Part 6

"Do you understand what is going on?" I whispered. "The scene is in the court of the Soldan of Africa. That trembling creature is an envoy from Carlo Magno, come to demand the Soldan's surrender. The play, you know, is six months long. Each adventure takes up one night."

Here Deborah pointed a monitory finger toward the stage, and I shrugged my shoulders in silence.

Indeed the drama had reached a crisis. The Soldan had committed the envoy to a dungeon. While the prisoner grovelled upon the floor, in stalked the Soldan with the haughty stride, achieved by marionettes only. In his hand he bore a sword.

"The hour of thy choice is come," announced the infidel. "Renounce thy faith. Acknowledge the true God and Mahomet his prophet and thou goest free. If thou refuse, this shall be thy last moment on earth."

Many visits to the theatre had prepared me for the sound of indrawn breaths on every side. Deborah glanced curiously around her, but instantly turned again to the scene. The Christian had struggled to his feet.

"Never!" he said in feeble tones. "I can die, but I cannot be false to my faith."

The Pagan raised his sword.

"Dog of a Christian, die!" he roared, and cut the captive down.

"_Infame! infame!_" screamed the audience. Settees scraped, shoes pounded, and men sprang to their feet. About us was a hurly-burly of brandished fists, glaring eyes, snarling lips, flashing teeth. Apples, bananas, split peas, and I thought a knife or two, hurtled toward the stage. Deborah uttered a little scream and started up.

The curtain, falling swiftly, shut off the craven monarch from this just indignation, and instantly the raging mob turned into an assemblage of light-hearted citizens, laughing, chaffing, tossing up their heads to drink beer out of bottles or oval tin pails.

Deborah understood, and a smile curved her lips, but her eyes were wide and deep with recent fright.

"Isn't it amazing?" I ventured.

"Yes!" she agreed, faintly. "It's—it's Elizabethan. I wish we Americans could take our theatre as seriously. I don't wonder, though, that they were excited. I was a little under the spell myself. I could easily fancy that those dolls were alive."

"Look at Beatrice," I suggested.

The girl had not yet recovered her composure. Her hands were clinched and her breath came deep and fast. Deborah eyed her sympathetically.

"It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah.

Beatrice turned upon her.

"It _is_-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-_rue_! 'E did kill-a da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!"

"Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that you are a naughty girl."

III

In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that raised a lump in my throat.

"Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No one understands it as you do."

As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows.

"I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will comprehend your art as well as I."

"This lady! You are married, then. It is well."

Deborah turned away, and though I hastened to explain, I felt a thrill of joy. She was not carrying off an embarrassing situation with her wonted lightness.

"No, no, only an old friend," I said. "I am not married. Deborah, let me introduce Pietro. He is a true artist. He might be making himself rich by taking his daughter and a street-piano to the restaurants, but he prefers to stick to his art and to live on a little."

Pietro's face fell.

"It is not altogether that," he said. "It is true that I love the drama. But also I do not find that it is good for Beatrice to go where there are people who look on."

I looked a question at him.

"Would not the lady like to handle a marionette?" replied the manager. "It is the beginning of knowledge about our drama. Anselmo, show the lady how to manage the figures."

As Anselmo led Deborah away, a change in the room, of which I had been dimly aware, insisted upon my full attention. A high wooden partition divided the helpers' bench into two parts.

"What is that for, Pietro?" I exclaimed.

The old man drew a heavy sigh.

"It is Beatrice," he explained. "She has bewitched my two helpers. They cannot meet without blows. So I have arranged that each remains upon his own side of the room. Anselmo handles the Christians; Giuseppe the Moslems. I have made high the boards, so that they cannot meet upon the bench."

"So-o-o," I whistled. I ran over in my mind Pietro's anxious face, Beatrice's cool reply to my question about the helpers, and the pleading gaze of the faun.

"Who is the boy at the piano?" I asked.

