THE WOMAN WITH THE FIERCE EYES.
You are a snake,
For the sly beast lies
Coiled in the brake
Of your sleepy eyes,
Lo, at your glances my weak soul dies.
Woman you are
With a face so fair;
But the snake must mar
All the woman there.
Your eyes affright, but your smiles ensnare.
Such a poor room it was, with a well-worn carpet, shabby furniture, a
dingy mirror over the fireplace, and a mean sordid look everywhere.
The bright sunshine, pouring in through the dirty windows, showed up
the weak points of the apartment in the most relentless manner. Great
folding-doors at one side half open, showing an untidy bedroom beyond,
and on the other side the many-paned windows, veiled by ragged
curtains, looked out into Jepple Street, Bloomsbury.
There was a shaky round table in the centre of the apartment, on which
was spread a doubtfully clean cloth, and on it the remains of a very
poor breakfast. An egg half eaten, a teacup half filled, and a portion
of bread on the plate showed that the person for whom this meal was
provided had not finished, and, indeed, she was leaning on the table
with her elbows, looking at a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_.
A noticeable woman this, frowning down on the newspaper with tightly
closed lips, and one whom it would be unwise to offend.. After a pause
she pushed the paper away, arose to her feet, and marching across to
the dingy mirror, surveyed herself long and anxiously. The face that
looked out at her from the glass was a remarkable one.
Dark, very dark, with fierce black eyes under strongly marked
eyebrows, masses of rough dark hair carelessly twisted up into a heavy
coil, a thin-lipped, flexible mouth and a general contour of face not
at all English. She had slender brown hands, which looked powerful in
spite of their delicacy, and a good figure, though just now it was
concealed by a loose dressing-gown of pale yellow silk much
discoloured and stained. With her strange barbaric face, her gaudy
dress, Mrs. Belswin was certainly a study for a painter.
Mrs. Belswin, so she called herself; but she looked more like a savage
queen than a civilised woman. She should have been decked with
coloured beads, with fantastic feathers, with barbaric bracelets, with
strangely striped skins, as it was she was an anomaly, an incongruity,
in the poor room of poor lodging-house, staring at her fierce face in
the dingy mirror.
Mrs. Munser, who kept the establishment, acknowledged to her
intimate friend, Mrs. Pegs, that the sight of this lady had given
her a turn; and certainly no one could blame cockney Mrs. Munser, for
of all the strange people that might be seen in London, this lithe,
savage-looking woman was surely the strangest. Indian jungles, African
forests, South American pampas, she would have been at home there,
having all the appearance and fire of a woman of the tropics; but to
see her in dull, smoky London--it was extraordinary.
After scrutinising herself for a time, she began to talk aloud in a
rich full voice, which was broken every now and then by a guttural
note which betrayed the savage; yet she chose her words well, she
spoke easily, and rolled her words in a soft labial manner suggestive
of the Italian language. Yet she was not an Italian.
"Twenty years ago," she muttered savagely, "nearly twenty years ago,
and I have hardly ever seen her. I must do so now, when Providence has
put this chance into my hands. They can't keep a mother from her
child. God's laws are stronger than those of man. Rupert would put the
ocean between us if he could, but now he's in New Zealand, so for a
time I will be able to see her, to speak to her, to hold her in my
arms; not as her mother,--no, not as her mother,--but as her paid
servant."
She turned away from the mirror with a savage gesture, and walked
slowly up and down the room with the soft sinuous movement of a
panther. Her soft silk dress rustled as she walked, and her splendid
hair, released by her sudden movement, fell like a black veil over her
shoulders. She thrust the tresses back from her temples with impatient
hands, and her face looked forth from the cloud of hair, dark, sombre,
and savage, with a flash of the fierce eyes and vicious click of the
strong white teeth.
"Curses on the man who took me away from her. I did not care for him,
with his yellow hair and pink face. Why did I go? Why was I such a
fool? I left her, my own child, for him, and went out into the world
an outcast, for his sake. God! God! Why are women such fools?"
For a moment she stood with uplifted hands, as if awaiting an answer;
but none came, so, letting her arms fall, she walked back to her
chair, and lighting a cigarette, placed it in her mouth.
"I daren't use a pipe here," she said, with a discordant laugh, "it
would not be respectable. But Spanish women smoke cigarettes, Russian
women smoke cigarettes, so why should not the Maori woman smoke them
also. Respectable, eh! Well, I'm going to be respectable now, when
I've answered this."
This was an advertisement in the paper, which read as follows--
"Wanted, a companion for a young lady. Apply by letter, Dombrain, 13,
Chintler Lane, City."
"Apply by letter," muttered Mrs. Belswin, with a sneer. "Indeed I
won't, Alfred Dombrain. I'll apply in person, and I think I'll obtain
the situation. I'll hold it, too--hold it till Rupert returns, and
then--and then----"
She sprang to her feet and blew a cloud of smoke with a mocking laugh.
"And then, my husband, I'll match myself against you."
"Salve dimora casta e pura."
