CHAPTER VITHE BIRD BEHIND BARS
The most beautiful blue Irish eyes in the world gazed out at the dawn which turned night-blue into day-blue and paled the stars. Rosal lay the undulating horizon, presently to burst into living flame, transmuting the dull steel bars of the window into fairy gold, that trick of alchemy so futilely sought by man. There was a window at the north and another at the south, likewise barred; but the Irish eyes never sought these two. It was from the east window only that they could see the long white road that led to Paris.
The nightingale was truly caged. But the wild heart of the eagle beat in this nightingale’s breast, and the eyes burned as fiercely toward the east as the east burned toward thewest. Sunday and Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, to-day; and that the five dawns were singular in beauty and that she had never in her life before witnessed the creation of five days, one after another, made no impression upon her sense of the beautiful, so delicate and receptive in ordinary times. She was conscious that within her the cup of wrath was overflowing. Of other things, such as eating and sleeping and moving about in her cage (more like an eagle indeed than a nightingale), recurrence had blunted her perception.
Her clothes were soiled and crumpled, sundrily torn; her hair was in disorder, and tendrils hung about her temples and forehead—thick black hair, full of purple tones in the sunlight—for she had not surrendered peacefully to this incarceration. Dignity, that phase of philosophy which accepts quietly the inevitable, she had thrown to the winds. She had fought desperately, primordially, whenshe had learned that her errand of mercy was nothing more than a cruel hoax.
“Oh, but he shall pay, he shall pay!” she murmured, striving to loosen the bars with her small, white, helpless hands. The cry seemed to be an arietta, for through all these four maddening days she had voiced it,—now low and deadly with hate, now full-toned in burning anger, now broken by sobs of despair. “Will you never come, so that I may tell you how base and vile you are?” she further addressed the east.
She had waited for his appearance on Sunday. Late in the day one of the jailers had informed her that it was impossible for the gentleman to come before Monday. So she marshaled her army of phrases, of accusations, of denunciations, ready to smother him with them the moment he came. But he came not Monday, nor Tuesday, nor Wednesday. The suspense was to her mind diabolical. She began to understand: he intended to keepher there till he was sure that her spirit was broken, then he would come. Break her spirit? She laughed wildly. He could break her spirit no more easily than she could break these bars. To bring her to Versailles upon an errand of mercy! Well, he was capable of anything.
The room was large and fairly comfortable, but contained nothing breakable, having been tenanted at one time by a strenuous lunatic, who had considerately died after his immediate family and relations had worn themselves into their several graves, taking care of him. But Eleonora Harrigan knew nothing of the history of the room while she occupied it. So, no ghost disturbed her restless slumberless nights, consumed in watching and listening.
She was not particularly distressed because she knew that it would not be possible for her to sing again until the following winter in New York. She had sobbed too much, withher face buried in the pillow. Had these sobs been born of weakness, all might have been well; but rage had mothered them, and thus her voice was in a very bad way. This morning she was noticeably hoarse, and there was a break in the arietta. No, she did not fret over this side of the calamity. The sting of it all lay in the fact that she had been outraged in the matter of personal liberty, with no act of reprisal to ease her immediate longing to be avenged.
Nora, as she stood in the full morning sunlight, was like to gladden the eyes of all mankind. She was beautiful, and all adjectives applicable would but serve to confuse rather than to embellish her physical excellence. She was as beautiful as a garden rose is, needing no defense, no ramparts of cloying phrases. The day of poets is gone, otherwise she would have been sung in cantos. She was tall, shapely, deep-bosomed, fine-skinned. Critics, in praising her charms, delved into mythologyand folk-lore for comparisons, until there wasn’t a goddess left on Olympus or on Northland’s icy capes; and when these images became a little shop-worn, referred to certain masterpieces of the old fellows who had left nothing more to be said in oils. Nora enjoyed it all.
She had not been happy in the selection of her stage name; but she had chosen Eleonora da Toscana because she believed there was good luck in it. Once, long before the world knew of her, she had returned home from Italy unexpectedly. “Molly, here’s Nora, from Tuscany!” her delighted father had cried: who at that time had a nebulous idea that Tuscany was somewhere in Ireland because it had a Celtic ring to it. Being filled with love of Italy, its tongue, its history, its physical beauty, she naïvely translated “Nora from Tuscany” into Italian, and declared that when she went upon the stage she would be known by that name. There had been some smiling over the pseudonym;but Nora was Irish enough to cling to it. By and by the great music-loving public ceased to concern itself about her name; it was her fresh beauty and her wonderful voice they craved to see and hear. Kings and queens, emperors and empresses, princes and princesses,—what is called royalty and nobility in the newspapers freely gave her homage. Quite a rise in the world for a little girl who had once lived in a shabby apartment in New York and run barefooted on the wet asphalts, summer nights!
