The Happy End Part 10

"Good tidings," she sang.

A negro close beside Doret looked up suddenly, and his voice joined in a humming undertone, "See that chariot, oh, good tidings ... that Egyptian chariot."

A vague emotion stirred within Lemuel Doret, the singing annoyed him, troubled him with memories of perishing things. Another joined, and the spiritual swelled slightly, haltingly above the clatter of gla.s.ses and laughter. The woman who had begun it was swept to her feet; she stood with her tinsel gayety of apparel making her tragic ebony face infinitely grotesque and tormented while her tone rose in a clear emotional soprano:

_"Children of Israel, unhappy slaves, Good tidings, good tidings, For that chariot's coming, G.o.d's chariot's coming, ... coming, ........... chariot out of Egypt."_

The magic of her feeling swept like a flame over the room; shrill mirth, mocking calls, curses were bound in a louder and louder volume of hope and praise. The negroes were on their feet, swaying in the hysterical contagion of melody, the unutterable longing of their alien isolation.

"G.o.d's chariot's coming." The song filled the roof, hung with bright strips of paper, it boomed through the windows and doors. Sobbing cries cut through it, profound invocations, beautiful shadowy voices chimed above the weight of sound.

It beat like a hammer on Lemuel Doret's brain and heart. Suddenly he couldn't breathe, and he rose with a gasp, facing the miracle that had overtaken the place he called bad. G.o.d's chariot--was there! He heard G.o.d's very tone directed at him. Borne upward on the flood of exaltation he seemed to leave the earth far, far away. Something hard, frozen, in him burst, and tears ran over his face; he was torn by fear and terrible joy. His Lord....

He fell forward on his knees, an arm overturning the bottle of beer; and, his sleeve dabbled in it, he pressed his head against the cold edge of the table, praying wordlessly for faith, incoherently ravished by the marvel of salvation, the knowledge of G.o.d here, everywhere.

The harmony wavered and sank, and out of the shuddering silence that followed Lemuel Doret turned again from the city.

THE FLOWER OF SPAIN

I

From the window of the drawing-room Lavinia Sanviano could see, on the left, the Statue of Garibaldi, where the Corso Regina Maria cut into the Lungarno; on the right, and farther along, the gray-green foliage of the Cascine. Before her the Arno flowed away, sluggish and without a wrinkle or reflection on its turbid surface, into Tuscany. It was past the middle of afternoon, and a steady procession of carriages and mounted officers in pale blue tunics moved below toward the shade of the Cascine.

Lavinia could not see this gay progress very well, for the window--it had only a narrow ledge guarded by an iron grille--was practically filled by her sister, Gheta, and Anna Mantegazza. Occasionally she leaned forward, pressed upon Gheta's shoulder, for a hasty unsatisfactory glimpse.

"You are crushing my sleeves!" Gheta finally and sharply complained.

"Do go somewhere else. Anna and I want to talk without your young ears eternally about. When do you return to the convent?"

Lavinia drew back. However, she didn't leave. She was accustomed to her sister's complaining, and--unless the other went to their father--she ignored her hints. Lavinia's curiosity in worldly scenes and topics was almost as full as her imagination thereof. She was sixteen, and would have to endure another year of obscurity before her marriage could be thought of, or she take any part in the social life where Gheta moved with such marked success.

But, Lavinia realized with a sigh, she couldn't expect to be pursued like Gheta, who was very beautiful. Gheta was so exceptional that she had been introduced to the Florentine polite world without the customary preliminary of marriage. She could, almost every one agreed, marry very nearly whomever and whenever she willed. Even now, after the number of years she had been going about with practically all her friends wedded, no one seriously criticized the Sanvianos for not insisting on a match with one of the several eligibles who had unquestionably presented themselves.

Gheta was slender and round; her complexion had the flawless pallid bloom of a gardenia; her eyes and hair were dark, and her lips an enticing scarlet thread. Perhaps her chin was a trifle lacking in definition, her voice a little devoid of warmth; but those were minor defects in a person so precisely radiant. Her dress was always noticeably lovely; at present she wore pink tulle over l.u.s.trous gray, with a high silver girdle, a narrow black velvet band and diamond clasp about her delicate full throat.

Anna Mantegazza was more elaborately gowned, in white embroidery, with a little French hat; but Anna Mantegazza was an American with millions, and elaboration was a commonplace with her. Lavinia wore only a simple white slip, confined about her flexible waist with a yellow ribbon; and she was painfully conscious of the contrast she presented to the two women seated in the front of the window.

The fact was that a whole fifth of the Sanvianos' income was spent on Gheta's clothes; and this left only the most meager provision for Lavinia. But this, the latter felt, was just--still in the convent, she required comparatively little personal adornment; while the other's beauty demanded a worthy emphasis. Later Lavinia would have tulle and silver lace. She wished, however, that Gheta would get married; for Lavinia knew that even if she came home she would be held back until the older sister was settled. It was her opinion that Gheta was very silly to show such indifference to Cesare Orsi.... Suddenly she longed to have men--not fat and good-natured like the Neapolitan banker, but austere and romantic--in love with her. She clasped her hands to her fine young breast and a delicate color stained her cheeks. She stood very straight and her breathing quickened through parted lips.

She was disturbed by the echo of a voice from the cool depths of the house, and turned at approaching footfalls. The room was so high and large that its stiff gilt and brocade furnishing appeared insignificant.

