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A BEAUTIFUL
ALIEN
BY
JULIA MAGRUDER
BOSTON
Richard G. Badger & Co.
(Incorporated)
1901
COPYRIGHT 1899 BY
RICHARD G. BADGER & CO.
_All Rights Reserved_
_PRINTED BY LAKEVIEW PRESS
SOUTH FRAMINGHAM, MASS., FOR
RICHARD G BADGER & COMPANY (INC)
BOSTON_
[Illustration]
A Beautiful Alien
I.
On the deck of an ocean steamer, homeward bound from Europe, a man and
girl were walking to and fro. Their long march of monotonous regularity
had lasted perhaps an hour, and they had become objects of special
attention to the people scattered about.
A man, who was taking his afternoon exercise alone, and who had
accidentally fallen into line directly behind this couple, kept that
position purposely, turning as they turned, and, without seeming to do
so, observing them narrowly, for the reason that the woman was
uncommonly beautiful.
This man--Albert Noel by name--was an artist by instinct and habit,
though a lawyer by profession. He painted pictures for love and
practised law for money, or conventionality, or to please his mother
and sisters, or from some reason which, however indefinite, had been
strong enough to predominate over the longing he had always had to go
to Paris, live in the Latin Quarter, and be simply and honestly what
his taste dictated. Few people, perhaps, suspected his Bohemian
proclivities; for he lived an extremely conventional life, was the idol
of his mother and sisters, and, being well born, well-off, and
sufficiently good-looking, was regarded as an excellent match
matrimonially. In spite of this fact he had never been known to be
seriously in love; though, being a quiet man, this experience might
have befallen him without the knowledge of his friends. He was coming
home from Europe now, reluctantly and with regret; but, since he had
a profession, it must be attended to.
He observed the tall young woman who walked in front of him on her
husband's arm (some instinct told him that it was her husband) from
an artist's standpoint only. It had occurred to him that here was a
remarkable model for a picture. He furtively studied the lines of her
figure, which was clad in a long, tight-fighting cloak, trimmed with
fur, and the contour and color of the knot of brown hair, whose living
lustre shone richly between the dull fur that bordered her collar and
her hat. Every moment the study fascinated him more, as he followed and
turned, as they turned. Suddenly it struck him that perhaps his interest
in the pair ahead of him might, in spite of him, be observed; and so,
rather reluctantly, he took a seat in one of several empty chairs at the
steamer's stern. Here he could still observe them, at intervals, as they
came and went. They spoke to no one, not even to each other, though he
was convinced they were newly married. Both of them looked very young.
After a few turns the lady complained of being tired, and proposed they
should sit down. Her companion assented by a nod, and they took the
seats next to Noel. She spoke English, but with much hesitation and
with a strong foreign accent. The man was silent still, as they seated
themselves and wrapped their rugs about them; for in spite of the full
blaze of the sinking sun it was very cold. Noel also kept still, looking
and listening. He was a little back of them, and only her pure profile
was visible to him. The man's profile, which was also a handsome one, he
could see beyond hers.
For a long time there was silence. The wind grew keener. The tarpaulin
which covered the white life-boat near by trembled from end to end, as
if the thing hid were alive and shivering. The sea-gulls that followed
the boat fluttered and dipped about in the cold air. The sun, a great
gold ball, was sinking rapidly in a mist of pink and yellow light. The
wide stretch of water underneath it was a heavy iron black, except
where, near the ship, it was dashed into green-white foam. Noel looked
at the face of the woman near him, and, seeing a sudden light of
interest in her eyes, followed their glance to where a school of
dolphins was rising and plunging in the cold sea water. He heard her
call her companion's attention to them by a quick exclamation; but he
made no answer, scarcely showing that he heard.
Noel became aware that the face before him was not only beautiful, but
sad. There were no lines upon it of either care or sorrow, but both were
written in the eyes. These were very remarkable,--almost gold in color,
and shaded by thick lashes, darker even than her dark brown hair. They
were large, well-opened, heavy-lidded; and no wonder was it that, when
he had seen all this, he began to desire to meet their gaze, that he
might thereby know them thoroughly.
The sun sank. People began to complain of the increasing cold, and
gather up wraps and books and move away; but still the man and woman sat
there silent, and Noel did the same. The distant sky was tinted now with
colors as delicate as the flowers of spring,--pink and cream and lilac,
softening to a rich line of deep purple at the horizon. A slight sigh
escaped the woman's lips; and then, as if recollecting herself, she sat
upright, and looked about at the objects near her. Her glance passed
across Noel, and was arrested with a certain amusement on the little
cannon lashed to the side of the deck, which in its cover of white
tarpaulin had evidently given her some diverting thought. Then in the
most hesitating, laboriously constructed English, Noel heard her telling
her companion what it had made her think of. By using a little
imagination with what he heard and saw, he arrived at her meaning. She
was attempting to say that it looked like a child on all fours, trying
to frighten its companion by throwing a table-cloth over its head. There
it was complete,--the head, the hands and feet, the bulky body. Noel
caught her meaning, and smiled involuntarily. It was really wonderfully
like. He controlled his features instantly, however; and, as her gaze
was fixed upon her husband, she did not see him. But her childish idea
had awakened no response in the husband. He simply asked her meaning
over again, and seemed unable to comprehend it, and not sufficiently
interested to make much effort. The few words he uttered proved that
English was his native tongue. One would have said he had the ability,
but not the inclination, to talk, while with her the contrary was
true. Noel, now that he found that she was alive to her immediate
surroundings, got up and moved away. He went and looked out at the
sea-gulls; but all the time he was seeing her eyes, and comparing them
to topaz, to amber, to a dozen things, but without feeling that he had
matched, even in his imagination, their peculiar and beautiful color.
