betrayer, 'twas him I called brother,Zulema! Zulema!I sprang on my steed as he waited beside me,Then rode through the desert with Allah to guide me;Fierce blew the sirocco, its terrors were idle;I galloped till dawn to be first at your bridalZulema! Zulema!I rode to the tent-door, your father's tribe knew me;They dreamed of the glory they'd gain if they slew me;I dashed through the cowards--I met my betrayer,He fell from his saddle, and I was his slayer,Zulema! Zulema!You ran from your dwelling--your father's spears missed me;You sprang to my saddle with fervour to kiss me;We broke through the press of your kinsfolk, my foemen;I won thee, Zulema, so false was the omen;Zulema! Zulema!
On God and his prophet I seven times called me;I opened the Koran--the omen appalled me;I read it--thou wast to be bride to another;I knew my betrayer, 'twas him I called brother,Zulema! Zulema!I sprang on my steed as he waited beside me,Then rode through the desert with Allah to guide me;Fierce blew the sirocco, its terrors were idle;I galloped till dawn to be first at your bridalZulema! Zulema!I rode to the tent-door, your father's tribe knew me;They dreamed of the glory they'd gain if they slew me;I dashed through the cowards--I met my betrayer,He fell from his saddle, and I was his slayer,Zulema! Zulema!You ran from your dwelling--your father's spears missed me;You sprang to my saddle with fervour to kiss me;We broke through the press of your kinsfolk, my foemen;I won thee, Zulema, so false was the omen;Zulema! Zulema!
"Ah!" said Archie, with a long breath, when the fierce cry had rung out for the last time, "that is the way to win a bride."
Kaituna thought so too, although she did not make any remark, but the shrill savagery of the song had stirred her hereditary instincts profoundly, and even in the dim moonlight Archie could see the distension of her nostrils, and the flash of excitement that sparkled in her eyes. It gave him an idea, and throwing himself on his knees, he began to woo her as fiercely and as freely as ever her dusky ancestors had been wooed in the virgin recesses of New Zealand woods.
"Kaituna, I love you! I love you. You must have seen it; you must know it. This is no time for timid protestations, for doubtful sighing. Give me your hands." He seized them in his strong grasp. "I am a man, and I must woo like a man. I love you! I love you! I wish you to be my wife. I am poor, but I am young, and with you beside me, I can do great things. Say that you will marry me."
"But my father!"
He sprang to his feet, still holding her hands, and drew her forcibly towards him.
"Your father may consent--he may refuse. I do not care for his consent or his refusal. Say you will be my wife, and no human being shall come between us. I have no money. I will gain a fortune for you. I have no home--I will make one for you. Youth, love, and God are on our side, and we are made the one for the other. You must not say no! You shall not say no. You are the woman needed to complete my life; and God has given you to me. Lay aside your coquetry, your hesitations, your fears. Speak boldly to me as I do to you. Let no false modesty--no false pride--no maidenly dread come between us. I love you, Kaituna. Will you be my wife?"
There was something in this akin to the fierce wooing of primeval man. All the artificial restraints of civilisation were laid aside. The doubts, the fears, the looks, the shrinkings, all these safeguards and shields of nervous natures had vanished before this whirlwind of passion, which bore down such feeble barriers set between man and woman. As his eyes ardent with love, passionate with longing, flashed into her own she felt her bosom thrill, her blood rush rapidly through her veins, and, with an inarticulate cry, wherein all the instincts she had inherited from her Maori ancestors broke forth, she flung herself on his heaving breast.
"Kaituna!"
"Yes! yes! take me I take me! I am yours, and yours only."
She smiles she laughs! she talks of this and that--To all appearances a very woman.Ah! but that phrase bears deep interpretation--"A very woman" is a treacherous thing;Her smile's a lie--a lie to hide the truth,For when the time is ripe for all her schemes"A very woman" slips her smiling mask,And lo! behold, a look which means, "You die."
