CHAPTER XXV
GAIETIES
They took her away the next day. The governor--Sir Charles Somebody--hadheard of her and came and claimed her. His lady--portly,majestic--arrived with him. Their carriage was the finest on the islandand their horses were the best. The coachman and footman were coveredwith the most approved paraphernalia and always constituted an unendingsource of wonder and admiration for the natives. The latter gathered infront of the best hotel on this occasion; they did not quite know whatwas taking place, but the sight of the big carriage there drew themabout like flies.
Mr. Heatherbloom did not linger to speculate or to survey. He had seenbut not spoken to Miss Dalrymple that morning; she had smiled at himacross space, behind orchids. A moment or two he had sat dreaming howfine it would be to live for ever in such a courtyard, with BettyDalrymple's face on the other side, then the hubbub below disturbed anddispelled his reflections. He went down to investigate and to retreat.Sir Charles and his lady were in the hall; they seemed to charge theentire hostelry with their presence. Mr. Heatherbloom walkedcontemplatively out and down the street.
His mind, with a little encouragement, would have flitted back tocourtyards and orchids, but he forced it along less fanciful lines.Mundane considerations were imperative and courtyards were a luxury ofthe rich. He calculated that, after paying his bill at the best hotel,he wouldn't have much more than half a dollar, or two English shillings,left. The situation demanded calm practical reflection; he strove tobestow upon it the necessary measure of orderly thinking. Yesterday,with its nickelodeon, or temple of wonder, was yesterday; to-day, withits problems, was to-day. He had lingered in the happy valley, orkingdom of Micomicon, but the carriage was before the door--the goldenchariot had come to bear away the beautiful princess.
Mr. Heatherbloom asked for employment at the wharf and got it. Thesupercargo of the boat, loading there, had been indulging, not wiselybut too well, in "green swizzles", an insidious drink of the country,and, when last seen was oblivious to the world. A red-haired mate, withsuperfluous utterance, informed the applicant he could come thatafternoon and temporarily essay the delinquent one's duties, checking upthe bags of merchandise and bananas the natives were bringing aboard,and otherwise making himself useful. Mr. Heatherbloom tendered histhanks and departed.
He wandered aimlessly for a while, but the charm of the town hadvanished; he gazed with no interest upon quaint bits most attractiveyesterday, and stolidly regarded now those happy faces he had liked somuch but a short time before. He shook himself; this would not do; butthe work would soon cure him of vain imaginings.
He returned to the hotel and settled with the landlady. Betty Dalrymplewas gone. Of course, there could be no denying Sir Charles and his lady;one of the young girl's place and position in the world could not, withreason or good grace, refuse the governor's hospitality. Mr.Heatherbloom was hardly a suitable chaperon. But she had left a hastyand altogether charming note for him which he read the last few momentshe spent in the courtyard room. "Come soon;" that was the substance ofit. What more could mortal have asked? Mr. Heatherbloom gazed at anempty window where he had last seen her (had they been there onlytwenty-four hours?), then he took a bit of painting on ivory from hispocket and wrapped the message around it. Before noon he had engagedcheap but neat lodgings at the home of an old negro woman.
Several days passed. After waiting in vain for him to call at thegovernor's mansion, Betty Dalrymple drove herself to the hotel; here shelearned that he had gone without leaving an address; a message from SirCharles for Mr. Heatherbloom, formally offering to put the latter up atgovernment house, had not been delivered. Mr. Heatherbloom had failed tocall for his mail.
"Really, my dear, such solicitude!" murmured the governor's wife, whenMiss Dalrymple came out of the hotel. "An ordinary secret-service man,too."
"Oh, no; not an ordinary one," said the girl a little confusedly. Shehad not taken the liberty of speaking of Mr. Heatherbloom's privateaffairs to her august hosts. His true name, or his story, were his toreveal when or where he saw fit. In taking her into his confidence hehad sealed her lips until such time as she had his permission to speak.
"Well, don't worry about the man," observed the elder lady ratherloftily. "There has been a big reward offered, of course, and he'llappear in due time to claim it."
"He'll not," began Betty Dalrymple indignantly, and stopped.
She had been obliged to explain in some way Mr. Heatherbloom's presence,and the subterfuge he had himself employed toward her on the _Nevski_had been the only one that occurred to her. A brave secret-serviceofficer who had aided her--that's what Mr. Heatherbloom was to thegovernor and his better half. Hence the distinct formality of SirCharles' note to Mr. Heatherbloom, indited at Miss Dalrymple's specialrequest and somewhat against the good baronet's own secret judgment. Apolice agent may be valiant as a lion, but he is not a gentleman.