But Nora was not recalling the happy scenes of her childhood; indeed, no; she was still threatening Paris. Once there, she would not lack for reprisals. To have played on her pity! To have made a lure of her tender concern for the unfortunate! Never would she forgive such baseness. And only a little while ago she had been as happy as the nightingale to which they compared her. Never had she wronged any one; she had been kindness and thoughtfulness to all with whom she had comein contact. But from now on!... Her fingers tightened round the bars. She might have posed as Dido when she learned that the noble Æneas was dead. War, war; woe to the moths who fluttered about her head hereafter!
Ah, but had she been happy? Her hands slid down the bars. Her expression changed. The mouth drooped, the eagle-light in her eyes dimmed. From out the bright morning, somewhere, had come weariness, and with this came weakness, and finally, tears.
She heard the key turn in the lock. They had never come so early before. She was astonished to see that her jailer did not close the door as usual. He put down the breakfast tray on the table. There was tea and toast and fruit.
“Mademoiselle, there has been a terrible mistake,” said the man humbly.
“Ah! So you have found that out?” she cried.
“Yes. You are not the person for whom this room was intended.” Which was half a truth and perfectly true, paradoxical as it may seem. “Eat your breakfast in peace. You are free, Mademoiselle.”
“Free? You will not hinder me if I walk through that door?”
“No, Mademoiselle. On the contrary, I shall be very glad, and so will my brother, who guards you at night. I repeat, there has been a frightful mistake. Monsieur Champeaux ...”
“Monsieur Champeaux!” Nora was bewildered. She had never heard this name before.
“He calls himself that,” was the diplomatic answer.
All Nora’s suspicions took firm ground again. “Will you describe this Monsieur Champeaux to me?” asked the actress coming into life.
“He is short, dark, and old, Mademoiselle.”
“Rather is he not tall, blond, and young?” ironically.
The jailer concealed what annoyance he felt. In his way he was just as capable an actor as she was. The accuracy of her description startled him; for the affair had been carried out so adroitly that he had been positive that until her real captor appeared she would be totally in the dark regarding his identity. And here she had hit it off in less than a dozen words. Oh, well; it did not matter now. She might try to make it unpleasant for his employer, but he doubted the ultimate success of her attempts. However, the matter was at an end as far as he was concerned.
“Have you thought what this means? It is abduction. It is a crime you have committed, punishable by long imprisonment.”
“I have been Mademoiselle’s jailer, not her abductor. And when one is poor and in need of money!” He shrugged.
“I will give you a thousand francs for thename and address of the man who instigated this outrage.”
Ah, he thought: then she wasn’t so sure? “I told you the name, Mademoiselle. As for his address, I dare not give it, not for ten thousand francs. Besides, I have said that there has been a mistake.”
“For whom have I been mistaken?”
“Who but Monsieur Champeaux’s wife, Mademoiselle, who is not in her right mind?” with inimitable sadness.
“Very well,” said Nora. “You say that I am free. That is all I want, freedom.”
“In twenty minutes the electric tram leaves for Paris. You will recall, Mademoiselle,” humbly, “that we have taken nothing belonging to you. You have your purse and hat and cloak. The struggle was most unfortunate. But, think, Mademoiselle, think; we thought you to be insane!”
“Permit me to doubt that! And you are not afraid to let me go?”
“Not in the least, Mademoiselle. A mistake has been made, and in telling you to go at once, we do our best to rectify this mistake. It is only five minutes to the tram. A carriage is at the door. Will Mademoiselle be pleased to remember that we have treated her with the utmost courtesy?”
“I shall remember everything,” ominously.
“Very good, Mademoiselle. You will be in Paris before nine.” With this he bowed and backed out of the room as though Nora had suddenly made a distinct ascension in the scale of importance.
“Wait!” she called.
His face appeared in the doorway again.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Since this morning, Mademoiselle.”
“That is all.”
Free! Her veins tingled with strange exultation. He had lost his courage and had become afraid of the consequences. Free! Monsieur Champeaux indeed! Cowardicewas a new development in his character. He had been afraid to come. She drank the tea, but did not touch the toast or fruit. There would be time enough for breakfast when she arrived in Paris. Her hands trembled violently as she pinned on her hat, and she was not greatly concerned as to the angle. She snatched up her purse and cloak, and sped out into the street. A phaeton awaited her.
“The tram,” she said.
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“And go quickly.” She would not feel safe until she was in the tram.
A face appeared at one of the windows. As the vehicle turned the corner, the face vanished; and perhaps that particular visage disappeared forever. A gray wig came off, the little gray side-whiskers, the bushy grey eyebrows, revealing a clever face, not more than thirty, cunning, but humorously cunning and anything but scoundrelly. The painted scar aslant the nose was also obliterated. Withhaste the man thrust the evidences of disguise into a traveling-bag, ran here and there through the rooms, all bare and unfurnished save the one with the bars and the kitchen, which contained two cots and some cooking utensils. Nothing of importance had been left behind. He locked the door and ran all the way to the Place d’Armes, catching the tram to Paris by a fraction of a minute.
All very well done. She would be in Paris before the police made any definite move. The one thing that disturbed him was the thought of the blockhead of a chauffeur, who had got drunk before his return from Versailles. If he talked; well, he could say nothing beyond the fact that he had deposited the singer at the house as directed. He knew positively nothing.
