All ye who seek for pleasure, Here find it without measure-- No one to say A body nay, And naught but love and leisure.
All ye who seek forgetting, Leave frowns and fears and fretting, Here by the sea Are fair and free To give you peace and petting.
All ye whose hearts are breaking For somebody forsaking, We'll count you dear, And heal you here, And send you home love-making."
"Bravo!" I cried involuntarily, as the song ended amid multitudinousapplause; and I thus attracted the attention of another who sat near meas lonely as myself, but evidently quite at home in the place.
"You haven't heard our sirens sing before?" he said, turning to me witha pleasant smile, and thus we fell into talk of the place and itspleasures.
"There's one feature of the place I might introduce you to if you carefor a stroll," he said presently. "Have you heard of The TwelveGolden-Haired Bar-maids?" I hadn't, but the fantastic name struck myfancy. It was, he explained, the name given to a favourite buffet atthe Hotel Aphrodite, which was served by twelve wonderful girls, notone under six feet in height, and all with the most glorious goldenhair. It was a whim of the management, he said.
So, of course, we went.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TWELVE GOLDEN-HAIRED BAR-MAIDS.
Now it was not without some boyish nervousness that I followed my newlymade friend, for I confess that I have ever been a poor hand at talkingto bar-maids. It is, I am convinced, an art apart, an art like anyother,--needing first the natural gift, then the long patient training,and finally the courageous practice. Alas for me, I possessed neithergift, training, nor courage. Courage I lacked most of all. It was invain that I said to myself that it was like swimming,--all that wasneeded was "confidence." That was the very thing I couldn't muster. Nodoubt I am handicapped by a certain respectful homage which I alwaysfeel involuntarily to any one in the shape of woman, for anythingsavouring of respect is the last thing to win the bar-maid heartdivine. The man to win her is he who calls loudly for his drink,without a "Please" or a "Thank you," throws his hat at the back of hishead, gulps down half his glass, and, while drawing breath for theother half, takes a hard, indifferent look at her, and in an off-handvoice throws her some fatuous, mirthless jest.
Now, I've never been able to do this in the convincing grand manner ofthe British male; and whatever I have said, the effect has been thesame. I've talked about theatres and music-halls, of events of theday, I've even--Heaven help me--talked of racing and football, but Imight as well have talked of Herbert Spencer. I suppose I didn't talkabout them in the right way. I'm sure it must be my fault somewhere,for certainly they seem easy enough to please, poor things! However, myfailure remains, and sometimes even I find it extremely hard to attracttheir attention in the ordinary way of business. I don't mind myneighbour being preferred before me, but I do object to his beingserved before me!
So, I say, I couldn't but tremble at the vision of those golden-hairedgoddesses, standing with immobile faces by their awful altars. Indeed,had I realised how superbly impressive they were going to be, I think Imust have declined the adventure altogether,--for, robed in lustrousivory-white linen were those figures of undress marble, the wealth oftheir glorious bodies pressing out into bosoms magnificent as magnolias(nobler lines and curves Greece herself has never known), towering inthroats of fluted alabaster, and flowering in coiffures of imperialgold.
Nor was their temple less magnificent. To make it fair, Ruskin hadrelit the seven lamps of architecture, and written the seven labours ofHercules; for these windows through a whole youth Burne Jones hadworshipped painted glass at Oxford, and to breathe romance into thesefrescos had Rossetti been born, and Dante born again. Men had gone toprison and to death that this temple of Whiskey-and-Soda might be fair.
Strange, in truth, are the ministrations to which Beauty is called.Out of the high heaven is she summoned, from mystic communion with herown perfection, from majestic labours in the Sistine Chapel of theStars,--yea, she must put aside her gold-leaf and purples and leaveunfinished the very panels of the throne of God,--that Circe shall haveher palace, and her worshippers their gilded sty.
