THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE
"Shall we take a look into the Campo Formosa again to-night?" asked Merrihew, stepping into the gondola.
"It will be a waste of time. Bettina will have warned them. What's the Italian coming to, anyhow? She refused a hundred francs. But I can see that Mrs. Sandford had a hand in this latest event. She has probably written that we might look for them in the Campo." Hillard spoke in a discontented tone. "Oh, bother the both of them! Let us loaf round the barges of the serenaders and hear the singing. I want to be amused to-night."
"All right; we'll listen to the music," grumbled Merrihew. He wanted to find Kitty right away. He would gladly have started out and explored every Campo in Venice that night. Hillard's indifference annoyed him.
"To the barges of the troupes!" said Hillard to Achille, who pushed off with a series of short strokes.
In the great canal of San Marco the scene was like a water-carnival. Hundreds of gondolas, with bobbing lights, swam slowly round the barges of the serenaders, who, for the most part, were fallen operatic stars or those who had failed to attain those dizzy heights. Many of them had good voices, but few of them last long in the damp Venetian night air. To-night there were three of these belanterned barges, taking their stands about three hundred yards apart. The glowing coals of cigarettes and cigars of the men in the gondolas were like low-lying stars, and the cold, bright flash of jewels woke here and there among the many beautifully gowned women. From one barge to another the gondolas drifted, finally clustering round the middle barge of the Troupe San Marco, which offered the best voices. Between songs a man of acrobatic accomplishments would jump nimbly from the prow of one gondola to another, stepping lightly here, balancing neatly there, and always with the upturned tambourine extended for silver and copper largess.
Merrihew sat in the bottom of the gondola, while Hillard lay sprawled across the cushions on the seat. The prima donna was singing the jewel-song from Faust, and not badly. Sometimes the low hum of voices floated across the cadence of the song. Merrihew scanned the faces of all those near him, but never a face took on familiar lines. An Adriatic liner loomed up gray and shadowy behind them, and some of the crew were leaning idly over the rail. The song stopped. The man with the tambourine sallied forth. Out of the momentary silence came the indistinct tinkle of the piano in the barge beyond; some one over there was bellowing the toreador's song. This died away amid a faint patter of applause. How clear all the sounds were! thought Merrihew. The tenor of the San Marco troupe rose with the prima donna. It was Il Trovatore this time; a bit noisy.
What was that? Hillard was no longer lethargic. He stumbled over the recumbent Merrihew.
"Why don't you walk all over me?" growled Merrihew. "Sit down!"
"Be still!" said Hillard roughly.
From a gondola on the far side of the barge, standing out of the press and just beyond the radiance of the lanterns, never powerful at best, came another voice, a voice which had a soul in it, a voice which broke into song for the pure joy of it, spontaneously. Clear, thrilling, a voice before which the world bows down. The prima donna in the barge was clever; she stopped. The tenor went on, however, recognizing that he was playing opposite, as they say, to a great singer. Hillard's heart beat fast. That voice! There could not be another like it. And she was here in Venice!
"Achille," he said, "do you hear that voice over there in the dark?"
"Yes, signore."
"Push round to it. See, the singer is standing up now. Hurry!"
This sounded important, and Merrihew scrambled to his feet. Yes, he, too, could see this unexpected cantatrice. In fact, everybody was beginning to stand up. All interest was centered in this new voice. Then, as if conscious of this interest, the singer sat down, but still kept to the melody. Achille backed out of the jam, stole round the barge, and craftily approached the outstanding gondola. The two men still remained on their feet.
"Quick, Achille!" For the far gondola was heading for the Grand Canal.
Merrihew understood now. He grasped Hillard's arm excitedly.
"Follow!" commanded Hillard. "Ten lire if you can come up alongside that gondola. Can you see the number?"
"It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully.
"No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."
And a race it became. Both gondoliers were long past their youth, but each knew the exact weight and effort to be put upon the oar; no useless energy, no hurried work, no spurting, but long, deep swinging strokes. Up the Grand Canal, past the brilliant hotels. The runaway gondola had perhaps a hundred yards the best of it. Achille hung on, neither losing nor gaining a foot.
"Sit down, signori!" said Achille.
Hillard and Merrihew tumbled back upon the cushions.
