The Primadonna

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER III

  The _Leofric_ was three days out, and therefore half-way over theocean, for she was a fast boat, but so far Griggs had not been calledupon to hinder Mr. Van Torp from annoying Margaret. Mr. Van Torp hadnot been on deck; in fact, he had not been seen at all since he haddisappeared into his cabin a quarter of an hour before the steamer hadleft the pier. There was a good deal of curiosity about him amongstthe passengers, as there would have been about the famous Primadonnaif she had not come punctually to every meal, and if she had not beenequally regular in spending a certain number of hours on deck everyday.

  At first every one was anxious to have what people call a 'good look'at her, because all the usual legends were already repeated about herwherever she went. It was said that she was really an ugly woman ofthirty-five who had been married to a Spanish count of twice thatage, and that he had died leaving her penniless, so that she had beenobliged to support herself by singing. Others were equally sure thatshe was a beautiful escaped nun, who had been forced to take the veilin a convent in Seville by cruel parents, but who had succeeded ingetting herself carried off by a Polish nobleman disguised as apriest. Every one remembered the marvellous voice that used to sing sohigh above all the other nuns, behind the lattice on Sunday afternoonsat the church of the Dominican Convent. That had been the voice ofMargarita da Cordova, and she could never go back to Spain, for if shedid the Inquisition would seize upon her, and she would be torturedand probably burnt alive to encourage the other nuns.

  This was very romantic, but unfortunately there was a man who said heknew the plain truth about her, and that she was just a good-lookingIrish girl whose father used to play the flute at a theatre in Dublin,and whose mother kept a sweetshop in Queen Street. The man who knewthis had often seen the shop, which was conclusive.

  Margaret showed herself daily and the myths lost value, for everyone saw that she was neither an escaped Spanish nun nor the giftedoffspring of a Dublin flute-player and a female retailer ofbull's-eyes and butterscotch, but just a handsome, healthy,well-brought-up young Englishwoman, who called herself Miss Donne inprivate life.

  But gossip, finding no hold upon her, turned and rent Mr. Van Torp,who dwelt within his tent like Achilles, but whether brooding orsea-sick no one was ever to know. The difference of opinion about himwas amazing. Some said he had no heart, since he had not even waitedfor the funeral of the poor girl who was to have been his wife.Others, on the contrary, said that he was broken-hearted, and thathis doctor had insisted upon his going abroad at once, doubtlessconsidering, as the best practitioners often do, that it is wisestto send a patient who is in a dangerous condition to distant shores,where some other doctor will get the credit of having killed him ordriven him mad. Some said that Mr. Van Torp was concerned in theaffair of that Chinese loan, which of course explained why he wasforced to go to Europe in spite of the dreadful misfortune that hadhappened to him. The man who knew everything hinted darkly that Mr.Van Torp was not really solvent, and that he had perhaps left thecountry just at the right moment.

  'That is nonsense,' said Miss More to Margaret in an undertone, forthey had both heard what had just been said.

  Miss More was the lady in charge of the pretty deaf child, and thelatter was curled up in the next chair with a little piece of crochetwork. Margaret had soon found out that Miss More was a very nicewoman, after her own taste, who was given neither to flattery nor toprying, the two faults from which celebrities are generally made tosuffer most by fellow-travellers who make their acquaintance. MissMore was evidently delighted to find herself placed on deck next tothe famous singer, and Margaret was so well satisfied that the decksteward had already received a preliminary tip, with instructions tokeep the chairs together during the voyage.

  'Yes,' said Margaret, in answer to Miss More's remark. 'I don'tbelieve there is the least reason for thinking that Mr. Van Torp isnot immensely rich. Do you know him?'

  'Yes.'

  Miss More did not seem inclined to enlarge upon the fact, and her facewas thoughtful after she had said the one word; so was Margaret's tonewhen she answered:

  'So do I.'

  Each of the young women understood that the other did not care totalk of Mr. Van Torp. Margaret glanced sideways at her neighbour andwondered vaguely whether the latter's experience had been at all likeher own, but she could not see anything to make her think so. MissMore had a singularly pleasant expression and a face that made onetrust her at once, but she was far from beautiful, and would hardlypass for pretty beside such a good-looking woman as Margaret, whoafter all was not what people call an out-and-out beauty. It was oddthat the quiet lady-like teacher should have answered monosyllabicallyin that tone. She felt Margaret's sidelong look of inquiry, and turnedhalf round after glancing at little Ida, who was very busy with hercrochet.

  'I'm afraid you may have misunderstood me,' she said, smiling. 'If Idid not say any more it is because he himself does not wish people totalk of what he does.'

  'I assure you, I'm not curious,' Margaret answered, smiling too. 'I'msorry if I looked as if I were.'

  'No--you misunderstood me, and it was a little my fault. Mr. Van Torpis doing something very, very kind which it was impossible that Ishould not know of, and he has asked me not to tell any one.'

