by Hugh Conway
There was only one thing I could now do. I must follow the two women. So, for the next hour or more wherever they went, at a respectful distance, I followed. I waited whilst they entered one or two shops, and when their walk was resumed discreetly dogged their steps. I kept so far in the rear that my pursuit was bound to be unnoticed and could cause no annoyance. They soon turned out of Regent Street and walked on until they came to one of those many rows of houses in Maida Vale. I marked the house they entered, and as I passed by it, a few minutes afterwards, saw in the front window the girl arranging a few flowers in a vase. It was evident I had ascertained her abode.
It was Fate! I was in love and could only act as my passion impelled me. I must find out all about this unknown. I must make her acquaintance and so obtain the right of looking into those strange but beautiful eyes. I must hear her speak. I laughed again at the absurdity of being in love with a woman whose voice I had never heard, whose native language was a matter of uncertainty. But then, love is full of absurdities. When once he gets the whip hand he drives us in strange ways.
I formed a bold resolve. I retraced my steps and walked up to the house. The door was opened by a tidy-looking servant.
‘Have you any rooms to let?’ I asked; having jumped at the conclusion that the unknown was only lodging at the house.
The servant replied in the affirmative, and upon my expressing a wish to see the vacant rooms I was shown a dining-room and bedroom on the ground floor.
Had these rooms been dungeons instead of airy, cheerful apartments—had they been empty and bare instead of comfortably furnished—had the rent been fifty pounds a week instead of the moderate sum asked, I should have engaged them. I was very easy to deal with. The landlady was summoned and the bargain struck at once. If that good person had known state of my mind she might have reaped a golden harvest of her ground floor apartments. As it was, the only thing she was exacting in was the matter of references. I named several, then I paid a month’s rent in advance and received her permission, as I had just returned to England and wanted a home at once, to enter into possession that very evening.
‘By the by,’ I said carelessly, as I left the house to get my luggage, ‘I forgot to ask if you have other lodgers—no children, I hope?’
‘No, sir—only a lady and her servant. They are on the first floor—very quiet people.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I dare say I shall be very, comfortable. You may expect me about seven o’clock.’
I had re-engaged my old rooms in Walpole Street before the meeting with my unknown had changed my plans. I went back there, and after packing up all I wanted, informed the people of the house that I was going to stay at a friend’s for a few weeks. The rooms were to be kept for me all the same. At seven o’clock I was at Maida Vale and duly installed.
It was the hand of Fate had wrought this—who could doubt it? This morning I was almost on my way to Turin in search of my love. This evening I am beneath the same roof. As I sit here in my arm-chair and see all kinds of beautiful visions wreathed in the smoke curling from my cigar, I can scarcely believe that she is within a few feet of me—that I shall see her tomorrow—the next day—for ever and ever! Yes, I am hopelessly in love—I go to bed thinking I shall dream of her; but, probably owing to the strange quarters, my dreams are far less pleasant. All night long I dream of the blind man who walked into a strange house and heard such fearful sounds!
CHAPTER IV
NOT FOR LOVE OR MARRIAGE
A WEEK has passed by. I am more in love than ever. I am now satisfied as to the thoroughness of my passion; certain that this sudden love of mine will endure as long as my life, that it is no transient flush to fade away with time or absence. Whether my suit be successful or not this woman will be my first and last love.
As yet I have made little progress in the furthering of my desire. I see her every day, because I watch for her coming and going; and every time I see her I find fresh charms in her face and graces in her figure. Yet Kenyon was right. Hers is a peculiar style of beauty. That pale pure face, those dark dreamy far-away eyes, are out of the common run of womanhood. It may be this accounts for the strange fascination she has for me. Her carriage is upright and graceful; she walks always at the same pace; her face is always grave, and it seems to me she seldom speaks to that old companion or servant who never quits her side. I am beginning to look upon her as a riddle, and wonder if the key will ever be mine.