"Gaiterno? He is her cousin. He worships her. It would be a good match, but she will not listen to him. He is not strong enough, she says."

"The little coquette!" I commented.

"Ah, Signore, it is not that!" sighed Pietro. "It is the play. The play is in her head. Life to her is the play. She holds herself to be a princess. Strong men love her, she thinks. She says she will smile upon no one who is not as strong as Rinaldo. Listen, Signore. This is what I saw when I made entrance here three days ago. My two helpers, with the shields and the swords of Orlando and Rinaldo, fought, while Beatrice, with the crown of Angelica upon her head, sat upon the throne of Carlo Magno, and urged them on."

The old man's arms were flourishing, and his eyes were bright.

"I made Anselmo to go away upon the instant," he went on; "but Beatrice, she made a threat that she would elope with him. What could I do? I am an old man. She is my only child. You see—he is still here."

The fire in his eyes went out, his head sank upon his breast, and his hands fell to his sides. I grasped one of them in mine.

The old man returned my grasp bravely, and tried to smile.

"It is sad, is it not, my friend," he said, "that my art should have brought this misfortune upon me!"

Deborah's laughter gurgled down from the bench. Evidently she was in difficulties with her marionettes. An idea came to me.

"Wait for me one minute," I said. "Perhaps Miss Speedwell can help us."

"It is time to raise the curtain," answered Pietro. "You are a good friend. I go to my work with an uplifted heart."

I hastened to the steps at the end of the bench. As I turned to mount them, I felt a hand upon mine, and found Beatrice beside me.

"You lofe-a her!" declared the child, solemnly.

The thought that I carried my heart upon my sleeve annoyed me.

"Beatrice," I exclaimed, "you must learn not to be silly. You are too young to think of such things."

"You not-a say dat once," returned Beatrice, reproachfully; and the recollection of my indiscreet chaffing added to my annoyance. I hurried away, doubtful of my plan. But my kind-hearted companion received it eagerly.

"Ask her to visit us in the country? Of course I will!" she exclaimed, when I had told the story.

During the next act we sat upon one of the heaps of properties, still piled in the corners, and arranged Beatrice's future. We constituted ourselves god and goddess _ex machinâ_ to make a noble woman of the little girl. She was to spend a whole summer face to face with nature, at Deborah's father's pet stock-farm. There she would forget plays and learn to milk cows and to cook. Perhaps, at the end of the season, Gaiterno might be asked to visit her. The wooing of the faun and the maiden amid Colonel Speedwell's groves appealed to Deborah's sense of the picturesque. What appealed to me was the provision in the plan that I should run down every Sunday to watch the progress of education.

Plotting was a very pleasant occupation, and we both started at the thunder of applause and the trampling of feet outside. The play was over—the audience was going home. I rose to my feet reluctantly, and I hoped that I detected in Deborah's deliberation a willingness to linger. While she was watching the helpers, as they hung Orlando and his comrades upon the rack, Pietro came to bid us good-night. Beatrice followed him as far as the doorway. I did not think it best that her good fortune should be revealed to her as yet, and while Deborah was laying it before her father, I asked the child to see if my cab was ready. She drew herself up resentfully, but sulked away. After a long time she returned with word that no cab was in sight.

"No cab?" I asked, in astonishment.

I stumbled through the door, and down half a dozen steps and ran along the passage that led to the street. Beatrice had told the truth. No cab was in sight. Indeed the street was vacant. A March rain had begun to fall, driving everyone indoors and making a mirror of the pavement. It flashed to me the lights of an electric car crossing the street half a dozen blocks away.

"She'd get fearfully wet," I mused, "and her mother would put a stopper on trips."

While I was searching my brains for an expedient, Pietro came running down the hallway.

"Have no care, my good friend," he panted. "Beatrice has told me of cabs at the ferry. It is but a dozen squares. I go to order a cab. Go you to your kind lady."