  'I see,' Margaret answered. 'Thank you for telling me. I am glad toknow that he--'

  She checked herself. She detested and feared the man, for reasons ofher own, and she found it hard to believe that he could do something'very, very kind' and yet not wish it to be known. He did not strikeher as being the kind of person who would go out of his way to hidehis light under a bushel. Yet Miss More's tone had been quiet andearnest. Perhaps he had employed her to teach some poor deaf and dumbchild, like little Ida. Her words seemed to imply this, for she hadsaid that it had been impossible that she should not know; that is,he had been forced to ask her advice or help, and her help and advicecould only be considered indispensable where her profession as ateacher of the deaf and dumb was concerned.

  Miss More was too discreet to ask the question which Margaret'sunfinished sentence suggested, but she would not let the speech passquite unanswered.

  'He is often misjudged,' she said. 'In business he may be what manypeople say he is. I don't understand business! But I have known him tohelp people who needed help badly and who never guessed that he evenknew their names.'

  'You must be right,' Margaret answered.

  She remembered the last words of the girl who had died in themanager's room at the theatre. There had been a secret. The secretwas that Mr. Van Torp had done the thing, whatever it was. She hadprobably not known what she was saying, but it had been on her mind tosay that Mr. Van Torp had done it, the man she was to have married.Margaret's first impression had been that the thing done must havebeen something very bad, because she herself disliked the man somuch; but Miss More knew him, and since he often did 'very, very kindthings,' it was possible that the particular action of which the dyinggirl was thinking might have been a charitable one; possibly he hadconfided the secret to her. Margaret smiled rather cruelly at her ownsuperior knowledge of the world--yes, he had told the girl about that'secret' charity in order to make a good impression on her! Perhapsthat was his favourite method of interesting women; if it was, hehad not invented it. Margaret thought she could have told Miss Moresomething which would have thrown another light on Mr. Van Torp'scharacter.

  Her reflections had led her back to the painful scene at the theatre,and she remembered the account of it the next day, and the fact thatthe girl's name had been Ida. To change the subject she asked herneighbour an idle question.

  'What is the little girl's full name?' she inquired.

  'Ida Moon,' answered Miss More.

  'Moon?' Margaret turned her head sharply. 'May I ask if she is anyrelation of the California Senator who died last year?'

  'She is his daughter,' said Miss More quietly.

  Margaret laid one hand on the arm of her chair and leaned forward alitt
le, so as to see the child better.

  'Really!' she exclaimed, rather deliberately, as if she had chosenthat particular word out of a number that suggested themselves.'Really!' she repeated, still more slowly, and then leaned back againand looked at the grey waves.

  She remembered the notice of Miss Bamberger's death. It had describedthe deceased as the only child of Hannah Moon by her former marriagewith Isidore Bamberger. But Hannah Moon, as Margaret happened to know,was now the widow of Senator Alvah Moon. Therefore the little deafchild was the half-sister of the girl who had died at the theatre inMargaret's arms and had been christened by the same name. Therefore,also, she was related to Margaret, whose mother had been theCalifornia magnate's cousin.

  'How small the world is!' Margaret said in a low voice as she lookedat the grey waves.

  She wondered whether little Ida had ever heard of her half-sister, andwhat Miss More knew about it all.

  'How old is Mrs. Moon?' she asked.

  'I fancy she must be forty, or near that. I know that she was nearlythirty years younger than the Senator, but I never saw her.'

  'You never saw her?' Margaret was surprised.

  'No,' Miss More answered. 'She is insane, you know. She went quitemad soon after the little girl was born. It was very painful forthe Senator. Her delusion was that he was her divorced husband, Mr.Bamberger, and when the child came into the world she insisted thatit should be called Ida, and that she had no other. Mr. Bamberger'sdaughter was Ida, you know. It was very strange. Mrs. Moon wasconvinced that she was forced to live her life over again, year byyear, as an expiation for something she had done. The doctors say itis a hopeless case. I really think it shortened the Senator's life.'

  Margaret did not think that the world had any cause to complain ofMrs. Moon on that account.

  'So this child is quite alone in the world,' she said.

  'Yes. Her father is dead and her mother is in an asylum.'

  'Poor little thing!'

  The two young women were leaning back in their chairs, their facesturned towards each other as they talked, and Ida was still busy withher crochet.

  'Luckily she has a sunny nature,' said Miss More. 'She is interestedin everything she sees and hears.' She laughed a little. 'I alwaysspeak of it as hearing,' she added, 'for it is quite as quick, whenthere is light enough. You know that, since you have talked with her.'

  'Yes. But in the dark, how do you make her understand?'

  'She can generally read what I say by laying her hand on my lips; butbesides that, we have the deaf and dumb alphabet, and she can feel myfingers as I make the letters.'

  'You have been with her a long time, I suppose,' Margaret said.

  'Since she was three years old.'

  'California is a beautiful country, isn't it?' asked Margaret after apause.

  She put the question idly, for she was thinking how hard it must be toteach deaf and dumb children. Miss More's answer surprised her.

  'I have never been there.'

  'But, surely, Senator Moon lived in San Francisco,' Margaret said.

  'Yes. But the child was sent to New England when she was three,and never went back again. We have been living in the country nearBoston.'

