Chapter 3

In a fashionable quarter of the city there stood a brownstone house,
with grotesque turrets, winding steps, and glaring polished red tiles.
There was a touch of the Gothic, of the Renaissance, of the old English
manor; just a touch, however, a kind of blind-man's-buff of a house. A
very rich man lived here, but for ten months in the year he and his
family fluttered about the social centers of the world. And with a house
like this on his hands, one could scarce blame him. Twice a week, during
this absence, a caretaker came in, flourished a feather duster, and went
away again. Society reporters always referred to this house as "the
palatial residence."

This morning a woman stood in the alcove-window and looked down into the
glistening street. There was a smile on her lips, in her eyes, in the
temporary little wrinkles on either side of her nose. The Venetian red
of her hair trapped the reflected sunlight from the opposite windows,
and two little points of silver danced in her blue eyes. Ah! but her
eyes were blue; blue as spring-water in the morning, blue as the summer
sky seen through a cleft in the mountains, blue as lapis-lazuli, with
the same fibers of gold. And every feature and contour of the face
harmonized with the marvelous hair and the wonderful eyes; a beautiful
face, warm, dreamy, engaging, mobile. It was not the face of a worldly
woman; neither was it the face of a girl. It was too emotional for the
second, and there was not enough control for the first. It seemed as if
she stood on the threshold of life, with one hand lingering regretfully
in the clasp of youth and the other doubtfully greeting womanhood;
altogether, something of a puzzle.

But the prophecy of laughter did not come to pass; the little wrinkles
faded, the mouth grew sad, and the silver points no longer danced in her
eyes. The pain in her heart was always shadowing; like a jailer it
jealously watched and repressed the natural gaiety which was a part of
her. Those who have been in serious wrecks are never quite the same
afterward; and she had seen her fairest dream beaten and crumpled upon
the reef of disillusion.

Yet again the smile renewed itself. She was a creature of varying moods.
She twisted and untwisted the newspaper. Should she? Ought she? Was it
not dreadfully improper and bizarre? Had she not always regretted these
singular impulses? And yet, what harm to read this letter and return it
to the sender? She was so lonely here; it was like being among a strange
people, so long ago was it that her foot had touched this soil. Was it
possible that she was twenty-five? Was there not some miscount, and was
it not fifteen instead? As old and as wise as the Cumaean Sybil at one
moment, as light and careless as a Hebe the next. Would not this war of
wisdom and folly be decided ere long?

She opened the paper and smoothed out the folds. "Madame Angot. There is
a letter for you in the mail-department of this office." It was so
droll. It was unlike anything she had ever heard of. A personal inquiry
column, where Cupids and Psyches billed and cooed, and anxious Junos
searched for recreant Jupiters! The merest chance had thrown the
original inquiry under her notice. Her answer was an impulse to which
she had given no second thought till too late. She ought to have ignored
it. But since she had taken the first step she might as well take the
second. She was lonely; the people she knew were out of town; and the
jest might amuse her.

This man was, in all probability, a gentleman, since he was a member of
a gentlemen's club. But second thought convinced her that this proved
nothing. Men are often called gentlemen out of compliment to their
ancestors. Still, if this man only saw the affair from her angle of
vision, the grotesque humor of it and not the common vulgar intrigue!
She hesitated, as well she might. Supposing that eventually he found out
who she was? That would never, never do. No one must know that she was
in America, about to step into the wildest of wild adventures. No; she
must not be found out. The king, who had been kind to her, and the court
must never know. From their viewpoint they would have declared that she
was about to tarnish a distinguished name, to outrage the oldest
aristocracy in Europe, the court of Italy. But she had her own opinion;
what she proposed to do was in itself harmless and innocent. But this
gentleman who leaned out of the window? What should she do with him?
What had possessed her to sing at that moment? A block above or below
his window, and no one would have heard, not even the policeman. This
time the laughter bubbled. It was all so funny. She had heard every word
of their conversation. She had seen the match flare in the young man's
face. Fortunately they had not thought to peer into the area-ways. Was
it the face she had seen in that flash of light that interested her
sufficiently to risk the note? Against the dark of the night it had
appeared for an instant, clean, crisp, ruddy as a cameo. Sometimes a
single glance is enough; the instinct of the heart is often surer than
the instinct of the mind. She would not have been afraid had he found
her. The face warranted confidence.