Greatly relieved, I returned behind the scenes. In the hall I passed Anselmo, and wondered why Beatrice had not sent him instead of her father forth into the wet; but I reflected that perhaps relations between the girl and her lovers might be strained. Thanks for her thoughtfulness were on my lips as I opened the door. They were never spoken, however. Beatrice stood by the partition, alone. Her hair, loosed from its knot, hung wild about her shoulders. Her arms were folded across her breast. One foot was planted forward, and I saw under it Deborah's fur cape.

"Beatrice!" I exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter with you? Where is Miss Speedwell?"

The girl stretched forth both arms toward me.

"You list-a me," she said. "You tink she lof-a you. It is not. It is I! I lof-a you. I 'ave lof-a you one year. You come one year ago—I lof-a you."

Anxiety for Deborah overcame my bewilderment. I stamped my foot upon the stage.

"Stop this nonsense, Beatrice," I commanded. "What are you talking about? Where is Miss Speedwell? Tell me at once!"

The girl thrust a hand into the bosom of her dress.

"You cast-a me off?" she declaimed. "Den I tell you. Nevair s'all you see 'er again. I desire dat you s'all-a not. It is me dat 'ave ordered da cabba away. It is me dat 'ave pris-oned 'er w'ere you s'all nevair coome. I hate 'er. Dis is for dem who betr-r-rays an' not care!"

She plucked the hand from her dress and lifted it high. It held a villanous little stiletto.

Of that moment I can never think, nowadays, without laughing. But at the time I had no appreciation of absurdities. I sent a hasty searching glance about the enclosure. Beyond Beatrice was a door, and I thought I heard the sound of muffled sobs behind it. I sprang forward. On the way I brushed Beatrice aside, heard a scream, and felt a hot streak upon my arm; but I was beyond caring for that. A stroke of my foot burst the lock of the door, and in another instant I was holding my sweetheart in my arms.

A hurry of footsteps upon the stairs opposite startled us. The two helpers, the little faun and another Italian boy rushed through the door. Beatrice sprang to meet them. The dagger was still in her hand, and her eyes were two yellow suns.

"Seize him!" she shrieked. "He has stolen away my father—who knows where? Me, he has betrayed! Revenge my wrong!"

But Beatrice was not vouchsafed the spectacle of a combat in her honor. When I am thoroughly roused I act promptly, and I am not a feeble man. I snatched my arm from Deborah's waist, seized from the rack the nearest marionette and sent it flying among Beatrice's lovers. It struck Anselmo fairly in the chest and laid him low. Fortunately it was a lady figure and could hardly have hurt him seriously, but it smothered him with skirts and hampered him with strings. The other Italians watched his struggles for an instant, and as I made a stride forward, turned and ran as if the _Pagani_ themselves had been after them.

I snatched Deborah's cape from the floor, lifted my sweetheart herself, and sped with her to the street. Once out of doors, I let her find her own feet, and we skurried on through the driving rain. It was a bedraggled maiden that boarded the electric car with me, but her eyes were bright and her spirits were firm; she had even the courage to laugh over the adventure.

"The dreadful little creature!" said Deborah. "She told me I should find you outside that door, and that she would bring my cape. But when I had opened the door, she pushed me through and locked it after me. I knew you would come; but it was dark in there, and I—I think there were rats."

She bent to examine the edge of her waist, which did not in the least need attention.

"You—you are very strong and brave, Harry," she murmured.

IV

That evening won my cause. For reasons not pertaining to this story, our wedding was hastened. The month of preparation was busy, and I am ashamed to say that I forgot Pietro and his trouble. Deborah, who never forgets anything, arranged for Beatrice's invitation to the farm.

During our three years of honeymoon abroad we spoke almost daily of the child and her father. A message from the farmer asking why his guest had not appeared excited further our curiosity; and when we returned to New York I devoted my first unengaged evening to a visit at the theatre. My wife preferred to remain at home.

