THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE
"Shall we take a look into the Campo Formosa again to-night?" asked
Merrihew, stepping into the gondola.
"It will be a waste of time. Bettina will have warned them. What's the
Italian coming to, anyhow? She refused a hundred francs. But I can see
that Mrs. Sandford had a hand in this latest event. She has probably
written that we might look for them in the Campo." Hillard spoke in a
discontented tone. "Oh, bother the both of them! Let us loaf round the
barges of the serenaders and hear the singing. I want to be amused
to-night."
"All right; we'll listen to the music," grumbled Merrihew. He wanted to
find Kitty right away. He would gladly have started out and explored
every Campo in Venice that night. Hillard's indifference annoyed him.
"To the barges of the troupes!" said Hillard to Achille, who pushed off
with a series of short strokes.
In the great canal of San Marco the scene was like a water-carnival.
Hundreds of gondolas, with bobbing lights, swam slowly round the barges
of the serenaders, who, for the most part, were fallen operatic stars or
those who had failed to attain those dizzy heights. Many of them had
good voices, but few of them last long in the damp Venetian night air.
To-night there were three of these belanterned barges, taking their
stands about three hundred yards apart. The glowing coals of cigarettes
and cigars of the men in the gondolas were like low-lying stars, and the
cold, bright flash of jewels woke here and there among the many
beautifully gowned women. From one barge to another the gondolas
drifted, finally clustering round the middle barge of the Troupe San
Marco, which offered the best voices. Between songs a man of acrobatic
accomplishments would jump nimbly from the prow of one gondola to
another, stepping lightly here, balancing neatly there, and always with
the upturned tambourine extended for silver and copper largess.
Merrihew sat in the bottom of the gondola, while Hillard lay sprawled
across the cushions on the seat. The prima donna was singing the
jewel-song from Faust, and not badly. Sometimes the low hum of voices
floated across the cadence of the song. Merrihew scanned the faces of
all those near him, but never a face took on familiar lines. An Adriatic
liner loomed up gray and shadowy behind them, and some of the crew were
leaning idly over the rail. The song stopped. The man with the
tambourine sallied forth. Out of the momentary silence came the
indistinct tinkle of the piano in the barge beyond; some one over there
was bellowing the toreador's song. This died away amid a faint patter of
applause. How clear all the sounds were! thought Merrihew. The tenor of
the San Marco troupe rose with the prima donna. It was _Il Trovatore_
this time; a bit noisy.
What was that? Hillard was no longer lethargic. He stumbled over the
recumbent Merrihew.
"Why don't you walk all over me?" growled Merrihew. "Sit down!"
"Be still!" said Hillard roughly.
From a gondola on the far side of the barge, standing out of the press
and just beyond the radiance of the lanterns, never powerful at best,
came another voice, a voice which had a soul in it, a voice which broke
into song for the pure joy of it, spontaneously. Clear, thrilling, a
voice before which the world bows down. The prima donna in the barge was
clever; she stopped. The tenor went on, however, recognizing that he was
playing opposite, as they say, to a great singer. Hillard's heart beat
fast. That voice! There could not be another like it. And she was here
in Venice!
"Achille," he said, "do you hear that voice over there in the dark?"
"Yes, signore."
"Push round to it. See, the singer is standing up now. Hurry!"
This sounded important, and Merrihew scrambled to his feet. Yes, he,
too, could see this unexpected cantatrice. In fact, everybody was
beginning to stand up. All interest was centered in this new voice.
Then, as if conscious of this interest, the singer sat down, but still
kept to the melody. Achille backed out of the jam, stole round the
barge, and craftily approached the outstanding gondola. The two men
still remained on their feet.
"Quick, Achille!" For the far gondola was heading for the Grand Canal.
Merrihew understood now. He grasped Hillard's arm excitedly.
"Follow!" commanded Hillard. "Ten lire if you can come up alongside that
gondola. Can you see the number?"
"It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully.
"No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."
And a race it became. Both gondoliers were long past their youth, but
each knew the exact weight and effort to be put upon the oar; no useless
energy, no hurried work, no spurting, but long, deep swinging strokes.
Up the Grand Canal, past the brilliant hotels. The runaway gondola had
perhaps a hundred yards the best of it. Achille hung on, neither losing
nor gaining a foot.
"Sit down, signori!" said Achille.
Hillard and Merrihew tumbled back upon the cushions.