The man laughed softly. A thousand francs apiece for him and Antoine, and no possible chance of being discovered. Let the police find the house in Versailles; let themtrace whatever paths they found; the agent would tell them, and honestly, that an aged man had rented the house for a month and had paid him in advance. What more could the agent say? Only one bit of puzzlement: why hadn’t the blond stranger appeared? Who was he, in truth, and what had been his game? All this waiting and wondering, and then a curt telegram of the night before, saying, “Release her.” So much the better. What his employer’s motives were did not interest him half so much as the fact that he had a thousand francs in his pocket, and that all element of danger had been done away with. True, the singer herself would move heaven and earth to find out who had been back of the abduction. Let her make her accusations. He was out of it.
He glanced toward the forward part of the tram. There she sat, staring at the white road ahead. A young Frenchman sat near her, curling his mustache desperately. So beautifuland all alone! At length he spoke to her. She whirled upon him so suddenly that his hat fell off his head and rolled at the feet of the onlooker.
“Your hat, Monsieur?” he said gravely, returning it.
Nora laughed maliciously. The author of the abortive flirtation fled down to the body of the tram.
And now there was no one on top but Nora and her erstwhile jailer, whom she did not recognize in the least.
“Mademoiselle,” said the great policeman soberly, “this is a grave accusation to make.”
“I make it, nevertheless,” replied Nora. She sat stiffly in her chair, her face colorless, dark circles under her eyes. She never looked toward Courtlandt.
“But Monsieur Courtlandt has offered an alibi such as we can not ignore. More than that, his integrity is vouched for by the gentlemanat his side, whom doubtless Mademoiselle recognizes.”
Nora eyed the great man doubtfully.
“What is the gentleman to you?” she was interrogated.
“Absolutely nothing,” contemptuously.
The minister inspected his rings.
“He has annoyed me at various times,” continued Nora; “that is all. And his actions on Friday night warrant every suspicion I have entertained against him.”
The chief of police turned toward the bandaged chauffeur. “You recognize the gentleman?”
“No, Monsieur, I never saw him before. It was an old man who engaged me.”
“Go on.”
“He said that Mademoiselle’s old teacher was very ill and asked for assistance. I left Mademoiselle at the house and drove away. I was hired from the garage. That is the truth, Monsieur.”
Nora smiled disbelievingly. Doubtless he had been paid well for that lie.
“And you?” asked the chief of Nora’s chauffeur.
“He is certainly the gentleman, Monsieur, who attempted to bribe me.”
“That is true,” said Courtlandt with utmost calmness.
“Mademoiselle, if Monsieur Courtlandt wished, he could accuse you of attempting to shoot him.”
“It was an accident. His sudden appearance in my apartment frightened me. Besides, I believe a woman who lives comparatively alone has a legal and moral right to protect herself from such unwarrantable intrusions. I wish him no physical injury, but I am determined to be annoyed by him no longer.”
The minister’s eyes sought Courtlandt’s face obliquely. Strange young man, he thought. From the expression of his face he might have been a spectator rather than the person mostvitally concerned in this little scene. And what a pair they made!
“Monsieur Courtlandt, you will give me your word of honor not to annoy Mademoiselle again?”
“I promise never to annoy her again.”
For the briefest moment the blazing blue eyes clashed with the calm brown ones. The latter were first to deviate from the line. It was not agreeable to look into a pair of eyes burning with the hate of one’s self. Perhaps this conflagration was intensified by the placidity of his gaze. If only there had been some sign of anger, of contempt, anything but this incredible tranquillity against which she longed to cry out! She was too wrathful to notice the quickening throb of the veins on his temples.
“Mademoiselle, I find no case against Monsieur Courtlandt, unless you wish to appear against him for his forcible entrance to your apartment.” Nora shook her head. The chiefof police stroked his mustache to hide the fleeting smile. A peculiar case, the like of which had never before come under his scrutiny! “Circumstantial evidence, we know, points to him; but we have also an alibi which is incontestable. We must look elsewhere for your abductors. Think; have you not some enemy? Is there no one who might wish you worry and inconvenience? Are your associates all loyal to you? Is there any jealousy?”
“No, none at all, Monsieur,” quickly and decidedly.
“In my opinion, then, the whole affair is a hoax, perpetrated to vex and annoy you. The old man who employed this chauffeur may not have been old. I have looked upon all sides of the affair, and it begins to look like a practical joke, Mademoiselle.”
“Ah!” angrily. “And am I to have no redress? Think of the misery I have gone through, the suspense! My voice is gone. I shall not be able to sing again for months. Isit your suggestion that I drop the investigation?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, for it does not look as if we could get anywhere with it. If you insist, I will hold Monsieur Courtlandt; but I warn you the magistrate would not hesitate to dismiss the case instantly. Monsieur Courtlandt arrived in Marseilles Thursday morning; he reached Paris Friday morning. Since arriving in Paris he has fully accounted for his time. It is impossible that he could have arranged for the abduction. Still, if you say, I can hold him for entering your apartment.”