  'And the Senator used to pay you a visit now and then, of course, whenhe was alive. He must have been immensely pleased by the success ofyour teaching.'

  Though Margaret felt that she was growing more curious about littleIda than she often was about any one, it did not occur to her that thequestion she now suggested, rather than asked, was an indiscreet one,and she was surprised by her companion's silence. She had alreadydiscovered that Miss More was one of those literally truthful peoplewho never let an inaccurate statement pass their lips, and who willbe obstinately silent rather than answer a leading question, quiteregardless of the fact that silence is sometimes the most directanswer that can be given. On the present occasion Miss More saidnothing and turned her eyes to the sea, leaving Margaret to make anydeduction she pleased; but only one suggested itself, namely, that thedeceased Senator had taken very little interest in the child of hisold age, and had felt no affection for her. Margaret wondered whetherhe had left her rich, but Miss More's silence told her that she hadalready asked too many questions.

  She glanced down the long line of passengers beyond Miss More and Ida.Men, women, and children lay side by side in their chairs, wrapped andpropped like a row of stuffed specimens in a museum. They were notinteresting, Margaret thought; for those who were awake all lookeddiscontented, and those who were asleep looked either ill orapoplectic. Perhaps half of them were crossing because they wereobliged to go to Europe for one reason or another; the other half weregoing in an aimless way, because they had got into the habit whilethey were young, or had been told that it was the right thing to do,or because their doctors sent them abroad to get rid of them. The greylight from the waves was reflected on the immaculate and shiny whitepaint, and shed a cold glare on the commonplace faces and on theplaid rugs, and on the vivid magazines which many of the people werereading, or pretending to read; for most persons only look at thepictures nowadays, and read the advertisements. A steward in a veryshort jacket was serving perfectly unnecessary cups of weak broth on abig tray, and a great number of the passengers took some, with a vagueidea that the Company's feelings might be hurt if they did not, orelse that they would not be getting their money's worth.

  Between the railing and the feet of the passengers, which stuck outover the foot-rests of their chairs to different lengths accordingto the height of the possessors, certain energetic people walkedceaselessly up and down the deck, sometimes flattening themselvesagainst the railing to let others who met them pass by, and sometimes,when the ship rolled a little, stumbling against an outstretched footor two without making any elaborate apology for doing so.

  Margaret only glanced at the familiar sight, but she made a littlemovement of annoyance almost directly, and took up the book that layopen and face downwards on her knee; she became absorbed in it sosuddenly as to convey the impression that she was not really readingat all.

  She had seen Mr. Van Torp and Paul Griggs walking together and comingtowards her.

  The millionaire was shorter than his companion and more clumsily made,though not by any means a stout man. Though he did not look like asoldier he had about him the very combative air which belongs to somany modern financiers of the Christian breed. There was the bull-dogjaw, the iron mouth, and the aggressive blue eye of the man who takesand keeps by force rather than by astuteness. Though his face hadlines in it and his complexion was far from brilliant he lookedscarcely forty years of age, and his short, rough, sandy hair had notyet begun to turn grey.

  He was not ugly, but Margaret had always seen something in his facethat repelled her. It was some lack of proportion somewhere, whichshe could not precisely define; it was something that was out ofthe common type of faces, but that was disquieting rather thaninteresting. Instead of wondering what it meant, those who noticed itwished it were not there.

  Margaret was sure she could distinguish his heavy step from Griggs'swhen he was near her, but she would not look up from her book till hestopped and spoke to her.

  'Good-morning, Madame Cordova; how are you this morning?' he inquired,holding out his hand. 'You didn't expect to see me on board, did you?'

  His tone was hard and business-like, but he lifted his yachting cappolitely as he held out his hand. Margaret hesitated a moment beforetaking it, and when she moved her own he was already holding his outto Miss More.

  'Good-morning, Miss More; how are you this morning?'

  Miss More leaned forward and put down one foot as if she would haverisen in the presence of the great man, but he pushed her back by herhand which he held, and proceeded to shake hands with the little girl.

  'Good-morning, Miss Ida; how are you this morning?'

  Margaret felt sure that if he had shaken hands with a hundred peoplehe would have repeated the same words to each without any variation.She looked at G
riggs imploringly, and glanced at his vacant chair onher right side. He did not answer by sitting down, because the actionwould have been too like deliberately telling Mr. Van Torp to go away,but he began to fold up the chair as if he were going to take it away,and then he seemed to find that there was something wrong with one ofits joints, and altogether it gave him a good deal of trouble, andmade it quite impossible for the great man to get any nearer toMargaret.

  Little Ida had taken Mr. Van Torp's proffered hand, and had watchedhis hard lips when he spoke. She answered quite clearly and ratherslowly, in the somewhat monotonous voice of those born deaf who havelearned to speak.

  'I'm very well, thank you, Mr. Van Torp. I hope you are quite well.'

  Margaret heard, and saw the child's face, and at once decided that, ifthe little girl knew of her own relationship to Ida Bamberger, she wascertainly ignorant of the fact that her half-sister had been engagedto Mr. Van Torp, when she had died so suddenly less than a week ago.Little Ida's manner strengthened the impression in Margaret's mindthat the millionaire was having her educated by Miss More. Yet itseemed impossible that the rich old Senator should not have left herwell provided.