She smiles she laughs! she talks of this and that--To all appearances a very woman.Ah! but that phrase bears deep interpretation--"A very woman" is a treacherous thing;Her smile's a lie--a lie to hide the truth,For when the time is ripe for all her schemes"A very woman" slips her smiling mask,And lo! behold, a look which means, "You die."
One who has been in strange lands, and ventured his life in far countries, is by no means anxious to court again the dangers he has so happily escaped. The traveller, telling his tales by his lately gained fireside, shudders as he remembers the perils he has dared, the risks he has encountered, and is thankful for his present safety, so thankful indeed that he is unwilling to place his life for the second time at the disposal of chance.
It was somewhat after this fashion that Mrs. Belswin viewed her present security in contrast to her past jeopardy. She had been a free-lance, and adventuress, an unprotected woman at the mercy of the world, so hard and pitiless to such unfortunates; but now she had found a home, a refuge, a daughter's love, a bright oasis in the desert of affliction, and she dreaded to be driven out of this peaceful paradise, which held all that made her life worth having, into a stormy world once more. Through perils more deadly than those of savage lands, through storms more terrible than those of the ocean, she had passed into a haven of tranquillity; but now that she was tasting of the pleasures of hope and repose, it seemed as though she would once more be driven forth to battle with her fellow-creatures.
Her quondam husband held her fate in his hand. He had right and might on his side, and she knew that she could expect no mercy from one whom she had so deeply wronged. Had the positions been reversed she felt that she would not have scrupled to enforce the powers she possessed, and, therefore, never for a moment dreamed that her husband would act otherwise. All she knew was that she was now in Paradise, that she enjoyed her daughter's affection, ignorant as that daughter was of the mother's identity, and that the husband of her youth, and the father of her dearly-loved child would expel her from this hardly won Paradise as soon as he discovered her therein.
This being the case, she did not waste time in asking for a mercy not likely to be granted, but set herself to work to find out some means of retaining her position in defiance of her husband's enmity and hatred. After her conversation with Mrs. Valpy, she saw that Rupert Pethram had glossed over the affair of the divorce in order to avoid all suspicion of scandal against himself and the mother of his child, for he was unwilling that the child should suffer for the sin of her parent. This was certainly a point in her favour, as by threatening to denounce the whole affair if she was not allowed to retain her position she could force him to acquiesce in her demand, in order to avoid scandal.
But then if he, though keeping the terrible affair secret from the outside world, told Kaituna all about her mother's disgrace, thus destroying the love which the girl had for the memory of one whom she thought was dead--it would be too terrible, as she could urge nothing in extenuation of her sin, and would be forced to blush before her own child. No, nothing could be done in that way. Should she throw herself on the mercy of the man she had wronged? Alas! she knew his stern nature well enough to be aware of the hopeless folly of such an attempt. Looking at the whole affair in whatever way that suggested itself to her fertile brain, she saw no means of retaining her position, her child or her newly-found respectability, except by enlisting the sympathy of Ferrari and----
But it was too terrible. It was a crime. Guilty as she was, to do this would render her still more guilty. Even if she succeeded in getting her husband out of the way, and it was not discovered by the law, there was still Ferrari to be reckoned with. It would give him a strong hold over her, which he would use to force her into marriage, and then she would be still separated from her child, so that the crime she contemplated would be useless.
To see this woman raging up and down her bedroom was a pitiful sight. Flinging herself on her knees she would pray to God to soften the heart of her husband, then, realising how futile was the hope, she would start to her feet and think again of the crime she contemplated committing with the assistance of her Italian lover. She raged, she wept, she sighed, she implored. Her mood changed with every tick of the clock; from hope she fell into despair; from despair she changed once more to hope--tears imprecations, prayers, threats, she tried them all in their turn, and the result was always the same--absolute failure. She was dashing herself in vain against an adamantine wall, for in her calmer moments she saw how helpless she was against the position held by her husband--a position approved of by law, approved of by the world. She could do nothing, and she knew it.
Still, Ferrari!