Three long windows faced the Lungarno, but two were screened with green slatted blinds and heavily draped, and the light within was silvery and illusive. A small man in correct English clothes, with a pointed bald head and a heavy nose, entered impulsively.

"It's Bembo," Lavinia announced flatly.

"Of course it's Bembo," he echoed vivaciously. "Who's more faithful to the Casa Sanviano----"

"At tea time," Lavinia interrupted.

"Lavinia," her sister said sharply, "don't be impertinent. There are so many strangers driving," she continued, to the man; "do stand and tell us who they are. You know every second person in Europe."

He pressed eagerly forward, and Anna Mantegazza turned and patted his hand.

"I wish you were so attentive to Pier and myself," she remarked, both light and serious. "I'd like to buy you--you're indispensable in Florence."

"Contessa!" he protested. "Delighted! At once."

"Bembo," Gheta demanded, "duty--who's that in the little carriage with the bells bowed over the horses?"

He leaned out over the grille, his beady alert gaze sweeping the way below.

"Litolff," he p.r.o.nounced without a moment's hesitation--"a Russian swell. The girl with him is----" He stopped with a side glance at Lavinia, a slight shrug.

"Positively, Lavinia," Gheta insisted again, more crossly, "you're a nuisance! When do you go back to school?"

"In a week," Lavinia answered serenely.

With Bembo added to the others, she could see almost nothing of the scene below. Across the river the declining sun cast a rosy light on the great glossy hedges and clipped foliage of the Boboli Gardens; far to the left the paved height of the Piazzale Michelangelo rose above the somber sweep of roofs and bridges; an aged bell rang harshly and mingled with the inconsequential clatter on the Lungarno. An overwhelming sense of the mystery of being stabbed, sharp as a knife, at her heart; a choking longing possessed her to experience all--all the wonders of life, but princ.i.p.ally love.

"Look, Bembo!" Anna Mantegazza suddenly exclaimed. "No; there--approaching! Who's that singular person in the hired carriage?"

Her interest was so roused that Lavinia, once more forgetful of Gheta's sleeves, leaned over her sister's shoulder, and immediately distinguished the object of their curiosity.

An open cab was moving slowly, almost directly under the window, with a single patron--a slender man, sitting rigidly erect, in a short, black sh.e.l.l jacket, open upon white linen, a long black tie, and a soft narrow scarlet sash. He wore a wide-brimmed stiff felt hat slanted over a thin countenance burned by the sun as dark as green bronze; his face was as immobile as metal, too; it bore, as if permanently molded, an expression of excessive contemptuous pride.

Bembo's voice rose in a babble of excited information.

"'Singular?' Why, that's one of the most interesting men alive. It's Abrego y Mochales, the greatest bullfighter in existence, the Flower of Spain. I've seen him in the ring and at San Sebastian with the King; and I can a.s.sure you that one was hardly more important than the other. He's idolized by every one in Spain and South America; women of all cla.s.ses fall over each other with declarations and gifts."

As if he had heard the p.r.o.nouncement of his name the man in the cab turned sharply and looked up. Gheta was leaning out, and his gaze fastened upon her with a sudden and extraordinary intensity. Lavinia saw that her sister, without dissembling her interest, sat forward, statuesque and lovely. It seemed to the former that the cab was an intolerable time pa.s.sing; she wished to draw Gheta back, to cover her indiscretion from Anna Mantegazza's prying sight. She sighed with inexplicable relief when she saw that the man had driven beyond them and that he did not turn.

A bull-fighter! A blurred picture formed in Lavinia's mind from the various details she had read and heard of the cruelty of the Spanish national sport--torn horses, stiff on blood-soaked sand; a frenzied and savage populace; and charging bulls, drenched with red froth. She shuddered.

"What a brute!" she spoke aloud unintentionally.

Gheta glanced at her out of a cool superiority, but Anna Mantegazza nodded vigorously.

"He would be a horrid person!" she affirmed.

"How silly!" Gheta responded. "It's an art, like the opera; he's an artist in courage. Personally I find it rather fascinating. Most men are so--so mild."

Lavinia knew that the other was thinking of Cesare Orsi, and she agreed with her sister that Orsi was far too mild. Without the Orsi fortune--he had much more even than Anna Mantegazza--Cesare would simply get nowhere. The Spaniard--Lavinia could not recall his name, although it hung elusively among her thoughts--was different; women of all cla.s.ses, Bembo had said, pursued him with favors. He could be cruel, she decided, and shivered a little vicariously. She half heard Bembo's rapid high-pitched excitement over trifles.

"You are going to the Guarinis' sale to-morrow afternoon? But, of course, every one is. Well, if I come across Abrego y Mochales before then, and I'm almost certain to, and he'll come, I'll bring him. He's as proud as the devil--d.u.c.h.esses, you see--so no airs with him. The Flower of Spain. A king of sport sits high at the table--" He went on, apparently interminable; but Lavinia turned away to where tea was being laid in a far angle.

Others approached over the tiled hall and the Marchese Sanviano entered with Cesare Orsi. The window was deserted, and the women trailed gracefully toward the bubbling minor note of the alcohol lamp. Both Sanviano and Orsi were big men--the former, like Bembo, wore English clothes; but Orsi's ungainly body had been tightly garbed by a Southern military tailor, making him--Lavinia thought--appear absolutely ridiculous. His collar was both too tight and too high, although perspiration promised relief from the latter.