That was their attitude.
But this was not all. There were the colleagues who came to see Margaret off and wished that they were going too. In spite of the windy weather there was Signor Pompeo Stromboli, the tenor, as broad as any two ordinary men, in a fur coat of the most terribly expensive sort, bringing an enormous box of chocolates with his best wishes; and there was the great German dramatic barytone, Herr Tiefenbach, who sang ‘Amfortas’ better than any one, and was a true musician as well as a man of culture, and he brought Margaret a book which he insisted that she must read on the voyage, called The Genesis of the Tone Epos; and there was that excellent and useful little artist, Fräulein Ottilie Braun, who never had an enemy in her life, who was always ready to sing any part creditably at a moment’s notice if one of the leading artists broke down, and who was altogether one of the best, kindest, and least conceited human beings that ever joined an opera company. She brought her great colleague a little bunch of violets.
Least expected of them all, there was Schreiermeyer, with a basket of grape fruit in his tightly-gloved podgy hands; and he was smiling cheerfully, which was an event in itself. They followed Margaret up to the promenade deck after her maids had gone below, and stood round her in a group, all talking at once in different languages.
Griggs chanced to be the only other passenger on that part of the deck and he joined the party, for he knew them all. Margaret gave him her hand quietly and nodded to him. Signor Stromboli was effusive in his greeting; Herr Tiefenbach gave him a solemn grip; little Fräulein Ottilie smiled pleasantly, and Schreiermeyer put into his hands the basket he carried, judging that as he could not get anything else out of the literary man he could at least make him carry a parcel.
‘Grape fruit for Cordova,’ he observed. ‘You can give it to the steward, and tell him to keep the things in a cool place.’
Griggs took the basket with a slight smile, but Stromboli snatched it from him instantly, and managed at the same time to seize upon the book Herr Tiefenbach had brought without dropping his own big box of sweetmeats.
‘I shall give everything to the waiter!’ he cried with exuberant energy as he turned away. ‘He shall take care of Cordova with his conscience! I tell you, I will frighten him!’
This was possible, and even probable. Margaret looked after the broad figure.
‘Dear old Stromboli!’ she laughed.
‘He has the kindest heart in the world,’ said little Fräulein Ottilie Braun.
‘He is no a musician,’ observed Herr Tiefenbach; ‘but he does not sing out of tune.’
‘He is a lunatic,’ said Schreiermeyer gravely. ‘All tenors are lunatics — except about money,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘I think Stromboli is very sensible,’ said Margaret, turning to Griggs. ‘He brings his little Calabrian wife and her baby out with him, and they take a small house for the winter and Italian servants, and live just as if they were in their own country and see only their Italian friends — instead of being utterly wretched in a horrible hotel.’
‘For the modest consideration of a hundred dollars a day,’ put in Griggs, who was a poor man.
‘I wish my bills were never more than that!’ Margaret laughed.
‘Yes,’ said Schreiermeyer, still thoughtful. ‘Stromboli understands money. He is a man of business. He makes his wife cook for him.’
‘I often cook for myself,’ said Fräulein Ottilie quite simply. ‘If I had a husband, I would cook for him too!’ She laughed like a child, without the slightest sourness. ‘It is easier to cook well than to marry at all, even badly!’
‘I do not at all agree with you,’ answered Herr Tiefenbach severely. ‘Without flattering myself, I may say that my wife married well; but her potato dumplings are terrifying.’
‘You were never married, were you?’ Margaret asked, turning to Griggs with a smile.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Can you make potato dumplings, and are you in search of a husband?’
‘It is the other way,’ said Schreiermeyer, ‘for the husbands are always after her. Talking of marriage, that girl who died the other night was to have been married to Mr. Van Torp yesterday, and they were to have sailed with you this morning.’
‘I saw his name on the—’ Schreiermeyer began, but he was interrupted by a tremendous blast from the ship’s horn, the first warning for non-passengers to go ashore.