"We shall not lose them this time, Dan."
"Are we gaining?"
"Not yet. But wait till they turn into some small canal."
The first loop of the Grand Canal was turned; still Pompeo made no effort to seek the smaller canals. Not till he passed under the Rialto, which afforded him a deep shadow, did he turn. Swiftly he bore into the canal which was filled with the postal-gondolas. But not so soon that Achille did not perceive and follow. On and on, soundless; now the pursuer had the advantage over the pursued. It was Pompeo who had to watch, to call; Achille had only to hang on. And he was gaining. A moment later less than ten yards intervened. O for some clumsy barge to bar the way! Round past the Teatro Malibran, into the Rio di San Marina, into a smaller canal again. Hillard now knew whither they were bound: the Campo Formosa.
At each stroke Merrihew swung forward his body. The end of the race came sooner than any one expected. A police barge nosed round an ell; by the time Pompeo was off again, the ferrule of the pursuing gondola scraped past Pompeo's blade. Pompeo called and Achille answered. There was a war of words, figure of a dog, name of a pig. Achille was in the wrong, but ten lire were ten lire. And he knew that his gentlemen meant no harm.
Hillard caught the gondola by the rail and clung. The canal, lined with a dozen lime barges, became so narrow that Achille could scarce paddle, and Pompeo's oar was useless, being partly under the opposing gondola. The race was over.
"Signorina," said Pompeo, boiling with rage, "shall I call the police?"
"No, Pompeo," said his solitary passenger.
When Merrihew saw that she was alone, his heart became heavy, and the joy of the chase was gone. But not so with Hillard. At last!
"To the Campo, Pompeo. Mr. Hillard, will you kindly follow? I would speak to you alone, since there is no escape."
Her tone chilled Hillard's ardor somewhat. But to speak to her again, and mayhap see her face!
"Doesn't want the police," whispered Merrihew. "I told you so. Look out for yourself."
The gondolas became free presently, and the way to the Campo Formosa was made without further incident.
"She wishes to see me alone, Dan. You stay in the boat, I'll find out where Kitty is."
The gondolas became moored. Hillard jumped out and went to assist La Signorina, but she ignored his outstretched hand. This was not a promising beginning.
"To the church steps, Mr. Hillard," she said.
He followed her meekly. Merrihew sulked among the cushions.
The solitary electric lamp in the Campo made light enough; and when the two arrived at the steps the woman turned.
"What is it you wish?" she asked. There was not the slightest agitation in her voice; there was not even curiosity.
"One look at your face," he answered simply.
She slowly removed the veil. Then, for the first time, he looked upon the face of this woman who had burdened his dreams. The face was not like any he had conjured. It seemed to him that Vecchio's—Paola Vecchio's—Barbara had stepped down from her frame: beauty, tranquil, flawless beauty. A minute passed; he was incapable of speech, he could only look.
"Well?" she said, in the same expressionless tone.
"Let us begin at the beginning," he replied, with an effort to imitate the evenness of her tone.
"Since this is to be the end."
"Why did you answer my personal in the first place? Why did you not ignore it? I should have been left in peace."
"An impulse of the moment, which I shall always regret."
"Why did you let it go so far as to permit me to dine with you that memorable night?"
"A second impulse, equally regrettable."
"And why, after all had come to an apparent end, why did you send me that mask?"
She did not answer at once.
"Why?" he repeated.
"It is unanswerable. Truthfully, I do not know."
"Have you thought what all this might mean to me?" with warmth.
Again she was silent, but her eyes did not waver.
"When I heard your voice to-night I knew that doubt was no longer in my heart."
"Doubt?"
"Yes, doubt. I knew then that the inexplicable had happened."
"I do not understand."
"The inexplicable. For who will believe that it is possible for a sane man to fall in love with a voice? Had your face been scarred, as I once suspected; had you committed some crime, as I once believed, it would not matter. I am mad." He laughed angrily. "Yes, I love you, knowing not what you are nor caring. I have been mad for weeks, only I did not see my madness in true colors till this moment."
The light seemed to bother her eyes, for she turned her head aside, giving this mad lover the exquisite profile of her face.
"You are indeed mad, or, rather, your jest is."
"Would to Heaven I were jesting! And why did you avoid me in Monte Carlo?"