It was the first day out; and he liked to think that he could
occasionally look at this face for a week to come, and when he got to
shore he would paint her. He had a studio in the suburbs, to which he
often went and to which his mother and sisters had never been invited.
It was often a delight to him to think of its freedom and seclusion.
He was acutely jarred upon, as he stood alone at the deck rail, by the
approach of a man who had a club acquaintance with him at home, which he
had shown a disposition to magnify since coming aboard the steamer. He
was not a man for whose talk Noel cared at any time, but he felt a
distinct rebellion against it just now. This feeling was swiftly put to
flight, however, by the fact that on his way to him the new-comer passed
and bowed to the beautiful girl, receiving in return a bow and a smile.
The bow was gracious, the smile charming, lighting for an instant the
gravity of her calm face, and showing perfect teeth.
"Ah, Miller! that you? How're you coming on?" said Noel, with a sudden
access of cordiality, making a place for the new-comer at his side.
"All right, thanks, considering it's the first day out. That's generally
the biggest bore, because you know there are six or seven more just like
it to follow. Pretty girl that, ain't it?"
"Who is she?" asked Noel, refusing to concur in the designation.
"Mrs. Dallas, according to her new name."
"And that is her husband?"
"That is her husband. He's not a bad-looking fellow, either; but you
don't look as if you approved him."
"I?" said Noel. "Why shouldn't I? He seems a good-looking fellow enough.
Do you know her?"
"Yes, I know her. Everybody knew her at Baden. It was not very hard to
do."
"What do you mean?" said Noel, looking at him suddenly very straight and
hard.
"Oh, I simply mean that her father, who seems a rather bad type of
adventurer, gave free access to her acquaintance to any man who might
turn out to be marriageable. He introduced me to her as soon as he saw I
had been attracted by her looks, and I used to talk to her a good deal.
Her mother, it seems, died in her childhood; and she was put to school
at a convent, where she remained until she was eighteen. Her father then
brought her home, and began assiduously his efforts to marry her off. It
was plain that she hampered him a good deal, but he had a sort of sense
of duty which he seemed to fulfil to his own satisfaction by rushing her
about from one watering-place to another, and facilitating her
acquaintance with the young men at each."
"And what was the girl thinking of to allow it?" said Noel.
"The girl was absolutely blind to it,--as ignorant of the world as
a little nun, and apparently quite pleased with her father, who was
avowedly a new acquisition. She must have had good teaching at her
convent; for she sings splendidly and is a pretty fair linguist, too.
I tried her in English, however, and found her so uncertain that my
somewhat limited conversation with her was carried on in French. My
French is nothing to boast of, but it's better than her English."
"What is she?"
"An Italian, with a Swedish mother. She seems awfully foot-loose,
somehow, poor thing; and I hope the marriage which her father suddenly
contrived between her and this young American will turn out well for
her. He's an odd sort of fellow to me, somehow."
"Where does he come from?"
"I don't know,--some misty place in the West somewhere, I believe. I
tried to talk with him a dozen times, but I never got so little out
of a man in my life."
"Was he so deep or merely forbidding?"
"Neither. He was good-tempered enough, and would answer questions;
but he seemed to have nothing to give out. He is a quiet man and
inoffensive, but somehow queer."
"Does he play cards?"
"Not at all."
"Seem to have money?"
"Yes, as far as I could judge, he appears to have enough to do as
he chooses and go where he pleases, though I should say he was not
extravagant. He seems to care too little for things."
"He cares for her, it's to be supposed."
"Yes. He could hardly help that, and yet he showed very little emotion
in his courting days. I used to see them walking together or sitting on
the piazza for hours, and they seemed a strangely silent pair under the
circumstances. I got some key to that mystery, however, when I found
that he doesn't know a word of French or Italian; and I had already
discovered her limitations in English."
"Why, good heavens! how can she know the man then? It is not possible.
And he may turn out to be anything! Do you think her father could have
forced her into this marriage against her will?"
"No, I'm sure he did not. I thought of that, but I'm certain it isn't
so. I think she was in love with the man, as she understood it, in her
convent-bred sort of way. He's good-looking and has a certain gentleness
of manner. It may be dulness, but it's what women like. I think her
father, though he felt her a great burden, wanted to do the best he
could for her, without too much trouble. He saw plainly the dangers she
was surrounded by, and was glad to get her married to a quiet young
American, who had no vices and would probably be kind to her. He told me
he wanted her to marry an American, because they made the best husbands.