Before the noise stopped Stromboli appeared again, looking very much pleased with himself, and twisting up the short black moustache that was quite lost on his big face. When he was nearer he desisted from twirling, shook a fat forefinger at Margaret and laughed.
‘Oh, well, then,’ he cried, translating his Italian literally into English, ‘I’ve been in your room, Miss Cordova! Who is this Tom, eh? Flowers from Tom, one! Sweets from Tom, two! A telegram from Tom, three! Tom, Tom, Tom; it is full of Tom, her room! In the end, what is this Tom? For me, I only know Tom the ruffian in the Ballo in Maschera. That is all the Tom I know!’
They all looked at Margaret and laughed. She blushed a little, more out of annoyance than from any other reason.
‘The maids wished to put me out,’ laughed Stromboli, ‘but they could not, because I am big. So I read everything. If I tell you I read, what harm is there?’
‘None whatever,’ Margaret answered, ‘except that it is bad manners to open other people’s telegrams.’
‘Oh, that! The maid had opened it with water, and was reading when I came. So I read too! You shall find it all well sealed again, have no fear! They all do so.’
‘Pleasant journey,’ said Schreiermeyer abruptly. ‘I’m going ashore. I’ll see you in Paris in three weeks.’
‘Read the book,’ said Herr Tiefenbach earnestly, as he shook hands. ‘It is a deep book.’
‘Do not forget me!’ cried Stromboli sentimentally, and he kissed Margaret’s gloves several times.
‘Good-bye,’ said Fräulein Ottilie. ‘Every one is sorry when you go!’
Margaret was not a gushing person, but she stooped and kissed the cheerful little woman, and pressed her small hand affectionately.
‘And everybody is glad when you come, my dear,’ she said.
For Fräulein Ottilie was perhaps the only person in the company whom Cordova really liked, and who did not jar dreadfully on her at one time or another.
Another blast from the horn and they were all gone, leaving her and Griggs standing by the rail on the upper promenade deck. The little party gathered again on the pier when they had crossed the plank, and made farewell signals to the two, and then disappeared. Unconsciously Margaret gave a little sigh of relief, and Griggs noticed it, as he noticed most things, but said nothing.
There was silence for a while, and the gangplank was still in place when the horn blew a third time, longer than before.
‘How very odd!’ exclaimed Griggs, a moment after the sound had ceased.
‘What is odd?’ Margaret asked.
She saw that he was looking down, and her eyes followed his. A square-shouldered man in mourning was walking up the plank in a leisurely way, followed by a well-dressed English valet, who carried a despatch-box in a leathern case.
‘It’s not possible!’ Margaret whispered in great surprise.
‘Perfectly possible,’ Griggs answered, in a low voice. ‘That is Rufus Van Torp.’
Margaret drew back from the rail, though the new comer was already out of sight on the lower promenade deck, to which the plank was laid to suit the height of the tide. She moved away from the door of the first cabin companion.
Griggs went with her, supposing that she wished to walk up and down. Numbers of other passengers were strolling about on the side next to the pier, waiting to see the start. Margaret went on forward, turned the deck-house and walked to the rail on the opposite side, where there was no one. Griggs glanced at her face and thought that she seemed disturbed. She looked straight before her at the closed iron doors of the next pier, at which no ship was lying.
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nbsp; ‘I wish I knew you better,’ she said suddenly.
Griggs looked at her quietly. It did not occur to him to make a trivial and complimentary answer to this advance, such as most men of the world would have made, even at his age.
‘I shall be very glad if we ever know each other better,’ he said after a short pause.
‘So shall I.’
She leaned upon the rail and looked down at the eddying water. The tide had turned and was beginning to go out. Griggs watched her handsome profile in silence for a time.
‘You have not many intimate friends, have you?’ she asked presently.
‘No, only one or two.’
She smiled.
‘I’m not trying to get confidences from you. But really, that is very vague. You must surely know whether you have only one, or whether there is another. I’m not suggesting myself as a third, either!’