The singer was coming slowly upstairs, and, as he finished the line,
knocked at the door.
"Stephano," said Mrs. Belswin, with a frown, glancing at the clock;
"what can he want so early? Avanti."
The door opened and Stephano, the singer, a tall, lithe Italian, with
a beaming smile, presented himself and burst out into a torrent of
greeting.
"Buon Giorno cara mia! Ah, my beautiful Lucrezia! my splendid Norma!
how like an angel you look this morning. Gran dio che grazia. Signora,
I kiss your hand."
He dropped on one knee in an affectedly theatrical manner and pressed
his lips to Mrs. Belswin's hand, upon which she twitched it away with
a frown, and spoke roughly to her adorer.
"What do you want, Ferrari?"
"Niente! niente! but to pay a visit of ceremony."
"It's not customary to pay visits of ceremony at ten o'clock in the
morning. I wish you would go away. I'm busy."
"Che donna," said the Italian. With a gesture of admiration, and
taking off his hat, sat down on the sofa.
Stephano Ferrari was a handsome man in a wicked way. He was tall and
slender, with a dark, expressive face, white teeth, which gleamed
under his heavy black moustache, wonderfully fine eyes, and a bland,
ingratiating manner. English he spoke remarkably well, having been for
many years away from his native land, but had a habit of interlarding
his conversation with Italian ejaculations, which, in conjunction with
his carefully-learnt English, had a somewhat curious effect. Being the
tenor of an opera company in New York, he had become acquainted with
Mrs. Belswin, who was also in the profession, and had fallen violently
in love with this splendid-looking woman, who had so many of the
characteristics of his countrywomen. Mrs. Belswin did not reciprocate
this passion, and treated him with marked discourtesy; but this only
added fuel to the fire of his love, much to her annoyance, as Ferrari
had all the ardour and violence of his race strongly developed, and
was likely to prove dangerous if she did not return his passion, a
thing she felt by no means inclined to do.
At present he sat smiling on the sofa before her, adjusted his bright
red tie, ran his fingers through his curly hair, and then twisted the
ends of his moustache with peculiarly aggravating complacency.
"Don't you hear what I say?" said Mrs. Belswin, stamping her foot
angrily. "I'm busy. Go away."
"Bid me not fly from those star-like eyes," sang the Signor, rolling a
cigarette with deft fingers. "Ah, che bella musica. If the words were
but my beautiful Italian instead of this harsh English. Dio! It hurts
the throat, your speaking--fog-voiced pigs that you are."
"Take your abuse and yourself somewhere else," replied Mrs. Belswin,
bringing her hand down sharply on the table. "I tell you I'm busy. You
never leave me alone, Stephano. You followed me over from America, and
now you stay beside me all day. Why do you make such a fool of
yourself?"
"Because I love thee, carissima. Let me light this; not at thine
eyes--stelle radiante--but from thy cigarette. Grazia!"
Mrs. Belswin knew of old that when Ferrari was in this humour nothing
reasonable could be expected from him; so, resigned to the inevitable,
she let him light his cigarette as he wished, then, flinging herself
down on her chair, looked moodily at him.
"How long is this foolery going to last?" she demanded caustically.
"Till you become the Signora Ferrari."
"That will never be."
"Nay, angela mia--it will be some day."
"Was there ever such a man?" burst out Mrs. Belswin, viciously. "He
won't take no for an answer."
"Not from thee, Donna Lucrezia."
"Don't call me Donna Lucrezia.
"Perchè?"
"Because I'm tired of opera. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of
everything. I'm going to leave all the old life and become
respectable."
"The life of a singer is always respectable," declared Ferrari,
mendaciously. "You mean to leave me, Signora?"
"Yes, I do."
"Ebbene! we shall see."
"What claim have you on me? None. I met you in America two years ago.
We nag together for a time, and because of that you persecute me with
you ridiculous attentions."
"I love thee."
"I don't want your love."
"Veramente!"
"No!"
She spoke defiantly, and folding her arms stared steadily at her
persistent lover. The Italian, however, was not at all annoyed. He
simply threw his half-smoked cigarette into the teacup, and rising
from his seat stood before her smiling and bland as ever.
"Non e vero, Signora? Ebbene. I am the same. We met in San Francisco
two years ago. I was a singer of opera. I obtained for you
engagements. I loved you. Carissima, I love thee still! You are cold,
cruel, you stone-woman, bella demonia. For long time I have been your
slave. You have given me the kicks of a dog. Pazienza, I finish soon.
I have told you all of myself. You have told me all of yourself. I
come to this fog land with you, and now you say, 'Addio.' Bellissima,
Signora, but I am not to be talked to like a child. I love you! and I
marry you. Ecco! You will be Signora Ferrari. Senza dubbio!"
Having thus delivered himself of his determination with many smiles
and gesticulations, Signor Ferrari bowed in his best stage manner, sat
down in his chair and began to roll another cigarette. Mrs. Belswin
heard him in silence, the clenching of her hands alone betraying her
anger, but having had two years' experience of the Italian's
character, she knew what to do, and controlling herself with an
effort, began to temporise in a highly diplomatic manner.