“That would be but a farce.” Nora rose. “Monsieur, permit me to wish you good day. For my part, I shall pursue this matter to the end. I believe this gentleman guilty, and I shall do my best to prove it. I am a woman, and all alone. When a man has powerful friends, it is not difficult to build an alibi.”
“That is a reflection upon my word, Mademoiselle,” quietly interposed the minister.
“Monsieur has been imposed upon.” Nora walked to the door.
“Wait a moment, Mademoiselle,” said the prefect. “Why do you insist upon prosecuting him for something of which he is guiltless, when you could have him held for something of which he is really guilty?”
“The one is trivial; the other is a serious outrage. Good morning.” The attendant closed the door behind her.
“A very determined young woman,” mused the chief of police.
“Exceedingly,” agreed the minister.
Courtlandt got up wearily. But the chief motioned him to be reseated.
“I do not say that I dare not pursue my investigations; but now that mademoiselle is safely returned, I prefer not to.”
“May I ask who made this request?” asked Courtlandt.
“Request? Yes, Monsieur, it was a request not to proceed further.”
“From where?”
“As to that, you will have to consult the head of the state. I am not at liberty to make the disclosure.”
The minister leaned forward eagerly. “Then there is a political side to it?”
“There would be if everything had not turned out so fortunately.”
“I believe that I understand now,” said Courtlandt, his face hardening. Strange, he had not thought of it before. His skepticism had blinded him to all but one angle. “Your advice to drop the matter is excellent.”
The chief of police elevated his brows interrogatively.
“For I presume,” continued Courtlandt, rising, “that Mademoiselle’s abductor is by this time safely across the frontier.”
CHAPTER VIIBATTLING JIMMIE
There is a heavenly terrace, flanked by marvelous trees. To the left, far down below, is a curving, dark-shaded, turquoise body of water called Lecco; to the right there lies the queen of lakes, the crown of Italy, a corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it—this terrace—poets have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect phrasing; novelists have come and gone and have carried away peace and inspiration; and painters have painted it from a thousand points of view, and perhaps are painting it from another thousand this very minute. It is the Place of Honeymoons. Rich lovers come and idle there; and lovers of modest means rush up to it and down fromit to catch the next steamer to Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains, unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the days of the junketing gods, is completest. No; Venus went a-touring and abode a while upon this same gracious spot, once dear to Pliny the younger.
Between the blessed ledge and the towering mountains over the way, rolls a small valley, caressed on either side by the lakes. There are flower gardens, from which in summer rises the spicy perfume of lavender; there are rows upon rows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted mountains abound, with scarfs of filmy cloud aslant their rugged profiles, and beauty-patches of snow. And everywhere the dark and brooding cypress, the copper beech, the green pineaccentuate the pink and blue and white stucco of the villas, the rich and the humble.
Behind the terrace is a promontory, three or four hundred feet above the waters. Upon the crest is a cultivated forest of all known evergreens. There are ten miles of cool and fragrant paths, well trodden by the devoteés of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The Englishman’s reserve melts, the American forgets his coupons, the German puts his arm around the robust waist of his frau or fräulein. (This is nothing for him; he does it unconcernedly up and down the great urban highways of the world.)
Again, between the terrace ledge and the forest lies a square of velvet green, abounding in four-leaf clover.Buona fortuna!In the center there is a fountain. The water tinkles in drops. One hears its soft music at all times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables;a monster oak protects one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may witness the fiery lances of the setting sun burn across one arm of water while the silver spars of the rising moon shimmer across the other. Nature is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has.
Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted, and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would be a bit of brogue. He was JamesHarrigan, one time celebrated in the ring for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; “Battling Jimmie” Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but only once had he been “railroaded into dreamland,” to use the parlance of the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service, lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them.
True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain expectant tilt, the reporters scribblingon the deal tables under the very posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never, never again; if only for the little woman’s sake. Only when the game was done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return on fighting nights.
To-day “Battling Jimmie” was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his fingers, broad andstubby and powerful, had not been trained to the delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot, but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (savehis own) was available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.
Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak, was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the pages of Bagot’sItalian Lakes, and he wasn’t making much headway. He was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.
Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of folding up an easel and a camp-stool.
The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The villa’s omnibus was toiling up the winding road among thegrape-vines. Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox. From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no words,—half a dozen bars fromMartha; but every delightful note went deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog. The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The artist scowled at the Italian.
“Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!”
The dog struggled in Harrigan’s hands and tore himself loose. He went clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a lover as any, and far more favored.
“Oh, you funny little dog! You merrylittle dachel! Fritz, mustn’t; let go!” Silence.
The artist knew that she was cuddling the puppy to her heart, and his own grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied the box to the easel and the stool, and shifted them under his arm.
“I’ll be up after dinner, Mr. Harrigan,” he said.
“All right, Abbott.” Harrigan waved his hand pleasantly. He was becoming so used to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner, that his reply was by now purely mechanical. “She’s getting her voice back all right; eh?”
“Beautifully! But I really don’t think she ought to sing at the Haines’ villa Sunday.”
“One song won’t hurt her. She’s made up her mind to sing. There’s nothing for us to do but to sit tight. No news from Paris?”
