THE last strains of the ill-treated, ill-fated "Intermezzo" had died
away, and after them had died away also the rumbling of the wheels of
the murderous barrel-organ that had so gaily executed that, along with
the nine other tunes of its repertory, to the admiration of the
housemaid at the window of the house opposite, and the crowing delight
of the two babies next door.
The young man drew a deep breath of relief, and lighted the wax candles
in the solid silver candlesticks on his writing-table, for now the late
summer dusk was falling, and that organ, please Heaven, made full the
measure of the day's appointed torture. There had been five organs since
dinner--and seven in the afternoon--one and all urgently thumping their
heavy melodies into his brain, to the confusion of the thoughts that
waited there, eager to marshal themselves, orderly and firm, into the
phalanx of an article on "The Decadence of Criticism."
He filled his pipe, drew paper towards him, dipped his pen, and wrote
his title on the blank page. The silence came round him, soothing as a
beloved presence, the scent of the may bushes in the suburban gardens
stole in pleasantly through the open windows. After all, it was a "quiet
neighbourhood" as the advertisement had said--at any rate, in the
evening: and in the evening a man's best efforts--
_Thrum_, tum, tum--_Thrum_, tum, tum came the defiant strumming of a
guitar close to the window. He sprang to his feet--this was, indeed, too
much! But before he could draw back the curtains and express himself to
the intruder, the humming of the guitar was dominated by the first words
of a song--
"Oh picerella del vieni al'mare
Nella barchetta veletto di fiore
La biancha prora somiglia al'altare
Tutte le stelle favellan d'amor,"
and so forth. The performer was evidently singing "under her voice," but
the effect was charming. He stood with his hand on the curtain,
listening--and with a pleasure that astonished him. The song came to an
end with a chord in which all the strings twanged their best. Then there
was silence--then a sigh, and the sound of light moving feet on the
gravel. He threw back the curtain and leaned out of the window.
"Here!" he called to the figure that moved slowly towards the gate. She
turned quickly, and came back two steps. She wore the dress of a
Contadina, a very smart dress indeed, and her hands looked small and
white.
"Won't you sing again?" he asked.
She hesitated, then struck a chord or two and began another of those
little tuneful Italian songs, all stars and flowers and hearts of gold.
And again he listened with a quiet pleasure.
"I should like to hear her voice at its full strength," he thought--and
now it was time to give the vagrant a few coppers, and, shutting the
window, to leave her to go on to the next front garden.
Never had any act seemed so impossible. He had watched her through the
singing of this last song, and he had grown aware of the beauty of her
face's oval--of the fine poise of her head--and of the grace of hands
and arms.
"Aren't you tired?" he said. "Wouldn't you like to sit down and rest?
There is a seat in the garden at the side of the house."
Again she hesitated. Then she turned towards the quarter indicated and
disappeared round the laurel bushes.
He was alone in the house--his people and the servants were in the
country; the woman who came to "do for him" had left for the night. He
went into the dining-room, dark with mahogany and damask, found wine and
cake in the sideboard cupboard, put them on a tray, and took them out
through the garden door and round to the corner where, almost sheltered
by laburnums and hawthorns from the view of the people next door, the
singer and her guitar rested on the iron seat.
"I have brought you some wine--will you have it?"
Again that strange hesitation--then quite suddenly the girl put her
hands up to her face and began to cry.
"Here--I say, you know--don't--" he said. "Oh, Lord! This is awful. I
hardly know a word of Italian, and apparently she has no English. Here,
signorina, ecco, prendi--vino--gatto--No, gatto's a cat. I was thinking
of French. Oh, Lord!"
The Contadina had pulled out a very small handkerchief, and was drying
her eyes with it. She rose.
"No--don't go," he said eagerly. "I can see you are tired out. Sai
fatiguee non e vero? Io non parlate Italiano, sed vino habet, et cake
ante vous partez."
She looked at him and spoke for the first time.
"It serves me right," she said in excellent, yet unfamiliar, English. "I
don't understand a single word you say! I might have known I couldn't do
it, though it's just what girls in books would do. It would have turned
out all right with them. Let me go--thank you very much. I am sure you
meant to be kind." And then she began to cry again.
"Look here," he said, "this is all nonsense, you know. You are tired
out--and there's something wrong. What is it? Do drink this, and then
tell me. Perhaps I can help you."
She drank obediently. Then she said: "I have not had anything to eat
since last night--"
He hurriedly cut cake and pressed it upon her. He had no time to think,
but he was aware that this was the most exciting adventure that had ever
happened to him.
"It's no use--and it all sounds so silly."
"Ah--but do tell me!" His voice was kinder than he meant it to be. Her
eyes filled again with tears.
"You don't know how horrid everyone has been. Oh--I never knew before
what devils people are to you when you're poor--"
"Is it only that you're poor? Why, that's nothing. I'm poor, too."