She had sung because she had been happy, happy with that transient
happiness which at times was her portion. Could she ever judge another
man by his looks? She believed not. How she had run! The man,
bareheaded, giving chase, and the burly policeman across the street!
Chorus-ladies--what in the world were they?

She stepped down from the alcove, wound the grey veil round the
riding-crop and tossed them into a corner. Somehow, in the daylight, the
magic was gone from his face, for she had recognized him that first day
in the park. He rode well. She knew that his interest in her had been
only casual. She touched a bell. A maid appeared.

"Signora?"

"Bettina, you will go to the office of this newspaper and inquire for a
letter addressed to Madame Angot. You can speak that much English. And
be quick, for I may change my mind."

"I go at once, Signora." And she was back in less than half an hour.

"There was a letter, then?" The points were dancing again in the blue
eyes.

"And here it is, signora." The maid's eyes sparkled, too. An intrigue!
It would not be so dull hereafter.

"You may go. Perhaps," and Bettina's mistress smiled, "perhaps I may let
you read it and answer it, after I am done with it. That would be rather
neat."

"But it will be in English, signora; and that I can not read." Bettina's
eyes filled with disappointment.

"You may use it as a lesson. In a few days you should be able to master
it."

The slight nod was a dismissal, and the maid went about her duties,
which were not many in this house. These were terrible days; the two of
them alone in this strange _palazzo_, and the stuffy, ill-smelling
_trattoria_ they dined at! _Che peccato!_ And that she should sit side
by side with her mistress! _Santa Maria_, what was the good world coming
to? And the ban on the familiar tongue! English? She despised it.
German? She detested it. But to be allowed to speak in French, that
alone made conversation tolerable. And this new mad whim! Oh, yes; the
signora was truly mad this time.

Meanwhile the lady with the Venetian hair toyed with the letter. Club
paper. Evidently he was not afraid to trust her. But would he amuse her?
Would he have anything to say that would interest her? She ran the
paper-knife under the flap. The contents gave her a genuine surprise.
She ran to the window. Italian! It was written in Italian, with all the
flourishes of an Italian born. She turned to the signature. Hillard; so
he had signed his name in full? She ruminated. How came such a name to
belong to a man who wrote Italian so beautifully? Here was something to
ponder over. She smiled and looked at the signature again.... John,
Giovanni. She would call him Giovanni. She had been rather clever. To
have had the wit to look in the library for the blue book and the club
list; not every woman would have thought of that. Then a new inspiration
came to her, and she struck the bell again. She sent Bettina for the
card-basket in the lower hall. She scattered the contents upon the
floor, touched up the wood fire, and sat down Turkish-wise. She sorted
the cards carefully, and lo! she was presently rewarded. She held up the
card in triumph. He had called at this house on Thanksgiving Day. He was
known, then, to the master and mistress, this Giovanni with the Irish
surname. Very good. She now gave her full attention to the letter,
which, incredible as it may seem, she had not yet perused.

To the Lady in the Fog--To begin with, let me say that I, too, have
laughed. But there was some degree of chagrin in my laughter. On my
word of honor, it was a distinct shock to my sense of dignity when
I saw that idiotic personal of mine in the paper. It is my first
offense of the kind, and I am really ashamed. But the situation was
not ordinary. Ordinary women do not sing in the streets after
midnight. As you could not possibly be ordinary, my offense has
greater magnitude. To indite a personal to a gentlewoman! A
thousand pardons! I doubted that it would come under your notice;
and even if it did, I was sure that you would ignore it. And yet I
am human enough to have hoped that you wouldn't. When I found your
note, it was a kind of vindication; it proved that a singular
episode had taken place. To find a woman with an appreciable sense
of humor is rare; to find one who couples this with initiation is
rarer still. I do not refer to wit, the eternal striving to say
something clever, regardless of cost. How you found out my name
confuses me.