Yes, she would go up and see him, for perhaps he could solve the riddle which thus perplexed her so terribly. He would demand his price, she knew him well enough for that. Well, she would pay it in order to still retain possession of her child. Let her accomplish her present desire and the future would take care of itself. So, Mrs. Belswin, summoning all her philosophy to her aid, composed her features, and told Kaituna that she was going up to London on business.
"But papa will be here next week," said the girl in dismay.
"Yes; I'm sorry to go at such a time, dear," replied Mrs. Belswin, with an immovable countenance, "but it is a very important matter that takes me away."
"You will be back again soon?"
"In a fortnight at the least."
"Oh, I'm glad of that," said Kaituna, with a flush; "you know I want you to help me gain papa's consent to my marriage with Archie."
Mrs. Belswin smiled bitterly as she kissed her daughter, knowing how weak was the reed upon which the girl leaned. She ask Rupert Pethram to consent to the marriage--she dare to demand a favour of the man she had wronged for the child she had forsaken! She almost laughed as she thought of the terrible irony of the situation, but, restraining herself with her usual self-command, bade the girl hope for the best.
"Your father must like Mr. Maxwell, he is such a charming young fellow," she said encouragingly, "and as you love him so dearly, Sir Rupert, for the sake of your happiness, may perhaps overlook his want of money."
"But you will speak to papa, Mrs. Belswin?"
"Yes; if I see your father on my return I will certainly speak to him."
"How strangely you talk," said Kaituna, rather puzzled; "if you come back in a fortnight you will be sure to see papa."
"Of course, dear! of course. I was only thinking that some unforeseen accident----"
"Oh, no, no!"
"Kaituna, you love your father very dearly."
"Very, very dearly. He is all I have in the world."
It required all Mrs. Belswin's self-restraint to prevent her then and there throwing herself into the girl's arms and telling her all. Such a course, however, would have been worse than madness, so she was forced to crush down her maternal feelings.
After this interview with Kaituna, she departed for London--departed for the possible commission of a crime, and as the carriage left Thornstream she looked back with a sigh to the girl standing on the terrace.
"Perhaps I shall never see her again," she said, with a groan, throwing herself back in her seat. "But no; that will never happen; even if Rupert does turn me out of the house he will not tell Kaituna anything to destroy her belief in her mother, so I shall some day meet her with her husband."
Her lips curled as she said this, knowing well that Sir Rupert would never give his consent to the marriage, and then she clenched her hands with a frown.
"He must consent to the marriage--Kaituna's heart is set on it. He can destroy my happiness, but I'll kill him before he destroys that of my child."
And with this firm determination she left her husband's house--the house in which she should have reigned a happy mistress and mother, and the house into which she had crept like a disguised thief, the house which she, in the mad instinct of her savage nature, intended to deprive of its master.
While waiting on the railway platform for the London train, she saw Samson Belk.
The relations between these two were peculiar. Ever since he had seen her at his mother's cottage, Belk had followed her everywhere like her shadow, much to Mrs. Belswin's astonishment, for, candid in all things to herself, she could not conceive how a handsome young man could leave younger women for one verging on middle age. Yet such was the case. This bucolic man had fallen passionately in love, and adored her with all the sullen ardour of his obstinate nature. He was slow-witted, dull-headed, and it took a long time for an idea to penetrate into his brain, but once the idea was there, nothing could get it out again. This woman, so different from all he had known, who spoke in a commanding way, who flashed her eyes fiercely on all, as if they were her slaves, had, without a word, without a sign, brought to his knees this uncultured man, who knew nothing of the deference due to the sex, and whose only attributes were great physical strength and a handsome exterior. Formerly, owing to these advantages, he had gained admiration from all women, and in return had treated them with brutal indifference, or scarcely veiled contempt; but now the positions were reversed, and he was the abject slave of this imperious queen, who looked down at him with disdain. It was a case of Samson like wax in the hands of Delilah--of Hercules subjugated by Omphale; and Samson Belk, with all his virile strength, his handsome face, his stalwart figure, was crouching like a dog at the feet of Mrs. Belswin.
He looked somewhat haggard as he came towards her and took off his hat, Mrs. Belswin nodding coldly to him in return.