“No.”
“Say, do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“Some one has come across to the police.”
“Paris is not New York, Mr. Harrigan.”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a hundred cents to the dollar, my boy, Paris or New York. Why haven’t they moved? They can’t tell me that tow-headed chap’s alibi was on the level. I wish I’d been in Paris. There’d been something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can’t get a word out of Nora. Shuts me up with a bang when I mention it. Throws her nerves all out, she says. I’d like to get my hands on the blackguard.”
“So would I. It’s a puzzle. If he had molested her while she was a captive, you could understand. But he never came near her.”
“Busted his nerve, that’s what.”
“I have my doubts about that. A man who will go that far isn’t subject to any derangementof his nerves. Want me to bring up the checkers?”
“Sure. I’ve got two rubbers hanging over you.”
The artist took the path that led around the villa and thence down by many steps to the village by the waterside, to the cream-tinted cluster of shops and enormous hotels.
The Italian was more fortunate. He was staying at the villa. He rose and sauntered over to Harrigan, who was always a source of interest to him. Study the man as he might, there always remained a profound mystery to his keen Italian mind. Every now and then nature—to prove that while she provided laws for humanity she obeyed none herself—nature produced the prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes; but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparablein the living history of music, here logic, the cold and accurate intruder, found an unlockable door. He liked the ex-prizefighter, so kindly and wholesome; but he also pitied him. Harrigan reminded him of a seal he had once seen in an aquarium tank: out of his element, but merry-eyed and swimming round and round as if determined to please everybody.
“It will be a fine night,” said the Italian, pausing at Harrigan’s bench.
“Every night is fine here, Barone,” replied Harrigan. “Why, they had me up in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I’m not over it yet. It’s no place for a sick man; only a well man could come out of it alive.”
The Barone laughed. Harrigan had told this tale half a dozen times, but each time the Barone felt called on to laugh. The man was her father.
“Do you know, Mr. Harrigan, Miss Harrigan is not herself? She is—what do youcall?—bitter. She laughs, but—ah, I do not know!—it sounds not real.”
“Well, she isn’t over that rumpus in Paris yet.”
“Rumpus?”
“The abduction.”
“Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see.”
“No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise, calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of cards, anything.”
The Barone spread his hands. “I comprehend,” hurriedly. He comprehended nothing, but he was too proud to admit it.
“So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called there at the apartment the very day!”
“Ah, if I had been there the right time!”
“But what puts me down for the count is the action of the fellow. Never showed up; just made her miss two performances.”
“He was afraid. Men who do cowardly things are always afraid.” The Barone spoke with decided accent, but he seldom made a grammatical error. “But sometimes, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness. Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale.” The Italian looked down on Como whose broad expanse was crisscrossed by rippled paths made by arriving and departing steamers. “It is not a wonder that some man might want to run away with her.”
Harrigan looked curiously at the other. “Well, it won’t be healthy for any man to try it again.” The father held out his powerful hands for the Barone’s inspection. They called mutely but expressively for the throat of the man who dared. “It’ll never happen again. Her mother and I are not going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I’m going to trail along; when she hits the high note in Paris, I’m lingering near; when she trills in London, I’m hiding in the shadow.And you may put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“I smoke only cigarettes,” replied the Barone gravely. It had been difficult to follow, this English.
Harrigan said nothing in return. He had given up trying to explain to the Italian the idiomatic style of old Broadway. He got up and brushed his flannels perfunctorily. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to dress for supper,” resentfully. He still called it supper; and, as in the matter of the silk hat, his wife no longer strove to correct him. The evening meal had always been supper, and so it would remain until that time when he would cease to look forward to it.
“Do you go to the dancing at Cadenabbia to-night?”
“Me? I should say not!” Harrigan laughed. “I’d look like a bull in a china-shop. Abbott is coming up to play checkers with me. I’ll leave the honors to you.”
The Barone’s face lighted considerably. He hated the artist only when he was visible. He was rather confused, however. Abbott had been invited to the dance. Why wasn’t he going? Could it be true? Had the artist tried his luck and lost? Ah, if fate were as kind as that! He let Harrigan depart alone.
Why not? What did he care? What if the father had been a fighter for prizes? What if the mother was possessed with a misguided desire to shine socially? What mattered it if they had once resided in an obscure tenement in a great city, and that grandfathers were as far back as they could go with any certainty? Was he not his own master? What titled woman of his acquaintance whose forebears had been powerful in the days of the Borgias, was not dimmed in the presence of this wonderful maid to whom all things had been given unreservedly? Her brow was fit for a royal crown, let alone a simple baronial tiara such as he could provide.The mother favored him a little; of this he was reasonably certain; but the moods of the daughter were difficult to discover or to follow.
To-night! The round moon was rising palely over Lecco; the moon, mistress of love and tides, toward whom all men and maids must look, though only Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian’s question, for he faced about and walked moodily toward the entrance. Here he paused, looking up at the empty window. Again a snatch of song—
O solo mio...che bella cosa...!