The paintings in the foyer were a little dingy; otherwise the place seemed unchanged. I rapped upon the door of the ticket-office.

A woman with a baby in her arms answered my clamor. Her figure was thick and clumsy, and her clothes were baggy. After a moment of scrutiny she shifted the baby to her left arm and extended a pudgy hand.

"Welcome, Signore," she said, in a husky voice. I stared at her face. Her cheeks had encroached upon her eyes, but the depths gleamed yellow.

"Beatrice!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Signore," she replied. "You not-a know? I am grow up. I am marry."

"So I supposed," I stammered. "Ah—when did it——?"

"Two year ago. More. My 'usband, 'e is inside. Giovanni, come 'ere."

An undersized man shuffled into the foyer. His legs wavered, and one shoulder was higher than the other.

"'E is tail'. 'E maka da clo'," said Beatrice, proudly. "We 'ave r-roon off, toget'er. My father, 'e is so good; 'e' ava pardon. We live all toget'er. My father lof-a da _bambino_. You will see da play? Giovanni, show de signore da good seat. No, no! No taka da ten centa."

FINIS

THE SPECTRE IN THE CART

By Thomas Nelson Page

I had not seen my friend Stokeman since we were at college together, longer ago than it was pleasant to think of, and now naturally we fell to talking of old times. I remembered him as a hard-headed man without a particle of superstition, if such a thing be possible in a land where we are brought up on superstition, from the bottle. He was at that time full of life and of enjoyment of whatever it brought. I found now that gravity had taken the place of the gayety for which he was then noted, and that his wild and almost reckless spirits had been tempered by the years which had passed as I should not have believed possible; for his career had been an unbroken success, and he appeared to have proved in his own case his old tenet, so arrogantly asserted, that no difficulty could exist which a man's intellect could not overcome.

He used to maintain, I remember, that there was no apparition or supernatural manifestation, or series of circumstances pointing to such a manifestation, however strongly substantiated they appeared to be, that could not be explained on purely natural grounds. And he was wont to say that he regretted that he had not followed my profession: Medicine instead of the Law, that he might study and explain all such phenomena, and show the folly of all contrary theories.

During our stay at college a somewhat notable instance of what was by many supposed to be a supernatural manifestation occurred in a deserted house on a remote plantation in an adjoining county.

It baffled all investigation, and got into the newspapers, recalling the Cock Lane ghost, and many more less celebrated apparitions. Parties were organized to investigate it, but were baffled. Stokeman, on a bet of a box of cigars, volunteered to go out alone and explode the fraud; and did so, not only putting the restless spirit to flight, but capturing it and dragging it into town as the physical and indisputable witness both of the truth of his theory and of his personal courage. The exploit gave him immense notoriety in our little world.

I was, therefore, now during my visit to him no little surprised to hear him say seriously that he had come to understand how people saw apparitions.

"I have seen them myself," he added, gravely.

"You do not mean it?" I sat bolt upright in my chair in my astonishment. I had myself, largely through his influence, become a skeptic in matters relating to the supernatural.

"Yes, I have seen ghosts. They not only have appeared to me, but were as real to my ocular vision as any other external physical object which I saw with my eyes."

"Of course it was an hallucination. Tell me; I can explain it."

"I explained it myself," he said, dryly. "But it left me with a little less conceit and a little more sympathy with the hallucinations of others not so gifted."

It was a fair hit.

"In the year ——," he went on, after a brief period of reflection, "I was the State Attorney for my native county, to which office I had been elected a few years after I left college, and the year we emancipated ourselves from carpet-bag rule, and I so remained until I was appointed to the bench. I had a personal acquaintance, pleasant or otherwise, with every man in the county. The district was a close one, and I could almost have given the census of the population. I knew every man who was for me and almost every one who was against me. There were few neutrals. In those times much hung on the elections. There was no borderland. Men were either warmly for you or hotly against you.