Look at them now. It is always the same thing,--either silence or that
difficult sort of talk. She has to do the most of it, you see, and in
English. He literally knows not a word in any other tongue."
II.
It was beautiful weather; and Noel, being a good sailor, spent much of
his time on deck. Wherever he went about the ship, his eyes continually
sought Mrs. Dallas. Her beauty and singular history interested him much.
He also made a close study of the husband. So far he had not cared to
avail himself of the opportunity of making their acquaintance, which he
knew Miller would gladly have given him.
On the afternoon of the second day out he looked up from his book, and
found Mr. and Mrs. Dallas seated near him. He was partly hid by a pile
of rope, over which, however, it was easy to see them. He folded his
paper noiselessly, and, leaning back, began to watch them furtively.
As usual, they were silent. The man was smoking cigarettes one after
another, and looking apathetically at the water. The woman's eyes were
on the water, too; but their expression was certainly not apathetic.
Noel had never been so puzzled to read a face. He was not only an
artist, but also a very human-hearted man; and he longed to go beneath
that lovely surface, and read the thoughts of this woman's mind. Now and
then she turned a puzzled gaze upon her husband, who seemed completely
unconscious of both it and her. Once she spoke, and the strong accent
in her painstaking English was fascinating to Noel's ears. She only
inquired if her husband were comfortable and satisfied to stay here.
When he answered affirmatively, she spoke again,--this time so low that
Noel caught only the last word, "Robert." It was pronounced in the
French manner, and came from her lips very winningly.
"Can't you say Robert?" said her husband, bluntly. "People will laugh
at you if you talk like that."
"I vill try," she answered, and turned her eyes away across the water.
Noel fancied he saw them widen with tears for a moment; and he looked to
see if her companion were watching her, but his whole attention was
given to the cigarette he was rolling. In a few moments, at the man's
suggestion, they rose and walked away.
Noel noticed that she looked at no one as she passed along on her
husband's arm; but he interpreted this to be not shyness nor
self-consciousness, but rather a sort of instinct against giving any
one that opportunity of looking into her heart through her eyes.
One morning a new mood came over Noel, and he asked Miller to introduce
him. The latter complied with alacrity. Noel had no sooner bowed his
acknowledgments than he looked at Mrs. Dallas, and addressed her in the
Italian tongue. The light that came into her face at the familiar sounds
made his heart quicken. They stood some time by the railing, the group
of four,--Miller talking in a desultory way to Dallas, while Noel spoke,
in animated, if somewhat halting Italian, to the young wife. There was
quite a strong breeze blowing; and some dark ribbons, which tied her fur
collar, fluttered and sounded on the air. She held to the rail with both
little smooth-gloved hands; and her heavy cloth dress clung close about
her, and was blown backward in strong, swaying folds. They talked of
Italy, where Noel had once lived for a while, and of pictures, art, and
music, for which she had an enthusiasm which made the subjects as
interesting to Noel as his greater knowledge made them to her. He found
her a genuine girl in her feelings, and at once perceived her absolute
inexperience of the world. Her convent breeding came out frequently in
a sort of quaint politeness of manner, and it provoked him a little
to find that he was being treated with a sort of deference due to a
superior in age or in experience. He felt himself aged indeed in
comparison with her vibrating youth and the innocence of her simple
little life, which, up to this point, had plainly been that of a child;
and he dreaded to think how soon and how suddenly she might grow old.
She seemed in a world of mystery now, as one who had utterly lost her
bearings, and was too dazed to see where she was or what were the
objects and influences that surrounded her. Out of this shadow his
presence seemed for the moment to have lifted her; and as he talked to
her of these subjects, round which the whole ardor of her nature
centred, she seemed a different creature. The restraint and severity
disappeared from her manner, she forgot herself,--her recent self that
was so strange to her,--and over and over again he looked far into the
clear depths of her golden eyes.
More than once he glanced at Dallas to see if he showed any disrelish of
this talk, carried on in his presence in a foreign tongue; but he was
evidently not concerned about it in the least. He smoked his eternal
cigarettes, and answered in monosyllables the remarks that Miller was
making. He did not look bored, for that expression implies a capability
of being interested; and that he seemed not to possess, at least so far
as Noel's experience went, and Miller's confirmed it.
III.
Noel had been at home a month. He had opened his law office and gone
hard to work, and his friends complained that they saw but little of
him. He had learned from the Dallases, before parting with them at the
wharf, that they were expecting to go to housekeeping in his own city,
and he had asked them to send him their address when they were
established.
So far, it had not come, and he was beginning to fear he had lost sight
of them when one day he met them on the street. She, at least, was glad
to see him, and when she gave the address and asked him to call, the
husband, in his dull way, echoed the invitation.
