The weather, for the winter season, was unusually fine during the
first five or six days of the voyage eastward, and Rodrigo kept
closely to his cabin. He slept much. It seemed to him that for six
months he had gone virtually without sleep. The slight motion of the
ship, the changed environment soothed him like a lullaby. He rested
soundly at night and took frequent naps during the day. By the time
the inevitable change in the weather came and stormy seas tossed the
staunch vessel about so violently that his cabin had become virtually
untenantable, he was fit and ready to endure the gusty blasts and
angry, slanting rain. Rodrigo was an excellent sailor and really
enjoyed the decks of a wave-tossed ship.
On a cloudy afternoon, with the wind lashing the rigging with screams
and whines and the waves shooting spray as high as the
canvas-protected bridge, Rodrigo sat wrapped in blankets in a steamer
chair and calmly watched the mountainous watery madness on the other
side of the rail. So thoroughly was the little man in the steamer
chair beside him sheltered in overcoat, cap, and a whole battalion of
blankets that Rodrigo was unaware that another foolish soul, in
addition to himself, was on deck. Indeed he looked around bewildered
for a moment to discover where the voice was coming from when his
neighbor addressed him with a chuckle, "'What fools these mortals
be', eh? Freezing to death up here when we might be down in nice
warm cabins?"
Rodrigo laughed, "The cabins may be warm, but most of them are very
damp by this time, I guess, and full of mal de mer germs."
He observed the habitation of this deep, cheerful voice more closely
and saw that it came out of the fat, ruddy, cheerful face of a man
about fifty years old, an American. Rodrigo suddenly became aware
that he was very glad to hear a friendly voice, that he was in need
of human companionship. They continued the conversation and Rodrigo
learned that his companion was a Dr. Woodward from Washington, bound
for Rome on a holiday. Still talking on inconsequential topics in a
light, mind-easing vein, they later walked the abandoned deck
together, sloshing through the water that the waves frequently
splattered about them. That evening Woodward transferred his place
in the dining saloon, now also practically abandoned save for them,
to the table where Rodrigo had been eating alone heretofore.
Learning Rodrigo's line of business and having had explained to him
how a titled Italian happened to be connected with a Fifth Avenue art
emporium, David Woodward revealed casually, between courses of a
rather damp dinner, that he was head of the psychiatric ward at the
Luther Mead Hospital, Washington. His charges were for the most
part, he explained, shell-shocked veterans of the late war, though
they also included a number of civilian patients with mental
disorders.
"Perhaps it's my association with mental deficients ashore that leads
me to enjoy irrational pursuits, such as getting my feet soaked on a
wave-washed deck," Woodward chortled.
During the next few days which continued monotonously stormy, the two
became quite well acquainted. Under Rodrigo's questioning, Woodward
talked further about his own profession, in which he was deeply
immersed and stood very high.
On deck one day he made the remark in a discussion of mental
disorders that insanity comes often from too much introspection or
the abandonment of the mind to a single obsession. On an impulse,
Rodrigo told him of John Dorning's experience, making the case
hypothetical and, of course, not mentioning names. Having stated the
circumstances, he asked Dr. Woodward whether there was a chance that
the victim might suffer a relapse and topple over the border-line or
whether he might in time completely efface from his mind the
harrowing event that had unbalanced him.
The psychiatrist pondered a moment and then answered, "I should say
that if this man never learns anything definite about his wife's
fate, that is, does not receive information that would give him a new
shock, he will go on much as he is at present. I gather from what
you say that he has made a partial recovery, so that he again finds
life tolerable, but that he is in a measure living under the shadow
of the initial shock. Well, that is not so bad. Most of us are
concealing a major worry or two. On the other hand, this man's
salvation probably lies in falling in love with another woman, a
different type of woman from his former wife. That would be an
almost sure way of healing his wound. And I should say that the
chances of this happening are excellent, particularly if the man is
being brought into daily contact with a woman of a sympathetic turn
of mind. That's when men frequently fall in love, you know--when
they have suffered tragedy and are desperately in need of the sort of
sympathy only a woman can give."
Rodrigo suddenly abandoned the subject, for in this "woman of a
sympathetic turn of mind" he had seen, in a flash, Mary. Would she
and John, thrown together now, with John aching for someone to
minister to his bruised mind, fall in love? Having, as he tortured
himself into believing, lost Elise to John, would he now be called
upon to give up Mary to his friend, as if in retribution? He made an
excuse, arose abruptly and started to pace the deck. But this was
foolishness, he told himself at length. What if Mary and Dorning
should learn to love each other? It was natural. They had much in
common. They were both fine, wonderful characters. And had he not
virtually abandoned her, lost her by being what she termed a
"coward," revealed to her he would never return?