I have found out some few things about her. Her name is Pauline—a sweet and suitable name—Pauline March. She is therefore English, although I sometimes hear her saying a few words in Italian to old Teresa, her servant. She seems to know no one, and, so far as I can learn, no one knows more about her than I do—I, at least, know she came from Turin, and that is more than my informants knew.
I still occupy my rooms, waiting my chance. It is tantalizing to live in the same house with the one you love and find no opportunity of even commencing the siege. That old Teresa guards her charge like a Spanish duenna. Her dark eyes glance quickly and suspiciously at me whenever I meet the two women, and bid them the good-morning or good-evening which a fellow-lodger may venture upon. As yet I have got no further than these cold civilities. Pauline’s eyes and manner give me no encouragement. She acknowledges my salutation gravely, distantly, and apathetically. It is clear to me that love at first sight is not bound to be reciprocal. I comfort myself by thinking that Fate must have something in store for me, or Pauline and I would never have been brought face to face again.
So all I can do is to lurk behind the thick red curtains of my window and watch my love, guarded by that old cat Teresa, go out and come in. I am obliged now to exercise due caution in this proceeding, as the duenna once caught sight of me, and now each time they pass I see her fierce eyes peering into my hiding place. I am beginning to hate Teresa.
Yet if I have done little, I am in the same house, breathing the same air as Pauline, and I am a patient man and can wait for my opportunity. It will be sure to come at last.
This is how it came. One evening I heard a fall, a clatter of china and a cry of distress. I ran out of my room and found Teresa lying on the stairs amid the ruins of the landlady’s best tea set, and groaning earnestly. My chance had come!
With the shameless hypocrisy of love, I ran to her aid, as eager to help her as though she had been my mother. I endeavoured, in the most tender manner, to raise her; but she sank back, wailing out something about ‘one of ze foots broke’. It was clear that Teresa’s English was not her strong point; so I asked her in Italian what was the matter. She brightened up as she heard her own language, and I found that she had sprained her knee so severely that she was unable to rise. I told her that I would carry her to her room, and without more ado picked her up and bore her upstairs.
Pauline was standing on the landing. Her large dark eyes were opened wide, her whole appearance that of affright. I paused a moment and explained what had happened, then I took the old woman into the room which she occupied and laid her on the bed. The servant of the house was sent for a doctor, and, as I retired, Pauline thanked me quietly, but I fancied listlessly, for my kindness. Those dreamy eyes met mine, yet scarcely seemed to know it. Yes, I was obliged to confess it, my goddess was in manner apathetic—but then, her beauty! Those refined regular features, the girlish but well-formed figure—the thick brown hair, even those strange dark eyes. Surely there was no woman in the world to compare with her!
She gave me her hand at parting—a small well-formed, soft hand. I could scarcely refrain from pressing my lips to it—I could scarcely refrain from telling her then and there that for months I had thought of her and her only—but injudicious as such proceedings might have been at a first meeting they would have been doubly so whilst old Teresa was lying, and, in spite of her pains, with suspicious eyes watching every movement of mine; so I could only express a wish to be of further service to her and bow myself out discreetly.
But the ice was broken�
�our hands had met. Pauline and I were strangers no longer!
Old Teresa’s sprain, although not such a serious affair as she fancied, kept her indoors for several days. I hoped this would enable me to improve my acquaintance with her mistress, but the result was not commensurate with the hope. For the first few days Pauline, so far as I knew, did not leave the house. Once or twice I met her on the stairs and, assuming a fictitious interest in the old woman, kept her in conversation for a minute or two. It seemed to me that she was painfully shy—so shy that the conversation I would fain have prolonged, after a little while died a natural death. I was not conceited enough to attribute her shyness and reticence to the same cause which made me blush and stammer as I spoke to her.