  'I see you've made friends with Madame Cordova,' said Mr. Van Torp.'I'm very glad, for she's quite an old friend of mine too.'

  Margaret made a slight movement, but said nothing. Miss More saw herannoyance and intervened by speaking to the financier.

  'We began to fear that we might not see you at all on the voyage,' shesaid, in a tone of some concern. 'I hope you have not been sufferingagain.'

  Margaret wondered whether she meant to ask if he had been sea-sick;what she said sounded like an inquiry about some more or less frequentindisposition, though Mr. Van Torp looked as strong as a ploughman.

  In answer to the question he glanced sharply at Miss More, and shookhis head.

  'I've been too busy to come on deck,' he said, rather curtly, and heturned to Margaret again.

  'Will you take a little walk with me, Madame Cordova?' he asked.

  Not having any valid excuse for refusing, Margaret smiled, for thefirst time since she had seen him on deck.

  'I'm so comfortable!' she answered. 'Don't make me get out of my rug!'

  'If you'll take a little walk with me, I'll give you a prettypresent,' said Mr. Van Torp playfully.

  Margaret thought it best to laugh and shake her head at this singularoffer. Little Ida had been watching them both.

  'You'd better go with him,' said the child gravely. 'He makes lovelypresents.'

  'Does he?' Margaret laughed again.

  '"A fortress that parleys, or a woman who listens, is lost,'" put inGriggs, quoting an old French proverb.

  'Then I won't listen,' Margaret said.

  Mr. Van Torp planted himself more firmly on his sturdy legs, for theship was rolling a little.

  'I'll give you a book, Madame Cordova,' he said.

  His habit of constantly repeating the name of the person with whomhe was talking irritated her extremely. She was not smiling when sheanswered.

  'Thank you. I have more books than I can possibly read.'

  'Yes. But you have not the one I will give you, and it happens to bethe only one you want.'

  'But I don't want any book at all! I don't want to read!'

  'Yes, you do, Madame Cordova. You want to read this one, and it's theonly copy on board, and if you'll take a little walk with me I'll giveit to you.'

  As he spoke he very slowly drew a new book from the depths of the widepocket in his overcoat, but only far enough to show Margaret the firstwords of the title, and he kept his aggressive blue eyes fixed on herface. A faint blush came into her cheeks at once and he let the volumeslip back. Griggs, being on his other side, had not seen it, and itmeant nothing to Miss More. To the latter's surprise Margaret pushedher heavy rug from her knees and let her feet slip from the chair tothe ground. Her eyes met Griggs's as she rose, and seeing that hislook asked her whether he was to carry out her previous instructionsand walk beside her, she shook her head.

  'Nine times out of ten, proverbs are true,' he said in a tone ofamusement.

  Mr. Van Torp's hard face expressed no triumph when Margaret stoodbeside him, ready to walk. She had yielded, as he had been sure shewould; he turned from the other passengers to go round to the weatherside of the ship, and she went with him submissively. Just at thepoint where the wind and the fine spray would have met them if theyhad gone on, he stopped in the lee of a big ventilator. There was noone in sight of them now.

  'Excuse me for making you get up,' he said. 'I wanted to see you alonefor a moment.'

  Margaret said nothing in answer to this apology, and she met his fixedeyes coldly.

  'You were with Miss Bamberger when she died,' he said.

  Margaret bent her head gravely in assent. His face was asexpressionless as a stone.

  'I thought she might have mentioned me before she died,' he saidslowly.

  'Yes,' Margaret answered after a moment's pause; 'she did.'

  'What did she say?'

  'She told me that it was a secret, but that I was to tell you what shesaid, if I thought it best.'

  'Are you going to tell me?'

  It was impossible to guess whether he was controlling any emotion ornot; but if the men with whom he had done business where large sumswere involved had seen him now and had heard his voice, they wouldhave recognised the tone and the expression.

  'She said, "he did it,"' Margaret answered slowly, after a moment'sthought.

  'Was that all she said?'

  'That was all. A moment later she was dead. Before she said it, shetold me it was a secret, and she made me promise solemnly never totell any one but you.'

  'It's not much of a secret, is it?' As he spoke, Mr. Van Torp turnedhis eyes from Margaret's at last and looked at the grey sea beyond theventilator.

  'Such as it is, I have told it to you because she wished me to,'answered Margaret. 'But I shall never tell any one else. It will beall the easier to be silent, as I have not the least idea what shemeant.'

  'She meant our engagement,' said Mr. Van Torp in a matter-of-facttone. 'We had broken it off that afternoon. She meant that it was Iwho did it, and so it was. Perhaps she did not like to think that whenshe was dead people might call her heartless and say she had thrown meover; and no one would ever know the truth except me, unless I choseto tell--me and her father.'

  'Then you were not to be married after all!' Margaret showed hersurprise.

  'No. I had broken it off. We were going to let it be known the nextday.'