As there were at least a score of "worshippers" round each Circe, mynervousness became unimportant, and therefore passed. Thus, as mycompanion and I sat at one of the little tables, from which we mightgaze upon the sea without and Aphrodite within, my eyes were able tofly like bees from one fair face to another. Finally, they settled upona Circe less besieged of the hoarse and grunting mob. She wasconspicuously less in height, her hair was rather bright red thangolden, and her face had more meanings than the faces of her fellows.
"Why," in a flash it came to me, "it's Rosalind!" and clean forgettingto be shy, or polite to my companion, I hastened across to her, to begreeted instantly in a manner so exclusively intimate that the littlecrowd about her presently spread itself among the other crowds, and wewere left to talk alone.
"Well," I said, "you're a nice girl! Whatever are you doing here?"
"Yes, I'm afraid you'll have but a strange opinion of me," she said;"but I love all experience,--it's such fun,--and when I heard thatthere was a sudden vacancy for a golden-haired beauty in this place, Icouldn't resist applying, and to my surprise they took me--and here Iam! Of course I shall only stay till Orlando appears--which," sheadded mournfully--"he hasn't done yet."
Her hours were long and late, but she had two half-days free in theweek, and for these of course I engaged myself.
Meanwhile I spent as much time as I decently could at her side; but itwas impossible to monopolise her, and the rest of my time there was nodifficulty in filling up, you may be sure, in so gay a place.
Two or three nights after this, a little before dinner-time, while Iwas standing talking to her, she suddenly went very white, and in afluttering voice gasped, "Look yonder!" I looked. A rather slightdark-haired young man was entering the bar, with a very stylish prettywoman at his side. As they sat down and claimed the waiter, somedistance away, Rosalind whispered, "That's my husband!"
"Oh!" I said; "but that's no reason for your fainting. Pull yourselftogether. Take a drop of brandy." But woman will never take the mostobvious restorative, and Rosalind presently recovered without thebrandy. She looked covertly at her husband, with tragic eyes.
"He's much younger than I imagined him," I said,--reserving for myselfthe satisfaction which this discovery had for me.
"Oh, yes, he's really quite a boy," said Rosalind; adding under herbreath, "Dear fellow! how I love him!"
"And hate him too!" she superadded, as she observed his evidentsatisfaction with his present lot. Indeed the experiment appeared tobe working most successfully with him; nor, looking at his companion,could I wonder. She was a sprightly young woman, very smart and merryand decorously voluptuous, and of that fascinating prettiness that winsthe hearts of boys and storms the footlights. One of hercharacteristics soothed the heart of Rosalind. She had splendid redhair, almost as good as her own.
"He's been faithful to my hair, at all events," she said, trying to benonchalant.
"And the eyes are not unlike," I added, meaning well.
"I'm sorry you think so," said Rosalind, evidently piqued.
"Well, never mind," I tried to make peace, "she hasn't your hands,"--Iknew that women cared more about their hands than their faces.
"How do you know?" she retorted; "you cannot see through her gloves."
"Would any gloves disguise your hands?" I persisted. "They would shinethrough the mittens of an Esquimau."
"Well, enough of that! See--I know it's wickedly mean of me--butcouldn't you manage to sit somewhere near them and hear what they aresaying? Of course you needn't tell me anything it would be mean tohear, but only what--"
"You would like to know."
But this little plot died at its birth, for that very minute thethreatened couple arose, and went out arm in arm, apparently asabsurdly happy as two young people can
be.
As they passed out, one of Rosalind's fellow bar-maids turned to herand said,--
"You know who that was?"
"Who?" said Rosalind, startled.
"That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?"
"No; who is she?"
"Why, that's"--and readers with heart-disease had better bracethemselves up for a great shock--"that's SYLVIA JOY, the famous dancer!"
CHAPTER IX
SYLVIA JOY
Sylvia Joy! And I hadn't so much as looked at her petticoat for weeks!But I would now. The violet eyes and the heavy chestnut hair rose upin moralising vision. Yes! God knows, they were safe in my heart, butpetticoats were another matter. Sylvia Joy!
