The Lure of the Mask by Harold MacGrath (good books to read for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

heart. What, after all, were his own petty troubles in the face of this tragedy?

"Carissime?" called the father, his voice thrilling with boundless love.

At the sound she turned her head. Her face, thin and waxen, was still beautiful, ethereally beautiful, but without life. She was, perhaps, three and twenty.

"I have brought an old friend to see you," said Giovanni. "Do you remember the Signore Hillard?"

"Oh, yes! I am glad." She stood up.

Hillard offered his hand awkwardly, and hers touched it with the chill dampness of snow.

"We are going back to the Sabine Hills, Enrichetta and I." The old man rubbed his hands joyously. "Eh, carissime?"

"Yes, father," with a smile which had neither gladness nor interest in it.

"But dare you?" asked Hillard in an undertone.

"Yes. A great noble has interceded for me. The news of his success came this early morning. I am free; I may walk with men again."

Merrihew leaned against the wall, uneasy and wishing himself anywhere but here. Tender and generous, he hated the sight of pain. They were talking in Italian, but intuitively he translated. What a devil of a world it was!

Giovanni made his daughter sit down again, patted her cheeks, then pushed his friends into another room, closing the door.

"I found her," he said in English, the chords in his throat standing out. "And Mother of Christ, how I have suffered! She was dancing. She had to sit at tables and drink with the men. That, or the Seine. When she saw me she gave a great cry and fell. She has not been like herself, but that will pass away in time. Now she sits in silence and broods. I went to the Italian ambassador. He heard my story in full. He wrote personally to the king. To-day I am free. I have had to walk from Milan, almost. I had little money. That letter of credit-so you call it?-is with my cousin in Sorrento."

"How much will you need to get to Rome?"

"Hold on, Jack," interposed Merrihew. "I'll take care of the financial end. I won money at Monte Carlo, Giovanni; so it will hurt nobody if you take five hundred francs."

Giovanni scorned to hide his tears. Ah, these Americans! Who could match them for impulsive generosity? "I will pay it back," he said.

"No, I give it to you, Giovanni. It will ease my conscience of the sin of gambling."

"Both of you will live to a good old age," said Giovanni prophetically. "Good men are needed in the world, and God doesn't take all of them young."

"And the man?" Hillard could not refrain from putting this question.

Giovanni looked down. "The signore told me never to speak of that again."

"So I did," replied Hillard. "But all is changed now."

"Do you think so?" Giovanni did not smile.

"Go back to your hills with your daughter and leave vengeance in the hands of God. Forget this man who has wronged you. You are free now; and with care and love you may bring happiness back to her. Forget."

"If he does not cross my path; and if she lives. I have suffered too greatly to forgive and forget. I promise not to seek him."

This was a great victory, and Hillard thrust out his hand. Giovanni did not take it.

"No, signore, I have only promised not to seek him."

Merrihew, to divert the trend of conversation, counted out five hundred francs. "Here's your money, Giovanni."

"Thank you!" Giovanni put the bills away. In the best of times he was not voluble. "I shall now leave Venice at once. I have friends in Fiesole, near Florence."

"Good-by, then, Giovanni. Take good care of yourself," said Hillard.

"And you will visit me when you come to Rome?" asked Giovanni earnestly.

"Surely."

The old man went down to the street with them. They were so kind. He hated the thought of losing them. But let them come to the Sabines; there would be wine in plenty, and tobacco, and cherries. He remained standing in the door till they took the turn for the bridge. They waved their hands cheerily and vanished from sight. They never saw Giovanni again; yet his hand was to work out the great epoch in Hillard's destiny.

"Poor devil!" said Merrihew. "You remember, Jack, that I once went in for medicine?"

"Yes."

"Well, I have some part of the gift yet. That little girl will not live three months; heart. There is such a thing as a broken heart, and the girl has it."

"Then Heaven help Giovanni and the man who caused this!"


CHAPTER XVIII

THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE


"Shall we take a look into the Campo Formosa again to-night?" asked Merrihew, stepping into the gondola.

"It will be a waste of time. Bettina will have warned them. What's the Italian coming to, anyhow? She refused a hundred francs. But I can see that Mrs. Sandford had a hand in this latest event. She has probably written that we might look for them in the Campo." Hillard spoke in a discontented tone. "Oh, bother the both of them! Let us loaf round the barges of the serenaders and hear the singing. I want to be amused to-night."

"All right; we'll listen to the music," grumbled Merrihew. He wanted to find Kitty right away. He would gladly have started out and explored every Campo in Venice that night. Hillard's indifference annoyed him.

"To the barges of the troupes!" said Hillard to Achille, who pushed off with a series of short strokes.