  'On the very eve of the wedding!'

  'Yes.' Mr. Van Torp fixed his eyes on Margaret's again. 'On the veryeve of the wedding,' he said, repeating her words.

  He spoke very slowly and without emphasis, but with the greatestpossible distinctness. Margaret had once been taken to see a motor-carmanufactory and she remembered a machine that clipped bits off theend of an iron bar, inch by inch, smoothly and deliberately. Mr. VanTorp's lips made her think of that; they seemed to cut the hard wordsone by one, in lengths.

  'Poor girl!' she sighed, and looked away.

  The man's face did not change, and if his next words echoed thesympathy she expressed his tone did not.

  'I was a good deal cut up myself,' he observed coolly. 'Here's yourbook, Madame Cordova.'

  'No,' Margaret answered with a little burst of indignation, 'I don'twant it. I won't take it from you!'

  'What's the matter now?' asked Mr. Van Torp without the least changeof manner. 'It's your friend Mr. Lushington's latest, you know, and itwon't be out for ten days. I thought you would like to see it, so Igot an advance copy before it was published.'

  He held the volume out to her, but she would not even look at it, noranswer him.

  'How you hate me! Don't you, Madame Cordova?'

  Margaret still said nothing. She was considering how she could bestget rid of him. If she simply brushed past him and went back to herchair on the lee side, he would follow her an
d go on talking to her asif nothing had happened; and she knew that in that case she would losecontrol of herself before Griggs and Miss More.

  'Oh, well,' he went on, 'if you don't want the book, I don't. I can'tread novels myself, and I daresay it's trash anyhow.'

  Thereupon, with a quick movement of his arm and hand, he sent Mr.Lushington's latest novel flying over the lee rail, fully thirty feetaway, and it dropped out of sight into the grey waves. He had been agood baseball pitcher in his youth.

  Margaret bit her lip and her eyes flashed.

  'You are quite the most disgustingly brutal person I ever met,' shesaid, no longer able to keep down her anger.

  'No,' he answered calmly. 'I'm not brutal; I'm only logical. I took agreat deal of trouble to get that book for you because I thoughtit would give you pleasure, and it wasn't a particularly legaltransaction by which I got it either. Since you didn't want it, Iwasn't going to let anybody else have the satisfaction of reading itbefore it was published, so I just threw it away because it is saferin the sea than knocking about in my cabin. If you hadn't seen methrow it overboard you would never have believed that I had. You'renot much given to believing me, anyway. I've noticed that. Are you,now?'

  'Oh, it was not the book!'

  Margaret turned from him and made a step forward so that she faced thesharp wind. It cut her face and she felt that the little pain wasa relief. He came and stood beside her with his hands deep in thepockets of his overcoat.

  'If you think I'm a brute on account of what I told you aboutMiss Bamberger,' he said, 'that's not quite fair. I broke off ourengagement because I found out that we were going to make each othermiserable and we should have had to divorce in six months; and if halfthe people who are just going to get married would do the same thingthere would be a lot more happy women in the world, not to say men!That's all, and she knew it, poor girl, and was just as glad as I waswhen the thing was done. Now what is there so brutal in that, MadameCordova?'

  Margaret turned on him almost fiercely.

  'Why do you tell me all this?' she asked. 'For heaven's sake let poorMiss Bamberger rest in her grave!'

  'Since you ask me why,' answered Mr. Van Torp, unmoved, 'I tell youall this because I want you to know more about me than you do. If youdid, you'd hate me less. That's the plain truth. You know very wellthat there's nobody like you, and that if I'd judged I had theslightest chance of getting you I would no more have thought ofmarrying Miss Bamberger than of throwing a million dollars into thesea after that book, or ten million, and that's a great deal ofmoney.'

  'I ought to be flattered,' said Margaret with scorn, still facing thewind.

  'No. I'm not given to flattery, and money means something real to me,because I've fought for it, and got it. Your regular young lover willalways call you his precious treasure, and I don't see much differencebetween a precious treasure and several million dollars. I'm logical,you see. I tell you I'm logical, that's all.'

  'I daresay. I think we have been talking here long enough. Shall we goback?'

  She had got her anger under again. She detested Mr. Van Torp, but shewas honest enough to realise that for the present she had resented hissaying that Lushington's book was probably trash, much more than whathe had told her of his broken engagement. She turned and came back tothe ventilator, meaning to go around to her chair, but he stopped her.

  'Don't go yet, please!' he said, keeping beside her. 'Call me adisgusting brute if you like. I sha'n't mind it, and I daresay it'strue in a kind of way. Business isn't very refining, you know, and itwas the only education I got after I was sixteen. I'm sorry I calledthat book rubbish, for I'm sure it's not. I've met Mr. Lushington inEngland several times; he's very clever, and he's got a first-rateposition. But you see I didn't like your refusing the book, after I'dtaken so much trouble to get it for you. Perhaps if I hadn't thrown itoverboard you'd take it, now that I've apologised. Would you?'

  His tone had changed at last, as she had known it to change before inthe course of an acquaintance that had lasted more than a year. He putthe question almost humbly.

