It so happened that a year elapsed before I visited the theatre again.
During that time I had fallen in love with the most charming girl in the
world. In my college days I had patronized her young-maiden adoration; but
when she came home, after three years of travel, the most self-possessed,
as well as the most beautiful of women, the adoration and the indifference
exchanged places. All I seemed to win from her was good-comradeship and
confidence; and they were due to the friend of her childhood.
She had travelled with her mother, whose delight was picture-galleries,
court-balls, and dinners at embassies. Of unconventional life, Deborah
had seen nothing, and she listened eagerly to my descriptions of nooks
and corners in New York.
One day her mother yielded. Deborah might go through the foreign quarter
with me, if I would promise not to bring her into danger from men or
germs.
For our first expedition I chose the Italian theatre. It was safe,
picturesque, unique. We drove to the door in a hansom, and I instructed
the driver to call for us at eleven o'clock.
As we entered the tiny foyer my companion murmured a little "Ah!"
of delight. The walls had been decorated by the manager himself with
wonderful pictures of kings, queens, knights, and ladies. The colors were
green, red, and white, because those were the paints Pietro had on hand.
Upon one side Orlando and Olliviero were fighting their famous duel in
the presence of Charlemagne and his gorgeous court. Pietro's admiration
was for legs. Those of Orlando had muscles unknown to anatomists, and
those of his cousin were big enough for two Ollivieros.
[Illustration: Beatrice was making an angel.]
While Deborah was trembling with pleasure in this work of art, I heard
the latch of the ticket-office door click, and, turning, saw Beatrice.
She stood upon the threshold, gazing not at me but at Deborah. In a
year she had grown tall. Her hair was coiled upon her neck, and her eyes
seemed to be deeper and tawnier than ever.
"What a pretty child!" exclaimed my companion.
"It's Beatrice," I answered. "How do you do, little girl? How is Pietro?"
"My father is well," replied the girl; but her scrutiny still rested
upon my companion's face and yellow hair. Under this inspection Deborah
was flushing, and I hastened to end it.
"This is Miss Speedwell, Beatrice." I said. "She has come with me to
see the play. You must give us good seats."
Beatrice touched Deborah's glove with a soiled paw, and, without a word
of reply, led the way through the door of the theatre and along the aisle.
We had arrived early, and the theatre was empty. The place was fascinating
enough, but I noticed that my companion, who was commonly both curious
and self-reliant, followed me closely.
"What a beautiful, strange child," she whispered.
"H—m! child!" I said to myself, and fell to musing upon my last visit
to the theatre.
[Illustration: "She promised herself to both last night."]
"Beatrice," I asked, "are you married yet?"
"No, Signore," answered the girl, without turning her head.
"What has become of Anselmo?" I went on.
"He is 'ere. 'E is our helper."
"And Giuseppe?"
"'E is 'ere. My father cood not-a get better helpers. Why dey go away?"
This I could not answer. Beatrice had a way of making me shamefaced.
"Dese are your seats," she said, pausing at the third row of settees.
"Now I begga to pardon, I must go to my father."
"But you'll come back, won't you, Beatrice?" I asked. "We have forgotten
some of our Italian, and we need you to interpret for us—just as you
used to interpret for me."
This attempt to establish old-time relations fell flat. Beatrice replied,
"Yes, Signore," in calm tones, and left us. When she had closed the
door, Deborah drew a long breath.
[Illustration: Had once been a stable.]
"I'm glad she's gone," said Deborah. "She made me feel uncanny."
"Nonsense," I laughed. "She's only a queer little girl. Look at Pietro's
paintings; they are more wholesome."
The dingy little theatre had once been a stable. Pietro had turned the
loft into a gallery, with tiers of benches receding high into the gloom.
He had cut off the stall-room with a wooden proscenium. Upon it twined
a mastodon of a vine, the like of which no botanist ever beheld. The toy
curtain bore, upon its forty-eight square feet of canvas, a representation
of a Roman triumph that would have insured Pietro's admission into any
Academy with a sense of humor.
It cheered Deborah amazingly, and the audience, which burst in at eight
o'clock, caused her to clasp her hands. It was chiefly composed of
men—laborers, chestnut venders, and bootblacks, with swarthy skins,
gleaming eyes, and gleaming teeth. They rushed, shouting, down the single
aisle, sprang over settees, scrambled and pushed to win the seats nearest
the stage. In three minutes the theatre was a bewilderment of bobbing
heads and active hands, and a tumult of voices and laughter. Not a seat
was vacant except those upon our settee. The Italians had respected the
presence of strangers. The men in front of us and on either hand turned
about to greet the American lady and to smile a welcome.
Deborah returned every smile and every bow. Her eyes were bright with
excitement.
"How nice they are! How polite!" she exclaimed. Presently she laid a
clinging hand upon my arm.
"How can I ever thank you," she whispered, "for bringing me here!"