In the great canal of San Marco the scene was like a water-carnival. Hundreds of gondolas, with bobbing lights, swam slowly round the barges of the serenaders, who, for the most part, were fallen operatic stars or those who had failed to attain those dizzy heights. Many of them had good voices, but few of them last long in the damp Venetian night air. To-night there were three of these belanterned barges, taking their stands about three hundred yards apart. The glowing coals of cigarettes and cigars of the men in the gondolas were like low-lying stars, and the cold, bright flash of jewels woke here and there among the many beautifully gowned women. From one barge to another the gondolas drifted, finally clustering round the middle barge of the Troupe San Marco, which offered the best voices. Between songs a man of acrobatic accomplishments would jump nimbly from the prow of one gondola to another, stepping lightly here, balancing neatly there, and always with the upturned tambourine extended for silver and copper largess.

Merrihew sat in the bottom of the gondola, while Hillard lay sprawled across the cushions on the seat. The prima donna was singing the jewel-song from Faust, and not badly. Sometimes the low hum of voices floated across the cadence of the song. Merrihew scanned the faces of all those near him, but never a face took on familiar lines. An Adriatic liner loomed up gray and shadowy behind them, and some of the crew were leaning idly over the rail. The song stopped. The man with the tambourine sallied forth. Out of the momentary silence came the indistinct tinkle of the piano in the barge beyond; some one over there was bellowing the toreador's song. This died away amid a faint patter of applause. How clear all the sounds were! thought Merrihew. The tenor of the San Marco troupe rose with the prima donna. It was Il Trovatore this time; a bit noisy.

What was that? Hillard was no longer lethargic. He stumbled over the recumbent Merrihew.

"Why don't you walk all over me?" growled Merrihew. "Sit down!"

"Be still!" said Hillard roughly.

From a gondola on the far side of the barge, standing out of the press and just beyond the radiance of the lanterns, never powerful at best, came another voice, a voice which had a soul in it, a voice which broke into song for the pure joy of it, spontaneously. Clear, thrilling, a voice before which the world bows down. The prima donna in the barge was clever; she stopped. The tenor went on, however, recognizing that he was playing opposite, as they say, to a great singer. Hillard's heart beat fast. That voice! There could not be another like it. And she was here in Venice!

"Achille," he said, "do you hear that voice over there in the dark?"

"Yes, signore."

"Push round to it. See, the singer is standing up now. Hurry!"

This sounded important, and Merrihew scrambled to his feet. Yes, he, too, could see this unexpected cantatrice. In fact, everybody was beginning to stand up. All interest was centered in this new voice. Then, as if conscious of this interest, the singer sat down, but still kept to the melody. Achille backed out of the jam, stole round the barge, and craftily approached the outstanding gondola. The two men still remained on their feet.

"Quick, Achille!" For the far gondola was heading for the Grand Canal.

Merrihew understood now. He grasped Hillard's arm excitedly.

"Follow!" commanded Hillard. "Ten lire if you can come up alongside that gondola. Can you see the number?"

"It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully.

"No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."

And a race it became. Both gondoliers were long past their youth, but each knew the exact weight and effort to be put upon the oar; no useless energy, no hurried work, no spurting, but long, deep swinging strokes. Up the Grand Canal, past the brilliant hotels. The runaway gondola had perhaps a hundred yards the best of it. Achille hung on, neither losing nor gaining a foot.

"Sit down, signori!" said Achille.

Hillard and Merrihew tumbled back upon the cushions.

"We shall not lose them this time, Dan."

"Are we gaining?"

"Not yet. But wait till they turn into some small canal."

The first loop of the Grand Canal was turned; still Pompeo made no effort to seek the smaller canals. Not till he passed under the Rialto, which afforded him a deep shadow, did he turn. Swiftly he bore into the canal which was filled with the postal-gondolas. But not so soon that Achille did not perceive and follow. On and on, soundless; now the pursuer had the advantage over the pursued. It was Pompeo who had to watch, to call; Achille had only to hang on. And he was gaining. A moment later less than ten yards intervened. O for some clumsy barge to bar the way! Round past the Teatro Malibran, into the Rio di San Marina, into a smaller canal again. Hillard now knew whither they were bound: the Campo Formosa.

At each stroke Merrihew swung forward his body. The end of the race came sooner than any one expected. A police barge nosed round an ell; by the time Pompeo was off again, the ferrule of the pursuing gondola scraped past Pompeo's blade. Pompeo called and Achille answered. There was a war of words, figure of a dog, name of a pig. Achille was in the wrong, but ten lire were ten lire. And he knew that his gentlemen meant no harm.

Hillard caught the gondola by the rail and clung. The canal, lined with a dozen lime barges, became so narrow that Achille could scarce paddle, and Pompeo's oar was useless, being partly under the opposing gondola. The race was over.

"Signorina," said Pompeo, boiling with rage, "shall I call the police?"