"SHE IS A SINGER"
There was a brief lull in the stream of promenaders. The Englishman
turned round with a yawn, and ordered another cup of coffee. From his
altered position he had a full view of the Sicilian's face, and became
suddenly aware of an extraordinary change in it. The restlessness was
gone; the watching seemed to be at an end. The fire of a deep passion
was blazing in his dark eyes, and the light of a great wistful joy shone
in his face. The Englishman, almost involuntarily, turned in his chair,
and glanced round to see what had wrought the change.
He looked into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. A
flood of silver moonlight lay upon the Marina, glancing away across the
dark blue waters of the bay, and the soft dazzling light gently touched
her hair, and gleamed in her dark, sweet eyes. She was tall, and clad in
white flowing draperies clinging softly around her slim, girlish figure,
and giving to her appearance an inexpressible daintiness, as though they
were indeed emblematic of the spotless purity of that fair young being.
Was it the chastened light, or was there indeed something spiritual,
something more than humanly beautiful in the delicate oval face--perfect
in its outline, perfect in its faint coloring and stately poise? She was
walking slowly, her every movement full of a distinctive and deliberate
grace, and her head a little upturned, as though her thoughts were far
away among the softly burning stars, rather than concerned with the
fashionable and picturesque crowd which thronged around her. A remark
from her companion, a girl of somewhat slighter stature and darker
complexion, caused her to lower her eyes, and in doing so they fell upon
the eager, impassioned gaze of the young Englishman.
Afterwards he was never ashamed to confess that that moment brought with
it a peculiar lingering sweetness which never altogether died away. It
was the birth of a new sensation, the most poignant of all sensations,
although philosophers deny and materialists scoff at it. After all,
there is something more than refined sensuality in love which has so
sudden a dawning; there is a certain innate spirituality which
sublimates and purifies it, so that the flame burns softly but brightly
still through joy and grief, mocking at satiety, surviving the sorrow of
gray hairs, triumphing over the desolation of old age, and sweetening
the passage to the grave. He was a headstrong, chivalrous young man,
passionate, loyal, and faithful, among all his faults. That first love
of his never grew cold, never lessened. It lasted forever. For some men
it is not possible to give the better part of themselves up to the
worship of a pure woman; selfishness forbids it. But this young
Englishman who sat there spellbound, absorbed in the consciousness of
this new and sweet emotion, was not one of these.
Suddenly she withdrew her eyes with a faint, conscious blush, and as she
did so she saw for the first time the Sicilian. Her whole aspect swiftly
changed. A terrified shudder swept across her features, and her lips
parted with fear. She looked into a face but a moment before, at her
first appearance, all aglow with passionate love, now black with
suppressed anger and fierce jealousy. His eyes fascinated her, but it
was the fascination of dread; and, indeed, his appearance was not
pleasant to look upon. His thin form seemed dilated with nervous
passion, and his eyes were on fire. Suddenly he conquered himself, and,
with the swiftness of lightning across the water, the fierceness died
out of his face, leaving it pale almost to ghastliness in the moonlight.
He half rose from his seat, and, lifting his hat, bowed low.
She answered his salutation timidly, and touched her companion on the
arm. She, too, started as she saw that dark, thin figure gazing so
steadfastly upon them, and her first impulse seemed to be to approach
him. She stopped short on the promenade, and though there was a certain
amount of apprehension in her dark eyes, there was also some pleasure,
and her lips were parted in a half-welcoming, half-inviting smile. But
he did not make any advance toward her; on the contrary, with a slight
and almost imperceptible gesture, he motioned them to proceed. With a
little wave of the hand, she obeyed him, and he resumed his seat,
drawing his hat over his eyes, and no longer watching the stream of
promenaders.
The Englishman, absorbed in his own sudden passion, had seen nothing out
of the common in the brief interchange of glances between the trio. All
that he noticed was that his companion had saluted the taller of the two
girls, and that she had acknowledged the salutation. It was quite enough
for him.