"Well, Mr. Belk," she said, indifferently, "what are you doing here?"
"I heard you were going to town, madam."
"Yes? How can that possibly concern you?" Belk stood twisting his hat round and round in a sheepish manner.
"I thought I might be of service to you," he stammered, looking at her portmanteau.
"Thank you, but there is no need. The porters will attend to all that," replied the lady, graciously. "But you don't look very well, Mr. Belk. I suppose you've been drinking."
Candour was Mrs. Belswin's strong point, and looking at Belk as an inferior animal, she treated him accordingly, but he seemed in nowise displeased at her bluntness.
"No; I haven't been drinking, madam."
"That's just as well. You know Sir Rupert returns next week, and if he found you to be dissipated, he'd dismiss you on the spot."
"Would he?" said Belk, sullenly. "Let him if he likes. You seem to know Sir Rupert, madam."
"I? No; but I have heard about him."
"He's a hard man, what I've seen of him."
Mrs. Belswin was not going to discuss this subject with a servant like Belk, so she turned indifferently away as the train came into the station, and left him standing there, looking in sullen admiration at her graceful form in the dark garments she now affected.
When she was safely installed in a first-class carriage, her rustic admirer, who had seen personally after her luggage, appeared at the window with some newspapers.
"You'll want them to read, madam," he said awkwardly, as she thanked him. "I hope you'll have a pleasant journey."
"Thank you, Mr. Belk, I hope I shall."
"You'll be coming back soon I hope?"
He blurted out this question with a deep flush, and Mrs. Belswin stared at him with undisguised astonishment She could not understand the reason of this man's deference, for she judged it impossible that he could be so deeply in love with her as all his actions seemed to denote. Good-natured, however, when not crossed in any way, she replied politely, as the train moved off--
"I shall return in a fortnight."
"If you don't," muttered Belk, as the long line of carriages disappeared, "I'll follow you up to London."
"Good heavens!" said Mrs. Belswin, throwing herself back in her seat, "what on earth can the man see in me to admire? I'm not a vain woman. I never was a vain woman, and why that handsome young fellow should leave youth to run after age is more than I can understand. It's flattering; very much so; but," continued the lady, struck by a sudden thought, "if Ferrari met my new admirer, I'm afraid there would be trouble."
She laughed at the idea, and taking up theTelegraphbegan to read, but suddenly laid it down with a nervous start.
"Ferrari loves me! Belk loves me! I love neither, but only my child. Rupert stands between me and my happiness. Which of these men will remove him out of my path? Ferrari--a subtle Italian, Belk--a brutal Saxon. Humph! The fox and the lion over again--craft and strength! I can depend on them both, and Rupert----"
She struck her hands together with a triumphant laugh.
"Rupert Pethram, you are marching blindfolded into a trap."
"Number One is the greater number; if I assisted Number Two it would become the lesser."
"Number One is the greater number; if I assisted Number Two it would become the lesser."
Signor Ferrari was a gentleman who knew how to make himself thoroughly comfortable; and, in order to do so, squandered his earnings in a most spendthrift fashion. At present he was receiving a very handsome salary for his singing in Sultana Fatima, therefore he denied himself nothing in the way of luxury. He was a true Bohemian in every action of his life, and accepted his fluctuating fortunes with the utmost equanimity. If he fared badly on dry bread and water one day, he was hopeful of oysters and champagne the next; and when the feast of Dives was before him, made the most of it in eating and drinking, so as to recompense himself for all future deprivations, which would be the lot of poverty-stricken Lazarus.
While his voice lasted he was well aware that he could command an excellent income which satisfied him completely; for when he grew old and songless he was quite prepared to return to Italy, and live there the happy-go-lucky life of his youth on polenta and sour wine. In his impulsive southern fashion he loved Mrs. Belswin madly; but, strangely enough, it never for a moment occurred to him to save money against his possible marriage with her. If he starved, she would starve; if he made money, she would share it; and if she objected to such a chequered existence, Signor Ferrari was quite confident enough in his own powers of will and persuasion to be satisfied that he could force her to accept his view of the matter. This was the Ferrari philosophy, and no bad one either as times go, seeing that a singer's livelihood depends entirely upon the caprice of the public. As long as he could get enough to eat, be the food rich or plain, a smoke, and plenty of sleep, the world could go hang for all he cared. He lived in the present, never thought about the past, and let the future take care of itself; so altogether managed to scramble through life in a leisurely, selfish manner eminently egotistical in fashion.
