Faces, even expressions, may lie, but eyes lie never.
A man may commit follies; but once cured, those follies expand his nature. With a woman, alas! follies are always debasing. It was, I knew, a folly to love him.
Life is always disappointing. The shattering of our idols, the revelation of the shallowness of friendship, the losing faith in those we love, and the witnessing of their fall from that pedestal whereon we placed them in our own exalted idealization—all is disappointing.
I stood gazing after him as he strode down the great room with its bejewelled, excited crowd, where the chevalier d'industrie and the declassé woman jostled with the pickpocket, the professional thief, and the men who gamble at Aix, Ostend, Namur, or Spa as the seasons come and go, that strange assembly of courteous Italians, bearded Russians, well-groomed Englishmen, and women painted, powdered, and perfumed; those reckless beings qui péchent à froid, who sin not through the senses but through indifference.
I held my breath; my heart beat so violently that I could hear it above the babel of voices about me. I suffered the most acute agony. Of late I had been always thinking of him—asleep, dreaming—always dreaming of him. Always the same pang of regret was within my heart, regret that I had allowed him to go away without a word, without telling him how madly, despairingly, I loved him.
Life without him was a hopeless blank, yet it was all through my vanity, my wretched pride, my invincible self-love. I was now careless, indifferent, inconsequential, my only thought being of him. His coldness, his disdain, was killing me. Yes, when his eyes had met mine in surprise, they were strange, Sphinx-like, and mysterious.
Yet at that moment I did not care what he might say to me. I only wished to hear him speaking to me: to hear the sound of his voice and to know that he cared enough for me to treat me as a human being.
Ah, I trembled when I realized how madly I loved him, and how fierce was my hatred of that woman who issued her orders and whom he obeyed.
I turned away with the Allens, while Ulrica cried delightedly that she had won on 16, her favorite number. But I did not answer. My heart had grown sick, and I went forth into the bright night air and down the steps towards the "ascenseurs."
On the steps a well-dressed young Frenchman was lounging, and as I passed down I heard him humming to himself that gay, catchy chanson so popular at the café concert:
"A bas la romance et l'idylle,
Les oiseaux, la foret, le buisson,
Des marlous, de la grande ville,
Nous allons chanter la chanson!
V'la les dos, viv'nt les dos!
C'est les dos, les gros,
Les beaux,
A nous les marmites!
Grandes ou petites;
V'la les dos, viv'nt les dos;
C'est les dos, les gros,
Les beaux,
A nous les marmit' et vivent les dos!"
I closed my ears to shut out the sound of those words. I remembered Ernest—that look in his eyes, that scorn in his face, that disdain in his bearing.
The truth was, alas! too plain. His love for me was dead. I was the most wretched of women, of all God's creatures.
I prayed that I might regard him—that I might regard the world—with indifference, and yet I was sufficiently acquainted with the world and its ways to know that to a woman the word indifference is the most evil word in the language, that it is the most fatal of all sentiments, the most deadly of all attitudes.
But Ernest, the man whose slave I was, despised me. He commanded my love. Why could not I command his? Ah! because I was a woman, and my face had ceased to interest him!
Bitter tears sprang to my eyes, but I managed to preserve my self-control and enter the station-lift making an inward vow that never again in my whole life would I set foot in that hated hell within a paradise called Monte Carlo.
True, I was a woman who amused myself wherever amusement could be obtained, but I still remained, as I had always been from those sweet well-remembered days at the gray old convent in Florence, an honest woman. At Monte Carlo the scum of the earth enjoy the flowers of the earth. I detested its crowds; I held in abhorrence that wild, turbulent avarice, and felt stifled in that atmosphere of gilded sin. No. I would never enter there again. The bitter remembrance of that night would, I knew, be too painful.
I returned to Nice with a feeling that for me, now that Ernest had drifted from me to become a placid gambler and was indifferent, life had no further charm. The recollection of the days that followed can never be torn from my memory, my brain, my soul. I smiled, though I was wearing out my heart; I laughed even though bitter tears were ready to start to my eyes, and I made pretence of being interested in things to which I was at heart supremely indifferent. I courted forgetfulness, but the oblivion of my love would not come. I never knew till then how great was the passion a woman could conceive for a man, or how his memory could ever arise, a ghost from the past to terrify the present.
That night as we drove from the station to the hotel Ulrica accidentally touched my hand.
"How cold you are, dear!" she cried in surprise.
"Yes," I answered, shivering.
I was cold; it was the truth. At thought of the man who had forsaken me an icy chill had struck my heart—the chill of unsatisfied love, of desolation, of blank, unutterable despair.
In due course our yachting gowns came home from the dressmaker's,—accompanied by terrifying bills, of course,—and a few days later we sailed out of Villefranche harbor on board the Vispera. The party was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of youngish people, several of whom we knew quite well, and ere the second day was over we had all settled down to the usual routine of life on board a yacht. There was no sensation of being cramped up, but, on the contrary, the decks were brand spacious, and the cabins perfect nests of luxury. The vessel had been built on the Clyde according to its owner's designs, and it certainly was a miniature Atlantic liner.