The next evening he went to the house, which was in an unfashionable
quarter, but very charming, tasteful and homelike. As he sat down in the
pretty drawing-room some living objects caught his eye, and to his great
amusement he saw that the rug in front of the open fire was occupied by
a picturesque group composed of a Maltese cat and four kittens. The
mother, who was an unusually large and imposing specimen of her kind,
was seated very erect, her front feet straight before her, evidently
making an effort to enjoy a nap, which her offspring were engaged in
thwarting, after the most vigorous fashion. They were all exactly alike,
distinguishable only by the ribbons--blue, green, yellow and red--which
ornamented their necks and were tied in bows under their chins. The
mother had a garland composed of these four colors around her neck, upon
which hung a little silver bell. Noel had been watching this pretty
sight, with a fascinated gaze, and was so preoccupied with their gambols
that he failed to hear a soft footstep approaching, and did not turn to
look until Mrs. Dallas was standing quite near him, holding out her
hand.
She was dressed in a gown of a peculiar dim shade of blue that fell in
free, straight folds about her, confined by a loose silver girdle round
the waist. It clothed her beautiful body in a way that satisfied the
soul of the artist who stood and looked at her, uttering light words
about the cat and kittens and inaugurating a conversation that
immediately put them at ease.
It was evident that she was glad to see him. She told him so at once.
Her husband, she said, had wanted her to go to the theatre, but she
had been every night for so long that she was tired of it, and had
just decided to stay at home. Was Mr. Dallas then such an infatuated
theatre-goer? Noel asked. Oh, yes, he always wanted to go every night,
she said. It seemed to be a confirmed habit with him, and she was sorry
to say she did not care for it much, though she usually went with him.
Noel knew that the season was not fairly opened yet, and reflecting upon
the bills advertised at the various theatres, he could but wonder at the
man's choice of entertainments.
Presently Dallas entered and greeted him civilly, though with his usual
apathetic manner, and said he was glad he had come in, as he could keep
Mrs. Dallas company, as he was going to the theatre. Mrs. Dallas looked
a little surprised at this announcement and suggested his postponing the
theatre, so that he might not miss Mr. Noel's visit, but he answered
that Mr. Noel he knew would excuse him, and turned to leave the room.
As he did so he stepped on one of the kittens which cried out pitifully.
It had been an accident, of course, but he might have shown some
compunction, which he utterly failed to do. The little creature hopped
away on three feet, and Mrs. Dallas, with pretty foreign words of pity,
followed it and brought it to the fireside where she sat down with it on
her lap, and stroked and soothed it, laying the wounded little paw
against her lips and making, what seemed to Noel, munificent atonement
for the injury inflicted by her husband.
As the kitten settled down contentedly purring in its mistress' silken
lap, the front door closed behind Mr. Dallas, and turning to his
hostess, Noel for the first time addressed her in her native tongue,
asking the abrupt question, "How are you?"
She lifted her golden eyes to his a moment, and then dropped them under
the scrutiny of his gaze, which he felt, the next instant, to have been
inconsiderate.
"A little homesick, I dare say," he went on, looking down at the kitten,
"that was to be expected."
"Even when one never had a home?" she asked. "The nearest thing to it
that I have had was the convent where I was educated. The sisters were
very good to me. It was a sweet home, and of course I do miss it at
times."
"Perhaps you had a dear friend there among the sisters, or possibly the
pupils."
"Oh, yes," she said, "a dear girl friend--Nina her name was. She was a
year younger than I, and was not permitted to leave the convent to see
me married. She was heartbroken. We had always planned that the one
first married was to take the other to live with her. Her parents are
both dead."
"Ah, then when she leaves school she will come to you, no doubt," said
Noel. "That will be delightful for you."
"I don't know. It is not certain. No, I don't think she will do that,"
said his companion, evidently in some confusion. "The fact is I have
not written to her--I couldn't. I don't know what she will think of me,
but I cannot write to her. I have tried in vain. I fear she will be
hurt, but I have done no more than send her a brief note to tell her she
must not judge me by the frequency of my letters--that I love her just
the same--but I seem really not to know what to write. It is all so
strange--the new country and the changes--and everything being so
different--and I feel she would want a full and interesting letter,
which I cannot yet compose myself to write. This seems very strange, but
it will be different in time, will it not? You don't think this feeling
of being in such a strange, strange land, as if it couldn't be real, and
couldn't be I--myself--will last always, do you? It will surely pass
away. Oh, if you knew how I long to feel at home--to feel it is a place
where I am to stay! I feel all the time that I must be just on the way
to somewhere, and that I have just stopped here a little while. But I
have not. It is my home and I am to spend my life here. I try to tell
myself that all day long and make myself believe it, but I cannot. I
often fear it will distress my husband that I feel so, but he has not
found it out, I'm glad to say. He seems so quiet and satisfied, that I
feel ashamed to feel so restless. It will go away in time, will it not?
