Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Perhaps, if Logotheti could have put on a little Anglo-Saxon coolness, Margaret might have married him by this time. Perhaps she would have married Lushington, if he could have suddenly been animated by a little Greek fire. As things stood, she told herself that she did not care to take a man who meant to be not only her master but her tyrant, nor one who seemed more inclined to be her slave than her master.

  Meanwhile, however, it was the Englishman who kept himself constantly in mind with her by an unbroken chain of small attentions that often made her smile but sometimes really touched her. Any one could cable ‘Pleasant voyage,’ and sign the telegram ‘Tom,’ which gave it a friendly and encouraging look, because somehow ‘Tom’ is a cheerful, plucky little name, very unlike ‘Edmund.’ But it was quite another matter, being in England, to take the trouble to have carnations of just the right shade fresh on her cabin table at the moment of her sailing from New York, and beside them the only sort of chocolates she liked. That was more than a message, it was a visit, a presence, a real reaching out of hand to hand.

  Logotheti, on the contrary, behaved as if he had forgotten Margaret’s existence as soon as he was out of her sight; and they now no longer met often, but when they did he had a way of taking up the thread as if there had been no interval, which was almost as effective as his rival’s method; for it produced the impression that he had been thinking of her only, and of nothing else in the world since the last meeting, and could never again give a thought to any other woman. This also was flattering. He never wrote to her, he never telegraphed good wishes for a journey or a performance, he never sent her so much as a flower; he acted as if he were really trying to forget her, as perhaps he was. But when they met, he was no sooner in the same room with her than she felt the old disturbing influence she feared and yet somehow desired in spite of herself, and much as she preferred the companionship of Lushington and liked his loyal straightforward ways, and admired his great talent, she felt that he paled and seemed less interesting beside the vivid personality of the Greek financier.

  He was vivid; no other word expresses what he was, and if that one cannot properly be applied to a man, so much the worse for our language. His colouring was too handsome, his clothes were too good, his shoes were too shiny, his ties too surprising, and he not only wore diamonds and rubies, but very valuable ones. Yet he was not vulgarly gorgeous; he was Oriental. No one would say that a Chinese idol covered with gold and precious stones was overdressed, but it would be out of place in a Scotch kirk; the minister would be thrown into the shade and the congregation would look at the idol. In society, which nowadays is far from a chiaroscuro, everybody looked at Logotheti. If he had come from any place nearer than Constantinople people would have smiled and perhaps laughed at him; as it was, he was an exotic, and besides, he had the reputation of being dangerous to women’s peace, and extremely awkward to meddle with in a quarrel.

  Margaret sat some time in her little sitting-room reflecting on these things, for she knew that before many days were past she must meet her two adorers; and when she had thought enough about both, she gave orders to her maids about arranging her belongings. By and by she went to luncheon and found herself alone at some distance from the other passengers, next to the captain’s empty seat; but she was rather glad that her neighbours had not come to table, for she got what she wanted very quickly and had no reason for waiting after she had finished.

  Then she took a book and went on deck again, and Alphonsine found her chair on the sunny side and installed her in it very comfortably and covered her up, and to her own surprise she felt that she was very sleepy; so that just as she was wondering why, she dozed off and began to dream that she was Isolde, on board of Tristan’s ship, and that she was singing the part, though she had never sung it and probably never would.

  When she opened her eyes again there was no land in sight, and the big steamer was going quietly with scarcely any roll. She looked aft and saw Paul Griggs leaning against the rail, smoking; and she turned her head the other way, and the chair next to her own on that side was occupied by a very pleasant-looking young woman who was sitting up straight and showing the pictures in a book to a beautiful little girl who stood beside her.

  The lady had a very quiet healthy face and smooth brown hair, and was simply and sensibly dressed. Margaret at once decided that she was not the child’s mother, nor an elder sister, but some one who had charge of her, though not exactly a governess. The child was about nine years old; she had a quantity of golden hair that waved naturally, and a spiritual face with deep violet eyes, a broad white forehead and a pathetic little mouth.

  She examined each picture, and then looked up quickly at the lady, keeping her wide eyes fixed on the latter’s face with an expression of watchful interest. The lady explained each picture to her, but in such a soft whisper that Margaret could not hear a sound. Yet the child evidently understood every word easily. It was natural to suppose that the lady spoke under her breath in order not to disturb Margaret while she was asleep.

  ‘It is very kind of you to whisper,’ said the Primadonna graciously, ‘but I am awake now.’

  The lady turned with a pleasant smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she answered.

  The child did not notice Margaret’s little speech, but looked up from the book for the explanation of the next picture.

  ‘It is the inside of the Colosseum in Rome, and you will see it before long,’ said the lady very distinctly. ‘I have told you how the gladiators fought there, and how Saint Ignatius was sent all the way from Antioch to be devoured by lions there, like many other martyrs.’

  The little girl watched her face intently, nodded gravely, and looked down at the picture again, but said nothing. The lady turned to Margaret.

  ‘She was born deaf and dumb,’ she said quietly, ‘but I have taught her to understand from the lips, and she can already speak quite well. She is very clever.’

  ‘Poor little thing!’ Margaret looked at the girl with increasing interest. ‘Such a little beauty, too! What is her name?’

  ‘Ida—’

  The child had turned over the pages to another picture, and now looked up for the explanation of it. Griggs had finished his cigar and came and sat down on Margaret’s other side.