He leaned over the low palisade, watching her until she disappeared
among the crowd, scarcely daring to hope that she might look back, and
yet determined to lose no opportunity of a farewell glance should she do
so. When she was finally out of sight, he drew a long breath and turned
toward his companion.
"Who is she?" he asked abruptly.
"I fear that I do not quite understand you," he said quietly, although
his voice and limbs were trembling with passion; "to whom do you
allude?"
"The girl in white who passed just now. You knew her! Tell me her name!"
"Why should I?"
"I wish to know it."
The Sicilian lit his cigarette. He was growing calmer, but the fingers
which held the match were still shaking.
"Possibly. But that is no reason why I should tell it to you. That lady
is a friend of mine, certainly, but it is not the custom in my country,
however it may be in yours, to bandy a lady's name about a public
place."
"But I am not asking out of curiosity," the other persisted, "nor am I a
stranger to you."
"What is your motive, if it be not curiosity?" the Sicilian asked, with
a dark shade stealing into his face. "You had better be careful, Signor;
there is danger at hand for any man who so much as directs an
impertinent glance at either of those ladies."
The Englishman was far too deeply in earnest to be angry.
"You won't tell me, then?" he said simply.
"I will not."
"Certain?"
"Quite certain."
"Very good. I shall find out."
The Sicilian laid his hand upon the other's arm. His black eyes were
flashing angrily, and his tone was threatening.
"Signor! a word of warning! I constitute myself the protector of those
ladies. I have a very good right to do so. Any idle and public inquiries
concerning them, or any attempt to obtrude an acquaintance upon them, I
shall--punish! You understand!"
"Certainly," he answered. "You have only to prove the offense and the
right of protectorship, and I shall be at your service. You probably
know little concerning the men of my country. Let me tell you that we
are not in the habit of forcing ourselves upon unknown ladies, nor in
our respect for them are we second to the men of any nation in the
world. I wish you good-evening, Signor."
He walked away with his head in the air, an object of much curiosity to
the many scattered little groups of dusky foreigners and Jews through
which he passed. At the door of the hotel he paused for a moment, and
then, instead of joining the stream of promenaders, he entered and
slowly ascended the broad marble staircase toward his room. Just as he
reached the first landing, however, he felt a light touch on his arm,
and a guttural voice In his ear. He turned sharply round, and found
before him one of the waiters--the one who had served him with his
coffee outside.
"Well! what do you want?" he asked.
The man answered in a low tone, with his eyes glancing suspiciously
around all the time.
"The Signor was inquiring the name of the lady who passed by," he said
apologetically. "The Signor spoke loudly, and I could not choose but
hear."
The Englishman came to a sudden standstill, and looked down into the
ferretlike face and black eyes of the man who had followed him.
"Well?"
"I can tell it to the Signor."
"Look sharp then!"
"The Signor is generous," he remarked, with a cunning look. "I have
risked my place by leaving the terrace without permission to bring him
this news, and I am poor--very, very poor!" he added, with a sudden drop
in his voice which resembled a whine.
The Englishman threw a piece of gold into the brown, greedy palm.
"Tell it me, and be off," he said shortly.
The waiter--half Greek, half native, and a thorough rascal--bowed low,
and his beadlike eyes glistened.
"The Signor is noble. The beautiful lady's name is Signorina Adrienne
Cartuccio."
"The singer?"
"The same, Signor. The divine singer."
"Ah!"
The Englishman turned toward the wide, open window, and gazed
steadfastly at the place in the crowd where she had vanished.
"She sings to-night, does she not?" he asked.
"Truly, Signor. Palermo is full of visitors from all parts of the island
on purpose to hear her."
"At what time?"
"At nine o'clock, Signor, in the concert hall. If the Signor desires to
hear her he should go early, for to-night is the only chance. She sings
but once, and it is for the poor. They say that she has come to the
Villa Fiolesse on the hill, to be away from the world, to rest."
The Englishman descended the stairs and went slowly back to his seat. He
had only one thought. In a few hours' time he would see her again. It
would be Paradise!
He reached his table and sat down. The seat opposite to him was empty.
The Sicilian had gone.