He told himself savagely that he was the most selfish man in the
world. And in the next moment he was praying silently that this
thing would not happen, that the two people he loved best in the
world would not fall in love with each other. His heart ached with a
pain that was physical.
Just before they parted at Naples, whence Dr. Woodward was to entrain
at once for Rome, the psychiatrist said half-seriously to Rodrigo, "I
have been observing you all the way over, young man. It's a habit of
my profession. You have something on your mind that is gnawing at
it. Take my warning and get rid of it. Get drunk, get married, get
anything--but forget it. Remember what I told you. Don't think too
much. It's a bad habit."
Rodrigo walked alone along the crowded, dirty streets of the familiar
city, which was bathed in a warmth and sunshine far different from
the damp and cold that had remained with them the greater part of the
voyage over. He secured a room at the Hotel Metropole and, upon
awaking and dressing the next morning, strolled out upon the balcony
of his room to hear the cries of his countrymen driving their carts
past the hotel, the protesting shrieks of the miniature trolley cars
as they crawled up the hilly streets of the city, the automobiles
bustling about with reckless young Italian chauffeurs at the wheel,
the old smell and the gay colors that he had grown up with.
He paid a visit before lunch to the real estate man who had the
palace of the Torrianis in charge and was told by that brisk,
sharp-faced individual that his cable had been received and that he
was awaiting Rodrigo's word before renting the place again.
So it was that the heir of the Torrianis was bumped out to his palace
in a hired automobile a few hours later and had the doubtful pleasure
of strolling through the great empty rooms of the dwelling of his
ancestors. The place had suffered a little from the American tenants
who had occupied it. Some of the precious frescoes had been chipped,
and the whole establishment was musty and dirty. Rodrigo prepared to
leave the historic pile with a feeling of depression. Its sorry
condition, contrasted with the spick-and-span modernity of the
surroundings he had become accustomed to in New York, weakened
whatever idea he might have had of settling there. Nevertheless,
sentiment and his now comparative affluence demanded that he restore
the palace to a habitable condition. He was therefore doubly glad,
as well as surprised, to observe standing beside his rented
conveyance a familiar, corpulent female form as he came out.
Maria had been talking excitedly to the chauffeur and now came
waddling up to meet her former master. A smile covered her wide and
usually stolid face. Rodrigo greeted her heartily and learned from
the torrent of words that came from her toothless mouth that she was
working in a neighboring villa, which, like the palace of the
Torrianis, had been rented by Americans. But, she explained, her
Americans were leaving. Had Master Rodrigo come home for good?
Would he, perhaps, want old Maria again? She had many times, after
the departure of Rodrigo's American tenants, tried to get into the
place to clean it. But the pig of a real estate man had refused her
a key--her, Maria! Rodrigo, upon the spot, hired her as the
permanent caretaker of the palace and turned over to her the massive
keys to the outer gate and to the main entrance of the building. She
beamed at him as he stepped into the ancient automobile. She shouted
blessings upon his head until he disappeared over the hill in a cloud
of dust.
It seemed his afternoon for renewing old acquaintances, for a little
over a mile from Naples he was about to pass a man and a woman
plodding along the dusty road when suddenly the woman raised her head
from under the heavy cloth-wrapped bundle she was carrying. It was
Rosa Minardi. Rodrigo at once had his car stopped. Rosa, smiling,
set down her bundle, and the man with her, who was quite unencumbered
and was smoking a long, curved pipe, followed her leisurely to the
side of the automobile. Rosa, after the first greeting, introduced
the loose-jointed, lazy-looking fellow as her husband.
She looked older, stouter, and considerably less attractive than she
had when Rodrigo had last seen her. He wondered if she had really
changed or whether it was because that painful scene in which her
father had extorted five thousand liras from him seemed now to have
taken place years, instead of months, ago, in quite another world.
Certainly there seemed nothing particularly alluring about her now,
though she was rolling her bright, black eyes at him hopefully and
striking attitudes to display the outlines of her too buxom figure as
she talked. She was finding the pose difficult, however. There were
tired, aging lines under those eyes. And there was the slouching
hulk of a man watching her mildly, her husband. Rosa glanced from
Rodrigo to this husband, and sighed. The Minardis never had luck.
Her worthless father had long since spent his tainted profits from
her love affair with Rodrigo. That same worthless father had saddled
this equally worthless husband upon her, with the promise that the
man was rich, and had then borrowed what little money his son-in-law
possessed and disappeared once more to Rome.