What a beautiful thing indeed! Passionately he longed for the old days, when by his physical prowess alone oft a man won his lady. Diplomacy, torrents of words, sly little tricks, subterfuges, adroitness, stolen glances, careless touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day. When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was onlymischievous. She was just as likely to singO terra addiowhen she was happy asO sole miowhen she was sad. So, how was a man to know the right approach to her variant moods? Sighing deeply, he went on to his room, to change his Piccadilly suit for another which was supposed to be the last word in the matter of evening dress.
Below, in the village, a man entered the Grand Hotel. He was tall, blond, rosy-cheeked. He carried himself like one used to military service; also, like one used to giving peremptory orders. The porter bowed, the director bowed, and the proprietor himself became a living carpenter’s square, hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew every woman of importanceat that time residing on the Point. Certainly it could be none of these.Himmel!He struck his hands together. So that was it: the singer. He recalled the hints in certain newspaper paragraphs, the little tales with the names left to the imagination. So that was it?
What a woman! Men looked at her and went mad. And not so long ago one had abducted her in Paris. The proprietor threw up his hands in despair. What was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The youth permitted nothing to stand in his way, and the singer’s father was a retired fighter with boxing-gloves!
CHAPTER VIIIMOONLIGHT AND A PRINCE
When he had fought what he considered two rattling rounds, Harrigan conceded that his cravat had once more got the decision over him on points. And the cravat was only a second-rater, too, a black-silk affair. He tossed up the sponge and went down to the dining-room, the ends of the conqueror straggling like the four points of a battered weather-vane. His wife and daughter and Mademoiselle Fournier were already at their table by the casement window, from which they could see the changing granite mask of Napoleon across Lecco.
At the villa there were seldom more than ten or twelve guests, this being quite the capacity of the little hotel. These generallytook refuge here in order to escape the noise and confusion of a large hotel, to avoid the necessity of dining in state every night. Few of the men wore evening dress, save on occasions when they were entertaining. The villa wasn’t at all fashionable, and the run of American tourists fought shy of it, preferring the music and dancing and card-playing of the famous hostelries along the water-front. Of course, everybody came up for the view, just as everybody went up the Corner Grat (by cable) at Zermatt to see the Matterhorn. But for all its apparent dulness, there, was always an English duchess, a Russian princess, or a lady from the Faubourg St.-Germain somewhere about, resting after a strenuous winter along the Riviera. Nora Harrigan sought it not only because she loved the spot, but because it sheltered her from idle curiosity. It was almost as if the villa were hers, and the other people her guests.
Harrigan crossed the room briskly, urgedby an appetite as sound as his views on life. The chef here was a king; there was always something to look forward to at the dinner hour; some new way of serving spinach, or lentils, or some irresistible salad. He smiled at every one and pulled out his chair.
“Sorry to keep you folks waiting.”
“James!”
“What’s the matter now?” he asked good-naturedly. Never that tone but something was out of kilter.
His wife glanced wrathfully at his feet. Wonderingly he looked down. In the heat of the battle with his cravat he had forgotten all about his tennis shoes.
“I see. No soup for mine.” He went back to his room, philosophically. There was always something wrong when he got into these infernal clothes.
“Mother,” said Nora, “why can’t you let him be?”
“But white shoes!” in horror.
“Who cares? He’s the patientest man I know. We’re always nagging him, and I for one am going to stop. Look about! So few men and women dress for dinner. You do as you please here, and that is why I like it.”
“I shall never be able to do anything with him as long as he sees that his mistakes are being condoned by you,” bitterly responded the mother. “Some day he will humiliate us all by his carelessness.”
“Oh, bother!” Nora’s elbow slyly dug into Celeste’s side.
The pianist’s pretty face was bent over her soup. She had grown accustomed to these little daily rifts. For the great, patient, clumsy, happy-go-lucky man she entertained an intense pity. But it was not the kind that humiliates; on the contrary, it was of a mothering disposition; and the ex-gladiator dimly recognized it, and felt more comfortable with her than with any other woman excepting Nora. She understood him perhaps betterthan either mother or daughter; he was too late: he belonged to a distant time, the beginning of the Christian era; and often she pictured him braving the net and the trident in the saffroned arena.
Mrs. Harrigan broke her bread vexatiously. Her husband refused to think for himself, and it was wearing on her nerves to watch him day and night. Deep down under the surface of new adjustments and social ambitions, deep in the primitive heart, he was still her man. But it was only when he limped with an occasional twinge of rheumatism, or a tooth ached, or he dallied with his meals, that the old love-instinct broke up through these artificial crustations. True, she never knew how often he invented these trivial ailments, for he soon came into the knowledge that she was less concerned about him when he was hale and hearty. She still retained evidences of a blossomy beauty. Abbott had once said truly that nature had experimented on her; it wasin the reproduction that perfection had been reached. To see the father, the mother, and the daughter together it was not difficult to fashion a theory as to the latter’s splendid health and physical superiority. Arriving at this point, however, theory began to fray at the ends. No one could account for the genius and the voice. The mother often stood lost in wonder that out of an ordinary childhood, a barelegged, romping, hoydenish childhood, this marvel should emerge: her’s!
