A Remarkable Stranger.
CLARICE BERNARD was by nature both artistic and luxurious, and an ample
income made it easy for her to indulge her tastes. The only child of
wealthy parents, she had been spoiled from her infancy, and, like most
spoiled children, she had suffered when the arms which had so softly
sheltered her were withdrawn, and she had to face alone the realities
of life. That her troubles were of her own making did not render them
more easy to bear. Living, to all appearance, a life of ease and
pleasure, she was in truth a most unhappy woman.
A fond mother in her way, she yet found little satisfaction in her love
for her child. He was a beautiful boy, with large, earnest blue eyes,
before whose direct, searching gaze she sometimes shrank, inwardly
feeling as if he could read the secrets of her heart.
She loved to buy Paul pretty clothes and costly toys, and to hear
people speak of his beauty and charm; yet there were times when she
wished that his eyes were not so deeply, purely blue, and that his
fleeting expressions and unconscious gestures did not so constantly
remind her of another.
"Paul is like you, and yet not like you," a lady said to her one day,
as they sat together in the drawing-room at the hotel. "I fancy the
difference will be more marked as he grows older. His eyes are not like
yours. I suppose his father had blue eyes?"
"Yes, yes, it was so," said Mrs. Bernard hurriedly, and she turned
to the piano and began to strike a few loud chords at random, as if
anxious to check further speech.
The lady reflected that Mrs. Bernard must have loved her husband very
much, since she could not bear even this slight reference to him.
Paul was so admired and petted at the hotel that he ran considerable
danger of being spoiled, and doubtless would have suffered, but for the
conscientious efforts of his Scotch nurse to counteract the mischief.
She never failed to remind him in moments of elation of his natural
depravity.
"Yes, the suit's all right," she would say; "it's bran' new velvet and
real lace; but I'm thinking the worst part's in the middle. God keep
us humble, for we've little cause to be proud, when we think what our
hearts are."
"Is my heart so very bad, do you think, nurse?" Paul would ask, with an
air of concern.
"It mayn't be the worst or the best," said his nurse; "but what of
that? The Bible tells us that the heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked."
"But you said that God would give me a new heart, if I asked Him,
and I have asked Him; I am always asking Him," said Paul, with some
impatience. "I should think He must have given it to me by now."
"The heart needs to be renewed every day," said his nurse gravely; "but
now keep still while I fasten your collar. It is impossible for me to
button it while you keep jerking your head about."
In spite of her Scotch birth, Janet found Paul difficult to deal with
when he waxed argumentative. She was often both astonished and rebuked
by his faith in prayer. When quite a wee boy, he had insisted on saying
the Lord's Prayer in a fashion of his own, with the petition, "Give us
this day our daily bread and honey and jam."
When Janet reproved him for making this addition, he replied, "But,
nurse, you say that we may ask God for whatever we want. Bread alone
will not do for me; I must have honey and jam."
And he continued to repeat the prayer in his own way.
Paul and his nurse occupied a large and airy room in the hotel,
with a balcony overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. The balcony was a
never-failing source of diversion to Paul. From it he could watch all
the life of the Piazza—the carriages rolling to and fro, the arrivals
at the hotel, the flower-sellers with the beautiful, many-hued flowers
massed together on their stalls, the pedlars with the mosaics and
tortoise-shells they so seldom seemed to sell, and the artists' models
in their picturesque costumes. Sometimes his nurse would bring her
needle-work, and sit just within the window, that she might be at hand
to answer as best she could Paul's innumerable questions.
One evening about sunset, as Paul, after returning from his walk, was
amusing himself in the balcony, a carriage drove up to the door of the
hotel bringing a young lady, who had evidently come from a journey,
since a quantity of luggage was piled up in the front of the conveyance.
She was quite young—too young, one might have thought, to be travelling
alone—and very smartly dressed. Masses of red-golden hair were visible
beneath her black velvet hat; her cheeks had a delicate bloom, and her
eyes were large and bright, with finely-pencilled brows.
Paul looked at her and admired her with a child's ready appreciation of
surface prettiness. Then his eyes were caught by the knowing-looking
pug which sat on the seat beside his mistress.
