Part 47 (1/2)
Good-night!”
”Good-night,” said he, taking her outstretched hand for a second; then he turned and walked away. There had not been much love-making--so far.
But he did not go straight to his lodgings. He wandered away aimlessly through the dark streets. He felt sick at heart--not especially because of this imbroglio into which he had walked with open eyes, for that did not seem to matter much, one way or the other. But everything appeared to have gone wrong with him since Nina had left; and the worst of it was that he was gradually ceasing to care how things went, right or wrong.
At this moment, for example, he ought to have been thinking of the situation he had created for himself, and resolving either to get out of it before more harm was done, or to loyally fulfil his contract by cultivating what affection for Miss Burgoyne was possible in the circ.u.mstances. But he was not thinking of Miss Burgoyne at all. He was thinking of Nina. He was thinking how hard it was that whenever his fancy went in search of her--away to Malta, to Australia, to the United States, as it might be--he could not hope to find a Nina whom he could recognize. For she would be quite changed now. His imagination could not picture to himself a Nina grown grave and sad-eyed, perhaps furtively hiding her sorrow, fearing to encounter her friends. The Nina whom he had always known was a light-hearted and laughing companion, eagerly talkative, a smile on her parted lips, affection, kindliness ever present in her s.h.i.+ning, soft, dark eyes. Sometimes silent, too; sometimes, again, singing a fragment of one of the old familiar folk-songs of her youth. What was that one with the refrain, ”_Io te voglio bene a.s.saje, e tu non pienz' a me_”?--
”La notta tutte dormeno, E io che bu dormire!
Pensanno a Nenna mia Mme sent' ascevol.
Li quarte d' ora sonano A uno, a doje e tre...
Io te voglio bene a.s.saje, E tu non pienz' a me!”
--Look, now, at this beautiful morning--the wide bay all of silver and azure--Vesuvius sending its column of dusky smoke into the cloudless sky--the little steamer churning up the clear as it starts away from the quay. Ah, we have escaped from you, good Maestro Pandiani? there shall be no grumblings and incessant repet.i.tions to-day? no, nor odors of onions coming up the narrow and dirty stairs: here is the open world, all s.h.i.+ning, and the sweet air blowing by, and Battista trying to sell his useless canes, and the minstrels playing ”Santa Lucia” most sentimentally, as though they had never played it before. Whither, then, Nina? To Castellamare or Sorrento, with their pink and yellow houses, their terraces and gardens, their vine-smothered bowers, or rather to the filmy island out yonder, that seems to move and tremble in the heat?
A couple of words in their own tongue suffice to silence the importunate coral-girls; we climb the never-ending steps; behold, a cool and gracious balcony, with windows looking far out over the quivering plain of the sea. Then the soup, and the boiled corn, and the _caccia-cavallo_--you Neapolitan girl!--and nothing will serve you but that orris-scented stuff that you fondly believe to be honest wine. You will permit a cigarette? Then shall we descend to the beach again, and get into a boat, and lie down, and find ourselves shot into the Blue Grotto--find ourselves floating between heaven and earth in a hollow-sounding globe of azure flame?... Dreams--dreams! ”_Io te voglio bene a.s.saje, e tu non pienz' a me!_”
During the first period of Miss Burgoyne's engagement to Lionel Moore, all went well. Jane, her dresser, had quite a wonderful time of it; her a.s.siduous and arduous ministrations were received with the greatest good-nature; now she was never told, if she hurt her mistress in lacing up a dress, that she deserved to have her face slapped. Miss Burgoyne was amiability itself towards the whole company, so far as she had any relations with them: and at her little receptions in the evening she was all brightness and merriment, even when she had to join in the conversation from behind the heavy _portiere_. Whether this small coterie in the theatre guessed at the true state of affairs, it is hard to say; but at least Miss Burgoyne did not trouble herself much about concealment. She called her affianced lover ”Lionel,” no matter who chanced to be present; and she would ask him to help her to hand the tea, just as if he already belonged to her. Moreover, she told him that Mr. Percival Miles had some suspicion of what had happened.
”Not that I would admit anything definite,” said the young lady. ”There will be time enough for that. And I did not want a scene. But I'm sorry.
It does seem a pity that so much devotion should meet with no requital.”
”Devotion!” said Lionel.
”Oh, of course you don't know what devotion is. Your fas.h.i.+onable friends have taught you what good form is; you are _blase_, indifferent; it's not women, it's cards, that interest you. You have no fresh feeling left,” continued this _ingenue_ of the greenroom. ”You have been so spoiled--”
”I see he's up at the Garden Club,” said Lionel, to change the subject.
”Who?”
”The young gentleman you were just speaking of.”
”Percy Miles? What does he want with an all-night club?”
”I'm sure I don't know.”
”Ah, well, I suppose he is not likely to get in,” she said, turning to the tall mirror. ”Percy is very nice--just the nicest boy I know--but I'm afraid he is not particularly clever. He has written some verses in one or two magazines--of course you can't expect me to criticise them severely, considering who was the 'only begetter' of them--”
”Oh, that has nothing to do with it,” Lionel interrupted again. ”He is sure to get in. There's no qualification at the Garden, so long as you're all right socially. There are plenty such as he in the club already.”
”But why does he want to get in?” she said, wheeling round. ”Why should he want to sit up all night playing cards? Now tell me honestly, Lionel, it isn't your doing! You didn't ask him to join, did you? You can't be treasuring up any feeling of vengeance--”
”Oh, nonsense; I had nothing to do with it. I saw his name in the candidates' book quite by accident. And the election is by committee--he'll get in all right. What does he want with it?--oh, I don't know. Perhaps he has been disappointed in love and seeks for a little consolation in card-playing.”
”Yes, you always sneer at love--because you don't know anything about it,” she said, snappishly. ”Or perhaps you are an extinct volcano. I suppose you have sighed your heart out like a furnace--and for a foreigner, I'll be bound!”
Nay, it was hardly to be wondered at that Miss Burgoyne should be indignant with so lukewarm and reluctant a lover, who received her coy advances with coldness, and was only decently civil to her when they talked of wholly indifferent matters. The mischief of it was that, in casting about for some key to the odd situation, she took it into her head to become jealous of Nina; and many were the bitter things she managed to say about foreigners generally, and about Italians in particular, and Italian singers, and so forth. Of course Miss Ross was never openly mentioned, but Lionel understood well enough at whom these covert innuendoes were hurled; and sometimes his eyes burned with a fire far other than that which should be in a lover's eyes when contemplating his mistress. Indeed, it was a dangerous amus.e.m.e.nt for Miss Burgoyne to indulge in. It was easy to wound; it might be less easy to efface the memory of those wounds. And then there was a kind of devilish ingenuity about her occult taunts. For example, she dared not say that doubtless Miss Nina Ross had gone away back to Naples, and had taken up with a sweetheart, with whom she was now walking about; but she described the sort of young man calculated to capture the fancy of an Italian girl.
”The seedy swell of Naples or Rome--he is irresistible to the Italian girl,” she said, on one occasion. ”You know him; his s.h.i.+rt open at the neck down almost to his chest--his trousers tight at the knee and enormously wide at the foot--a poncho-looking kind of cloak, with a greasy Astrachan collar--a tall French hat, rather shabby--a face the color of paste--an odor of cigarettes and garlic--dirty hands--and a cane. I suppose the theatre is too expensive, so he goes to the public gardens, and strolls up and down, and takes off his hat with a sweep to people he pretends to recognize; or perhaps he sits in front of a _cafe_, with a gla.s.s of cheap brandy before him, an evening journal in his hands, and a toothpick in his mouth.”