Something of this axiomatic truth the excellent hosts strove to instillby means, more or less subtle, in the mind of their young guest; but sheclung with odd tenacity to her own ingenuous point of view. WhereuponSir Charles figuratively shrugged. Reprehensible democracy of the newworld! She, with the perversity of American womankind, actually spokeof, and, no doubt, desired to treat the fellow as an equal.
She found him one morning, a day or two later. She came down to thewharf, alone, and on foot. He held a note-book and pencil, but that hehad not been above lending physical assistance, on occasion, to thenatives bearing bags and other merchandise, was evident from his handswhich were grimy as a stevedore's. His shirt was open at the throat, andhis face, too, bore marks of toil. Betty Dalrymple stepped impetuouslytoward him; she looked as fresh as a flower, and held out a hand glovedin immaculate white.
"Dare I?" he laughed.
"If you don't!" Her eyes dared him not to take it.
He looked at the hand, such a delicate thing, and seemed still in theleast uncertain; then his fingers closed on it.
"You see I managed to find you," she said. "Who is that man who staresso?"
"That," answered Mr. Heatherbloom smiling, "is my boss."
"Well," she observed, "I don't like his face."
"Some of the darkies he's knocked down share, I believe, your opinion,"he laughed. "Excuse me a moment." And Mr. Heatherbloom stepped to thedumfounded person in question, handed him the note-book and pencil,with a request to keep tab for a moment, and then returned to the girl."Now, I'm at your command," he said with a smile.
"Suppose we take a walk?" she suggested. "We can talk better if we do."
A moment Mr. Heatherbloom wavered. "Sorry," he then said, "but I'vepromised to stick by the job. You see the old tub sails to-morrow forSouth America and it'll be a task to get her loaded before night. Someof the hands, as well as the supercargo, have been bowled over byfire-water."
"I see." There was a strained look about her lips. Before them heavilyladen negroes and a few sailors passed and repassed. The burlyred-headed mate often looked at her; amazement and curiosity weredepicted on his features; he almost forgot the duties Mr. Heatherbloomhad, for a brief interval, thrust upon him. Betty Dalrymple, however,had ceased to observe him; he, the others, no longer existed for her.She saw only Mr. Heatherbloom now; what he said, she knew he meant; sherealized with an odd thrill of mingled admiration and pain that even shecould not cause him to change his mind. He would "stick to his job",because he had said he would.
"I'm interrupting, I fear," she said, a feeling of strange humilitysweeping over her. "When is your day's work done?"
"About six, I expect."
"The governor gives a ball for me to-night," she said.
"Excellent. All the elite of the port will be there, and," with slowmeditative accent, "I can imagine how you'll look!"
"Can you?" she asked, bending somewhat nearer.
"Yes." His gaze was straight ahead.
The white glove stole toward the black hand. "Why don't you come?"
"I?" He stared.
&nb
sp; "Yes; the governor has sent you an invitation. He thinks you asecret-service officer."
Mr. Heatherbloom continued to look at her; then he glanced toward theboat. Suddenly his hand closed; he hardly realized the white glove wasin it. "I'll do it, Betty," he exclaimed. "That is, if I can. And--theremay be a way. Yes; there will be."
"You mean, you may be able to rent them?" With a sparkle in her glance.
"Exactly," he answered gaily, recklessly.
Both laughed. Then her expression changed; she suppressed anexclamation, but gently withdrew her hand.
"How many dances will you give me, Betty?" He had not even noticed thathe had hurt her; his voice was low and eager.
"Ask and see," she said merrily, and went. But outside the shed, shestretched her crushed fingers; he was very strong; he had spoiled a newpair of gloves; she did not, however, seem greatly to mind. As for Mr.Heatherbloom, for the balance of the day he plunged into his task withthe energy of an Antaeus.
* * * * *
Sir Charles regarded rather curiously that night one of his guests whoarrived late. Mr. Heatherbloom's evening garments were not a Poole fit,and his white gloves, though white enough, had obviously been used andcleaned often. But the host observed, also, that Mr. Heatherbloom heldhimself well, said just the right thing to the hostess, and movedthrough the assemblage with quite the proper poise. He didn't lookbored, neither did he appear overimpressed by the almost palatialelegance of the ball-room. He even managed to suppress any outward signsof elation at the sight of Miss Dalrymple with whom he had but theopportunity for a word or two, at first. Naturally the center ofattraction, the young girl found herself forced to dance often. He, too,whirled around with others, just whom, he did not know; he dipped intoTerpsichorean gaiety to escape the dowager's inquisition regarding thathaphazard flight from the _Nevski_ and other details he did not wish toconverse about. But his turn came with Betty at last, and sooner than hehad reason to expect.