"Indeed!" murmured the lady.

Doubtless you have the club list in your house. Do you know, when
the letter was brought me, I saw nothing unusual about the address.
It was only when I began this letter that I comprehended how clever
you were. There are half a dozen J.H's at the club. I tell you
truthfully, over my own name, that your voice startled me. It would
have startled me under ordinary circumstances. In New York one does
not sing in the streets. It is considered bad form by the police.

"Thanks! I must remember that."

I was startled, then, because my thoughts were far away. I was
dreaming of Italy, where I was born, though there is no more
Italian blood in my veins than there is in yours.

The ruddy head became erect and the blue eyes searched the glowing seams
in the logs. Here was a riddle.

"What made him think that, I wonder?"

I therefore write this in a language familiar to us both, certain
you could not sing Lecocq's songs in Italian if you did not speak
and understand it thoroughly. Signora or signorina, whichever it
may be, have we no mutual friends? Are you not known to some one
who knows me? Some one who will speak for me, my character, my
habits? Modesty forbids that I myself should dwell upon my virtues.
I could refer you to my bankers, but money does not recommend the
good character of a man. It merely recommends his thrift, or more
generally that of his father.

"That will pass as wit," said the lady. "But it is rather a dull letter,
so far. But, then, he is wandering in the dark."

You say you sang because at that moment you were happy. This
implies that you are not always so. Surely, with a voice like yours
one can not possibly be unhappy. If only I might meet you! Will you
not do me that honor? I realize that this is all irregular, out of
fashion, obsolete. But something tells me that neither of us is
adjusted properly to prosaic environments. Isn't there just a
little pure, healthy romance waiting to be given life? Your voice
haunts me; out of every silence it comes to me--"She is so
innocent, so youthful!"

John Hillard.

The letter fluttered into her lap. She leaned on her elbows. It was not
a bad letter; and she rather liked the boyish tone of it. Nothing vulgar
peered out from between the lines. Did he really love music? He must,
for it was not every young man who could pick out the melody of an old,
forgotten opera. She shivered, but the room was warm. Had fate or chance
some ulterior purpose behind this episode? Rather than tempt fate she
decided not to answer this letter; aside from her passive superstition,
it would be neither wise nor useful. She desired to meet no strangers;
to be left to herself was all she wished. Her voice, it was all she had
that afforded her comfort and pleasure.

Romance! The word came back to her. With an unmusical laugh she stood
up, shaking the letter to the floor. Romance! She was no longer a girl;
she was a woman of five and twenty; and what should a woman know of
romance? Ah, there had been a time when all the world was romance,
romance; when the night breeze had whispered it under her
casement-window, when the lattice-climbing roses had breathed it, when
the moon and the stars had spelled it. Romance! She hated the word not
less than she hated the Italian language, the Italian people, the
country itself. She spurned the letter with her foot and fed the
newspaper to the fire. She would let Bettina answer the letter.

She went down-stairs to the piano and played with strong feeling.
Presently she began to sing a haunting melancholy song by Abt. From Abt
she turned to Flotow; from Offenbach to Rossini; from Gounod to Verdi.
The voice was now sad or gay, now tender or wild. She was mistress of
every tone, every shade, every expression.

The door opened gradually. The little maid's face was moved to rapture
over these exquisite sounds.

Crash! It was over.

"Bettina? Bettina, are you listening?"

"I am always listening." Bettina squeezed into the room. "I had not the
heart to interrupt. It is beautiful, beautiful! To sing like that!"
Then, with a burst of confidence: "There will be kings and dukes at your
feet!"

"Enough!"

"Pardon, signora, I forgot. But listen; I bring a message. A boy came to
say that the rehearsal will be at four this afternoon. It is now after
twelve."

"So late? I did not know. We must be off to lunch."

"And the letter up-stairs on the floor?"

"Some day, Bettina, you will enter the Forbidden Chamber, and I shall
have to play Bluebeard. This time, however, I do not mind. Leave it
there or burn it," indifferently.

Bettina knew her mistress. She thought best to leave the letter where it
lay, forgotten for the time being.