Well, did you ever? Well, I'm d----d! Sylvia Joy!
I should have been merely superhuman had I been able to control theexpression of surprise which convulsed my countenance at the sound ofthat most significant name.
"The name seems familiar to you," said Rosalind, a little surprised anda little eagerly; "do you know the lady?"
"Slightly," I prevaricated.
"How fortunate!" exclaimed Rosalind; "you'll be all the better able tohelp me!"
"Yes," I said; "but since things have turned out so oddly, I may saythat our relations are of so extremely delicate a nature that I shallhave very carefully to think out what is best to be done. Meanwhile,do you mind lending me that ring for a few hours?"
It was a large oblong opal set round with small diamonds,--a ring ofdistinguished design you could hardly help noticing, especially on aman's hand, for which it was too conspicuously dainty. I slipped it onthe little finger of my left hand, and, begging Rosalind to remainwhere she was meanwhile, and to take no steps without consulting me, Imysteriously, not to say officiously, departed.
I left the twelfth Golden-Haired Bar-maid not too late to stalk herhusband and her under-study to their hotel, where they evidentlyproposed to dine. There was, therefore, nothing left for me but todine also. So I dined; and when the courses of my dining were ended, Ifound myself in a mellow twilight at the Cafe du Ciel. And it wasabout the hour of the sirens' singing. Presently the little goldenbutterflies flitted once more through the twilight, and again thewoman's voice rose like a silver bird on the air.
As I have a partiality for her songs, I transcribe this Hymn of theDaughters of Aphrodite, which you must try to imagine transfigured byher voice and the sunset.
Queen Aphrodite's Daughters are we, She that was born Of the morn And the sea; White are our limbs As the foam on the wave, Wild are our hymns And our lovers are brave!
Queen Aphrodite, Born of the sea, Beautiful dutiful daughters Are we!
You who would follow, Fear not to come, For love is for love As dove is for dove; The harp of Apollo Shall lull you to rest, And your head find its home On this beautiful breast.
Queen Aphrodite, Born of the sea, Beautiful dutiful daughters Are we!
Born of the Ocean, Wave-like are we! Rising and falling Like waves of the sea; Changing for ever, Yet ever the same, Music in motion And marble in flame.
Queen Aphrodite, Born of the sea, Beautiful dutiful daughters Are we!
When I alighted once more upon the earth from the heaven of this song,who should I find seated within a table of me but the very couple I wasat the moment so unexpectedly interested in? But they were far tooabsorbed in each other to notice me, and consequently I was able tohear all of importance that was said. I regret that I cannot gratifythe reader with a report of their conversation, for the excuse I hadfor listening was one that is not transferable. A woman's happinesswas at stake. No other consideration could have persuaded me to meansso mean save an end so noble. I didn't even tell Rosalind all I heard.Mercifully for her, the candour of fools is not among my superstitions.Suffice it for all third persons to know--what Rosalind indeed hasnever known, and what I hope no reader will be fool enough to tellher--that Orlando was for the moment hopelessly and besottedlyfaithless to his wife, and that my services had been bespoken in thevery narrowest nick of time.
Having, as the reader has long known, a warm personal interest in hisattractive companion, and desiring, therefore, to think as well of heras possible, I was pleased to deduce, negatively, from theirconversation, that Sylvia Joy knew nothing of Rosalind, and believedOrlando to be a free, that is, an unmarried man. From the point ofview, therefore, of her code, there was no earthly reason why sheshould not fall in with Orlando's proposal that they should leave forParis by the "Mayflower" on the following morning. Orlando, I couldhear, wished to make more extended arrangements, and references to thatwell-known rendezvous, "Eternity," fell on my ears from time to time.Evidently Sylvia had no very saving belief in Eternity, for I heard hersay that they might see how they got on in Paris for a start. Then itwould be time enough to talk of Eternity. This and other remarks ofSylvia's considerably predisposed me towards her. Having concludedtheir arrangements for the heaven of the morrow, they rose to take astroll along the boulevards. As they did so, I touched Orlando'sshoulder and begged his attention for a moment. Though an entirestranger to him, I had, I said, a matter of extreme importance tocommunicate to him, and I hoped, therefore, that it would suit hisconvenience to meet me at the same place in an hour and a half. As Isaid this, I flashed his wife's ring in the light so obviously that hewas compelled to notice it.