At last, one morning I saw her leave the house alone. I took my hat and followed her. She was walking up and down the pavement in front of the house. I joined her, and, after the usual inquiry for Teresa, continued at her side. I must make an attempt to establish matters on a better footing between us.
‘You have not been long in England, Miss March?’ I said.
‘Some time—some months,’ she replied.
‘I saw you in the spring at Turin—in church, at San Giovanni.’ She raised her eyes and met mine with a strange, puzzled look.
‘You were there with your old servant—one morning,’ I continued.
‘Yes—we often went there.’
‘You are English, I suppose—your name is not an Italian one?’
‘Yes, I am English.’
She spoke as though not quite certain about it—or as if it was a matter of complete indifference.
‘Your home is here—You are not going back to Italy?’
‘I don’t know—I cannot tell.’
Pauline’s manner was very unsatisfying. I made many attempts to learn something about her habits and tastes. Did she play or sing—was she fond of music, of pictures, of flowers, of the stage, of travelling? Had she many relations and friends? Directly and indirectly, I asked her all these questions.
Her replies were unsatisfactory. Either she evaded the questions, as if determined I should know nothing about her, or she did not seem to understand them. Many of them I felt sure puzzled her. At the end of our little promenade she remained as great a mystery to me as before. The only comfort I could take was that she displayed no wish to shun me. We passed and repassed the house several times, but she did not suggest re-entering, as she might have done had she wished to get rid of me. There was no trace of coquetry in her manner—quiet and reserved as I found her, she was at least simple and natural—and she was very beautiful, and I was very, very much in love!
It was not long before I discovered that old Teresa’s black eyes were watching us from behind the blind of the drawing-room. She must have crept from her bed to see that her charge got into no mischief. I chafed at the espionage, but as yet it was too early to escape from it.
Before Teresa could hobble out of doors I had met Pauline more than once in the same way. She seemed, I was glad to believe, pleased when I joined her. The difficulty I laboured under was to make her talk. She would listen to all I had to say without comment and without reply, save yes or no. If, by a rare chance, she asked a question or spoke a longer sentence than usual, the effort was never sustained. I attributed a great deal of this to shyness and to her secluded life—for the only person she had to speak to was that terrible old Teresa.
Although every word and action of Pauline’s told me she was well educated and well bred, I was certainly surprised at her ignorance of literature. If I quoted an author, mentioned a book by name, the remark passed unnoticed; or she looked at me as if puzzled by my allusion, or distressed at her own ignorance. Although I had now seen her several times, I was not satisfied at the progress I had made. I knew I had not as yet struck the key-note of her nature.
As soon as the old servant, duenna, friend, or what she was, grew well, I heard some startling news. My landlady asked me if I could recommend her apartments to any friend of mine—such another as myself, she was good enough to say—Miss March was going to leave, and the landlady thought she would prefer taking a gentleman in her place.
I felt certain this was a countermove of that old hag Teresa’s. She had cast venomous glances at me when we passed each other on the stairs; had responded surlily when I asked if she had quite recovered from the effects of her accident—in a word, I knew she was my enemy; that she had discovered my feelings toward Pauline and was doing her best to keep us apart. I had no means of knowing the extent of her power or influence over the girl, but I had some time since ceased to regard her as anything more than a servant. The intelligence that my fellow-lodgers were about to quit showed me that to bring my love for Pauline to a successful issue, I must in some way make matters straight with this unpleasant old attendant.
That same evening, as I heard her coming down the stairs, I threw open my door and stood face to face with her.
‘Signora Teresa,’ I said, with high-flown politeness, ‘will it please you to step into my room? I wish to speak to you.’
She gave me a quick, suspicious glance, but nevertheless complied with my request. I closed the door and placed a chair for her.
‘Your poor knee—is it quite well?’ I asked sympathetically, and in Italian.
‘It is quite well, Signor,’ she replied laconically.
‘Will you take a glass of sweet wine? I have some here.’