  'I don't know,' Margaret answered, relenting a little in spite ofherself. 'At all events I'm sorry I was so rude. I lost my temper.'

  'It was very natural,' said Mr. Van Torp meekly, but not looking ather, 'and I know I deserved it. You really would let me give you thebook now, if it were possible, wouldn't you?'

  'Perhaps.' She thought that as there was no such possibility it wassafe to say as much as that.

  'I should feel so much better if you would,' he answered. 'I shouldfeel as if you'd accepted my apology. Won't you say it, MadameCordova?'

  'Well--yes--since you wish it so much,' Margaret replied, feeling thatshe risked nothing.

  'Here it is, then,' he said, to her amazement, producing the new novelfrom the pocket of his overcoat, and enjoying her surprise as he putit into her hand.

  It looked like a trick of sleight of hand, and she took the book andstared at him, as a child stares at the conjuror who produces an appleout of its ear.

  'But I saw you throw it away,' she said in a puzzled tone.

  'I got two while I was about it,' said Mr. Van Torp, smiling withoutshowing his teeth. 'It was just as easy and it didn't cost me anymore.'

  'I see! Thank you very much.'

  She knew that she could not but keep the volume now, and in her heartshe was glad to have it, for Lushington had written to her about itseveral times since she had been in America.

  'Well, I'll leave you now,' said the millionaire, resuming his stonyexpression. 'I hope I've not kept you too long.'

  Before Margaret had realised the idiotic conventionality of the lastwords her companion had disappeared and she was left alone. He had notgone back in the direction whence they had come, but had taken thedeserted windward side of the ship, doubtless with the intention ofavoiding the crowd.

  Margaret stood still for some time in the lee of the ventilator,holding the novel in her hand and thinking. She wondered whether Mr.Van Torp had planned the whole scene, including the sacrifice of thenovel. If he had not, it was certainly strange that he should have hadthe second copy ready in his pocket. Lushington had once told her thatgreat politicians and great financiers were always great comedians,and now that she remembered the saying it occurred to her that Mr. VanTorp reminded her of a certain type of American actor, a type thathas a heavy jaw and an aggressive eye, and strongly resembles theportraits of Daniel Webster. Now Daniel Webster had a wide reputationas a politician, but there is reason to believe that the numerouspersons who lent him money and never got it back thought him afinancier of undoubted ability, if not a comedian of talent. Therewere giants in those days.

  The English girl, breathing the clean air of the ocean, felt as ifsomething had left a bad taste in her mouth; and the famous youngsinger, who had seen in two years what a normal Englishwoman wouldneither see, nor guess at, nor wish to imagine in a lifetime, thoughtshe understood tolerably well what the bad taste meant. Moreover,Margaret Donne was ashamed of what Margarita da Cordova knew, andCordova had moments of sharp regret when she thought of the girl whohad been herself, and had lived under good Mrs. Rushmore's protection,like a flower in a glass house.

  She remembered, too, how Lushington and Mrs. Rushmore had warned herand entreated her not to become an opera-singer. She had taken herfuture into her own hands and had soon found out what it meant to bea celebrity on the stage; and she had seen only too clearly whereshe was classed by the women who would have been her companions andfriends if she had kept out of the profession. She had learned byexperience, too, how little real consideration she could expect frommen of the world, and how very little she could really exact from suchpeople as Mr. Van Torp; still less could she expect to get it frompersons like Schreiermeyer, who looked upon the gifted men and womenhe engaged to sing as so many head of cattle, to be driven more orless hard according to their value, and to be turned out to starve themoment they were broken-winded. That fate is sure to overtake the bestof th
em sooner or later. The career of a great opera-singer is rarelymore than half as long as that of a great tragedian, and even when aprimadonna or a tenor makes a fortune, the decline of their glory isfar more sudden and sad than that of actors generally is. Lady Macbethis as great a part as Juliet for an actress of genius, but there areno 'old parts' for singers; the soprano dare not turn into a contraltowith advancing years, nor does the unapproachable Parsifal ofeight-and-twenty turn into an incomparable Amfortas at fifty. For theactor, it often happens that the first sign of age is fatigue; in thesinger's day, the first shadow is an eclipse, the first false note isdisaster, the first breakdown is often a heart-rending failure thatbrings real tears to the eyes of younger comrades. The exquisite voicedoes not grow weak and pathetic and ethereal by degrees, so that westill love to hear it, even to the end; far more often it is suddenlyflat or sharp by a quarter of a tone throughout whole acts, or itbreaks on one note in a discordant shriek that is the end. Down goesthe curtain then, in the middle of the great opera, and down goes thegreat singer for ever into tears and silence. Some of us have seenthat happen, many have heard of it; few can think without realsympathy of such mortal suffering and distress.

