III
In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that raised a lump in my throat.
"Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No one understands it as you do."
As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows.
"I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will comprehend your art as well as I."
"This lady! You are married, then. It is well."
Deborah turned away, and though I hastened to explain, I felt a thrill of joy. She was not carrying off an embarrassing situation with her wonted lightness.
"No, no, only an old friend," I said. "I am not married. Deborah, let me introduce Pietro. He is a true artist. He might be making himself rich by taking his daughter and a street-piano to the restaurants, but he prefers to stick to his art and to live on a little."
Pietro's face fell.
"It is not altogether that," he said. "It is true that I love the drama. But also I do not find that it is good for Beatrice to go where there are people who look on."
I looked a question at him.
"Would not the lady like to handle a marionette?" replied the manager. "It is the beginning of knowledge about our drama. Anselmo, show the lady how to manage the figures."
As Anselmo led Deborah away, a change in the room, of which I had been dimly aware, insisted upon my full attention. A high wooden partition divided the helpers' bench into two parts.
"What is that for, Pietro?" I exclaimed.
The old man drew a heavy sigh.
"It is Beatrice," he explained. "She has bewitched my two helpers. They cannot meet without blows. So I have arranged that each remains upon his own side of the room. Anselmo handles the Christians; Giuseppe the Moslems. I have made high the boards, so that they cannot meet upon the bench."
"So-o-o," I whistled. I ran over in my mind Pietro's anxious face, Beatrice's cool reply to my question about the helpers, and the pleading gaze of the faun.
"My two helpers, with the shields and the swords of Orlando and Rinaldo, fought!"
"Who is the boy at the piano?" I asked.
"Gaiterno? He is her cousin. He worships her. It would be a good match, but she will not listen to him. He is not strong enough, she says."
"The little coquette!" I commented.
"Ah, Signore, it is not that!" sighed Pietro. "It is the play. The play is in her head. Life to her is the play. She holds herself to be a princess. Strong men love her, she thinks. She says she will smile upon no one who is not as strong as Rinaldo. Listen, Signore. This is what I saw when I made entrance here three days ago. My two helpers, with the shields and the swords of Orlando and Rinaldo, fought, while Beatrice, with the crown of Angelica upon her head, sat upon the throne of Carlo Magno, and urged them on."
The old man's arms were flourishing, and his eyes were bright.
"I made Anselmo to go away upon the instant," he went on; "but Beatrice, she made a threat that she would elope with him. What could I do? I am an old man. She is my only child. You see—he is still here."
The fire in his eyes went out, his head sank upon his breast, and his hands fell to his sides. I grasped one of them in mine.
The old man returned my grasp bravely, and tried to smile.
"It is sad, is it not, my friend," he said, "that my art should have brought this misfortune upon me!"
Deborah's laughter gurgled down from the bench. Evidently she was in difficulties with her marionettes. An idea came to me.
"Wait for me one minute," I said. "Perhaps Miss Speedwell can help us."
"It is time to raise the curtain," answered Pietro. "You are a good friend. I go to my work with an uplifted heart."
I hastened to the steps at the end of the bench. As I turned to mount them, I felt a hand upon mine, and found Beatrice beside me.
"You lofe-a her!" declared the child, solemnly.
The thought that I carried my heart upon my sleeve annoyed me.
"Beatrice," I exclaimed, "you must learn not to be silly. You are too young to think of such things."
"You not-a say dat once," returned Beatrice, reproachfully; and the recollection of my indiscreet chaffing added to my annoyance. I hurried away, doubtful of my plan. But my kind-hearted companion received it eagerly.
"Ask her to visit us in the country? Of course I will!" she exclaimed, when I had told the story.
Her arms were folded across her breast.
During the next act we sat upon one of the heaps of properties, still piled in the corners, and arranged Beatrice's future. We constituted ourselves god and goddess ex machinâ to make a noble woman of the little girl. She was to spend a whole summer face to face with nature, at Deborah's father's pet stock-farm. There she would forget plays and learn to milk cows and to cook. Perhaps, at the end of the season, Gaiterno might be asked to visit her. The wooing of the faun and the maiden amid Colonel Speedwell's groves appealed to Deborah's sense of the picturesque. What appealed to me was the provision in the plan that I should run down every Sunday to watch the progress of education.
It struck Anselmo fairly in the chest and laid him low.
