CHAPTER XXII.
One Man's Meat; another Man's Poison.
Scene—The Campo S. S. Giovanni e Paulo. Afternoon. Culchard is leaning against the pedestal of the Colleoni Statue.
Podbury. (who has just come out of S. Giovanni, recognising Culchard). Hullo! alone, eh? Thought you were with Miss Trotter?
Culchard. So I am. That is, she is going over a metal-worker's show-room close by, and I—er—preferred the open air. But didn't you say you were going out with the—er—Prendergasts again?
Podb. So I am. She's in the Church with Bob, so I said I'd come out and keep an eye on the gondola. Nothing much to see in there, you know!
Culch. (with a weary irony). Only the mausoleums of the Doges—Ruskin's "Street of the Tombs"—and a few trifles of that sort!
Podb. That's all. And I'm feeling a bit done, you know. Been doing the Correr Museum all the morning, and not lunched yet! So Miss Trotter's looking at ornamental metal-work? Rather fun that, eh?
Culch. For those who enjoy it. She has only been in there an hour, so she is not likely to come back just yet. What do you say to coming into S. S. Giovanni e Paulo again, with me? Those tombs form a really remarkable illustration, as Ruskin points out, of the gradual decay of——
Miss Trotter (suddenly flutters up, followed by an attendant carrying a studded halberd, an antique gondola-hook, and two copper water-buckets—all of which are consigned to the disgusted Culchard). Just hold these a spell till I come back. Thanks ever so much.... Well, Mr. Podbury! Aren't you going to admire my purchases? They're real antique—or if they aren't, they'll wear all the better.... There, I believe I'll just have to run back a minute—don't you put those things in the gondola yet, Mr. Culchard, or they'll get stolen. [She flutters off.
Culch. (helplessly, as he holds the halberd, &c.). I suppose I shall have to stay here now. You're not going?
Podb. (consulting his watch). Must. Promised old Bob I'd relieve guard in ten minutes. Ta-ta.
[He goes; presently Bob Prendergast lounges out of the church.
Culch. If I could only make a friend of him! (To Bob.) Ah, Prendergast! lovely afternoon, isn't it? Delicious breeze!
Bob (shortly). Can't say. Not had much of it, at present.
Culch. You find these old churches rather oppressive, I dare say. Er—will you have a cigarette? [Tenders case.
Bob. Thanks; got a pipe. (He lights it.) Where's Miss Trotter?
Culch. She will be here presently. By the way, my dear Prendergast, this—er—misunderstanding between your sister and her is very unfortunate.
Bob. I know that well enough. It's none of my doing! And you've no reason to complain, at all events!
Culch. Quite so. Only, you see, we used to be good friends at Constance, and—er—until recently——
Bob. Used we? Of course, if you say so, it's all right. But what are you driving at exactly?
Culch. All I am driving at is this: Couldn't we two—er—agree to effect a reconciliation between the two ladies? So much pleasanter for—er—all parties!
Bob. I dare say. But how are you going to set about it? I can't begin.
Culch. Couldn't you induce your sister to lay aside her—er—prejudice against me? Then I could easily——
Bob. Very likely—but I couldn't. I never interfere in my sister's affairs, and, to tell you the honest truth, I don't feel particularly inclined to make a beginning on your account. [Strolls away.
Culch. (to himself). What a surly boor it is! But I don't care—I'll do him a good turn, in spite of himself! (Miss T. returns.) Do you know, I've just been having a chat with poor young Prendergast. He seems quite cut up at being forced to side with his sister. I undertook to—er—intercede for him. Now is it quite fair, or like your—er—usual good-nature, to visit his sister's offences—whatever they are—on him? I—I only put it to you.
Miss T. Well, to think now! I guess you're about the most unselfish saint on two legs! Now some folks would have felt jealous.
Culch. Possibly—but I cannot accuse myself of such a failing as that.
Miss T. I'd just like to hear you accuse yourself of any failing! I don't see however you manage to act so magnanimous and live. I told you I wanted to study your character, and I believe it isn't going to take me vurry much longer to make up my mind about you. You don't suppose I'll have any time for Mr. Prendergast after getting such a glimpse into your nature? There, help me into the gondola, and don't talk any more about it. Tell him to go to Salviate's right away.
Culch. (dejectedly to himself). I've bungled it! I might have known I should only make matters worse!
On the Piazzetta; it is moonlight, the Campanile and dome of San Giorgio Maggiore are silhouetted sharp and black against the steel-blue sky across a sea of silver ripples. Podbury and Culchard are pacing slowly arm-in-arm between the two columns.
Culch. And so you went on to S. Giovanni in Bragora, eh? then over the Arsenal, and rowed across the lagoons to see the Armenian convent? A delightful day, my dear Podbury! I hope you—er—appreciate the inestimable privileges of—of seeing Venice so thoroughly?
Podb. Oh, of course it's very jolly. Find I get a trifle mixed afterwards, though. And, between ourselves, I wouldn't mind—now and then, you know—just dawdling about among the shops and people, as you and the Trotters do!
Culch. That has its charm, no doubt. But don't you find Miss Prendergast a mine of information on Italian Art and History?
Podb. Don't I just—rather too deep for me, y' know! I say, isn't Miss Trotter immense sport in the shops and that?
"I Guess You're the Most Unselfish Saint on Two Legs!"
Culch. She is—er—vivacious, certainly. (Podbury sighs.) You seem rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?
Podb. Not dull—a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly back-courts and canals and in stuffy churches—it can't be healthy, you know! And they've no drainage. I only hope I haven't caught something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general lowness—She says I lunch too heavily—but I swear it's more than that!
Culch. Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low, with all your advantages—in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift—!
Podb. Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?
Culch. If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense. Every earnest nature presents an—er—priggish side at times. I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't know me of course, been charged with priggishness.
Podb. Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about her. Only—well, it don't signify. [He sighs.
Culch. Ah, Podbury, take the good the gods provide you and be content! You might be worse off, believe me!
Podb. (discontentedly). It's all very well for you to talk—with Miss Trotter all to yourself. I suppose you're regularly engaged by this time, eh?
Culch. Not quite. There's still a—— And your probation, that's practically at an end?
Podb. I don't know. Can't make her out. She wouldn't sit on me the way she does unless she liked me, I suppose. But I say, it must be awf—rather jolly for you with Miss Trotter? She's got so much go, eh?
Culch. You used to say she wasn't what you call cultivated.
Podb. I know I did. That's just what I like about her! At least—well, we both ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky beggars, I'm sure! [He sighs more heavily than ever.
Culch. You especially, my dear Podbury. In fact, I doubt if you're half grateful enough!
Podb. (snappishly). Yes, I am, I tell you. I'm not grumbling, am I? I know as well as you do she's miles too good for me. Haven't I said so? Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?
Culch. I am glad you see it in that light. Aren't you a little irritable to-night?
Podb. No, I'm not. It's those filthy canals. And the way you talk—as if a girl like Miss Trotter wasn't——!
Culch. I really can't allow you to lecture me. I am not insensible to my good-fortune—if others are. Now we'll drop the subject.
Podb. I'm willing enough to drop it. And I shall turn in now—it's late. You coming?
Culch. Not yet. Good-night. (To himself, as Podbury departs.) You tasteless dolt!
Podb. Good-night! (To himself, as he swings off.) Confounded patronizing prig!