  Margaret realised all this, without any illusion, but there wasanother side to the question. There was success, glorious andfar-reaching, and beyond her brightest dreams; there was the certaintythat she was amongst the very first, for the deafening ring ofuniversal applause was in her ears; and, above all, there was youth.Sometimes it seemed to her that she had almost too much, and that somedreadful thing must happen to her; yet if there were moments when shefaintly regretted the calmer, sweeter life she might have led, sheknew that she would have given that life up, over and over again, forthe splendid joy of holding thousands spellbound while she sang. Shehad the real lyric artist's temperament, for that breathless silenceof the many while her voice rang out alone, and trilled and died awayto a delicate musical echo, was more to her than the roar of applausethat could be heard through the walls and closed doors in the streetoutside. To such a moment as that Faustus himself would have cried'Stay!' though the price of satisfied desire were his soul. And therehad been many such moments in Cordova's life. They satisfied somethingmuch deeper than greedy vanity and stronger than hungry ambition. Callit what you will, according to the worth you set on such art, it isa longing which only artists feel, and to which only something inthemselves can answer. To listen to perfect music is a feast for gods,but to be the living instrument beyond compare is to be a god oneself.Of our five senses, sight calls up visions, divine as well as earthly,but hearing alone can link body, mind, and soul with higher things, bythe word and by the word made song. The mere memory of hearing when itis lost is still enough for the ends of genius; for the poet and thecomposer touch the blind most deeply, perhaps, when other senses donot count at all; but a painter who loses his sight is as helpless inthe world of art as a dismasted ship in the middle of the ocean.

  Some of these thoughts passed through Margaret's brain as she stoodbeside the ventilator with her friend's new book in her hand, and,although her reflections were not new to her, it was the first timeshe clearly understood that her life had made two natures out of heroriginal self, and that the two did not always agree. She felt thatshe was not halved by the process, but doubled. She was two womeninstead of one, and each woman was complete in herself. She had notfound this out by any elaborate self-study, for healthy people do notstudy themselves. She simply felt it, and she was sure it was true,because she knew that each of her two selves was able to do, suffer,and enjoy as much as any one woman could. The one might like what theother disliked and feared, but the contradiction was open and natural,not secret or morbid. The two women were called respectively MadameCordova and Miss Donne. Miss Donne thought Madame Cordova very showy,and much too tolerant of vulgar things and people, if not a littletouched with vulgarity herself. On the other hand, the brilliantlysuccessful Cordova thought Margaret Donne a good girl, but rathersilly. Miss Donne was very fond of Edmund Lushington, the writer, butthe Primadonna had a distinct weakness for Constantine Logotheti, theGreek financier who lived in Paris, and who wore too many rubies anddiamonds.

  On two points, at least, the singer and the modest English girlagreed, for they both detested Rufus Van Torp, and each had positiveproof that he was in love with her, if what he felt deserved the name.

  For in very different ways she was really loved by Lushington and byLogotheti; and since she had been famous she had made the acquaintanceof a good many very high and imposing personages, whose names are tobe found in the first and second part of the _Almanack de Gotha_, inthe Olympian circle of the reigning or the supernal regions of theSerene Mediatized, far above the common herd of dukes and princes;they had offered her a share in the overflowing abundance of theiradmirative protection; and then had seemed surprised, if not deeplymoved, by the independence she showed in declining their intimacy.Some of them were frankly and contentedly cynical; some were of abrutality compared with which the tastes and manners of a bargee wouldhave seemed ladylike; some were as refined and sensitive as Englishold maids, though less scrupulous and much less shy; the one wasas generous as an Irish sailor, the next was as mean as a Normandypeasant; some had offered her rivers of rubies, and some had proposedto take her incognito for a drive in a cab, because it would be soamusing--and so inexpensive. Yet in their families and varietiesthey were all of the same species, all human and all subject to theordinary laws of attraction and repulsion. Rufus Van Torp was not likethem.

  Neither of Margaret's selves could look upon him as a normal humanbeing. At first sight there was nothing so very unusual in his face,certainly nothing that suggested a monster; and yet, whatever mood shechanced to be in, she could not be with him five minutes without beingaware of something undefinable that always disturbed her profoundly,and sometimes became positively terrifying. She always felt thesensation coming upon her after a few moments, and when it hadactually come she could hardly hide her repulsion till she felt, asto-day, that she must run from him, without the least considerationof pride or dignity. She might have fled like that before a fire or aflood, or from the scene of an earthquake, and more than once nothinghad kept her in her place but her strong will and healthy nerves. Sheknew that it was like the panic that seizes people in the presence ofan appalling disturbance of nature.

  Doubtless, when she had talked with Mr. Van Torp just now, she hadbeen disgusted by the indifferent way in which he spoke of poor MissBamberger's sudden death; it was still more certain that what he saidabout the book, and his very ungentlemanly behaviour in throwing itinto the sea, had roused her justifiable anger. But she would havesmiled at the thought that an exhibition of heartlessness, or the mostutter lack of manners, could have made her wish to run away from anyother man. Her life had accustomed her to people who had no morefeeling than Schreiermeyer, and no better manners than PompeoStromboli. Van Torp might have been on his very best behaviour thatmorning, or at any of her previous chance meetings with him; sooneror later she would have felt that same absurd and unreasoning fearof him, and would have found it very hard not to turn and make herescape. His face was so stony and his eyes were so aggressive; he wasalways like something dreadful that was just going to happen.