"Ours is the next?" she said, passing him.
Was it? He had ventured to write his name thrice on her card, butneither of the dances he had claimed was the next.
"I put your name down for this one myself," she confessed to him a fewmoments later. "Do you mind?"
Did he? The evening wore away but too soon; he held her to him a littlewhile, only over-quickly to be obliged to yield her to another. And now,after a third period of waiting, the time came for their last dance. Hewent for it as soon as the number preceding was over; he wanted, notonly to miss none of it, but he hungered to snatch all the prelude hecould. The conventional-looking young personage she had been dancingwith regarded the approaching Mr. Heatherbloom rather resentfully, buthe moved straight as an arrow for her. At once she stepped toward him,and he soon found himself walking with her across the smooth shiningfloor, on into the great conservatory. Here were soft shadows andwondrous perfumes. Mr. Heatherbloom breathed deeply.
"But a few days more, and we're en route for home." It was the girl whospoke first--lightly, gaily--though there was a thrill in her tones.
He started and did not answer at once. "That will be great, won't it?"His voice, too, was light, but it did not seem so spontaneously glad asher own.
"You _are_ pleased, aren't you?" she said suddenly.
"Pleased? Of course!"
A brief period of inexplicable constraint! He looked at one of her handsresting on the edge of a great vase--at a flower she held in herfingers.
"May I?" he said, and just touched it.
"Of course!" she laughed. "A modest request, after all you've done forme!"
Her fingers placed it in the rented coat.
"There!" she murmured in a matter-of-fact tone, stepping back.
His face, turned to the light, appeared paler; his eyes lookedstudiously beyond her.
"It will be jolly on the steamer, won't it?" she went on.
"Jolly? Oh, yes," he assented, with false enthusiasm, when a black andwhite apparition appeared before them, no less a person than SirCharles.
The governor, as the bearer of particular news, had been looking forher. Mr. Heatherbloom hardly appreciated the preamble or the importanceof what followed. Sir Charles imparted a bit of confidential informationthey were not to breathe to any one until he had verified theparticulars. Word had just been brought to him that the _Nevski_ hadgone on a reef near a neighboring island and was a total wreck. Apassing steamer had stood by, taken off the prince and his crew andlanded them. Still Mr. Heatherbloom but vaguely heard; he felt littleinterest at the moment in his excellency or his boat. Betty Dalrymple'sface, however, showed less indifference to this startling intelligence.
"The _Nevski_ a wreck?" she murmured.
"It must all seem like an evil dream to you now," Mr. Heatherbloom spokeabsently. "Your having ever been on her!"
"Not all an evil one," she answered. They stood again on the ball-roomfloor. "Much good has come from it. I no longer hate the prince. I onlyblame myself a great deal for many things--"
He seemed to hear only her first words. "'Good come from it?' I don'tunderstand."
"But for the _Nevski_, and what happened to me, I should have gone onthinking, as I did, about you."
"And--would that have made such a difference?" quickly.
She raised her eyes. "What do you think?"
"Betty!"
The music had begun. He who had heretofore danced perfectly, now guidedwildly.
"Take care!" she whispered.
But discretion seemed to have left him; he spoke he knew not what--wildmad words that would not be suppressed. They came in contact withanother couple and were brought to an abrupt stop. Flaming poppies shoneon her cheeks; her eyes were brightly beaming. But she laughed and theywent on. He swept her out of the crowded ball-room now, on to the broadveranda where a few other couples also moved in the starlight. On hercurved lips a smile rested; it seemed to draw his head lower.
"Betty, do you mean it?" Again the words were wrested from him, wouldcome. "What your eyes said just now?"
She lifted them again, gladly, freely--not only that--
"Yes; I mean it--mean it," said her lips. "Of course! Foolish boy! Ihave long meant it--"
"Long?" he cried.
"You heard what the Russian woman said--"
"About there being some one? Then it was--"
"Guess." The sweet laughing lips were close; his swept thempassionately. He found the answer; the world seemed to go round.
But later, that night, there was no joy on Mr. Heatherbloom's face. Inhis room in the old negro woman's house, he indited a letter. It wasbrought to Betty Dalrymple the next morning as the early sunshineentered her chamber overlooking the governor's park.