It is perhaps because I am a foreigner and this is a strange land that
the feeling is so strong, but it was almost the same when we were in
Italy. Sometimes I am afraid I have not a contented disposition, and
that I will make myself unhappy always by it, and perhaps my husband
too, if he should find it out. Sometimes I cry to think how wrong it is
of me. My father told me it was my duty to be happy, with a kind, good
husband to take care of me, and I know I ought, but I feel so
homesick--for, I don't know what--for Nina and the sisters and the
convent. Oh," she broke off suddenly, "I do hope you will forgive me. It
is very silly to talk to you so, all about myself, but I have had no
one to speak to--at least no one but my husband, and I could not tell
him all these feelings that I ought to be ashamed of. I know it is my
duty to be satisfied and not feel homesick, but you think it will pass
away after a while, do you not?"
What was he to say? The truth was very plain to him that it would never
pass, but go on growing worse and worse, as gradually she came to know
her own soul better and to understand herself, in the light of the new
relationship she had entered into. In the case of most women the
revelation she had so unconsciously made to him of the insufficiency of
her marriage would have been unwomanly, and perhaps it was even so in
her, but it was so only in the sense of being childlike. She was really
no more than a child, and more ignorant of the world than many a child
of ten. What did she know about marriage or the needs of her own soul?
Evidently nothing, and some day he saw before her a terrible awakening
from this trance of ignorance. His heart literally ached for her as he
sought diligently in his mind for some way to help her and could find
not one. The only thing was to let her talk freely, to encourage her by
a gentle friendly interest, such as a girl friend might have shown, and
to give her the relief of expression for these vague troubles and
perplexities which, when uttered, seemed intangible and entirely
inexplicable to her. Not once did she so much as imply any reproach to
her husband, and it was plain that she felt unconscious of any ground
for complaint. She alluded to him frequently and always most kindly, and
laid at her own door the entire fault of her discontent.
Noel spoke little, but led her gently on to talk as freely as she chose.
Often she would pause and remind herself that she was doing wrong to
take up his whole visit with talk about herself, but it was evident it
never once occurred to her that she had been guilty of any self-betrayal
which she should not have made. He saw her utter loyalty to her husband,
even in thought, and it made his blood boil to think of his stupid
insensibility to the possession he had in such a wife.
Gradually he was able to soothe her--or perhaps it was the relief of
utterance that made her presently seem more light-hearted. Noel
pronounced a great many platitudes in an insincere effort to persuade
her that things would get better, and somehow they seemed to give her
comfort for the moment. As if to put the subject by, she called the
big cat to her, snapping her fine slim fingers, and saying, "Come,
Grisette"; and the creature jumped into her lap with the obedience of a
well-trained dog. Then she enticed the kittens to follow, one by one,
until they were all in her lap playing with her ribbons, catching at her
little embroidered handkerchief with their soft paws, and rolling over
in high glee. She talked to them as if they had been children, petted
and chided them in the prettiest way, and then put them down, one by
one, with a kiss on each little soft head that made Noel half angry and
wholly pitying. It was so touching to see her tenderness, her longing
to expend the great store of love within her--and to see her, too, so
utterly without an object for it.
The cat and kittens having returned to their place on the rug, Noel
proffered a request he had been wanting to put all the evening and
asked her to sing. He had found out on the steamer that she possessed
an extraordinarily beautiful voice. Her face, which had grown brighter,
clouded suddenly.
"I cannot," she answered. "I don't sing at all. My husband got me a
piano, thinking it would please me, but I have not opened it. I was
afraid he would be disappointed, but he has not noticed it. I used to
be sorry he was not fond of music, but this makes me glad."
"Do you really mean that you are going to give up singing? If you do you
must let me assure you that it would be very wrong, a wrong to others,
to let such a voice as yours be silent."
"Oh, do not tell me that," she said, "I want not to do anything wrong,
but indeed I cannot sing. I have tried it sometimes when I sit alone,
and it is always the same thing--I choke so I cannot sing. I will get
over it, but don't ask me to sing yet."
He could not say another word, especially as the tears were evidently
near her eyes, and seeing that the hour was late and her husband, for
whose return he had expected to wait, was delayed, he got up to take his
leave.
"Vill you not vait for Robert?" she said, speaking for the first time in
English and showing already a greater ease in its use. "He vill not be
late. I haf not know him to remain so long as this, since I am here."
Noel smiled to hear her, but shook his head.
"No," he answered, "I must go now, but first I want to get you to give
me a promise." He put out his hand as he spoke, and she placed hers in
it with the confidence of a child.
"You are in a strange land," he said, "but I don't want you to feel
that you are altogether among strangers. You may have some need of
friends--trouble or sickness or some of the things that are always
happening in this sad world, may come to you. I trust not. I hope to God
they may let you go by, but we can never tell what will come to us, and
I want you to promise me that if you are ever in need of a friend you
will write to me. Your husband may be ill, or something like that," he
added hurriedly, fearing he had ventured too far, though she showed no
sign of thinking so. "And if it is a thing in which you want a woman's
help, I have sisters and a mother and they shall come to you. Will you
promise me this?"