This, Rosa did not, of course, tell Rodrigo. Instead she said
soberly, "You are looking pale, my friend, and older. Has life not
been so gay in America, eh?
"Oh, it has been gay enough," he replied, and he began to admit to
himself that he too must have changed, what with John and Dr.
Woodward and now Rosa telling him of it.
"Do you think, then, to remain in Italy?" she asked, and he thought
he detected a little gleam in those once inviting eyes.
The question having thus been put to him directly, he made a decision
and said, "No. I am going to travel a while. Later--I do not know.
But I am, as you have guessed, Rosa, not so gay. Perhaps in Paris or
London I shall be gayer."
"You used to be--very gay," she mused, and again smiled at him
coquettishly, but heavily, as if trying to say that it was not
impossible that those happy times might be revived. But, though he
returned her smile, she failed to stimulate him. Indeed he found her
more depressing even than the palace of his fathers. Bright-eyed
Rosa turned drudge, slave of a dirty, indolent Italian husband!
Well, that was life. As he started on again and looked back at her,
trudging under her burden along the dusty road, the man walking,
hands in his pockets, by her side, Rodrigo knew that, even had she
been twice as pretty as ever, she would not have struck a spark in
him. His old weakness for a pretty face had been killed. And the
pity of it was that it had been killed just too late.
He visited Paris, Paris striving to display its old pre-war gayety in
the sunny days of a perfect spring. He looked up some old
acquaintances, English and Italian artists of the Latin Quarter for
the most part, and drank wine with them and talked and tried to
recapture some of the old carefree spirit in the musty cafés of
Montmartre. He attended the theatre, alone and in the company of his
friends and browsed among the galleries and shops, making a few
purchases and forwarding them to Dorning and Son. For he could not
forget that he was still, in name, John's partner. He found himself
frequently speculating, almost unconsciously, as to the outcome of
business projects he had had under way when he left and had more than
one impulse to write or cable about them. Would he, after all, go
back? Dorning and Son had become even more of a part of him that he
had suspected. And John and Mary--yes, he wanted that adopted world
of his back again intensely already, though he had been gone hardly a
month.
Yet the prospect of facing John Dorning day after day, facing his
dearest friend with a guilty lie in his heart--and the ache of being
near Mary and knowing she was lost to him--he could not endure that!
He crossed the Channel in May, reaching London on a wet and foggy
night and establishing himself at the Savoy. For the next few days
he loitered in his room, sleeping late and eating only when he felt
an active hunger, and walking purposelessly about the streets. On
the third evening, over a lonesome dinner, he read by chance in the
paper of a play that had opened the night before. It was a problem
play called "The Drifters" and, according to the reviewer, possessed
considerable merit. Rodrigo was surprised and interested to see the
name of Sophie Binner in the cast. Far down in the review, he read a
paragraph devoted to Sophie's performance. It said that Miss Binner,
late of the musical comedy stage, showed distinct promise in her
first straight dramatic role, that the mannerisms which used to
delight revue patrons had quite disappeared, that "the former Christy
ingenue has demonstrated that she is a character actress of polished
competence and, of course, outstanding beauty."
Rodrigo was viewing "The Drifters" an hour later. He found its
opening act rather ponderous and talky, until the entrance of Sophie.
In the plain tailored suit and subdued make-up which her role called
for, she was, he was surprised to discover, more striking in
appearance than she had ever been in the tinsel costumes she had worn
for Gilbert Christy. Her shiny golden hair, now cropped and confined
closely to her head, instead of flying in the breeze as previously,
set off her piquant, innocent-wise face in fascinating effectiveness.
Her voice had somewhere lost its rasping overtone and acquired
clarity and gentility. She moved surely and with an understanding of
her part that was in amazing contrast to the slovenly manner in which
she had always filled the meager requirements of the bits she had
played in Christy's sketches. Formerly Sophie had been able only to
sing, dance, and display her figure; now, Rodrigo admitted, she was a
real actress. He became interested in discovering how the
metamorphosis had come about. His chance came more quickly than he
had bargained on.
Just before the curtain rose for the second act, an usher handed
Rodrigo a card as he resumed his chair very near the stage. The card
read:
Rodrigo:
I noticed you in the audience. I would like to talk with you.
Come to my dressing-room after the show, if you care to.
SOPHIE.