Plotting was a very pleasant occupation, and we both started at the thunder of applause and the trampling of feet outside. The play was over—the audience was going home. I rose to my feet reluctantly, and I hoped that I detected in Deborah's deliberation a willingness to linger. While she was watching the helpers, as they hung Orlando and his comrades upon the rack, Pietro came to bid us good-night. Beatrice followed him as far as the doorway. I did not think it best that her good fortune should be revealed to her as yet, and while Deborah was laying it before her father, I asked the child to see if my cab was ready. She drew herself up resentfully, but sulked away. After a long time she returned with word that no cab was in sight.
"No cab?" I asked, in astonishment.
I stumbled through the door, and down half a dozen steps and ran along the passage that led to the street. Beatrice had told the truth. No cab was in sight. Indeed the street was vacant. A March rain had begun to fall, driving everyone indoors and making a mirror of the pavement. It flashed to me the lights of an electric car crossing the street half a dozen blocks away.
"She'd get fearfully wet," I mused, "and her mother would put a stopper on trips."
While I was searching my brains for an expedient, Pietro came running down the hallway.
"Have no care, my good friend," he panted. "Beatrice has told me of cabs at the ferry. It is but a dozen squares. I go to order a cab. Go you to your kind lady."
Greatly relieved, I returned behind the scenes. In the hall I passed Anselmo, and wondered why Beatrice had not sent him instead of her father forth into the wet; but I reflected that perhaps relations between the girl and her lovers might be strained. Thanks for her thoughtfulness were on my lips as I opened the door. They were never spoken, however. Beatrice stood by the partition, alone. Her hair, loosed from its knot, hung wild about her shoulders. Her arms were folded across her breast. One foot was planted forward, and I saw under it Deborah's fur cape.
"Beatrice!" I exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter with you? Where is Miss Speedwell?"
The girl stretched forth both arms toward me.
"You list-a me," she said. "You tink she lof-a you. It is not. It is I! I lof-a you. I 'ave lof-a you one year. You come one year ago—I lof-a you."
Anxiety for Deborah overcame my bewilderment. I stamped my foot upon the stage.
"Stop this nonsense, Beatrice," I commanded. "What are you talking about? Where is Miss Speedwell? Tell me at once!"
The girl thrust a hand into the bosom of her dress.
"You cast-a me off?" she declaimed. "Den I tell you. Nevair s'all you see 'er again. I desire dat you s'all-a not. It is me dat 'ave ordered da cabba away. It is me dat 'ave pris-oned 'er w'ere you s'all nevair coome. I hate 'er. Dis is for dem who betr-r-rays an' not care!"
She plucked the hand from her dress and lifted it high. It held a villanous little stiletto.
Of that moment I can never think, nowadays, without laughing. But at the time I had no appreciation of absurdities. I sent a hasty searching glance about the enclosure. Beyond Beatrice was a door, and I thought I heard the sound of muffled sobs behind it. I sprang forward. On the way I brushed Beatrice aside, heard a scream, and felt a hot streak upon my arm; but I was beyond caring for that. A stroke of my foot burst the lock of the door, and in another instant I was holding my sweetheart in my arms.
A hurry of footsteps upon the stairs opposite startled us. The two helpers, the little faun and another Italian boy rushed through the door. Beatrice sprang to meet them. The dagger was still in her hand, and her eyes were two yellow suns.
"Seize him!" she shrieked. "He has stolen away my father—who knows where? Me, he has betrayed! Revenge my wrong!"
But Beatrice was not vouchsafed the spectacle of a combat in her honor. When I am thoroughly roused I act promptly, and I am not a feeble man. I snatched my arm from Deborah's waist, seized from the rack the nearest marionette and sent it flying among Beatrice's lovers. It struck Anselmo fairly in the chest and laid him low. Fortunately it was a lady figure and could hardly have hurt him seriously, but it smothered him with skirts and hampered him with strings. The other Italians watched his struggles for an instant, and as I made a stride forward, turned and ran as if the Pagani themselves had been after them.
I snatched Deborah's cape from the floor, lifted my sweetheart herself, and sped with her to the street. Once out of doors, I let her find her own feet, and we skurried on through the driving rain. It was a bedraggled maiden that boarded the electric car with me, but her eyes were bright and her spirits were firm; she had even the courage to laugh over the adventure.
"The dreadful little creature!" said Deborah. "She told me I should find you outside that door, and that she would bring my cape. But when I had opened the door, she pushed me through and locked it after me. I knew you would come; but it was dark in there, and I—I think there were rats."
She bent to examine the edge of her waist, which did not in the least need attention.
"You—you are very strong and brave, Harry," she murmured.