Part 8 (1/2)

Bouquets and jewellery he was willing that she should receive; they did no harm and the latter could always be sold.

In cold and dispa.s.sionate argument he explained to the irate Manager the folly of ruining good material by injudicious use.

”You pay her as little as you can considering she is a draw. She does the work of three people, including keeping the books when you are not in a condition to wrestle with arithmetic. If you had your way she would be cleaning out the stables.”

”Bah!” sneered the other. ”It would do her good--take the devil out of her--hard work doesn't hurt that type. She's all wire and whipcord, your She-Wolf, Poleski. Has she been snarling at you?”

”You'd better give her a week off,” proceeded Emile, unmoved. ”The audience will be getting tired of her if you're not careful; she has been on too long without a break. Get a fresh _artiste_ and take it out of her salary. I shall give her a week's cruise round the harbour and see what that will do.”

”Well, try and put a little flesh on her bones,” said the Manager rudely. ”I never saw such lean flanks! She's got the expression of a death's head. It's a good thing the Spanish don't care for cheerful grins or she wouldn't be here two days.”

And so it came to pa.s.s that on the following Sunday Arith.e.l.li found herself sitting on the deck of a yacht anch.o.r.ed far out in the harbour, with the sh.o.r.es of Barcelona only a faint outline in the distance.

They had come aboard the previous day.

Emile had made her no explanations beyond saying that he was going to take her for a sea trip, and after her custom she had asked no questions.

The yacht, which was an uncanny looking craft, painted black and called ”_The Witch_,” she knew by reputation, and had often seen it slipping into the harbour after dusk. It was the property of two Russian aristocrats, friends of Emile's, who helped the Cause by conveying bombs and infernal machines, and taking off such members of the band as had suddenly found Spain an undesirable residence.

Arith.e.l.li was not in the least interested in either of the men, the dark, handsome, saturnine Vladimir, or the fair-haired, pretty, effeminate youth to whom he was comrade and hero.

But she liked their smartness and well-groomed air, and their spotless clothes, after Emile and his dirty nails and slovenly habits, and she appreciated to the full the surrounding refinement and comfort, and enjoyed the daintily served meals, the s.h.i.+ning gla.s.s and silver and the deft, silent waiting of the sailors.

She had been given a luxurious cabin which seemed a paradise after her dirty, carpetless bedroom, and in it she could laze and lounge in peace without the eternal practising and rehearsals and running errands that her soul loathed.

The hot sun glared down upon her, as she sat watching the racing waves.

She was a fantastic, slim, _bizarre_ figure with her coppery hair, over which a lace scarf was tied, and high-heeled slippers on her beautiful slender feet.

In her ears dangled huge turquoises, showing vividly against the white skin that was coated thickly with scented powder.

The manager had told her that she must not get tanned or red or it would spoil her type, and she now ”made-up” habitually in the daytime.

Her whole array was tawdry and theatrical, and utterly out of keeping with her surroundings.

The two owners of the yacht, who wore immaculate white linen clothes and canvas shoes, expressed to each other their disapproval of her whole get-up, and particularly of her clicking heels. In common with most men, they abominated an _outre_ style of dressing and too much jewellery, and above all such finery at sea.

The girl must be mad! Didn't she know that a schooner was not a circus ring? If she were such a fool Poleski should have taught her better before bringing her on board.

They agreed that he had sense enough in other things, and had certainly trained her not to be a nuisance.

After _dejeuner_ Emile had hunted up the least doubtful of the French novels they possessed and sent her up on deck to get the benefit of the sea air of which she was supposed to stand in need.

”_Va t'en_, Arith.e.l.li,” he said. ”You don't want to be suffocating yourself down in a stuffy cabin. You're here to get lots of ozone and make yourself look a little less like a corpse. Besides, we want to talk.”

She felt very much depressed and neglected as she sat dangling ”_Les confessions d'une femme mariee_,” which were virtuous to dulness and interested her not at all, in a listless hand, long and delicate like her feet, and decorated with too many turquoise rings. Below, in the cabin, she could hear the noise of the men as they argued and shouted at each other in a polyglot of three different languages.

Arith.e.l.li felt more than a little resentful. Why had they shut her out and prevented her from hearing their discussions?