Our plans had been slightly altered, for as the majority of the guests had never been to Algiers it was resolved to make a run over there and then coast along Algeria and Tunis and so on to Alexandria. As we steamed away from Villefranche the receding panorama of the Littoral, with its olive-covered slopes and great, purple, snow-capped Alps, spread out before us, presenting a perfectly enchanting picture. We all stood grouped on deck watching it slowly sink below the horizon. From the first moment that we went on board all was gay, all luxurious, for were we not guests of a man who, although absurdly economical himself, was always lavish when he entertained? Everyone was loud in praise of the magnificent appointments of the vessel, and dinner, at which its owner presided, was a merry function.
I was placed next Lord Eldersfield, a pleasant, middle-aged, gray-eyed man, who had recently left the army on succeeding to the title. He was, I found, quite an entertaining companion, full of droll stories and clever witticisms; indeed, he shone at once as the conversationalist of the table.
"Have I been in Algiers before?" he repeated, in answer to a question from me. "Oh, yes. It's a place where one half the people don't know the other half."
I smiled and wondered. Yet his brief description was, I afterwards discovered, very true. The Arabs and the Europeans live apart and are like oil and water, they never mix.
The days passed gayly, and were it not for constant thoughts of that man who had loved me and forgotten I should have enjoyed myself.
Save for one day of mistral the trip across the Mediterranean proved delightful, and for six days we remained in the white old City of the Corsairs, where we went on excursions and had a most pleasant time. We visited the Kasbah, drove to the Jardin d'Essai and to the pretty village of St. Eugène, while several of the party went to visit friends who were staying at the big hotels up at Mustapha. Life in Algiers was, I found, most interesting after the Parisian artificiality and glitter of Nice and Monte Carlo, and with Lord Eldersfield as my cavalier we saw all that was worth seeing. We lounged in those gay French cafés under the date-palms in the Place du Gouvernement, strolled up those narrow, ladder-like streets in the old city, or mingled with those crowds of mysterious-looking veiled Arab women who were bargaining for their purchases in the market. All was fresh, all diverting.
As for Ulrica, she entered thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, as she always did, and with Gerald usually as her escort went hither and thither with her true tourist habit of poking about everywhere, regardless of contagious diseases or the extensive variety of bad smells which invariably exists in an Oriental town. Although each day the party went ashore and enjoyed themselves, old Mr. Keppel never accompanied them. He knew the place, he said, and had some business affairs to attend to in the deck-house which he kept sacred to himself. Therefore he was excused.
"No, Miss Rosselli," he had explained to me in confidence, "I'm no sight-seer. If my guests enjoy seeing a few of the towns on the Mediterranean I am quite contented, but I prefer to remain quiet here rather than to be driving about in brakes and revisiting places that I have already visited long ago."
"Certainly," I said. "You are under no obligation to these people. They accept your kind hospitality, and the least they can do is to allow you to remain in peace when you wish."
"Yes," he sighed. "I leave them in Gerald's charge. He knows how to look after them."
And his face seemed sad and anxious, as though he were utterly forlorn.
Indeed, after a week at sea we saw but little of him. He lunched and dined with us in the saloon each day, but never joined our musical parties after dinner, and seldom, if ever, entered the smoking-room. All knew him to be eccentric, therefore this apparent disregard for our presence was looked upon as one of his peculiar habits. Upon Gerald devolved the duty of acting as entertainer, and assisted by Ulrica, myself, and old Miss Keppel he endeavored to make every one happy and comfortable. Fortunately, the ubiquitous Barnes had by Gerald's urgent desire been left behind at the Villa Fabron.
As day by day we steamed up that blue, tranquil sea in brilliant weather, with our bows ever set in the track of dawn, life was one continual round of merriment from three bells, when we breakfasted, until eight bells sounded for turning in. A yachting cruise is very apt to become monotonous, but on the Vispera one had no time for ennui. After Algiers we put in for a day at Cagliari, then visited Tunis, the Greek islands, Athens, Smyrna, and Constantinople.
We had already been five weeks cruising—and five weeks in the Mediterranean in spring are delightful—when one night an incident occurred which was both mysterious and disconcerting. We were on our way from Constantinople, and in the first dog-watch had sighted one of the rocky headlands of Corsica. That evening dinner had been followed by an impromptu dance which had proved a most successful affair. The men were mostly dancers, except Lord Stoneborough, who was inclined to obesity; and with the piano and a couple of violins played by a pair of rather insipid sisters the dance was quite a jolly one. We even persuaded old Mr. Keppel to dance, and although his was not a very graceful terpischorean feat, nevertheless his participation in our fun put every one in an exceedingly good humor.
Of course, the time had not passed without the usual gossip and tittle-tattle which are inseparable from a yachting cruise. On board a yacht people become quickly inventive, and the most astounding fictions about one's neighbors are whispered behind fans and . I had heard whispers regarding Ulrica and Gerald Keppel. Rumor had it that the old gentleman had actually given his consent to their marriage, and as soon as they returned to America the engagement would be announced.