At present, being in the heyday of life, he was dining with Dives, which was happiness enough in itself; but, in order that nothing should be wanting to complete his felicity, he had received a letter from Mrs. Belswin, telling him of her contemplated arrival. Under these circumstances he had nothing left to wish for, and lounging on the sofa in his sitting-room in a state of blissful contentment awaited the coming of his fair friend.
"Buõno," said the signor, with smiling satisfaction, folding up the letter and putting it in his pocket, "the singing-bird returns to its nest. This time I will clip its wings, so that it flies not again. Per Bacco, the kind heart of Stephano surprises himself, for who would let his bird fly as he has done? But I fear not the jealousy, offspring of suspicion. Ecco! she loves but me, and comes again to the nest. And what a nest! Cospetto! My Lucrezia will be hard to please if she likes not this palazzo del amor."
It was a very pretty nest indeed, from a lodging-house point of view, although its incongruity of colouring and furnishing would have driven an artist out of his mind; but then the signor was not exacting in the way of harmonious effect, and, provided his dwelling was fairly comfortable, felt completely satisfied. Lying on the sofa, he looked complacently at the furniture, covered with painfully bright blue satin, at the scarlet curtains, the green wall-paper, and at all the wax flowers, Berlin wool mats, and gimcrack ornaments with which the room was adorned. Ferrari had added to this splendid furnishing an excellent piano for professional purposes, and numerous photographs, principally feminine, of his artistic friends; so that he conceived himself to be housed in a princely fashion.
It was three o'clock by the incorrect French timepiece on the tawdry mantelpiece, and Ferrari was getting somewhat impatient, as Mrs. Belswin had mentioned two o'clock as the time of her arrival; but with his accustomed philosophy he manifested no anger at the delay.
"La Donna é mobile," he hummed, shrugging his shoulders, as he strolled towards the piano. "Women are always late; it is one of their charming follies. Ah! EH! EE! Diavolo! my voice is bad this day. These English fogs are down my throat Ah! Eh! EE! Dio! What a note! Voce del oca.
"Ask not the stars the fate they deal.Read in my eyes the love I feel."
"Ask not the stars the fate they deal.Read in my eyes the love I feel."
"That's a good song, that serenade to Fatima. It shows off my voice. I'll sing it to exercise my high notes."
He did so, and was just in the middle of the first verse when Mrs. Belswin made her appearance, upon which he stopped abruptly, and came forward to greet her with theatrical effusion.
"Stella dora! once more you shine," he cried, seizing her hands, with a passionate look in his dark eyes. "Oh, my life! how dear it is to see thee again."
"You missed me then, Stephano?" said Mrs. Belswin, sinking wearily into a chair.
"Missed thee, carissima!" exclaimed the Italian, throwing himself on his knees before her and kissing her hand; "by this, and this, and this again, I swear that all has been dark to me without the light of thine eyes. But you will not leave me again, angela mia. Thou hast come back for ever to be my wife."
Mrs. Belswin drew her hand away sharply and frowned, for in her present irritable state of mind the exaggerated manner of Ferrari jarred on her nerves.
"Do be sensible, Stephano," she said in a vexed tone. "You are always acting."
"How can that be acting, cruel one, which is the truth?" replied Ferrari, reproachfully, rising from his knees. "Thou knowst my love, and yet when I speak you are cold. Eh, Donna Lucrezia, is your heart changed?"
"My heart remains as It always was, my friend; but I've come up to see you on business----"
"Oh, business!" interrupted Stephano, suspiciously. "Cospetto! You want once more to leave me."
"For a time; yes."