She was very ambitious for her daughter. She wanted to see nothing less than a ducal coronet upon the child’s brow, British preferred. If ordinary chorus girls and vaudeville stars, possessing only passable beauty and no intelligence whatever, could bring earls into their nets, there was no reason why Nora could not be a princess or a duchess. So she planned accordingly. But the child puzzled and eluded her; and from time to time she discovered a disquieting strength of characterbehind a disarming amiability. Ever since Nora had returned home by way of the Orient, the mother had recognized a subtle change, so subtle that she never had an opportunity of alluding to it verbally. Perhaps the fault lay at her own door. She should never have permitted Nora to come abroad alone to fill her engagements.
But that Nora was to marry a duke was, to her mind, a settled fact. It is a peculiar phase, this of the humble who find themselves, without effort of their own, thrust up among the great and the so-called, who forget whence they came in the fierce contest for supremacy upon that tottering ledge called society. The cad and the snob are only infrequently well-born. Mrs. Harrigan was as yet far from being a snob, but it required some tact upon Nora’s part to prevent this dubious accomplishment.
“Is Mr. Abbott going with us?” she inquired.
“Donald is sulking,” Nora answered. “For once the Barone got ahead of him in engaging the motor-boat.”
“I wish you would not call him by his first name.”
“And why not? I like him, and he is a very good comrade.”
“You do not call the Barone by his given name.”
“Heavens, no! If I did he would kiss me. These Italians will never understand western customs, mother. I shall never marry an Italian, much as I love Italy.”
“Nor a Frenchman?” asked Celeste.
“Nor a Frenchman.”
“I wish I knew if you meant it,” sighed the mother.
“My dear, I have given myself to the stage. You will never see me being led to the altar.”
“No, you will do the leading when the time comes,” retorted the mother.
“Mother, the men I like you may countupon the fingers of one hand. Three of them are old. For the rest, I despise men.”
“I suppose some day you will marry some poverty-stricken artist,” said the mother, filled with dark foreboding.
“You would not call Donald poverty-stricken.”
“No. But you will never marry him.”
“No. I never shall.”
Celeste smoothed her hands, a little trick she had acquired from long hours spent at the piano. “He will make some woman a good husband.”
“That he will.”
“And he is most desperately in love with you.”
“That’s nonsense!” scoffed Nora. “He thinks he is. He ought to fall in love with you, Celeste. Every time you play the fourthballadehe looks as if he was ready to throw himself at your feet.”
“Pouf!For ten minutes?” Celeste laughed bravely. “He leaves me quickly enough when you begin to sing.”
“Glamour, glamour!”
“Well, I should not care for the article second-hand.”
The arrival of Harrigan put an end to this dangerous trend of conversation. He walked in tight proper pumps, and sat down. He was only hungry now; the zest for dining was gone.
“Don’t go sitting out in the night air, Nora,” he warned.
“I sha’n’t.”
“And don’t dance more than you ought to. Your mother would let you wear the soles off your shoes if she thought you were attracting attention. Don’t do it.”
“James, that is not true,” the mother protested.
“Well, Molly, you do like to hear ’em talk.I wish they knew how to cook a good club steak.”
“I brought up a book from the village for you to-day,” said Mrs. Harrigan, sternly.
“I’ll bet a dollar it’s on how to keep the creases in a fellow’s pants.”
“Trousers.”
“Pants,” helping himself to the last of the romaine. “What time do you go over?”
“At nine. We must be getting ready now,” said Nora. “Don’t wait up for us.”
“And only one cigar,” added the mother.
“Say, Molly, you keep closing in on me. Tobacco won’t hurt me any, and I get a good deal of comfort out of it these days.”
“Two,” smiled Nora.
“But his heart!”
“And what in mercy’s name is the matter with his heart? The doctor at Marienbad said that father was the soundest man of his age he had ever met.” Nora looked quizzically at her father.
He grinned. Out of his own mouth he had been nicely trapped. That morning he had complained of a little twinge in his heart, a childish subterfuge to take Mrs. Harrigan’s attention away from the eternal society page of theHerald. It had succeeded. He had even been cuddled.
“James, you told me...”
“Oh, Molly, I only wanted to talk to you.”
“To do so it isn’t necessary to frighten me to death,” reproachfully. “One cigar, and no more.”
“Molly, what ails you?” as they left the dining-room. “Nora’s right. That sawbones said I was made of iron. I’m only smoking native cigars, and it takes a bunch of ’em to get the taste of tobacco. All right; in a few months you’ll have me with the stuffed canary under the glass top. What’s the name of that book?” diplomatically.
“Social Usages.”
“Break away!”
Nora laughed. “But, dad, you really must read it carefully. It will tell you how to talk to a duchess, if you chance to meet one when I am not around. It has all the names of the forks and knives and spoons, and it tells you never to use sugar on your lettuce.” And then she threw her arm around her mother’s waist. “Honey, when you buy books for father, be sure they are by Dumas or Haggard or Doyle. Otherwise he will never read a line.”
