Out of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January
fog, came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round,
young, yet matured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's,
haunting and elusive as the murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt
from La Fille de Madame Angot, a light opera long
since forgotten in New York. Hillard, genuinely astonished, lowered
his pipe and listened. To sit dreaming by an open window, even in
this unlovely first month of the year, in that grim unhandsome city
which boasts of its riches and still accepts with smug content its
rows upon rows of ugly architecture, to sit dreaming, then, of
red-tiled roofs, of cloud-caressed hills, of terraced vineyards, of
cypresses in their dark aloofness, is not out of the natural order
of things; but that into this idle and pleasant dream there should
enter so divine a voice, living, feeling, pulsing, this was not
ordinary at all.
And Hillard was glad that the room was in darkness. He rose
eagerly and peered out. But he saw no one. Across the street the
arc-lamp burned dimly, like an opal in the matrix, while of
architectural outlines not one remained, the fog having kindly
obliterated them.
The Voice rose and sank and soared again, drawing nearer and
nearer. It was joyous and unrestrained, and there was youth in it,
the touch of spring and the breath of flowers. The music was
Lecocq's, that is to say, French; but the tongue was of a country
which Hillard knew to be the garden of the world. Presently he
observed a shadow emerge from the yellow mist, to come within the
circle of light, which, faint as it was, limned in against the
nothingness beyond the form of a woman. She walked directly under
his window.
As the invisible comes suddenly out of the future to assume
distinct proportions which either make or mar us, so did this
unknown cantatrice come out of the fog that night and enter into
Hillard's life, to readjust its ambitions, to divert its aimless
course, to give impetus to it, and a directness which hitherto it
had not known.
"Ah!"
He leaned over the sill at a perilous angle, the bright coal of
his pipe spilling comet-wise to the area-way below. He was only
subconscious of having spoken; but this syllable was sufficient to
spoil the enchantment. The Voice ceased abruptly, with an odd
break. The singer looked up. Possibly her astonishment surpassed
even that of her audience. For a few minutes she had forgotten that
she was in New York, where romance may be found only in the
book-shops; she had forgotten that it was night, a damp and chill
forlorn night; she had forgotten the pain in her heart; there had
been only a great and irresistible longing to sing.
Though she raised her face, he could distinguish no feature, for
the light was behind. However, he was a man who made up his mind
quickly. Brunette or blond, beautiful or otherwise, it needed but a
moment to find out. Even as this decision was made he was in the
upper hall, taking the stairs two at a bound. He ran out into the
night, bareheaded. Up the street he saw a flying shadow. Plainly
she had anticipated his impulse and the curiosity behind it. Even
as he gave chase the shadow melted in the fog, as ice melts in
running waters, as flame dissolves in sunshine. She was gone. He
cupped his ear with his hand; in vain, there came no sound as of
pattering feet; there was nothing but fog and silence.
"Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" he murmured.
He laughed disappointedly. It did not matter that he was three
and thirty; he still retained youth enough to feel chagrined at
such a trivial defeat. Here had been something like a genuine
adventure, and it had slipped like water through his clumsy
fingers.
"Deuce take the fog! But for that I'd have caught her."
But reason promptly asked him what he should have done had he
caught the singer. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have
had to offer? Denial on her part would have been simple, and
righteous indignation at being accosted on the street simpler
still. He had not seen her face, and doubtless she was aware of
this fact. Thus, she would have had all the weapons for defense and
he not one for attack. But though reason argued well, it did not
dislodge his longing. He would have been perfectly happy to have
braved her indignation for a single glance at her face. He walked
back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be? What peculiar whimsical
freak had sent her singing past his window at one o'clock of the
morning? A grand opera singer, returning home from a late supper?
But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He knew
something about grand opera singers. They attend late suppers, it
is true, but they ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk
their golden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And in
New York nobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless
paid in advance and armed with a police permit. As for being a
comic-opera star, he refused to admit the possibility; and he
relegated this well-satisfied constellation to the darks of limbo.
He had heard a Voice.
A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle of the street, presently
to take upon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came
lumbering over to add or subtract his quota of interest in the
affair. Hillard wisely stopped and waited for him, pulling up the
collar of his jacket, as he began to note that there was a winter's
tang to the fog.
"Hi, what's all this?" the policeman called out roughly.
"To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He
slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"I heard a woman singin', that's what!" explained the guardian
of the law.
"So did I."
"Oh, you did, huh?"
"Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours."
"Huh! See her?"
"For a moment," Hillard admitted.
"Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's
disorderly."
"My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman's
tone, "you don't think for an instant that I was directing this
operetta?"
"Think? Where's your hat?"
Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here.
"I did not bring it out."
"Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been
watchin' these parts fer a leddy. They call her Leddy Lightfinger;
an' she has some O' the gents done to a pulp when it comes to
liftin' jools an' trinkets. Somebody fergits to lock the front
door, an' she finds it out. Why did you come out without yer
lid?"
"Just forgot it, that's all."
"Which way'd she go?"
"You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after
her myself. I heard a voice from my window; I saw a woman; I made
for the street; niente!"
"Huh?"
"Niente, nothing!"
"Oh! I see; Dago. Seems to me now that this woman was singin'
I-taly-an, too." They were nearing the light, and the policeman
gazed intently at the hatless young man. "Why, it's Mr. Hillard!
I'm surprised. Well, well! Some day I'll run in a bunch o' these
chorus leddies, jes' fer a lesson. They git lively at the
restaurants over on Broadway, an' thin they raise the dead with
their singin', which, often as not, is anythin' but singin'. An'
here it is, after one."
"But this was not a chorus lady," replied Hillard, thoughtfully
reaching into his vest for a cigar.
"Sure, an' how do you know?" with renewed suspicions.
"The lady had a singing voice."
"Huh! They all think alike about that. But mebbe she wasn't bad
at the business. Annyhow… ."
"It was rather out of time and place, eh?" helpfully.
"That's about the size of it. This Leddy Lightfinger is a case.
She has us all thinkin' on our nights off. Clever an' edjicated,
an' jabbers in half a dozen tongues. It's a thousan' to the man who
jugs her. But she don't sing; at least, they ain't any report to
that effect. Perhaps your leddy was jes' larkin' a bit. But it's
got to be stopped."
Hillard passed over the cigar, and the policeman bit off the
end, nodding with approval at such foresight. The young man then
proffered the coal of his pipe and the policeman took his light
therefrom, realizing that after such a peace-offering there was
nothing for him to do but move on. Yet on dismal lonesome nights,
like this one, it is a godsend and a comfort to hear one's own
voice against the darkness. So he lingered.
"Didn't get a peep at her face?"
"Not a single feature. The light was behind her." Hillard tapped
one toe and then the other.
"An' how was she dressed?"
"In fog, for all I could see."
"On the level now, didn't you know who she was?" The policeman
gave Hillard a sly dig in the ribs with his club.
"On my word!"
"Some swell, mebbe."
"Undoubtedly a lady. That's why it looks odd, why it brought me
into the street. She sang in classic Italian. And what's more, for
the privilege of hearing that voice again, I should not mind
sitting on this cold curb till the milkman comes around in the
morning."
"That wouldn't be fer long," laughed the policeman, taking out
his watch and holding it close to the end of his cigar. "Twenty
minutes after one. Well, I must be gittin' back to me beat. An'
you'd better be goin' in; it's cold. Good night."
"Good night," Hillard responded cheerfully.
"Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go
on.
"Buona notte."
"Bony notty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to
Italy?"
"I was born there," patiently.
"No! Why, you're no Dago!"
"Not so much as an eyelash. The stork happened to drop the
basket there, that's all."
"Ha! I see. Well, Ameriky is good enough fer me an' mine,"
complacently.
"I dare say!"
"An' if this stogy continues t' behave, we'll say no more about
the vanishin' leddy." And with this the policeman strolled off into
the fog, his suspicions in nowise removed. He knew many rich young
bachelors like Hillard. If it wasn't a chorus lady, it was a prima
donna, which was not far in these degenerate days from being the
same thing.
Hillard regained his room and leaned with his back to the
radiator. He had an idea. It was rather green and salad, but as
soon as his hands were warm he determined to put this idea into
immediate use. The Voice had stirred him deeply, stirred him with
the longing to hear it again, to see the singer's face, to learn
what extraordinary impulse had loosed the song. Perhaps it was his
unspoken loneliness striving to call out against this self-imposed
isolation; for he was secretly lonely, as all bachelors must be who
have passed the Rubicon of thirty. He made no analysis of this new
desire, or rather this old desire, newly awakened. He embraced it
gratefully. Such is the mystery and power of the human voice: this
one, passing casually under his window, had awakened him.
Never the winter came with its weary round of rain and fog and
snow that his heart and mind did not fly over the tideless southern
sea to the land of his birth if not of his blood. Sorrento, that
jewel of the ruddy clifts! There was fog outside his window, and
yet how easy it was to picture the turquoise bay of Naples
shimmering in the morning light! There was Naples itself, like a
string of its own pink coral, lying crescent-wise on the distant
strand; there were the snowcaps fading on the far horizon; the
bronzed fishermen and their wives, a sheer two hundred feet below
him, pulling in their glistening nets; the amethyst isles of Capri
and Ischia eternally hanging midway between the blue of the sky and
the blue of the sea; and there, towering menacingly above all this
melting beauty, the dark, grim pipe of Vulcan. How easily, indeed,
he could see all these things!