"Wherever did you get that?" he gasped, no little surprised andagitated.
"From your wife," I answered, rapidly moving away. "Be sure to be hereat eleven."
I slipped away into the crowd, and spent my hour and a half inpersuading Rosalind that her husband was no doubt a little infatuated,but nevertheless the most faithful husband in the world. If she wouldonly leave all to me, by this time to-morrow night, if not a good manyhours before, he should be in her arms as safe as in the Bank. It didmy heart good to see how happy this artistic adaptation of the truthmade her; and I must say that she never had a wiser friend.
When eleven came, I was back in my seat at the Cafe du Ciel. Orlandotoo was excitedly punctual.
"Well, what is it?" he hurried out, almost before he had sat down.
"What will you do me the honour of drinking?" I asked calmly.
"Oh, drink be d----d!" he said; "what have you to tell me?"
"I'm glad to hear you rap out such a good honest oath," I said; "but Ishould like a drink, for all that, and if I may say so, you would benone the worse for a brandy and soda, late as it is."
When the drinks had come, I remarked to him quietly, but not withoutsignificance: "The meaning of this ring is that your wife is here, andvery wretched. By an accident I have been privileged with herfriendship; and I may say, to save time, that she has told me the wholestory.
"What happily she has not been able to tell me, and what I need hardlysay she will never know from me, I overheard, in the interests of yourjoint happiness, an hour or so ago."
The man who is telling the story has a proverbial great advantage; butI hope the reader knows enough of me by this to believe that I am farfrom meanly availing myself of it in this narrative. I am well andgratefully aware that in this interview with Orlando my advantages weremany and fortunate. For example, had he been bigger and older, or hadhe not been a gentleman, my task had been considerably more arduous,not to say dangerous.
But, as Rosalind had said, he was really quite a boy, and I confess Iwas a little ashamed for him, and a little piqued, that he showed solittle fight. The unexpectedness of my attack had, I realised, givenme the whip-hand. So I judged, at all events, from the fact that heforbore to bluster, and sat quite still, with his head in his hands,saying never a word for what seemed several minutes. Then presently hesaid very quietly,--
"I love my wife all the same."
"Of course you do," I answered, eagerly welcoming the significantannouncement; "and if you'll al
low me to say so, I think I understandmore about the whole situation than either of you, bachelor thoughunfortunately I am. As a famous friend of mine is fond of saying,lookers-on see most of the game."
Then I rapidly told him the history of my meeting with his wife, anddepicted, in harrowing pigments of phrase, the distress of her mind.
"I love my wife all the same," he repeated, as I finished; "and," headded, "I love Sylvia too."
"But not quite in the same way?" I suggested.
"I love Sylvia very tenderly," he said.
"Yes, I know; I don't think you could do anything else. No man worthhis salt could be anything but tender to a dainty little woman likethat. But tenderness, gentleness, affection, evenself-sacrifice,--these may be parts of love; but they are merely thecrude untransformed ingredients of a love such as you feel for yourwife, and such as I know she feels for you."
"She still loves me, then," he said pitifully; "she hasn't fallen inlove with you."
"No fear," I answered; "no such luck for me. If she had, I'm afraid Ishould hardly have been talking to you as I am at this moment. If awoman like Rosalind, as I call her, gave me her love, it would takemore than a husband to rob me of it, I can tell you."
"Yes," he repeated, "on my soul, I love her. I have never been falseto her, in my heart; but--"
"I know all about it," I said; "may I tell you how it allwas,--diagnose the situation?"