"Darling: Forgive me. I am sailing at dawn on the old tub, for SouthAmerica--"
Here the note fell from the girl's hand. Long she looked out of thewindow. Then she went back to the bit of paper, took it and held itagainst her breast before she again read. She seemed to know now whatwould be in it; the strange depression that had come over her after hehad left last night was accounted for. Of course, he would not go backto New York with her; he would, or could, accept nothing, in the way shewished, from her or her aunt. It was necessary for him still to be Mr.Heatherbloom; he had not yet "found himself" fully; the beginning he hadspoken of was only begun. The influential friends of his father in thefinancial world had become impossible aids; he had to continue as he hadplanned, to go his own way, and his, alone. It would have been easy forhim, as his father's son and the prospective nephew of the influentialMiss Van Rolsen, to have obtained one of those large salaried positions,or "sinecures", with little to do. But that would be only beginning atthe end once more.
Again she essayed to read. The letter would have been a littleincomprehensible to any one except herself, but she understood. Therewere three "darlings"; inexcusable tautology! She kissed them all, butshe kissed oftenest the end: "You will forgive me for forgettingmyself--God knows I didn't intend
to--and you will wait; have faith? Itis much to ask--too much; but if you will, I think my father's son andhe whom you have honored by caring for, may yet prove a little worthy--"
The words brought a sob to her throat; she threw herself back on thebed. "A little?" she cried, still holding the note tight in her hand.But after a spell of weeping, once more she got up and looked out of thewindow. The sunshine was very bright, the birds sang to her. Did shetake heart a little? A great wave of sadness bowed her down, butcourage, too, began to revive in her.
"Have faith?" She looked up at the sky; she would do as he asked--untothe grave, if need be. Then, very quietly, she dressed and wentdown-stairs.
EPILOGUE
It is very gay at the Hermitage, in Moscow, just after Easter, and so itwas natural that Sonia Turgeinov should have been there on a certainbright afternoon some three years later. The theater, at which she oncemore appeared, was closed for the afternoon, and at this seasonfollowing Holy Week and fasting, fashionables and others were wont tocongregate in the spacious cafe and grounds, where a superb orchestradiscourses classical or dashing selections. The musicians played now anAmerican air.
"Some one at a table out there on the balcony sent a request by the headwaiter for it," said a member of Sonia Turgeinov's party--a Parisianartist, not long in Moscow.
"An American, no doubt," she answered absently, sipping her wine. Thethree years had treated her kindly; the few outward changes could besuperficially enumerated: A little more embonpoint; a tendency toward aslight drooping at the corners of the mobile lips, and moments when theshadows seemed to stay rather longer in the deep eyes.
"That style of music should appeal to you, Madam," observed theFrenchman. "You who have been among those favored artists to visit theland of the free. Did you have to play in a tent, and were you literallyshowered with gold?"
"Both," she laughed. "It is a land of many surprises."
"I have heard _es ist alles_ 'the almighty dollar'," said a musicianfrom Berlin, one of the gay company.
"Exaggeration, _mein Herr_!" she retorted, with a wave of the hand. "Itis also a _komischer romantischer_ land." For a moment she seemedthinking.
"Isn't that his excellency, Prince Boris Strogareff?" inquired abruptlya young man with a beyond-the-Volga physiognomy.
She started. "The prince?" An odd look came into her eyes. "Do youbelieve in telepathic waves, Monsieur?" she said gaily to the Frenchman.
"Not to any great extent, Madam. _Mais pourquoi?"_
"Nothing. But I don't see this prince you speak of."
"He has disappeared now," replied her countryman, a fellow-playerrecently come from Odessa. "It is his first dip again into the gaietiesof the world. For several years," with the proud accents of one able toimpart information concerning an important personage, "he has beenliving in seclusion on his vast estates near the Caspian Sea--ruling akingdom greater than many a European principality. But have you nevermet the prince?" To Sonia Turgeinov. "He used to be a patron of thearts, according to report, before the sad accident that befell him."
"I think," observed Sonia Turgeinov, with brows bent as if striving torecollect, "I did meet him once. But a poor actress is forced to meetso many princes and nobles, nowadays," she laughed, "that--"
"True! Only one would not easily forget the prince, the handsomest manin Asia."
She yawned slightly.
"What was this 'sad accident' you were speaking of, _mein Herr_?observed the German, with a mind trained to conversational continuity.
"The prince was cruising somewhere and his yacht was wrecked," said theyoung Roscius from Odessa. "A number of the crew were drowned; hisexcellency, when picked up, was unconscious. A blow on the head from afalling timber, or from being dashed on the rocks, I'm not sure which.At any rate, for a long time his life was despaired of, but he recoveredand is as strong and sound as ever. Only, there is a strange sequel; ornot so strange," reflectively, "since cases of its kind are common. Theinjury was on his head, as I remarked, and his mind became--"
"Affected, Monsieur?" said the Frenchman. "You mean this great noble ofthe steppe is no longer right, mentally?"