Paul watched as the lady rose, and, taking up her pug, alighted with
him in her arms. The wise eyes and little black nose peeped out from
beneath her arms as she stood giving directions respecting her luggage.
Paul happened to be eating a biscuit, and it occurred to him to try the
effect of dropping a piece down before the dog. The biscuit fell within
an inch of the dog's nose, and lay on the ground before him; but he
made no attempt to seize it.
The young lady looked up in surprise, but smiled as she saw the little
boy.
"How kind you are to my dog!" she said. "I thank you for him. Yes,
Fritz, you may take it."
She set down the pug as she spoke, and Paul had the satisfaction of
seeing him snap up the biscuit.
"There," she said, looking up at Paul with laughing eyes, "he would not
have touched it if I had not told him he might. He is a good dog, is
Fritz."
"Is his name Fritz, and does he always do what you tell him?" asked
Paul, delighted with this new acquaintance.
"Always," said the girl.
But at that moment Janet, astonished to hear her charge talking with
some one below, stepped on to the balcony. She looked down, and the
girl's face met her view in the full light of the clear sky. The girl
nodded to Paul and went into the hotel, followed by her dog; but Janet
had seen enough.
"A painted minx!" she said, with something like a snort. "She's no
good."
"What is a minx?" asked Paul. "And why is she painted, and who painted
her?"
"Never mind. It's no business of yours," replied nurse, aware that she
had been indiscreet in making such a remark in his hearing.
"What makes you think that she is not good?" persisted Paul.
"There! There! It does not matter to you. You are not to talk about
her," said his nurse.
"But the dog is good, is he not?" said Paul. "He does whatever he is
told, so he must be a very good dog."
"Then you may try to be like him," said nurse. "I know a little boy who
does not always do what he is told."
And Paul, aware that he had forgotten more than one injunction of his
nurse's that day, became silent.
That evening, at the "table d'hôte," the appearance of the
newly-arrived traveller created a sensation. She was richly dressed,
and diamonds flashed on her small, white hands. Her beauty was
most striking; but the ladies present eyed her with suspicion, and
whispered among themselves that her complexion was certainly artificial
and her hair too golden to be natural. She bore herself with great
self-possession, and looked about her with cool, supercilious eyes,
which seemed to defy criticism. Now and then her beautiful lips curled
with a somewhat contemptuous smile.
Presently she began to talk to the gentleman on her right, and the
people near her grew quiet, that they might hear what she was saying.
She talked gaily and brilliantly in good and fluent French; but she
had been heard to speak English with equal facility, and people began
wondering as to her nationality. Was she English or American, or
possibly Canadian? Was she as young as she looked, and what was the
meaning of her travelling alone?
But while people observed and conjectured, they held aloof from the
young stranger, and made no attempt to obtain information at first hand.
"An actress, I should say," whispered Mrs. Dunton to Mrs. Bernard, as
she watched the play of hands and voice and features with which the
young beauty talked.
"An adventuress of some kind, no doubt," was the other lady's reply.
So their eyes dwelt on the stranger with cold disapproval, while
reluctantly compelled to admire the style and fit of her silk gown.
Meanwhile, the new arrival was being discussed in other regions of
the hotel. A courier who chanced to be in the hall when the young
lady entered, recognised her as one whom he had seen at Naples, and
imparted certain facts concerning her to the porter, who in his turn
told them to one of the waiters, who confided them to his wife, who was
a chambermaid, and who, being able to speak English, could not resist
whispering them to Paul's nurse.
Janet was shocked at this confirmation of her suspicions, yet derived
some satisfaction from the thought that she had been right in her first
estimate of the young woman's character.
On the following morning, Paul, equipped for a walk on the Pincio, was
waiting till his nurse was ready to accompany him, when a sharp little
bark reached his ears, and running into the corridor, he saw the clever
pug standing at one of the doors, evidently asking that it might be
opened to him. Paul was stroking him when his mistress opened the door.
She smiled to see the child standing beside the dog. She was a radiant
vision in a pink morning gown, and Paul was fully conscious of her
charm as he looked up at her.
"Good morning, little man," she said brightly, "I am glad that you like
my dog. Now, Fritz, say 'good morning' properly. See, he knows how to
shake hands!"