"I vill. Oh, I vill promise truly," she said. "But vill you not come
more?"
"Oh, perhaps so, now and then," he said hurriedly. He could not tell her
he had resolved not to, but that was the fixed determination which had
been the result of this evening's experiences. He saw her needs of help
and tenderness so clearly and he longed so to answer them that the very
intensity of that longing was a warning to him. If he had been a younger
man, or she an older woman, he might not have come to this hard
resolution, but he was experienced enough to know that there was danger
in such a companionship as he was tempted to enter into. If she had been
older and better acquainted with the world that also might have made a
difference, but it would have been exactly the same thing as taking
advantage of the unknowingness of a child. Then again, in the third
place, if her husband had been careful of her, or even suspicious and
jealous, he might have thought it some one's else affair than his, and
allowed himself the delight of this acquaintanceship, guarding and
loving her like a brother, but none of these supposititious cases was
so. The matter as it stood threw the whole responsibility upon him, and,
as a man of honor, he could see but one course open to him.
So he stood and held her by the hand with a feeling that she was his
little sister, struggling with another feeling that she was not, and
took a long look at her lovely face. How he yearned to paint it, and
perhaps, for the asking, he might!
"One thing more," he said at last, feeling that he must get it over,
"I have never heard your first name, will you not tell me what it is?"
"Christine," she said, and as he repeated it gently she exclaimed:
"Oh, it is truly a pleasant thing to hear it. I have not heard it since
so long a time. Robert do say it is too, vat you call--I forget, but he
call me Chrissy, and my own name do seem a thing forgot."
"Good-night, Christine," he said, feeling sure he might venture this
once, "and do not think I have forgotten you, if you don't see me soon.
I am very busy--my friends claim my spare time--I live very far away,
but if you are ever in any trouble, little or big, and you or your
husband should need me, send a line to my club, and I will come the
instant I receive it. Good-by, be a good, brave girl, and don't forget
me."
During all these parting words she had let him hold her little hand. He
wanted to kiss it before dropping it, for it seemed to him unlikely that
he would ever touch it again. He resisted this, however, and merely said
good-by again and left her.
Looking back before he closed the front door he could see her in the
pretty drawing-room seated on the rug before the fire, her silk
draperies crushed beneath her, and holding all the kittens in her lap,
the mother-cat sitting by, and looking on contentedly. It was upon this
picture that he closed the door.
Just outside he met Dallas, who apologized for being late. He had stayed
for the ballet, he said, knowing his wife was not alone. He asked Noel
to come again, but got no very satisfactory response.
IV.
During the months that followed Mrs. Dallas did not see Noel again,
and the news accidentally reached her that he had gone abroad with
his mother and sisters. He had called on her once, probably on the
eve of his departure, but she had been ill that evening, and the servant
had excused her. It had been reported to her that he had inquired
particularly whether her illness was serious and had been informed that
it was not. That was the last she had heard of him, until she had made
some acquaintances in the society in which he was known, and then she
occasionally heard his name mentioned and gained the information alluded
to.
Her introduction into this society had come about very suddenly. For a
long time she had known absolutely no one, and once, in her intense
longing for some one to speak to, she had obeyed an ardent impulse and
run across the street to a house where a young girl and her mother
lived, the former keeping a day-school for small children, and had
begged the little teacher to come over and spend the evening with her.
Out of this a friendship had sprung, which had been for a long time her
only resource. Her husband's habit of going to some place of amusement
in the evening seemed to be an inveterate one, though he cared little,
apparently, for what he saw. She wearied through a great many evenings
with him, and then got out of the habit of accompanying him. It was
evident he cared little whether she went or stayed.
One Sunday afternoon the little school-teacher persuaded her to go
with her to a great church near by. They were given seats close to
the choir, and when a familiar piece of music began Christine, in utter
self-forgetfulness, lifted up her voice and sang. When the service was
over the conductor of the singing came up to her, and pleading the
common bond of music, introduced himself and begged that he and his wife
might be allowed to call on her to enlist her interest and services in
a great charity entertainment which he was getting up. Christine agreed,
with the feeling that it would be ungracious to decline, and the next
day they called.
The outcome of the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Jannish was an engagement on
the part of Mrs. Dallas to sing the leading role in an opera which had
become a cherished wish among some of the best amateur musicians of the
city. The scheme had halted only for want of a soprano capable of taking
the responsibility of the most difficult part. Jannish was an authority
in this musical set, and he knew that the acquisition he had made for
their scheme would be not only approved, but rejoiced over. It was such
an infinite improvement upon the idea of securing the services of a
professional--a thing that they had almost been compelled to resort to.
Mrs. Dallas qualified her consent by the securing of her husband's
approval, though she said she felt sure he would not withhold it. He
was out at the time, but before the visitors left he came in. He was
called and introduced and the request put to him by Jannish, in his most
elaborate and supplicatory style. Consent was immediately given, with an
air of slightly impatient wonder at being dragged into it at all. It was
precisely what his wife had expected, and as she looked at him as he
spoke, there was a different expression on her face from that which it
would have worn a few months back. That vague and wondering look was
less noticeable and an element of comprehendingness that made her eyes
look hard now struggled with it sometimes.