“And I try so hard!” Tears came into Mrs. Harrigan’s eyes.
“There, there, Molly, old girl!” soothed the outlaw. “I’ll read the book. I know I’m a stupid old stumbling-block, but it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, that is, at the ring of the gong. Run along to your party. And don’t break any more hearts than you need, Nora.”
Nora promised in good faith. But once in the ballroom, that little son of Satan calledmalice-aforethought took possession of her; and there was havoc. If a certain American countess had not patronized her; if certain lorgnettes (implements of torture used by said son of Satan) had not been leveled in her direction; if certain fans had not been suggestively spread between pairs of feminine heads,—Nora would have been as harmless as a playful kitten.
From door to door of the ballroom her mother fluttered like a hen with a duckling. Even Celeste was disturbed, for she saw that Nora’s conduct was not due to any light-hearted fun. There was something bitter and ironic cloaked by those smiles, that tinkle of laughter. In fact, Nora from Tuscany flirted outrageously. The Barone sulked and tore at his mustache. He committed any number of murders, by eye and by wish. When his time came to dance with the mischief-maker, he whirled her around savagely, and never said a word; and once done with,he sternly returned her to her mother, which he deemed the wisest course to pursue.
“Nora, you are behaving abominably!” whispered her mother, pale with indignation.
“Well, I am having a good time ... Your dance? Thank you.”
And a tender young American led her through the mazes of the waltz, as some poet who knew what he was about phrased it.
It is not an exaggeration to say that there was not a woman in the ballroom to compare with her, and some of them were marvelously gowned and complexioned, too. She overshadowed them not only by sheer beauty, but by exuberance of spirit. And they followed her with hating eyes and whispered scandalous things behind their fans and wondered what had possessed the Marchesa to invite the bold thing: so does mediocrity pay homage to beauty and genius. As for the men, though madness lay that way, eagerly as of old they sought it.
By way of parenthesis: Herr Rosen marched up the hill and down again, something after the manner of a certain warrior king celebrated in verse. The object of his visit had gone to the ball at Cadenabbia. At the hotel he demanded a motor-boat. There was none to be had. In a furious state of mind he engaged two oarsmen to row him across the lake.
And so it came to pass that when Nora, suddenly grown weary of the play, full of bitterness and distaste, hating herself and every one else in the world, stole out to the quay to commune with the moon, she saw him jump from the boat to the landing, scorning the steps. Instantly she drew her lace mantle closely about her face. It was useless. In the man the hunter’s instinct was much too keen.
“So I have found you!”
“One would say that I had been in hiding?” coldly.
“From me, always. I have left everything—duty, obligations—to seek you.”
“From any other man that might be a compliment.”
“I am a prince,” he said proudly.
She faced him with that quick resolution, that swift forming of purpose, which has made the Irish so difficult in argument and persuasion. “Will you marry me? Will you make me your wife legally? Before all the world? Will you surrender, for the sake of this love you profess, your right to a great inheritance? Will you risk the anger and the iron hand of your father for my sake?”
“Herr Gott!I am mad!” He covered his eyes.
“That expression proves that your Highness is sane again. Have you realized the annoyances, the embarrassments, you have thrust upon me by your pursuit? Have you not read the scandalous innuendoes in the newspapers? Your Highness, I was not born on the Continent,so I look upon my work from a point of view not common to those of your caste. I am proud of it, and I look upon it with honor, honor. I am a woman, but I am not wholly defenseless. There was a time when I thought I might number among my friends a prince; but you have made that impossible.”
“Come,” he said hoarsely; “let us go and find a priest. You are right. I love you; I will give up everything, everything!”
For a moment she was dumb. This absolute surrender appalled her. But that good fortune which had ever been at her side stepped into the breach. And as she saw the tall form of the Barone approach, she could have thrown her arms around his neck in pure gladness.
“Oh, Barone!” she called. “Am I making you miss this dance?”
“It does not matter, Signorina.” The Barone stared keenly at the erect and tense figure at the prima donna’s side.
“You will excuse me, Herr Rosen,” said Nora, as she laid her hand upon the Barone’s arm.
Herr Rosen bowed stiffly; and the two left him standing uncovered in the moonlight.
“What is he doing here? What has he been saying to you?” the Barone demanded. Nora withdrew her hand from his arm. “Pardon me,” said he contritely. “I have no right to ask you such questions.”
It was not long after midnight when the motor-boat returned to its abiding place. On the way over conversation lagged, and finally died altogether. Mrs. Harrigan fell asleep against Celeste’s shoulder, and the musician never deviated her gaze from the silver ripples which flowed out diagonally and magically from the prow of the boat. Nora watched the stars slowly ascend over the eastern range of mountains; and across the fire of his innumerable cigarettes the Barone watched her.
As the boat was made fast to the landingin front of the Grand Hotel, Celeste observed a man in evening dress, lounging against the rail of the quay. The search-light from the customs-boat, hunting for tobacco smugglers, flashed over his face. She could not repress the little gasp, and her hand tightened upon Nora’s arm.
“What is it?” asked Nora.
“Nothing. I thought I was slipping.”