With a quick gesture of both hands, Latin, always Latin, he
crossed the room to a small writing-desk, turned on the lights and
sat down. He smiled as he took up the pen to begin his composition.
Not one chance in a thousand. And after several attempts he
realized that the letter he had in mind was not the simplest to
compose. There were a dozen futile efforts before he produced
anything like satisfaction. Then he filled out a small check. A
little later he stole down-stairs, round the corner to the local
branch of the post-office, and returned. It was only a blind throw,
such as dicers sometimes make in the dark. But chance loves her
true gamester, and to him she makes a faithful servant.
"I should be sorely tempted," he mused, picking up a novel and
selecting a comfortable angle in the Morris, "I should be sorely
tempted to call any other man a silly ass. Leddy Lightfinger—it
would be a fine joke if my singer turned out to be that irregular
person."
He fell to reading, but it was not long before he yawned. He
shied the book into a corner, drew off his boots and cast them into
the hall. A moment after his valet appeared, gathered up the boots,
tucked them under his arm, and waited.
"I want nothing, Giovanni. I have only been around to the
post-office."
"I heard the door open and close four times, signore."
"It was I each time. If this fog does not change into rain, I
shall want my riding-breeches to-morrow morning."
"It is always raining here," Giovanni remarked sadly.
"Not always; there are pleasant days in the spring and summer.
It is because this is not Italy. The Hollander wonders how any
reasonable being can dwell in a country where they do not drink
gin. It's home, Giovanni; rain pelts you from a different angle
here. There is nothing more; you may go. It is two o'clock, and you
are dead for sleep."
But Giovanni only bowed; he did not stir.
"Well?" inquired his master.
"It is seven years now, signore."
"So it is; seven this coming April."
"I am now a citizen of this country; I obey its laws; I
vote."
"Yes, Giovanni, you are an American citizen, and you should be
proud of it."
Giovanni smiled. "I may return to my good Italia without
danger."
"That depends. If you do not run across any official who
recognizes you."
Giovanni spread his hands. "Official memory seldom lasts so long
as seven years. The signore has crossed four times in this
period."
"I would gladly have taken you each time, as you know."
"Oh, yes! But in two or three years the police do not forget. In
seven it is different."
"Ah!" Hillard was beginning to understand the trend of this
conversation. "So, then, you wish to return?"
"Yes, signore. I have saved a little money," modestly.
"A little?" Hillard laughed. "For seven years you have received
fifty American dollars every month, and out of it you do not spend
as many copper centesimi. I am certain that you have twenty
thousand lire tucked away in your stocking; a fortune!"
"I buy the blacking for the signore's boots," gravely.
Hillard saw the twinkle in the black eyes. "I have never," he
said truthfully, "asked you to black my boots."
"Penance, signore, penance for my sins; and I am not without
gratitude. There was a time when I had rather cut off a hand than
black a boot; but all that is changed. We of the Sabine Hills are
proud, as the signore knows. We are Romans out there; we despise
the cities; and we do not hold out our palms for the traveler's
pennies. I am a peasant, but always remember the blood of the
Casars. Who can say? Besides, I have held a sword for the church. I
owe no allegiance to the puny House of Savoy!" There was no twinkle
in the black eyes now; there was a ferocious gleam. It died away
quickly, however; the squared shoulders drooped, and there was a
deprecating shrug. "Pardon, signore; this is far away from the
matter of boots. I grow boastful; I am an old man and should know
better. But does the signore return to Italy in the spring?"
"I don't know, Giovanni, I don't know. But what's on your
mind?"
"Nothing new, signore," with eyes cast down to hide the
returning lights.
"You are a bloodthirsty ruffian!" said Hillard shortly. "Will
time never soften the murder in your heart?"
"I am as the good God made me. I have seen through blood, and
time can not change that. Besides, the Holy Father will do
something for one who fought for the cause."
"He will certainly not countenance bloodshed, Giovanni."
"He can absolve it. And as you say, I am rich, as riches go in
the Sabine Hills."
"I was in hopes you had forgotten."