"So he does!" exclaimed Paul, delighted with the dog's accomplishment
as he shook the proffered paw. "He is a good dog. Nurse says he is
better than I am, because I don't always do as I am told."
"You don't mean to say so!" said the young lady, looking amused. "And
you look such a good little boy too!"
"I'm not, though," said Paul seriously. "It's awfully hard to be good,
isn't it? Did you always do what you were told when you were a little
girl?"
"Oh dear me, no; neither then nor since. I was always one to take my
own way," said the girl.
She spoke lightly, and ended with a laugh, yet a shadow fell on her
face as she spoke, and Paul was dimly aware that his words had somehow
hurt her.
Just then Fritz sprang forward, barking vigorously at the hotel porter,
who was coming down the corridor with his hands full of letters.
Instantly the lady's face changed. There was an eager, anxious look in
her eyes as she advanced to meet the man.
"You have a letter for me—Mademoiselle Grand?"
The man shook his head.
"But there must be!" she insisted.
And she made him turn over all the letters till she was satisfied that
not one bore her name. A look of pain and disappointment came to her
face. She stood motionless with clasped hands as the porter went on
down the corridor.
"Cruel, cruel!" she murmured to herself.
Paul was playing with the dog, and noted nothing.
"Does he know how to beg?" he asked, looking up at the lady.
"Yes, he has learned to beg," she said; "but we must give him something
to beg for."
She went into her room, and returned immediately with a pretty box of
chocolates, which she gave to Paul. He showed one to Fritz, and at once
the dog sat erect with his little paws drooping.
"What a dear dog he is!" said Paul. "How you must love him!"
"I do," said Mademoiselle Grand. "He is the most faithful friend I have
in the world."
"Is he? I'll be your friend too, if you like," said Paul.
"Will you? That is very kind," she said, with a smile; "you must tell
me your name, my little friend."
"It is Paul," he said.
"Paul!" she repeated. "And what is your father's name?"
"I haven't got a father—except of course the Heavenly Father," he said,
"'Our Father which art in heaven,' you know. Have you a father?"
"I?" she looked startled at the question, "I! Yes. No—I mean—I have no
father."
Paul looked at her with wondering eyes. It struck him as strange that
she should first say "Yes" and then "No."
"That's not quite true, you know," he said.
"Not true! What do you mean?" she asked.
"You have a father, because God is your Father," he replied.
At that moment Janet appeared at the end of the corridor, and called to
Paul in severe accents.
"There's your nurse," said the lady; "run away to her at once, like a
good, wee boy." And she went into her room.
"Good sakes! If she did not say those words just like a Scotswoman!"
murmured Janet. "God forbid that the poor lost soul should be from
Scotland!"
"Why couldn't you stay in the room when you were dressed?" she asked of
Paul. "Why need you go talking with one we have no concern with?"
"She is a very nice lady," said Paul. "See what she has given me!"
"What's that? Chocolates?" Janet regarded the dainty box with
displeasure in her eyes. "Give it to me."
Reluctantly Paul yielded it up. Taking the box, Paul's nurse went
swiftly down the corridor and tapped at the lady's door.
"You'll excuse me, miss," she said bluntly, as the girl opened the
door; "but I cannot allow my young gentleman to keep this. His mother
would not approve of his receiving such a gift from a stranger."
"Oh, very well," said Mademoiselle Grand carelessly; but she coloured,
and there was a bitter smile on her face as she closed the door. With a
passionate gesture she flung the rejected gift out of the open window.
A number of small urchins were scrambling for the chocolates when Paul
reached the Piazza. His temper was not improved by the sight.
"You are horridly cross," he said to his nurse. "Why couldn't I have
the chocolates? I am sure mother would have let me keep them."
"Not if she knew who gave them," said Janet. "Now, mind, you are not to
go near that lady again."
"Why not?" asked Paul. "I like her, and I am going to be her friend."
"She is a poor creature," said his nurse.
"I am sure she is not poor," said Paul. "She has such pretty frocks,
and you should see how her rings sparkle. And such a dear dog. She
'can't' be poor."
"That's all you know about it," said Janet; "I tell you she is a poor,
unhappy creature."
"If she is unhappy, I ought to try to make her happy," said Paul.
As usual, Janet found herself worsted in argument.