"We shall not lose them this time, Dan."
"Are we gaining?"
"Not yet. But wait till they turn into some small canal."
The first loop of the Grand Canal was turned; still Pompeo made no
effort to seek the smaller canals. Not till he passed under the Rialto,
which afforded him a deep shadow, did he turn. Swiftly he bore into the
canal which was filled with the postal-gondolas. But not so soon that
Achille did not perceive and follow. On and on, soundless; now the
pursuer had the advantage over the pursued. It was Pompeo who had to
watch, to call; Achille had only to hang on. And he was gaining. A
moment later less than ten yards intervened. O for some clumsy barge to
bar the way! Round past the Teatro Malibran, into the Rio di San Marina,
into a smaller canal again. Hillard now knew whither they were bound:
the Campo Formosa.
At each stroke Merrihew swung forward his body. The end of the race came
sooner than any one expected. A police barge nosed round an ell; by the
time Pompeo was off again, the ferrule of the pursuing gondola scraped
past Pompeo's blade. Pompeo called and Achille answered. There was a war
of words, figure of a dog, name of a pig. Achille was in the wrong, but
ten lire were ten lire. And he knew that his gentlemen meant no harm.
Hillard caught the gondola by the rail and clung. The canal, lined with
a dozen lime barges, became so narrow that Achille could scarce paddle,
and Pompeo's oar was useless, being partly under the opposing gondola.
The race was over.
"Signorina," said Pompeo, boiling with rage, "shall I call the police?"
"No, Pompeo," said his solitary passenger.
When Merrihew saw that she was alone, his heart became heavy, and the
joy of the chase was gone. But not so with Hillard. At last!
"To the Campo, Pompeo. Mr. Hillard, will you kindly follow? I would
speak to you alone, since there is no escape."
Her tone chilled Hillard's ardor somewhat. But to speak to her again,
and mayhap see her face!
"Doesn't want the police," whispered Merrihew. "I told you so. Look out
for yourself."
The gondolas became free presently, and the way to the Campo Formosa was
made without further incident.
"She wishes to see me alone, Dan. You stay in the boat, I'll find out
where Kitty is."
The gondolas became moored. Hillard jumped out and went to assist La
Signorina, but she ignored his outstretched hand. This was not a
promising beginning.
"To the church steps, Mr. Hillard," she said.
He followed her meekly. Merrihew sulked among the cushions.
The solitary electric lamp in the Campo made light enough; and when the
two arrived at the steps the woman turned.
"What is it you wish?" she asked. There was not the slightest agitation
in her voice; there was not even curiosity.
"One look at your face," he answered simply.
She slowly removed the veil. Then, for the first time, he looked upon
the face of this woman who had burdened his dreams. The face was not
like any he had conjured. It seemed to him that Vecchio's--Paola
Vecchio's--Barbara had stepped down from her frame: beauty, tranquil,
flawless beauty. A minute passed; he was incapable of speech, he could
only look.
"Well?" she said, in the same expressionless tone.
"Let us begin at the beginning," he replied, with an effort to imitate
the evenness of her tone.
"Since this is to be the end."
"Why did you answer my personal in the first place? Why did you not
ignore it? I should have been left in peace."
"An impulse of the moment, which I shall always regret."
"Why did you let it go so far as to permit me to dine with you that
memorable night?"
"A second impulse, equally regrettable."
"And why, after all had come to an apparent end, why did you send me
that mask?"
She did not answer at once.
"Why?" he repeated.
"It is unanswerable. Truthfully, I do not know."
"Have you thought what all this might mean to me?" with warmth.
Again she was silent, but her eyes did not waver.
"When I heard your voice to-night I knew that doubt was no longer in my
heart."
"Doubt?"
"Yes, doubt. I knew then that the inexplicable had happened."
"I do not understand."
"The inexplicable. For who will believe that it is possible for a sane
man to fall in love with a voice? Had your face been scarred, as I once
suspected; had you committed some crime, as I once believed, it would
not matter. I am mad." He laughed angrily. "Yes, I love you, knowing not
what you are nor caring. I have been mad for weeks, only I did not see
my madness in true colors till this moment."
The light seemed to bother her eyes, for she turned her head aside,
giving this mad lover the exquisite profile of her face.
"You are indeed mad, or, rather, your jest is."
"Would to Heaven I were jesting! And why did you avoid me in Monte
Carlo?"