After the visit of Jannish and his wife other people called, and
immediately Mrs. Dallas was drifting in a stream of musical engagements
and rehearsals that took up most of her time, and formed a strong
contrast to her former mode of life. She had opportunities to indulge
her taste for dress and to wear some of the charming costumes which
belonged to her trousseau--bought with what girlish ardor, and then laid
away out of sight! She soon came to be admired for her dressing, as
well as her beauty and her voice, and as is usual in such cases, the men
regarded her with more favor and less suspicion than the women. The good
will of the latter sex was, however, secured to some extent, when it was
discovered that the prima donna, who they all perceived was to make
their opera a great success and the envy of all sister cities with
aspiring musical _coteries_, was apparently indifferent to the
attentions of the men, if not, indeed, embarrassed by them. She never
went anywhere, to rehearsals or resorts of any kind, public or private,
without her husband, no matter who tried to entice her away. She never
left his side, except under the necessity of going through her part,
and then she returned to him unvaryingly. He was good-looking and
well-dressed, and some of the company of both sexes made an effort to
make something out of him, but he always seemed surprised when he was
spoken to, and to find it a trouble to respond. He was too free from
self-consciousness to be awkward, and would sit passive, twirling his
mustache and looking on, and was apparently as satisfied to be a
spectator of this performance as to go to see something professional.
He had grown accustomed to sameness, perhaps, for he never seemed to
object to it.
To see his wife the object of enthusiastic adulation on all sides,
whether sincere or put on of necessity, as it was by some of the
company, appeared to arouse in the husband no emotions of either
satisfaction or displeasure.
V.
The great occasion came. The evening's entertainment rose, minute by
minute, to its climax of glory, on which the curtain fell, amidst an
enthusiasm so intense that only the controlled good breeding of the
invited audience prevented demonstrations of a noisy character.
Christine had been previously seen by very few of them, and as the
audience dispersed, her name, coupled with expressions of enthusiastic
surprise and admiration, was on every lip.
Fifteen minutes after the curtain went down the theatre was empty and
deserted, every light was out, and profound silence reigned where so
lately all had been excitement and animation, and the young creature
who had occasioned so much the greatest part of it was being driven
homeward, leaning back in the close carriage and clasping close the
work-hardened hand of the little teacher who was her companion. Her
husband sat opposite, silent as usual, and after a few impetuous,
ardent words of love and appreciation Hannah had fallen silent too,
merely holding out her hand to meet the hard and straining clasp that
had seized upon it as soon as they were settled in the carriage.
After the performance people who had leaped from the audience to the
stage, privileged by an acquaintance with some of the company, had
pressed forward eagerly for an introduction to Christine. Invitations to
supper were showered upon her. She might have gone off in a carriage
drawn by men instead of horses if she had desired it. But she had turned
away from it all. She was in haste to go, and summoning her husband and
friend as quickly as possible, she had declared she was tired out, and
had made her excuses with an air so earnest, and to those who had the
vision for it, so distressed, that amidst the reproaches of some and the
regrets of others she had made her escape.
She shivered as the cold night air struck her face outside the theatre,
and drew her wrap closer about her as she stepped into the carriage
which was waiting. The drive homeward was silent. The two women sat
together, each feeling in that fervent handclasp the emotions which
filled the heart of the other. Mrs. Dallas had been roused by something
to an unusual pitch of excited feeling, and her little friend, by the
intuition of sympathy, defined it. The way was long and Mr. Dallas,
making himself as comfortable as possible on the seat opposite, took off
his hat, leaned his head back and in a few moments was breathing audibly
and regularly.
"He is asleep," whispered his wife, and then, on the breath of a
deep-drawn sigh, she added in the same low whisper, "Oh, God, have
mercy on me."
"What is it?" whispered Hannah timidly, her voice tender with sympathy.
"Hush! I am going to tell you everything. Wait till we get home. I am
going to tell you all."
She spoke excitedly, though still in a whisper, and it was evident that
the agitation under which she labored was urging her on to actions in
which the voice of discretion and prudence had no part.
Hannah, who had long ago suspected that her beautiful friend--whose face
and voice, together with the luxury of her surroundings and dress had
made her acquaintance seem like intercourse with a being from a higher
sphere--was not happy, now felt an impulse of affectionate pity which
made her move closer to her companion and rather timidly put her arm
around her. In an instant she was folded in a close embrace, the bare
white arm under the wrap straining her in an ardent pressure that drew
her head down until it leaned against the breast of the taller woman,
and felt the bounding pulses of her heart.
"I am so miserable," whispered the soft voice close to her ear. "I am
going to tell you about it. If I couldn't talk to somebody to-night I
feel as if I should go mad. Whether it's right or wrong I'm going to
tell you. I can't bear it this way any longer. Oh, I am so unhappy--I
am so unhappy."