"I suppose no woman could be indifferent to such love as you profess,
Stephano, and some day I may be able to answer you as you wish--but
not now, not now."
"And why, cara mia?"
"Because I am going to see my daughter again."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes! You know I told you all my past life. I was a fool to do so, as
it gives you a certain hold over me. But I am a lonely--woman. Your
manner was sympathetic, and so--well it's only natural I should wish
to confide in some one."
"So you confided in me. Per l'amor di Dio, Signora. Do not be sorry, I
am simpatica! I feel for you. Ah, Dio! It was a terrible story of your
husband, and the parting in anger. Basta! Basta! Think of it no more."
"I must! Do you think I can forget the past by a simple effort of
will? Happy for me, happy for all, if such a thing could be. But--I
have forgotten nothing. That is my punishment!"
"And now, cara?"
"Now I am going to see my dear daughter again."
"She is in London, then? Ah, che gioja."
"Yes! she is in--in England."
"And il marito?"
"He is at the other end of the world."
"Bene. Let him say there!"
Mrs. Belswin nodded her head in savage approval, then began to walk to
and fro, talking rapidly.
"While he is away I have a plan. In the paper there is a notice
requiring a companion for my daughter."
"How do you know?"
"Because it is put in by a Mr. Dombrain. He is Rupert Pethram's
solicitor. Oh, I know him, better than he thinks. All these years I
have been away from my child I have watched over her. Ah, yes! I know
all of her life in New Zealand. I have good friends there. I found out
when her father brought her to England, and that is why I came over
here so quickly. I intended to see her again--to speak to her--but
without revealing I was her unhappy mother. But--I was afraid of
Pethram. Yes, you may smile, Stephano, but you do not know him. I do."
"E incrédibile. You who fear no one."
"I do not fear him physically," she said proudly, with a savage flash
from her fierce eyes. "I fear no man in that way. But I am afraid
because of my daughter. She thinks I am dead. It is better than that
she should know I am a divorced, disgraced woman. If Sir Rupert were
angry he might tell her all, and then--and then--oh, God! I could not
bear to see her again. She would despise me. She would look on me with
scorn. My own child. Ah, I should die--I should die!"
The tears actually came into her eyes, and for a moment softened their
fierceness. This woman, hard and undisciplined, with savage instincts
derived from a savage mother, yet felt the strong maternal instinct
implanted in the breast of every woman, and quailed with terror as she
thought of the power her former husband had to lower her in the eyes
of her daughter. Ferrari, of course, could not understand this, having
been always accustomed to think of Mrs. Belswin as an untamed tigress,
but now she had a touch of feminine softness about her which puzzled
him.
"Ah! the strangeness of women," he said philosophically. "Ebbene, now
il marito is away, what will you do?"
"I'm going to see Mr. Dombrain, and obtain the situation of companion
to my own daughter."
"Not so fast, Signora! She will know you."
"No; she will not know me," replied Mrs. Belswin softly; "she does not
remember me. When I left her she was a little child. She thinks I am
dead. I go to her as a stranger. It is hard; it is terribly hard. I
will see her. I will speak to her. I will perhaps kiss her; but I dare
not say, 'child, I am your mother!' Ah, it is cruel--but it is my
punishment."
"It is a good plan for you, cara mia! But about me, you forget your
faithful Stephano!"
"No, I do not," she said coaxingly, for she was afraid he would spoil
all, knowing what he did; "but you must wait. I want to see my
daughter--to live with her for a time. When my husband returns he will
know me, so I must leave before he sees me. Then I will come back to
thee, carissima."
"Basta!" replied Ferrari, with great reluctance. "I do not wish to
keep you from the child. I am not jealous of il marito."
"You've no cause to be--I hate him."
"Look, then, the love I bear you, carissima mia. Though all your life
I know. Though you have had husband and lover, yet I wish to make you
mine."
"It is strange," said Mrs. Belswin, indifferently. "I am not a young
woman; my good looks are going; my past life is not that of a saint;
and yet you would marry me."
"Because I love thee, carissima," said Ferrari, taking her hand. "I
have loved many before, but none like thee, bella demonia. Ah, Dio,
thou hast the fierceness of the tiger within thee. The hot blood of
Italy burns in thy veins, my Lucrezia Borgia. I am weary of tame women
who weep and sigh ever. I am no cold Englishman, thou knowest. The
lion seeks but the lioness, and so I come to thee for thy love, stella
adorata."
He caressed her softly as he spoke these words in his musical voice,
and the woman softened under his caress with feline grace. All the
treachery and sleepiness of the panther was observable in this woman;
but under the smoothness of her manner lay the fierceness of her
savage nature, which was now being controlled by the master hand of
the Italian.
"You will let me go to my daughter, then," she said in a soft, languid
voice, her fierce eyes dulling under the mesmeric influence of his
gaze.
"As you will. I can deny thee nothing, regina del mia vita."