She realized that there was some justice in his questions and that she
was not altogether innocent of the cause of his madness, if it were
that.
"I did not speak to you because I wished to avoid this very moment. But
since it was destined to be, let us have done. What other questions
would you ask, Mr. Hillard?"
"Who is that man--the Italian with the scar--who ran after you that
night?"
"I will not answer that."
"'A lady? Grace of Mary, that is droll!'"
"Why do you say that?"
"I am only quoting the man with the scar. Those were the words he used
in regard to you."
"Perhaps he is right; perhaps I am not a lady, according to his lights."
But she laughed.
"Do not laugh like that! What you are or have been, or might have been
to him, is nothing to me. Only one fact remains clear, and that is, I
love you."
"No, Mr. Hillard, you are only excited. You have been letting your
imagination run away with you. Be sensible. Listen. You know nothing of
me; you have neither my name nor my past--nothing. I may in truth be
everything undesirable."
"Not to me!"
"I may be a fugitive from the law."
"I do not believe it."
"There may be scars which do not show--in the heart, in the mind. I am
sorry, terribly sorry. Heaven knows that I meant no harm. But it seems
that fate is determined that every move I make shall become a folly, the
ghost of which shall pursue me. I told you to forget me, that I had
entered your life only to pass out of it immediately. Forget me!" Her
voice was no longer without expression.
"Forget you? I would it were as easy as the asking! I say that I love
you, that I shall always love you. But," he added gently, lowering his
voice, "I have asked nothing in return."
"Nothing in return?" she murmured.
"No. I offer my love only that it may serve you without reward. Do you
need in your trouble a man's arm, a man's heart and mind?"
"I need nothing;" but her voice was now strangely sweet. So, she was
loved by one who asked for nothing? This was not like the men she had
known. "Do not misjudge me, Mr. Hillard. If indeed you believe that you
love me--incredible as it seems to me--I am proud of the honor. But
fatality forbids that I accept not only your love but your friendship."
"Not even my friendship?" bewildered. "And why not?"
"To answer that would only be adding to your hurt."
"You are a strange woman. You make it very hard."
"I have no alternative. The harder I make it, the better for your peace
of mind. Once you are angry with me, once you are convinced that I am a
hopeless puzzle, this fancy you call love will evaporate."
"Do not believe that."
"I never intended that you should see me again, and yet, against my
better judgment, I have bared my face to you upon a simple request. I am
not without some vanity. Men have called me beautiful. But, oh! it is a
sinister beauty; it has brought good to no one, least of all to its
owner. You met Mrs. Sandford in Naples. Tell me what she said."
He sought refuge in silence.
"Did she not earnestly warn you against me?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"And yet you would not heed her warning?" sadly.
"I have told you that I am mad."
"I am coming to believe it. There are two of us. That dinner! And out of
an innocent prank comes this! Folly, always folly!" And as she
remembered the piece of folly she was about to start out upon, she
laughed. "Mad? Yes. Only, to your madness there is some reason; to mine,
none."
"So you sometimes recollect that night? You have not forgotten?"
"No. The pleasure I derived has frequently returned to my mind."
"Ah, if only you would tell me what prevents friendship between us."
"You say you love me; is that not answer enough? Love and friendship are
as separate as the two poles; and you are man enough of the world to
know that. I have no wish to wreck your life nor to make mine more
miserable. Well, I will tell you this: there is a barrier between us--a
barrier which only death can tear down or break asunder. Give up all
idea, all thought of me. You will only waste your time. Come; is your
love strong enough to offer a single sacrifice?"
"Not if it is to give you up."
"Very well. I see, then, that I must submit to this added persecution. I
can not force you."
"So long as I live I shall go on dreaming of you. So long as you keep me
in darkness as to your trouble I shall pursue you. Oh, do not worry
about persecution. I shall only seek to be near you."
"Good night," she said, "and good-by!" She wound the veil round her
face, took half a dozen steps, halted and turned, then went on, beyond
the light, into the dark.
How long Hillard stood by the steps of the church, watching that part of
the darkness through which she had disappeared, he never knew. Merrihew
tapped him on the arm.
"Wake up, Jack, my boy!" said Merrihew lightly. "I thought, by the way
you mooned here, that you had fallen asleep on your feet. Where's
Kitty?"
"Kitty? I forgot to ask, Dan," said Hillard dully.