She realized that there was some justice in his questions and that she was not altogether innocent of the cause of his madness, if it were that.
"I did not speak to you because I wished to avoid this very moment. But since it was destined to be, let us have done. What other questions would you ask, Mr. Hillard?"
"Who is that man—the Italian with the scar—who ran after you that night?"
"I will not answer that."
"'A lady? Grace of Mary, that is droll!'"
"Why do you say that?"
"I am only quoting the man with the scar. Those were the words he used in regard to you."
"Perhaps he is right; perhaps I am not a lady, according to his lights." But she laughed.
"Do not laugh like that! What you are or have been, or might have been to him, is nothing to me. Only one fact remains clear, and that is, I love you."
"No, Mr. Hillard, you are only excited. You have been letting your imagination run away with you. Be sensible. Listen. You know nothing of me; you have neither my name nor my past—nothing. I may in truth be everything undesirable."
"Not to me!"
"I may be a fugitive from the law."
"I do not believe it."
"There may be scars which do not show—in the heart, in the mind. I am sorry, terribly sorry. Heaven knows that I meant no harm. But it seems that fate is determined that every move I make shall become a folly, the ghost of which shall pursue me. I told you to forget me, that I had entered your life only to pass out of it immediately. Forget me!" Her voice was no longer without expression.
"Forget you? I would it were as easy as the asking! I say that I love you, that I shall always love you. But," he added gently, lowering his voice, "I have asked nothing in return."
"Nothing in return?" she murmured.
"No. I offer my love only that it may serve you without reward. Do you need in your trouble a man's arm, a man's heart and mind?"
"I need nothing;" but her voice was now strangely sweet. So, she was loved by one who asked for nothing? This was not like the men she had known. "Do not misjudge me, Mr. Hillard. If indeed you believe that you love me—incredible as it seems to me—I am proud of the honor. But fatality forbids that I accept not only your love but your friendship."
"Not even my friendship?" bewildered. "And why not?"
"To answer that would only be adding to your hurt."
"You are a strange woman. You make it very hard."
"I have no alternative. The harder I make it, the better for your peace of mind. Once you are angry with me, once you are convinced that I am a hopeless puzzle, this fancy you call love will evaporate."
"Do not believe that."
"I never intended that you should see me again, and yet, against my better judgment, I have bared my face to you upon a simple request. I am not without some vanity. Men have called me beautiful. But, oh! it is a sinister beauty; it has brought good to no one, least of all to its owner. You met Mrs. Sandford in Naples. Tell me what she said."
He sought refuge in silence.
"Did she not earnestly warn you against me?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"And yet you would not heed her warning?" sadly.
"I have told you that I am mad."
"I am coming to believe it. There are two of us. That dinner! And out of an innocent prank comes this! Folly, always folly!" And as she remembered the piece of folly she was about to start out upon, she laughed. "Mad? Yes. Only, to your madness there is some reason; to mine, none."
"So you sometimes recollect that night? You have not forgotten?"
"No. The pleasure I derived has frequently returned to my mind."
"Ah, if only you would tell me what prevents friendship between us."
"You say you love me; is that not answer enough? Love and friendship are as separate as the two poles; and you are man enough of the world to know that. I have no wish to wreck your life nor to make mine more miserable. Well, I will tell you this: there is a barrier between us—a barrier which only death can tear down or break asunder. Give up all idea, all thought of me. You will only waste your time. Come; is your love strong enough to offer a single sacrifice?"
"Not if it is to give you up."
"Very well. I see, then, that I must submit to this added persecution. I can not force you."
"So long as I live I shall go on dreaming of you. So long as you keep me in darkness as to your trouble I shall pursue you. Oh, do not worry about persecution. I shall only seek to be near you."
"Good night," she said, "and good-by!" She wound the veil round her face, took half a dozen steps, halted and turned, then went on, beyond the light, into the dark.
How long Hillard stood by the steps of the church, watching that part of the darkness through which she had disappeared, he never knew. Merrihew tapped him on the arm.
"Wake up, Jack, my boy!" said Merrihew lightly. "I thought, by the way you mooned here, that you had fallen asleep on your feet. Where's Kitty?"
"Kitty? I forgot to ask, Dan," said Hillard dully.