  Yet Margarita da Cordova was a brave woman, and had lately been calleda heroine because she had gone on singing after that explosion tillthe people were quiet again; and Margaret Donne was a sensible girl,justly confident of being able to take care of herself where men wereconcerned. She stood still and wondered what there was about Mr. VanTorp that could frighten her so dreadfully.

  After a little while she went quietly back to her chair, and sat downbetween Griggs and Miss More. The elderly man rose and packed herneatly in her plaid, and she thanked him. Miss More looked at her andsmiled vaguely, as even the most intelligent people do sometimes. ThenGriggs got into his own chair again and took up his book.

  'Was that right of me?' he asked presently, so low that Miss More didn
ot hear him speak.

  'Yes,' Margaret answered, under her breath, 'but don't let me do itagain, please.'

  They both began to read, but after a time Margaret spoke to him againwithout turning her eyes.

  'He wanted to ask me about that girl who died at the theatre,' shesaid, just audibly.

  'Oh--yes!'

  Griggs seemed so vague that Margaret glanced at him. He was looking atthe inside of his right hand in a meditative way, as if it recalledsomething. If he had shown more interest in what she said she wouldhave told him what she had just learned, about the breaking off of theengagement, but he was evidently absorbed in thought, while he slowlyrubbed that particular spot on his hand, and looked at it again andagain as if it recalled something.

  Margaret did not resent his indifference, for he was much more thanold enough to be her father; he was a man whom all younger writerslooked upon as a veteran, he had always been most kind and courteousto her when she had met him, and she freely conceded him the right tobe occupied with his own thoughts and not with hers. With him she wasalways Margaret Donne, and he seldom talked to her about music, or ofher own work. Indeed, he so rarely mentioned music that she fancied hedid not really care for it, and she wondered why he was so often inthe house when she sang.

  Mr. Van Torp did not show himself at luncheon, and Margaret began tohope that he would not appear on deck again till the next day. Inthe afternoon the wind dropped, the clouds broke, and the sun shonebrightly. Little Ida, who was tired of doing crochet work, and hadlooked at all the books that had pictures, came and begged Margaret towalk round the ship with her. It would please her small child's vanityto show everybody that the great singer was willing to be seen walkingup and down with her, although she was quite deaf, and could not hopeever to hear music. It was her greatest delight to be treated beforeevery one as if she were just like other girls, and her cleverness inwatching the lips of the person with her, without seeming too intent,was wonderful.

  They went the whole length of the promenade deck, as if they werereviewing the passengers, bundled and packed in their chairs, and thepassengers looked at them both with so much interest that the childmade Margaret come all the way back again.

  'The sea has a voice, too, hasn't it?' Ida asked, as they paused andlooked over the rail.

  She glanced up quickly for the answer, but Margaret did not find oneat once.

  'Because I've read poetry about the voices of the sea,' Ida explained.'And in books they talk of the music of the waves, and then they saythe sea roars, and thunders in a storm. I can hear thunder, you know.Did you know that I could hear thunder?'

  Margaret smiled and looked interested.

  'It bangs in the back of my head,' said the child gravely. 'But Ishould like to hear the sea thunder. I often watch the waves on thebeach, as if they were lips moving, and I try to understand what theysay. Of course, it's play, because one can't, can one? But I can onlymake out "Boom, ta-ta-ta-ta," getting quicker and weaker to the end,you know, as the ripples run up the sand.'

  'It's very like what I hear,' Margaret answered.

  'Is it really?' Little Ida was delighted. 'Perhaps it's a languageafter all, and I shall make it out some day. You see, until I know thelanguage people are speaking, their lips look as if they were talkingnonsense. But I'm sure the sea could not really talk nonsense all dayfor thousands of years.'

  'No, I'm sure it couldn't!' Margaret was amused. 'But the sea is notalive,' she added.

  'Everything that moves is alive,' the child said, 'and everything thatis alive can make a noise, and the noise must mean something. If itdidn't, it would be of no use, and everything is of some use. Sothere!'

  Delighted with her own argument, the beautiful child laughed andshowed her even teeth in the sun.

  They were standing at the end of the promenade deck, which extendedtwenty feet abaft the smoking-room, and took the whole beam; abovethe latter, as in most modern ships, there was the boat deck, to theafter-part of which passengers had access. Standing below, it was easyto see and talk with any one who looked over the upper rail.

  Ida threw her head back and looked up as she laughed, and Margaretlaughed good-naturedly with her, thinking how pretty she was. Butsuddenly the child's expression changed, her face grew grave, and hereyes fixed themselves intently on some point above. Margaret looked inthe same direction, and saw that Mr. Van Torp was standing alone upthere, leaning against the railing and evidently not seeing her, forhe gazed fixedly into the distance; and as he stood there, his lipsmoved as if he were talking to himself.

  Margaret gave a little start of surprise when she saw him, but thechild watched him steadily, and a look of fear stole over her face.Suddenly she grasped Margaret's arm.

  'Come away! Come away!' she cried in a low tone of terror.