  CHAPTER III

  THE LEOFRIC WAS three days out, and therefore half-way over the ocean, for she was a fast boat, but so far Griggs had not been called upon to hinder Mr. Van Torp from annoying Margaret. Mr. Van Torp had not been on deck; in fact, he had not been seen at all since he had disappeared into his cabin a quarter of an hour before the steamer had left the pier. There was a good deal of curiosity about him amongst the passengers, as there would have been about the famous Primadonna if she had not come punctually to every meal, and if she had not been equally regular in spending a certain number of hours on deck every day.

  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 her wherever she went. It was said that she was really an ugly woman of thirty-five who had been married to a Spanish count of twice that age, and that he had died leaving her penniless, so that she had been obliged to support herself by singing. Others were equally sure that she was a beautiful escaped nun, who had been forced to take the veil in a convent in Seville by cruel parents, but who had succeeded in getting herself carried off by a Polish nobleman disguised as a priest. Every one remembered the marvellous voice that used to sing so high above all the other nuns, behind the lattice on Sunday afternoons at the church of the Dominican Convent. That had been the voice of Margarita da Cordova, and she could never go back to Spain, for if she did the Inquisition would seize upon her, and she would be tortured and probably burnt alive to encourage the other nuns.

  This was very romantic, but unfortunately there was a man who said he knew the plain truth about her, and that she was just a good-looking Irish 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 knew this had often seen the shop, which was conclusive.

  Margaret showed herself daily and the myths lost value, for every one saw that she was neither an escaped Spanish nun nor the gifted offspring of a Dublin flute-player and a female retailer of bull’s-eyes and butterscotch, but just a handsome, healthy, well-brought-up young Englishwoman, who called herself Miss Donne in private life.

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

  ‘That is nonsense,’ said Miss More to Margaret in an undertone, for they had both heard what had just been said.

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

  ‘Yes,’ said Margaret, in answer to Miss More’s remark. ‘I don’t believe there is the least reason for thinking that Mr. Van Torp is not immensely rich. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

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

  ‘So do I.’

  Each of the young women understood that the other did not care to talk of Mr. Van Torp. Margaret glanced sideways at her neighbour and wondered vaguely whether the latter’s experience had been at all like her own, but she could not see anything to make her think so. Miss More had a singularly pleasant expression and a face that made one trust her at once, but she was far from beautiful, and would hardly pass for pretty beside such a good-looking woman as Margaret, who after all was not what people call an out-and-out beauty. It was odd that the quiet lady-like teacher should have answered monosyllabically in that tone. She felt Margaret’s sidelong look of inquiry, and turned half round after glancing at little Ida, who was very busy with her crochet.

  ‘I’m afraid you may have misunderstood me,’ she said, smiling. ‘If I did not say any more it is because he himself does not wish people to talk of what he does.’

  ‘I assure you, I’m not curious,’ Margaret answered, smiling too. ‘I’m sorry if I looked as if I were.’

  ‘No — you misunderstood me, and it was a little my fault. Mr. Van Torp is doing something very, very kind which it was impossible that I should 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 to know that he—’

  She checked herself. She detested and feared the man, for reasons of her 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 strike her as being the kind of person who would go out of his way to hide his light under a bushel. Yet Miss More’s tone had been quiet and earnest. Perhaps he had employed her to teach some poor deaf and dumb child, like little Ida. Her words seemed to imply this, for she had said 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 advice could only be considered indispensable where her profession as a teacher of the deaf and dumb was concerned.

  Miss More was too discreet to ask the question which Margaret’s unfinished sentence suggested, but she would not let the speech pass quite unanswered.

  ‘He is often misjudged,’ she said. ‘In business he may be what many people say he is. I don’t understand business! But I have known him to help people who needed help badly and who never guessed that he even knew their names.’

  ‘You must be right,’ Margaret answered.

  She remembered the last words of the girl who had died in the manager’s room at the theatre. There had been a secret. The secret was that Mr. Van Torp had done the thing, whatever it was. She had probably not known what she was saying, but it had been on her mind to say 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 have been something very bad, because she herself disliked the man so much; but Miss More knew him, and since he often did ‘very, very kind things,’ it was possible that the particular action of which the dying girl was thinking might have been a charitable one; possibly he had confided the secret to her. Margaret smiled rather cruelly at her own superior knowledge of the world — yes, he had told the girl about that ‘secret’ charity in order to make a good impression on her! Perhaps that was his favourite method of interesting women; if it was, he had not invented it. Margaret thought she could have told Miss More something which would have thrown another light on Mr. Van Torp’s character.

  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 that the girl’s name had been Ida. To change the subject she asked her neighbour 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 any relation 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 a little, so as to see the child better.

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

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

  ‘How small the world is!’ Margaret said in a low voice as she looked at the grey waves.

  She wondered whether little Ida had ever heard of her half-sister, and what 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 nearly thirty 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 quite mad soon after the little girl was born. It was very painful for the Senator. Her delusion was that he was her divorced husband, Mr. Bamberger, and when the child came into the world she insisted that it should be called Ida, and that she had no other. Mr. Bamberger’s d
aughter was Ida, you know. It was very strange. Mrs. Moon was convinced that she was forced to live her life over again, year by year, as an expiation for something she had done. The doctors say it is a hopeless case. I really think it shortened the Senator’s life.’

  Margaret did not think that the world had any cause to complain of Mrs. 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 faces turned towards each other as they talked, and Ida was still busy with her crochet.

  ‘Luckily she has a sunny nature,’ said Miss More. ‘She is interested in everything she sees and hears.’ She laughed a little. ‘I always speak of it as hearing,’ she added, ‘for it is quite as quick, when there is light enough. You know that, since you have talked with her.’