‘Perhaps I’m over-cautious,’ Griggs said. ‘It does not matter. You began by saying that you wished you knew me better. You meant that if you did, you would either tell me something which you don’t tell everybody, or you would come to me for advice about something, or you would ask me to do something for you. Is that it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It was not very hard to guess. I’ll answer the three cases. If you want to tell me a secret, don’t. If you want advice without telling everything about the case, it will be worthless. But if there is anything I can do for you, I’ll do it if I can, and I won’t ask any questions.’
‘That’s kind and sensible,’ Margaret answered. ‘And I should not be in the least afraid to tell you anything. You would not repeat it.’
‘No, certainly not. But some day, unless we became real friends, you would think that I might, and then you would be very sorry.’
A short pause followed.
‘We are moving,’ Margaret said, glancing at the iron doors again.
‘Yes, we are off.’
There was another pause. Then Margaret stood upright and turned her face to her companion. She did not remember that she had ever looked steadily into his eyes since she had known him.
They were grey and rather deeply set under grizzled eyebrows that were growing thick and rough with advancing years, and they met hers quietly. She knew at once that she could bear their scrutiny for any length of time without blushing or feeling nervous, though there was something in them that was stronger than she.
‘It’s this,’ she said at last, as if she had been talking and had reached a conclusion. ‘I’m alone, and I’m a little frightened.’
‘You?’ Griggs smiled rather incredulously.
‘Yes. Of course I’m used to travelling without any one and taking care of myself. Singers and actresses are just like men in that, and it did not occur to me this morning that this trip could be different from any other.’
‘No. Why should it be so different? I don’t understand.’
‘You said you would do something for me without asking questions. Will you?’
‘If I can.’
‘Keep Mr. Van Torp away from me during the voyage. I mean, as much as you can without being openly rude. Have my chair put next to some other woman’s and your own on my other side. Do you mind doing that?’
Griggs smiled.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind.’
‘And if I am walking on deck and he joins me, come and walk beside me too. Will you? Are you quite sure you don’t mind?’
‘Yes.’ He was still smiling. ‘I’m quite certain that I don’t dislike the idea.’
‘I wish I were sure of being seasick,’ Margaret said thoughtfully. ‘It’s bad for the voice, but it would be a great resource.’
‘As a resource, I shall try to be a good substitute for it,’ said Griggs.
Margaret realised what she had said and laughed.
‘But it is no laughing matter,’ she answered, her face growing grave again after a moment.
Griggs had promised not to ask questions, and he expressed no curiosity.
‘As soon as you go below I’ll see about the chair,’ he said.
‘My cabin is on this deck,’ Margaret answered. ‘I believe I have a tiny little sitting-room, too. It’s what they call a suite in their magnificent language, and the photographs in the advertisements make it look like a palatial apartment!’
She left the rail as she spoke, and found her own door on the same side of the ship, not very far away.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’
She looked into his eyes again for an instant and went in.
She had forgotten Signor Stromboli and what he had said, for her thoughts had been busy with a graver matter, but she smiled when she saw the big bunch of dark red carnations in a water-jug on the table, and the little cylinder-shaped parcel which certainly contained a dozen little boxes of the chocolate ‘oublies’ she liked, and the telegram, with its impersonal-looking address, waiting to be opened by her after having been opened, read, and sealed again by her thoughtful maids. Such trifles as the latter circumstance did not disturb her in the least, for though she was only a young woman of four and twenty, a singer and a musician, she had a philosophical mind, and considered that if virtue has nothing to do with the greatness of princes, moral worth need not be a clever lady’s-maid’s strong point.
‘Tom’ was her old friend Edmund Lushington, one of the most distinguished of the younger writers of the day. He was the only son of the celebrated soprano, Madame Bonanni, now retired from the stage, by her marriage with an English gentleman of the name of Goodyear, and he had been christened Thomas. But his mother had got his name and surname legally changed when he was a child, thinking that it would be a disadvantage to him to be known as her son, as indeed it might have been at first; even now the world did not know the truth about his birth, but it would not have cared, since he had won his own way.