Teresa, in spite of our inimical relations, made no objection, so I filled a glass and watched her sip it approvingly.
‘Is the Signorina—Miss March well? I have not seen her today.’
‘She is well.’
‘It is about her I wish to speak to you—you have guessed that?’
‘I have guessed it.’ As she spoke Teresa gave me a sullen, defiant look.
‘Yes,’ I continued, ‘your vigilant, faithful eyes have seen what I have no wish to conceal. I love the Signorina Pauline.’
‘She is not to be loved,’ said Teresa, sulkily.
‘One so beautiful must be loved. I love her and will marry her.’
‘She is not to be married.’
‘Listen, Teresa. I say I will marry her. I am a gentleman and rich. I have 50,000 lire a year.’
The amount of my income, magnificent when reduced to her native coinage, was not without its expected effect. If her eyes, as they met mine, were as unfriendly as ever, their look of astonishment and increasing respect told me I was appealing to her tenderest feeling—cupidity.
‘Now tell me why I should not marry the Signorina? Tell me who her friends are, that I may see them and ask her in marriage?’
‘She is not for marriage.’
This was all I could get from the old woman. She would tell me nothing about Pauline’s family or friends. She would only reiterate that she was not for love or for marriage.
I had but one chance left. Teresa’s eager look when I mentioned the income I possessed had impressed me. I must condescend to the vulgar act of direct bribery; the end would justify the means.
As I was so often travelling it was my habit to carry a large sum of money on my person. I drew out my pocket-book and counted out a hundred pounds in new crisp notes. Teresa eyed them hungrily.
‘You know what these are worth?’ I said. She nodded. I pushed a couple of the notes toward her. Her skinny hand seemed twitching with the desire to grasp them.
‘Tell me who Miss March’s friends are and take these two notes; all the rest shall be yours on the day we are married.’
The old woman sat silent for a while, but I knew temptation was assailing her. Presently I heard her murmuring, ‘50,000 lire! 50,000 lire a year!’ The spell worked. At last she rose.
‘Are you going to take the money?’ I asked.
‘I cannot. I dare not. I am bound. But—’
‘But what?’
‘I will write. I will say what you say to il dottore.’
‘Who is the doctor? I can write to him
or see him.’
‘Did I say il dottore? It was a slip. No, you must not write. I will ask him and he must decide.’
‘You will write at once?’
‘At once.’ Teresa, with a lingering glance at the money, turned to leave me.
‘You had better take these two notes, I said, handing them to her.
She buttoned them in the bosom of her dress with feverish delight.
‘Tell me, Teresa,’ I said, coaxingly, ‘tell me if you think—if the Signorina—Pauline—cares at all for me?’
‘Who knows?’ answered the old woman, testily; ‘I do not know—but again I say to you she is not for love or marriage.’
Not for love or marriage! I laughed aloud as I thought of the old woman’s absurd and oft-repeated assertion. If on the earth there was one woman more than another made for love and marriage it was my beautiful Pauline! I wondered what Teresa could mean; then remembering the fervour with which she prayed in San Giovanni I decided that, being an ardent Roman Catholic, she wished Pauline to take the veil. This theory would explain everything.
Now that I had bought Teresa I looked forward to the enjoyment of Pauline’s society without espionage or interruption. The old woman had taken my money, and no doubt would do her best to earn more. If I could persuade the girl to let me pass several hours of each day in her company I need fear no hindrance from Teresa. The bribe had been accepted, and, although I blushed at the expedient to which I had been compelled to resort, it had been successful.
I was obliged to defer any further attempt at lovemaking until the next evening, as an important piece of business had to be attended to in the morning. It kept me away from home for several hours, and when at last I returned to Maida Vale I was thunderstruck to hear that my fellow-lodgers had left the house. The landlady had no idea whither they had gone. Teresa, who it appears always acted as purse-bearer, had paid her dues and had departed with her young mistress. There was nothing more to tell.