"Forgotten? The signore will never understand; it is his
father's blood. She was so pretty and youthful, eye of my eye,
heart of my heart! And innocent! She sang like the nightingale. She
was always happy. Up with the dawn, to sleep with the stars. We
were alone, she and I. The sheep supported me and she sold her
roses and dried lavender. It was all so beautiful … till he
came. Ah, had he loved her! But a plaything, a pastime! The signore
never had a daughter. What is she now? A nameless thing in the
streets!" Giovanni raised his arms tragically; the hoots clattered
to the floor. "Seven years! It is a long time for one of my blood
to wait."
"Enough!" cried Hillard; but there was a hardness in his throat
at the sight of the old man's tears. Where was the proud and
stately man, the black-bearded shepherd in faded blue linen, in
picturesque garters, with his reed-like pipe, that he, Hillard, had
known in his boyhood days? Surely not here. Giovanni had known the
great wrong, but Hillard could not in conscience's name foster the
spirit which demanded an eye for an eye. So he said: "I can give
you only my sympathy for your loss, but I abhor the spirit of
revenge which can not find satisfaction in anything save
murder."
Giovanni once more picked up the boots. "I shall leave the
signore in the spring."
"As you please," said Hillard gently.
Giovanni bowed gravely and made off with his boots. Hillard
remained staring thoughtfully at the many-colored squares in the
rug under his feet. It would be lonesome with Giovanni gone. The
old man had evidently made up his mind… . But the Woman with the
Voice, would she see the notice in the paper? And if she did, would
she reply to it? What a foundation for a romance!… Bah! He prepared
for bed.
To those who reckon earthly treasures as the only thing worth
having, John Hillard was a fortunate young man. That he was without
kith or kin was considered by many as an additional piece of good
fortune. Born in Sorrento, in one of the charming villas which
sweep down to the very brow of the cliffs, educated in Rome up to
his fifteenth year; taken at that age from the dreamy, drifting
land and thrust into the noisy, bustling life which was his
inheritance; fatherless and motherless at twenty; a college youth
who was for ever mixing his Italian with his English and being
laughed at; hating tumult and loving quiet; warm-hearted and
impulsive, yet meeting only habitual reserve from his compatriots
whichever way he turned; it is not to be wondered at that he
preferred the land of his birth to that of his blood.
All this might indicate an artistic temperament, the ability to
do petty things grandly; but Hillard had escaped this. He loved his
Raphaels, his Titians, his Veroneses, his Rubenses, without any
desire to make indifferent copies of them; he admired his Dante,
his Petrarch, his Goldoni, without the wish to imitate them. He was
full of sentiment without being sentimental, a poet who thought but
never indited verses. His father's blood was in his veins, that is
to say, the salt of restraint; thus, his fortune grew and
multiplied. The strongest and reddest corpuscle had been the gift
of his mother. She had left him the legacy of loving all beautiful
things in moderation, the legacy of gentleness, of charity, of
strong loves and frank hatreds, of humor, of living out in the
open, of dreaming great things and accomplishing none of them.
The old house in which he lived was not in the fashionable
quarter of the town; but that did not matter. Nor did it vary
externally from any of its unpretentious neighbors. Inside,
however, there were treasures priceless and unique. There was no
woman in the household; he might smoke in any room he pleased. A
cook, a butler, and a valet were the sum-total of his retinue. In
appearance he resembled many another clean-cut, clean-living
American gentleman.
Giovanni sought his own room at the end of the hall, squatted on
a low stool and solemnly began the business of blacking his
master's boots. He was still as lean and tall as a Lombardy poplar,
this handsome old Roman. His hair was white; there was now no black
beard on his face, which was as brown and creased as Spanish
levant; and some of the fullness was gone from his chest and arms;
but for all that he carried his fifty-odd years lightly. He worked
swiftly to-night, but his mind was far away from his task.
There was a pitiful story, commonplace enough. A daughter, a
loose-living officer, a knife flung from a dark alley, and sudden
flight to the south. Hillard had found him wandering through the
streets of Naples, hiding from
the carabinieri as best he could. Hillard
contrived to smuggle him on the private yacht of a friend. He found
a peasant who was reconsidering the advisability of digging sewers
and laying railroad ties in the Eldorado of the West. A few pieces
of silver, and the passport changed hands. With this Giovanni
blandly lied his way into the United States. After due time he
applied for citizenship, and through Hillard's influence it was
accorded him. He solemnly voted when elections came round, and
hoarded his wages, like the thrifty man he was. Some day he would
return to Rome, or Naples, or Venice, or Florence, as the case
might be; and then!
When the boots shone flawlessly, he carried them to Hillard's
door and softly tiptoed back. He put his face against the cold
window. He, too, had heard the Voice. How his heart hurt him with
its wild hope! But only for a moment. It was not the voice he
hungered for. The words were Italian, but he knew that the woman
who sang them was not!