"Oh, for a time; yes!" echoed Ferrari, mockingly. "Amica mia, you have a strange way of speaking to him who adores you. Dio, you play with me like a child. I love you, and wish you for my wife. You say 'yes,' and depart for a time. Now return you to me and again say, 'Stephano, I leave you for a time.'"
"I made no promise to be your wife," said Mrs. Belswin, angrily, "nor will I do so unless you help me now."
"Help you! and in what way? Has the little daughter been cruel? You wish me to speak as father to her."
"I wish you to do nothing of the sort. My daughter is quite well, and I was perfectly happy with her."
"And without me," cried Ferrari, jealously; upon which Mrs. Belswin made a gesture of irritation.
"We can settle that afterwards," she said, drawing off her gloves: "meanwhile let us talk sense. I shall be up in town for a fortnight."
"And you stay, cara?"
"At an hotel in the Strand. I'll give you the address before I leave."
"Bene! I will then have you to myself for two weeks."
"It all depends on whether you will help me in what I wish to do."
"Ebbene! Is it il marito?"
Mrs. Belswin nodded, and the Italian burst out laughing.
"Povero diavolo. He has then come again."
"No! but he arrives next week."
"How pleased you are," said Ferrari, mockingly. "Oh, yes, he will be so sweet to behold you."
"That's the very question! I don't want him to see me."
"Then return not to the little daughter."
"I must! I must!" cried Mrs. Belswin in despair. "I can't give up my child after meeting her again. Twenty years, Stephano, and I have not seen her; now I am beside her every day. She loves me--not as her mother, but as her friend. I can't give up all this because my husband is returning."
Signor Ferrari shrugged his shoulders and lighted a cigarette.
"But there is nothing more you can do," he said, spreading out his hands with a dramatic gesture, "eh, carrissima? Think of what is this affair. Il marito has said to you, 'Good-bye.' The little daughter thinks you to be dead. If then you come to reveal yourself, il marito--eh, amica mia! it is a trouble for all."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing! oh no, certainly! You have beheld the little daughter for a time. Now you are to me again. I say, Stella 'dora, with me remain and forget all."
"No, I will not! I will not!" cried Mrs. Belswin, savagely, rising to her feet. "Cannot you see how I suffer? If you love me as you say, you must see how I suffer. Give up my child, my life, my happiness! I cannot do it."
"Dio! you cannot make the miracles."
"I can! I must! Do you think I will stay with you while my child calls me?"
"With me you must stay, my Norma. I love thee. I will not leave you no more."
"You can't stop me."
"Ebbene," said Ferrari, conscious that he held the advantage. "Go, then, and see how il marito will behold you."
Mrs. Belswin felt her helplessness, and clenched her hands with a savage cry of despair, that seemed to be torn out of her throbbing heart. Up and down the gaudy room she paced, with her face convulsed with rage, and her fierce eyes flashing with an unholy fire, while Ferrari, secure in his position, sat quietly near the window, smoking leisurely. His self-possession seemed to provoke her, ready as she was to vent her impotent anger on anything, and, stopping abruptly she poured forth all her anger.
"Why do you sit there smiling, and smiling, like a fool?" she shrieked, stamping her foot. "Can you not suggest something? Can you not do something?"
"Eh, carissima, I would say, 'Be quiet' The people below will hear you cry out."
"Let them! What do I care? I am a desperate woman, Ferrari, and I am determined to keep my position beside my child. I will stop at nothing--nothing--not even murder!"
"Murder!"
Signor Ferrari let the cigarette drop from his fingers, and jumped up with a cry of dismay looking pale and unnerved. She saw this, and lashing him with her tongue, taunted him bitterly.
"Yes, murder, you miserable! I thought you were a brave man; but I see I made a mistake. You love me! You want to be my husband! No, no, no! I marry a brave man--yes, a brave man; not a coward!"
Ferrari winced, with an angry glitter in his eyes.
