Chapter 52
Sylvia asked the new-comer in French what was the matter, but for some time she could only sob without saying a word. Rodrigo, who was regarding her with a mixture of disapproval and compa.s.sion, considered that she had reached the stage--he spoke with all possible respect for the Senorita, who must not suppose herself included in his generalization--the stage of incoherence that is so much more frequent with women than with men whose feelings have been upset. If he might suggest a remedy to the Senorita, it would be to leave her alone for a few minutes and continue the interrupted music. They had come here to enjoy the Alhambra by moonlight; it seemed a pity to allow the grief of an unknown dancer to spoil the beauty of the scene, grief that probably had nothing to do with the Alhambra, but was an echo of the world below.
It might be a lovers' quarrel due to the discovery of a masked flirtation, a thing of no importance compared with the Alhambra by moonlight.
"I'm not such a philosopher as you, Rodrigo. I am a poor, inquisitive woman."
Certainly inquisitiveness might be laid to the charge of the feminine s.e.x, he agreed, but not to all. There must be exceptions, and with a gesture expressive of tolerance for the weaknesses of womankind he managed to convey his intention of excepting Sylvia from Eve's heritage.
Human nature was not all woven to the same pattern. Many of his friends, for instance, would fail to appreciate the Alhambra on such a night, and would prefer to blow horns in the streets.
By this time the grief of the stranger was less noisy, and Sylvia again asked her who she was and why she was weeping. She spoke in English this time; the fair, slim child, for when one looked at her she was scarcely more than fifteen, brightened.
"I don't know where I was," she said.
Rodrigo clicked his tongue and shook his head; he was shocked by this avowal much more deeply than in his sense of locality. Sylvia was puzzled by her accent. The 'w's' were nearly 'v's,' but the intonation was Italian.
"And you're a dancer?" she asked.
"Yes, I was dancing at the Estrella."
Rodrigo explained that this was a cabaret, the kind of place with which the Senorita would not be familiar.
"And you're Italian?"
The girl nodded, and Sylvia, seeing that it would be impossible to extract anything about her story in her present overwrought state, decided to take her back to the pension.
"And I will carry the Senorita's guitar," said Rodrigo. "To-morrow morning at eleven o'clock?" he asked by the gate of Sylvia's pension.
"Or would the Senorita prefer that I waited to conduct the _senorita extraviada?_"
Sylvia bade him come in the morning; with a deep bow to her and to the stranger he departed, tw.a.n.ging his guitar. Mrs. Gainsborough, who by this time had reached the point of thinking that her American widower existed only to be oracular, wished to ask his advice about the stranger, and was quite offended with Sylvia for telling her rather sharply that she did not want all the inmates of the pension buzzing round the frightened child.
"Chocolate would be more useful than advice," Sylvia said.
"I know you're very down on poor Mr. Linthic.u.m, but he's a ma.s.s of information. Only this morning he was explaining how you can keep eggs fresh for a year by putting them in a gla.s.s of water. Now I like a bit of advice. I'm not like you, you great harum-scarum thing."
Mrs. Gainsborough was unable to remain very long in a state of injured dignity; she soon came up to Sylvia's bedroom with cups of chocolate.
"And though you laugh at poor Mr. Linthic.u.m," she said, "it's thanks to him you've got this chocolate so quick, for he talked to the servant himself."
With this Mrs. Gainsborough left the room in high good humor at the successful rehabilitation of the informative widower.
The girl, whose name was Concetta, had long ceased to lament, but she was still very shy, and Sylvia found it extremely difficult at first to reach any clear comprehension of her present trouble. Gradually, however, by letting her talk in her own breathless way, and in an odd mixture of English, French, German, and Italian, she was able to put together the facts into a kind of consecutiveness.
Her father had been an Italian, who for some reason that was not at all clear had lived at Aix-la-Chapelle. Her mother, to whom he had apparently never been married, had been a Fleming. This mother had died when Concetta was about four, and her father had married a German woman who had beaten her, particularly after her father had either died or abandoned his child to the stepmother--it was not clear
"Once in Milano I saw Francesco. Hus.h.!.+ he pa.s.sed in the street, and I said, 'Francesco,' and he said, 'Concettina,' but we could not speak together more longer."
Sylvia would not contest this a.s.sertion, though she made up her mind that it must have been a dream.
"It was a pity you could not speak," she said.
"Yes, nothing but Francesco and Concettina before he was gone. _Peccato!
Peccato!_"
Francesco's example had illuminated his sister's life with the hope of escaping from the stepmother, and she had h.o.a.rded pennies month after month for three years. She would not speak in detail of the cruelty of her stepmother; the memory of it even at this distance of time was too much charged with horror. It was evident to Sylvia that she had suffered exceptional things and that this was no case of ordinary unkindness.
There was still in Concetta's eyes the look of an animal in a trap, and Sylvia felt a rage at human cruelty hammering upon her brain. One read of these things with an idle shudder, but, oh, to behold before one a child whose very soul was scarred. There was more for the imagination to feed upon, because Concetta said that not only was her stepmother cruel, but also her school-teachers and schoolmates.