Margaret meant to marry him if she married at all, for he had been faithful in his devotion to her nearly three years; and his rivalry with Constantine Logotheti, her other serious adorer, had brought some complications into her life. But on mature reflection she was sure that she did not wish to marry any one for the present. So many of her fellow-singers had married young and married often, evidently following the advice of a great American humorist, and mostly with disastrous consequences, that Margaret preferred to be an exception, and to marry late if at all.
In the glaring light of the twentieth century it at last clearly appears that marriageable young women have always looked upon marriage as the chief means of escape from the abject slavery and humiliating dependence hitherto imposed upon virgins between fifteen and fifty years old. Shakespeare lacked the courage to write the ‘Seven Ages of Woman,’ a matter the more to be regretted as no other writer has ever possessed enough command of the English language to describe more than three out of the seven without giving offence: namely, youth, which lasts from sixteen to twenty; perfection, which begins at twenty and lasts till further notice; and old age, which women generally place beyond seventy, though some, whose strength is not all sorrow and weakness even then, do not reach it till much later. If Shakespeare had dared he would have described with poetic fire the age of the girl who never marries. But this is a digression. The point is that the truth about marriage is out, since the modern spinster has shown the sisterhood how to live, and an amazing number of women look upon wedlock as a foolish thing, vainly imagined, never necessary, and rarely amusing.
The state of perpetual unsanctified virginity, however, is not for poor girls, nor for operatic singers, nor for kings’ daughters, none of whom, for various reasons, can live, or are allowed to live, without husbands. Unless she be a hunchback, an unmarried royal princess is almost as great an exception as a white raven or a cat without a tail; a primadonna without a husband alive, dead, or divorced, is hardly more common; and poor girls marry to live. But give a modern young woman a decent social position, with enough money for her wants and an averag
e dose of assurance, and she becomes so fastidious in the choice of a mate that no man is good enough for her till she is too old to be good enough for any man. Even then the chances are that she will not deeply regret her lost opportunities, and though her married friends will tell her that she has made a mistake, half of them will envy her in secret, the other half will not pity her much, and all will ask her to their dinner-parties, because a woman without a husband is such a convenience.
In respect to her art Margarita da Cordova was in all ways a thorough artist, endowed with the gifts, animated by the feelings, and afflicted with the failings that usually make up an artistic nature. But Margaret Donne was a sound and healthy English girl who had been brought up in the right way by a very refined and cultivated father and mother who loved her devotedly. If they had lived she would not have gone upon the stage; for as her mother’s friend Mrs. Rushmore had often told her, the mere thought of such a life for their daughter would have broken their hearts. She was a grown woman now, and high on the wave of increasing success and celebrity, but she still had a childish misgiving that she had disobeyed her parents and done something very wrong, just as when she had surreptitiously got into the jam cupboard at the age of five.
Yet there are old-fashioned people alive even now who might think that there was less harm in becoming a public singer than in keeping Edmund Lushington dangling on a string for two years and more. Those things are matters of opinion. Margaret would have answered that if he dangled it was his misfortune and not her fault, since she never, in her own opinion, had done anything to keep him, and would not have been broken-hearted if he had gone away, though she would have missed his friendship very much. Of the two, the man who had disturbed her maiden peace of mind was Logotheti, whom she feared and sometimes hated, but who had an inexplicable power over her when they met: the sort of fateful influence which honest Britons commonly ascribe to all foreigners with black hair, good teeth, diamond studs, and the other outward signs of wickedness. Twice, at least, Logotheti had behaved in a manner positively alarming, and on the second occasion he had very nearly succeeded in carrying her off bodily from the theatre to his yacht, a fate from which Lushington and his mother had been instrumental in saving her. Such doings were shockingly lawless, but they showed a degree of recklessly passionate admiration which was flattering from a young financier who was so popular with women that he found it infinitely easier to please than to be pleased.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1198