"We thought we were getting into smooth water, where the sailing was clear, when the storm suddenly appeared about to rise again. In the canvass of that year the election was closer than ever and the contest hotter.

"Among those who went over when the lines were thus sharply drawn was an old darky named Joel Turnell, who had been a slave of one of my nearest neighbors, Mr. Eaton, and whom I had known all my life as an easy-going, palavering old fellow with not much principle, but with kindly manners and a likable way. He had always claimed to be a supporter of mine, being one of the two or three negroes in the county who professed to vote with the whites.

"He had a besetting vice of pilfering, for which I had once or twice defended and got him off, and he appeared to be grateful to me. I always doubted him a little; for I believed he did not have force of character enough to stand up against his people, and he was a great liar. Still, he was always friendly with me, and used to claim the emoluments and privileges of such a relation. Now, however, on a sudden, in this campaign he became one of my bitterest opponents. I attributed it to the influence of a son of his, named Absalom, who had gone off from the county during the war when he was only a youth, and had stayed away for many years without anything being known of him, and who had now returned unexpectedly, and thrown himself into the fight. He claimed to have been in the army, and he appeared to have a deep-seated animosity against the whites, particularly against all those whom he had known in boyhood. He was a vicious-looking fellow, broad-shouldered, and bow-legged, with a swagger in his gait. He had an ugly scar on the side of his throat, evidently made by a knife, though he told the negroes, I understood, that he had got it in the war, and was ready to fight again if he but got the chance. He had not been back long before he was in several rows, and as he was of brutal strength, he began to be much feared by the negroes. Whenever I heard of him it was in connection with some fight among his own people, or some effort to excite race animosity. When the canvass began he flung himself into it with fury, and I must say with marked effect. His hostility appeared to be particularly directed against myself, and I heard of him in all parts of the district declaiming against me. The Negroes who, for one or two elections had appeared to have quieted down and become indifferent as to politics were suddenly revivified and showed more feeling than I personally had ever known them to show. It looked as if the old scenes of the Reconstruction period, when the two sides were like hostile armies, might be witnessed again. Night meetings, or 'camp-fires,' were held all through the district, and from all of them came the report of Absalom Turnell's violent speeches stirring up the blacks and arraying them against the whites. Our side was equally aroused and the whole section was in a ferment. Our effort was to prevent any outbreak and tide over the crisis.

"Among my friends was a farmer named John Halloway, one of the best men in my county, and a neighbor and friend of mine from my boyhood. His farm, a snug little homestead of fifty or sixty acres, adjoined our plantation on one side; and on the other, that of the Eatons, to whom Joel Turnell and his son Absalom had belonged, and I remember that as a boy it was my greatest privilege and reward to go over on a Saturday and be allowed by John Halloway to help him plough, or cut his hay. He was a big, ruddy-faced, jolly boy, and even then used to tell me about being in love with Fanny Peel, who was the daughter of another farmer in the neighborhood, and a Sunday-school scholar of my mother's. I thought him the greatest man in the world. He had a fight once with Absalom Turnell when they were both youngsters, and, though Turnell was much the heavier, whipped him completely. Halloway was a good soldier and a good son, and when he came back from the war and won his wife, who was a belle among the young farmers, and with her settled down on his little place and proceeded to make it a bower of roses and fruit-trees, there was not a man around who did not rejoice in his prosperity and wish him well. The Halloways had no children and, as is often the case in such instances, they appeared to be more to each other than most husbands and wives. He always spoke of his wife as if the sun rose and set in her. No matter where he might be in the county, when night came he always rode home, saying that his wife would be expecting him. 'Don't keer whether she's asleep or not,' he used to say, 'she knows I'm a-comin', and she always hears my click on the gate-latch, and is waitin' for me.'

"It came to be well understood throughout the county.

"'I believe you are henpecked,' said a man to him one night.

"'I believe I am, George,' laughed Halloway, 'and by Jings! I like it too.'