"Eh, Lucrezia. You think I am a brave man if I go to assassin il marito. Cospetto! I am an Italian; but the Italians are not fools. If another man loved you, and would take you away, I would kill him--yes! But il marito--eh, that is not quite the same. I kill him and you return to the little daughter for always. What gain to me, carissima? I kill him, and your law gives me the rope. What gain to me? No, Donna Lucrezia. Do what you love. Stab him with a stiletto, or give the poison, I say nothing; but as for me to obey--Dio, the life is not trouble to me yet."
"You are afraid."
He bounded across the room, and seized her roughly by the wrist.
"Devil-woman, I have no fear! You lie to speak so I You lie, figlia inferna."
"Then why do you refuse to help me?"
"Per Bacco, I am no assassin. Il marito is not an enemy to me. To you he is hateful. Revenge yourself as it pleases; but I--cospetto. You ask too much."
He flung her away from him with a gesture of anger, and began to walk about the room. Mrs. Belswin remained silent, savagely disappointed at the failure of her plan, and presently Ferrari began to talk again in his rapid, impulsive fashion.
"If there was any gain. Yes. But I see not anything. I would work against myself. You know that, Signora Machiavelli. Ah, yes; I am not blind, cara mia. While il marito lives, you are mine. He will keep you from the little daughter. But he dies--eh, and you depart."
"No, no! I swear----"
"I refuse your swearing. They are false. Forget, il marito--forget the little daughter! You are mine, mia moglie, and you depart not again."
Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully, and put on her gloves again with the utmost deliberation. Then, taking up her umbrella, she moved quickly towards the door; but not so quickly as to prevent Ferrari placing himself before her.
"Where go you?" demanded the Italian, between his clenched teeth.
"To find a braver man than Stephano Ferrari."
"No; you will find no one."
"Won't I? Pshaw! I have found one already."
The Italian sprang on her with a bound like a tiger, seized her hands, and placed his face so close to her own that she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.
"You have a lover, traditrice?"
"No."
"You lie! I believe you not!"
Mrs. Belswin laughed, and made an attempt to go away.
"Sit in that chair, infamous!"
"I will not."
"Sit in that chair, I order."
"You order!"
"Yes, I, Stephano Ferrari."
She looked first at the Italian, then at the chair; and his aspect was so determined that, in order to avoid an unseemly struggle, she sat down as desired, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Now, tell me of this lover."
"There is nothing to tell."
"You lie!"
"I do not lie."
With eyes as fierce as his own, she looked straight at him, and it became a question as to which of them had the stronger will. Her determination to retain her position at any price, even at the cost of her husband's life, had roused all her worst passions, and for the first time since he had known her, the Italian averted his eyes with a shudder of dread.
"Jettatura," he cried, recoiling from her malignant gaze, and making horns with his fingers to avert the blighting consequences of her look. Mrs. Belswin saw her advantage, and immediately began to play on his superstition.
"I have the evil eye, you think. Yes; it is so. Why have you never discovered it before? Because I gave you love. To those who cross me not, I am kind; but an insult---- Ah! you shrink. Well, then, take care. I never forgive. I never forget."
Ferrari, completely cowed by her manner, threw himself on his knees before her, and held out his hands with a gesture of entreaty.
"Stella 'dora, leave me not. Behold me at your feet, cruel one. I die in your anger."
Mrs. Belswin saw that she had gained command over him, but was too wise to push her conquest too far; so, bending down, she gave him her hand, which he covered with fierce kisses.
"Rise, Stephano, and I will tell you all. For two weeks I will be in town, and with you all the days. You can call at my hotel if it pleases you. If I decide nothing about my husband you can come down with me to Deswarth, and we will face him together."
"But this lover?"
"I have no lover. I spoke in jest. Your devotion has touched me, and I will reward it by becoming your wife. For the present," said Mrs. Belswin, with a charming smile, "I will say 'a reverderci.' If you send me a box I will come and hear you sing to-night."
Ferrari once more kissed her hand, there was a rustling of skirts, a closing of the door, and she was gone.
The Italian stood where she had left him, with a scared look on his face; and after a few minutes looked at the door through which she had vanished, with a nervous smile.
"Jettatura!" he muttered, shivering. "Jettatura."