"He is one of the keenest satraps in Asia, Monsieur. His brain is asalert as ever, only he has suffered a complete loss of memory."
Sonia Turgeinov's interest was of a distinctly artificial nature; shetapped on the floor with her foot; then abruptly arose. "Shan't we gointo the garden for our coffee?" she said. "It is close here."
They got up and walked out. As they did so they passed a couple at oneof the tables on the balcony and a slight exclamation fell from SoniaTurgeinov's lips. For an instant she exhibited real interest, thenhastening down the steps, she selected a place some distance aside. Agreat bunch of flowers was in the center of the table and she moved herchair behind them.
"You see some one you know, _gnaedige_ Madam?" asked the observantTeuton.
"A great many people," she answered.
"There's that American over there who asked for the Yankee piece ofmusic," said the Frenchman, with eyes on the two people Sonia Turgeinovhad started at sight of, a moment before. "_Mon Dieu!_ What charm! Whatbeauty!"
"_Der Herr Amerikaner?_" blurted the surprised Berliner.
"No--_diable!_ His _belle_ companion!"
"Where?" said Sonia Turgeinov, well knowing. A face that her tablecompanion regarded, she, too, saw beyond the flowers. The afternoonsunshine touched the golden hair of her she looked at; the violet eyesshone with delight upon bizarre details: of the scene--the waiters inblouses resembling street "white wings" in American cities, the coachmenoutside, big as balloons in their quilted cloaks.
"_Der Herr Amerikaner_ has the passionate eyes of an admirer, a devoutlover," murmured the sentimental musician from Berlin.
"Or an American husband!" said Roscius from Odessa.
"Sometimes!" added the Frenchman cynically.
"I haf met him," observed the _Herr Musikaner_, "at the hotel.We haf talked together, once or twice. He has been in SouthAmerica--Argentine, _ich glaube_--and has made a fortune there. Andmadam, his wife, and he are making a grand tour of the world. Theirwedding trip, I believe. _Sie kommt von einer der ersten Familien_--theDalrymples. _Der Herr Direktor_ of the Russicher-Chinese bank told me.He cashes the drafts--_Her Gott_--_nicht kleine!_"
These prosaic details the Frenchman, pictorially occupied, hardly,heard. "_Mon Dieu_! What a _chapeau_!" he sighed. "No wonder he looksenchanted at that wonderful creation of the Rue de la Paix."
"He seems quite an exception to some husbands in that respect!" remarkedthe Berliner in deep gutturals.
Sonia Turgeinov lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke at the flowers.There was a resentful cynicism in the act; she leaned back with greaterabandon in her chair. "After all, the unities have been observed," shesaid with an odd laugh.
"What unities?" asked Roscius, becoming keen as a young hound on thescent, at the sound of the trite phrase.
"Oh, I was thinking of a play." Stretching more comfortably. Suddenlyher cigarette waved; behind the flowers, her eyes dilated. Prince BorisStrogareff was coming down the steps; he passed the American couple theyhad been talking about and looked at them. A light of involuntaryadmiration shone from his gaze, but there was no recognition in it--onlythe instinctive tribute that a man of the world and a gallant Russian isever prone to pay at the sight of an unusually charming member of theother sex. Then, once more impassive--a striking handsome figure--hemoved leisurely down and out of the gardens. The couple, engrossed atthe time in a conversation of some intimate nature or in each other, hadnot even seen or noticed the august nobleman.
Sonia Turgeinov drew harder on the cigarette; a laugh welled from herthroat. "Oh, I wouldn't have missed it for worlds!" she said.
Young Roscius with the Tartar eyes stared at her. She threw away thesmoking cylinder.
"I'm off!"
"Why--"
"Has not the curtain descended?" enigmatically.
"I don't see any curtain," sai
d the Frenchman.
"No? But it's there." At the gate, however, once more she paused--tolisten, to laugh.
"_Was jetzt_?" asked the mystified Berliner.
She only shrugged.
The orchestra, having played a few conventional selections after_Dixie_, had now plunged into _Marching through Georgia_.
As Sonia Turgeinov disappeared through the gate, the golden headsurmounted by the "wonderful _chapeau_", bent toward the clean-cut,strong-looking face of the young man on the other side of the smalltable.
"It's awfully extravagant of you, Harry,--twenty roubles, a tip forthose musicians. But it makes it seem like home, doesn't it?"
"Yes, darling," he answered.
THE END
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