Certain of the guests, with an air of extreme confidence, took me aside and questioned me regarding it, but I merely responded that I knew nothing and greatly doubted the accuracy of the rumor. More than once that evening I had been asked whether it were true, and so persistent seemed the rumor that I took Ulrica into my cabin and asked her point-blank.
"My dear," she cried, "have you really taken leave of your senses? How absurd! Of course there's nothing whatever between myself and Gerald. He is amusing, that's all."
"You might do worse than marry him," I laughed. "Remember, you've known him a long time—four years, isn't it?"
"Marry him! Never! Go and tell those prying persons, whoever they are, that when I'm engaged I'll put a paragraph in the papers all in good time."
"But don't you think, Ulrica," I suggested—"don't you think that if such is the case Gerald is rather too much in your society?"
"I can't help him hanging around me, poor boy," she laughed. "I can't be rude to him."
That night I turned and turned in my narrow berth, but could not sleep. The atmosphere seemed stifling in spite of the ventilators, and I dare not open the port-hole, fearing a sudden douche, for a wind had sprung up and we were rolling heavily. The jingle of the glasses on the toilet-stand, the vibration, the throbbing of the machinery, the tramping of the sailors overhead, the roar of the funnels, all rendered sleep utterly impossible.
At last, however, I could stand it no longer, and, rising, I dressed, putting on a big driving-coat, with a thick shawl about my head, and went up on deck. The fresh air might perhaps do me good, I thought. At any rate, it was a remedy worth trying.
The night, so brilliant a couple of hours before, had become dark and stormy, the wind was so boisterous that I walked with difficulty, and the fact that the awnings had been reefed showed that Davis, the skipper, anticipated a squall.
The deck was deserted. Only on the bridge could I see, above the strip of sheltering canvas, two shadowy figures in oilskins keeping watch ahead. Save for those heads I was utterly alone. On my way towards the stern I passed the small deck-house which old Mr. Keppel reserved as his own den. The green-silk blinds were always drawn across the port-holes and the door always remained locked. No one ever entered there, although many had been the speculations regarding the private cabin when we had first sailed.
The millionaire himself had, however, given an explanation one day at luncheon.
"I always reserve, both in my houses and here on board the Vispera, one room as my own. I hope all of you will excuse me this. As you know, I have a good many affairs to attend to, and I hate to have my papers thrown into disorder."
Personally, I suspected him of having a lathe there and of pursuing his hobby of ivory-turning, but the majority of the guests accepted his explanation that this deck-house was his study, and that he did not wish them to pry there.
More than once Ulrica had expressed to me wonder regarding the reason the cabin remained always closed and its curtains always drawn. Every woman dearly loves a mystery, and, like myself, Ulrica, when she discovered anything suspicious, never rested until she had formed some theory or other.
She had one day mentioned the fact to Gerald, who in my presence had given what appeared to me the true explanation.
"It's merely one of the guv'nor's eccentricities. The fact is that on the outward voyage from New York he bought some antique Moorish furniture and ivory carving in Tangier and has it stored in there until we return. I've seen it myself—beautiful things. He says he intends to sell them at a profit to a dealer in London," whereat we laughed.
Knowing how the old gentleman practised economy sometimes, I had accepted this as the truth.
But as, gripping the rail to prevent being thrown down by the rolling of the ship, I passed along the side of the deck-house I was surprised to see a light within. The curtains of green silk were still drawn, but the light could, nevertheless, be seen through them, and it seemed to me strange that any one should be there at that hour of the night. I placed my face close to the screwed-down port-hole, but the curtain had been so well drawn that it was impossible to see within. Then, moving quietly, I examined the other three round, brass-bound windows, but all were as closely curtained as the first.
I fancied I heard voices as I stood there and tried to distinguish the words, but the roar of the funnels and howling of the wind drowned every other sound.
What if my host caught me prying? His private affairs were surely no business of mine, therefore I was about to turn away, when suddenly I experienced an extraordinary desire to peep inside that forbidden chamber. I walked around it again stealthily, for fortunately I was in thin slippers.
While standing there in hesitation I noticed that upon the low roof was a small ventilator which had been raised to admit air. What if I could get a peep down there? It was an adventurous climb for a woman hampered by skirts as I was; but I searched for means to mount, and found them in a low iron staple to which some cords of the rigging were attached and a brass rail which afforded rather insecure foothold. After some effort I succeeded in scrambling to the top, but not before I found myself beneath the eye of the officer on the bridge. Fortunately I was behind him, but if he had occasion to turn towards the stern he must discover me.
Having risked so much, however, I was determined to make further endeavors, and leaning across the small roof I placed my face close to the open ventilator and peered down into the locked cabin.
Next second I drew back with a start, holding my breath. A loud exclamation of dismay escaped me, but the sound was swallowed up in the noises of the boisterous night.
The sight I witnessed below me in that small deck-house held me rigid as one petrified.
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