"Everybody was liking to beat me. I don't know why, but they was liking to beat me; no, really, they was liking it."
At last, and here Concetta was very vague, as if she were seeking to recapture the outlines of a dream that fades in the light of morning, somehow or other she ran away and arrived at a big place with trees in a large city.
"Where, at Aix-la-Chapelle?"
"No, I got into a train and came somewhere to a big place with trees in the middle of a city."
"Was it a park in Brussels?"
She shrugged her shoulders and came back to her tale. In this park she had met some little girls who had played with her; they had played a game of joining hands and dancing round in a circle until they all fell down in the gra.s.s. A gentleman had laughed to see them amusing themselves so much, and the little girls had asked her to come with them and the gentleman; they had danced round him and pulled his coat to make him take Concetta. He had asked her whence she came and whither she was going; he was a schoolmaster and he was going far away with all these other little girls. Concetta had cried when they were leaving her, and the gentleman, when he found that she was really alone in this big city, had finally been persuaded to take her with him. They went far away in the train to Dantzic, where he had a school to learn dancing. She had been happy there; the master was very kind. When she was thirteen she had gone with the other girls from the school to dance in the ballet at La Scala in Milan, but before that she had danced at Dresden and Munich.
Then about six months ago a juggler called Zozo had wanted her and another girl to join his act. He was a young man; she had liked him and she had left Milan with him. They had performed in Rome and Naples and Bari and Palermo. At Palermo the other girl had gone back to her home in Italy, and Concetta had traveled to Spain with Zozo through Tunis and Algiers and Oran. Zozo had treated her kindly until they came here to the Estrella Concert; but here he had changed and, when she did not like him to make love to her, he had beaten her. To-night before they went to the cabaret he had told her that unless she would let him love her he would throw the daggers at her heart. In their act she was tied up and he threw daggers all round her. She had been frightened, and when he went to dress she had run away; but the streets were full of people in masks, and she had lost herself.
Sylvia looked at this child with her fair hair, who but for the agony and fear in her blue eyes would have been like one of those rapturous angels in old Flemish pictures. Here she sat, as ten years ago Sylvia had sat in the cab-shelter talking to Fred Organ. Her story and Concetta's met at this point in man's vileness.
"My poor little thing, you must come and live with me," cried Sylvia, clasping Concetta in her arms. "I too am all alone, and I should love to feel that somebody was dependent on me. You shall come with me to England. You're just what I've been looking for. Now I'm going to put you to bed, for you're worn out."
"But he'll come to find me," Concetta gasped, in sudden affright. "He was so clever. On the program you can read. ZOZO: _el mejor prestigitador del mundo_. He knows everything."
"We must introduce him to Mrs. Gainsborough. She likes encyclopedias with pockets."
"Please?"
"I was talking to myself. My dear, you'll be perfectly safe here with me from the greatest magician in the world."
In the end she was able to calm Concetta's fears; in sleep, when those frightened eyes were closed, she seemed younger than ever, and Sylvia brooded over her by candle-light as if she were indeed her child.
Mrs. Gainsborough, on being told next morning Concetta's story and Sylvia's resolve to adopt her, gave her blessing to the plan.
"Mulberry Cottage'll be nice for her to play about in. She'll be able to dig in the garden. We'll buy a bucket and spade. Fancy, what wicked people there are in this world. But I blame her stepmother more than I do this Shoushou."
Mrs. Gainsborough persisted in treating Concetta as if she were about nine years old and was continually thinking of toys that might amuse her. When at last she was brought to realize that she was fifteen, she was greatly disappointed on behalf of Mr. Linthic.u.m, to whom she had presented Concetta as an infant prodigy.
"He commented so much on the languages she could speak, and he told her of a quick way to practise elemental American, which I always thought was the same as English, but apparently it's not. It's a much older language, really, and came over with Christopher Columbus in the _Mayflower_."
Rodrigo was informed by Sylvia that henceforth the Senorita Concetta would live with her. He expressed no surprise and accepted with a charming courtliness the new situation at the birth of which he had presided. Sylvia thought it might be prudent to take Rodrigo so far into her confidence as to give him a hint about a possible attempt by the juggler to get Concetta back into his power. Rodrigo looked very serious at the notion, and advised the Senorita to leave Granada quickly. It was against his interest to give this counsel, for he should lose his Senorita, the possession of whom had exposed him to a good deal of envy from the other guides. Besides, he had grown fond of the Senorita and he should miss her. He had intended to practise much on his guitar this spring, and he had looked forward to hearing the nightingales with her; they would be singing next month in the lemon-groves. Many people were deaf to the song of birds, but personally he could not listen to them without... a shrug of the shoulders expressed the incommunicable emotion.
"You shall come with us, Rodrigo."
"To Gibraltar?" he asked, quickly, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.
"Why not?" said Sylvia.
He seized her hand and kissed it.