It was significant of the change in her, he realized, that later she
kept him waiting outside her dressing-room, when he knocked, instead
of crying carelessly for him to enter. When she appeared at the door
at last, she was dressed simply and becomingly, far more modestly
than in the old days. She greeted him cordially enough and accepted
his invitation for a bite of supper in a small restaurant just off
Piccadilly.
"You are thinner and older," she accused him, when later they were
seated cosily in a corner of the smoke-filled and talk-filled room,
for the place was a popular rendezvous for after-theatre crowds,
though nothing in the way of entertainment was offered except
excellent food and a congenial atmosphere.
"You have changed yourself," he retorted. "Tell me how it
happened--why you decided to become an actress."
"I think your friend John Dorning had more to do with it than
anything," she surprised him by replying.
"John--but how? Do you mean something he said or did the time you--"
He stopped in confusion.
"Go on. I don't mind," she laughed. "All that seems very far away
now. I don't know whether or not he told you--I imagined he
wouldn't--but I came to see you when I was down and out and--well, I
got two thousand dollars from Mr. Dorning by a rather shabby trick.
But I received a lot more from him than that, though he'll probably
never know it. He's a wonderful man. I was in no mood then for
being preached at though, but somehow he made me listen and he got
over to me, without preaching at all, just where I was headed. He
said that no woman had ever found real happiness in living on other
people and that if I was any good and had any real love for the stage
I would dig out on my own and try to get somewhere.
"When he handed over the two thousand dollars, he said that if I was
wise, I would take it and use it to tide myself over while I tried to
build a real career. What's more, he offered to send me more if I
needed it and could prove I was honestly making an effort to succeed
in my profession. That was real sportsmanship, wasn't it? I thought
so. So I chucked the musical comedy business and caught on with a
small stock company in Leeds. I studied day and night, I worked like
a dog, and well, I'm a little way on the road to somewhere now."
"I'm glad, Sophie," he said honestly. "John's a prince. I know that
too." He looked across the table into her grave blue eyes so
intently that her eyes widened into questioning. Then she smiled
understandingly.
"I know what you are thinking, Rodrigo," she said softly. "You are
thinking that this is the first time you have ever been with me alone
that you did not want to take me in your arms and kiss me. The first
time that we could sit here comfortably as friends, without making
love. I have been thinking the same thing. And it's true. I used
to be an awful man-hunter. I used to think I wasn't living unless I
was mad about some man--one or more. I remember that I could have
killed you that night you left me in New York. But I have learned
different. I have your friend, John Dorning, largely to thank for
that."
When he left her at her apartment later, he felt that he had gained a
friend.
A letter was handed him by the room clerk that night when he called
at the desk of the hotel for his key. Rodrigo stared at the
rectangle of white. In the corner was the neat, familiar name of
Dorning and Son. The envelope bore his name, typewritten, was
addressed to the Palace di Torriani, Naples, and contained
scribblings on its face in pencil that had forwarded it to Paris and
thence to London. Maria, he decided, had been the original recipient
and had sent it to the address he had given her in Paris. He thrust
the letter into his pocket and summoned the lift to take him to his
room. He wanted to read this message in seclusion, for he had a
foreboding of its importance. His original quaking thought that
something had happened to John, he assured himself, was absurd. In
that event, he felt, Mary would have cabled him.
He sank into a chair, lit a cigarette, and applied trembling fingers
to the envelope.
Dear Rodrigo:
I do not know how firmly your mind is set by this time upon
remaining in Europe. I do know that something unexpected has
developed here that vitally affects you and John and all of us.
John is sure you will return soon and intends to tell you then.
I am not so sure you are coming back, but I emphatically urge
you, for your own sake, to do so, at least until you can learn of
these developments from John's own lips. Return to Europe later
if you like, but--come now.
I cannot tell you more. Perhaps I have told too much already.
Sincerely yours,
MARY DRAKE.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mary! He had known
instinctively, when the letter was handed to him, that it was from
Mary. Suddenly its meaning flashed upon him. She and John loved
each other, were going to be married, and wanted to tell him about
it, wanted him to take charge of the business while they were away on
their honeymoon. In vain he told himself that the thought was
absurd, that, if such a thing had really happened, Mary would have
written him a straightforward letter about it instead of this cryptic
note. Ever since he had left New York, this idea--yes, he might as
well admit it--this dread of Mary and John loving each other had hung
over his head. Yet why should he dread it? It was no more than
fair. A love for a love. He had taken Elise from John; now John was
taking Mary from him.
He lay awake all that night, fearing, restless, unhappier than he had
ever been in his life. The next morning he engaged passage for New
York on a steamer leaving within three days.