Hannah only pressed closer, without speaking. There was nothing that she
could say. She felt keenly that in what seemed the brilliant lot of her
beautiful friend there were possibilities of anguish which her
commonplace life could know nothing of. So they drove along in silence
until the carriage stopped at the door. Mr. Dallas was sleeping so
soundly that it was necessary for his wife to waken him, and he got up,
looking sleepy and confused, and led the way into the house, while the
carriage rolled away, the wheels reverberating down the silent streets.
In the hall Hannah looked at her friend and saw that her face, though
pale, was perfectly composed, and her voice, when she spoke to her
husband, was also quiet and calm.
"Hannah is going to stay all night, you know," she said. "You needn't
stay up for us. I will put out the lights."
He nodded sleepily and went at once up-stairs, as the two women turned
into the drawing-room. The lights in the chandelier were burning
brightly and a great deep chair was drawn under them, upon which Mrs.
Dallas sat down, motioning her friend to a seat facing her. She was
wearing the dress in which she had sung the last act of the opera--a
Greek costume of soft white silk with trimmings of gold. It was in this
dress that she had roused the audience to such a pitch of admiration by
her beauty, and seen close, as Hannah was privileged to see it now,
there were a score of perfections of detail, in both woman and costume,
which those who saw her from afar would not have been aware of. Hannah,
who had an ardent soul within her very ordinary little body, looked at
her with a sort of worship in her eyes.
Meeting this look, Mrs. Dallas smiled--a smile that was sadder than
tears.
"Oh, Hannah, I am so unhappy," she said. "I want to tell you but I
don't know how. Oh, my child, I am so miserable."
Her utterance had still that little foreign accent that made it so
pathetic, although, in spite of some odd blunders, she had become
almost fluent in the English tongue. There was still no indication of
tears in either her voice or her eyes, as she leaned back in the padded
chair, her head supported by its top, and her long bare arms with their
picturesque Greek bracelets resting wearily on its cushioned sides.
Hannah looked at her with the tenderness of her kind heart overflowing
in great tears from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She pressed
her handkerchief to her face in the vain effort to keep them back, but
the woman for whom they fell shed no tears. She sat there calm and quiet
in her youth and beauty and looked at the plain little school-teacher
with a wistful gaze that seemed as if it might be envy.
"Tell me, Hannah," she said presently, when the girl had dried her eyes
and grown more calm, "tell me frankly, no matter how strange it may seem
to you to have the question asked, what do you think of my husband?"
This startling question naturally found Hannah unprepared with an
answer, and after clearing her throat and getting rather red, she said
confusedly that she had seen so little of Mr. Dallas, her intercourse
with him had been so slight, that she really did not feel that she knew
him well enough to give an answer.
"You know him as well as I do," his wife replied. "As he is to you--as
you see him daily, exactly so he is to me. I have waited and waited for
something more, but in vain. I have come at last to the conclusion that
this is all."
Hannah, between wonder and distress, began to feel the tears rise again.
The other saw them and bent forward and took her hand.
"Don't cry, poor little thing," she said. "Yes--cry if you can. It shows
your heart is soft still--mine is as hard as stone. Oh, God, how I have
cried!" she broke off, in a voice grown suddenly passionate. "How I have
laid awake at night and cried until my body was exhausted with the sobs.
I have thought of my little white bed in the convent, where I slept so
placidly, for every night of all those blessed, quiet, peaceful years,
until my whole longing would be that I might once more lay myself down
upon it and close my eyes forever. If an angel from Heaven had offered
me a wish it would have been that one. Oh, Hannah, you do not know. You
ought to be so happy. You are so happy. Do you know it? I didn't know
it, and I was never grateful for it, but always looking forward to being
happy in the future, and oh, how I am punished!"
She wrung her hands together and bit the flesh of her soft lips, as if
with a sense of anguish too bitter to be borne.
"I always thought," said Hannah, in a husky voice that sounded still of
tears, "that a woman who was beautiful and gifted and admired, and had a
husband to take care of her, must be the happiest creature in the world.
I used to look at you with envy, but I knew, before to-night, that you
suffered sometimes."
"Sometimes! Oh, Hannah, it is not sometimes--but
always--continually--evening and morning--day-time and night-time, for
when I sleep I have such dreams! The things that were my day dreams
long ago come back to me in sleep, and when I wake and think of myself
as I am, I know not why I do not die of it. Oh, Hannah, if you have
dreamed of marriage, give it up. Live your life out as you are. Die a
dear, sweet, good, old maid, teaching little children and being kind
to them and taking care of your old mother. Oh, my dear, don't call
yourself lonely. Don't dare to say it, lest you should be punished.
There is no loneliness that a woman can know which can be compared to a
marriage like mine. Oh, I am so lonely every moment that I live, that I
feel there is no companionship for me in all this crowded world, for the
bitterness of my heart is what no one can feel or share."
"Why did you marry your husband?" said Hannah, surprised at her own
boldness.