The Primadonna Read online

  CHAPTER IX

  Three weeks later, when the days were lengthening quickly and Londonwas beginning to show its better side to the cross-grained people whoabuse its climate, the gas was lighted again in the dingy rooms inHare Court. No one but the old woman who came to sweep had visitedthem since Mr. Van Torp had gone into the country in March, after LadyMaud had been to see him on the evening of his arrival.

  As then, the fire was laid in the grate, but the man in black who satin the shabby arm-chair had not put a match to the shavings, and thebright copper kettle on the movable hob shone coldly in the raw glarefrom the incandescent gaslight. The room was chilly, and the man hadnot taken off his black overcoat or his hat, which had a broad bandon it. His black gloves lay on the table beside him. He wore patentleather boots with black cloth tops, and he turned in his toes as hesat. His aquiline features were naturally of the melancholic type, andas he stared at the fireplace his expression was profoundly sad. Hedid not move for a long time, but suddenly he trembled, as a man doeswho feels the warning chill in a malarious country when the sun goesdown, and two large bright tears ran down his lean dark cheeks andwere quickly lost in his grizzled beard. Either he did not feel them,or he would not take the trouble to dry them, for he sat quite stilland kept his eyes on the grate.

  Outside it was quite dark and the air was thick, so that thechimney-pots on the opposite roof were hardly visible against thegloomy sky. It was the time of year when spring seems very near inbroad daylight, but as far away as in January when the sun goes down.

  Mr. Isidore Bamberger was waiting for a visitor, as his partner Mr.Van Torp had waited in the same place a month earlier, but he made nopreparations for a cheerful meeting, and the cheap japanned tea-caddy,with the brown teapot and the chipped cups and saucers, stoodundisturbed in the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner, while thelonely man sat before the cold fireplace and let the tears trickledown his cheeks as they would.

  At the double stroke of the spring door-bell, twice repeated, hisexpression changed as if he had been waked from a dream. He dried hischeeks roughly with the back of his hand, and his very heavy blackeyebrows were drawn down and together, as if the tension of the man'swhole nature had been relaxed and was now suddenly restored. The lookof sadness hardened to an expression that was melancholy still, butgrim and unforgiving, and the grizzled beard, clipped rather close atthe sides, betrayed the angles of the strong jaw as he set his teethand rose to let in his visitor. He was round-shouldered and slightlybow-legged when he stood up; he was heavily and clumsily built, but hewas evidently strong.

  He went out into the dark entry and opened the door, and a momentlater he came back with Mr. Feist, the man with the unhealthycomplexion whom Margaret had seen at the Turkish Embassy. IsidoreBamberger sat down in the easy-chair again without ceremony, leavinghis guest to bring up a straight-backed chair for himself.

  Mr. Feist was evidently in a very nervous condition. His hand shookperceptibly as he mopped his forehead after sitting down, and he movedhis chair uneasily twice because the incandescent light irritated hiseyes. He did not wait for Bamberger to question him, however.

  'It's all right,' he said, 'but he doesn't care to take steps tillafter this season is over. He says the same thing will happen again toa dead certainty, and that the more evidence he has the surer he'll beof the decree. I think he's afraid Van Torp has some explanation uphis sleeve that will swing things the other way.'

  'Didn't he catch her here?' asked the elder man, evidently annoyed.'Didn't he find the money on this table in an envelope addressedto her? Didn't he have two witnesses with him? Or is all that aninvention?'

  'It happened just so. But he's afraid there's some explanation--'

  'Feist,' said Isidore Bamberger slowly, 'find out what explanation theman's afraid of, pretty quick, or I'll get somebody who will. It's mybelief that he's just a common coward, who takes money from his wifeand doesn't care how she gets it. I suppose she refused to pay oneday, so he strengthened his position by catching her; but he doesn'twant to divorce the goose that lays the golden egg as long as he'sshort of cash. That's about the measure of it, you may depend.'

  'She may be a goose,' answered Feist, 'but she's a wild one, andshe'll lead us a chase too. She's up to all sorts of games, I'veascertained. She goes out of the house at all hours and comes homewhen she's ready, and it isn't to meet your friend either, for he'snot been in London again since he landed.'

  'Then who else is it?' asked Bamberger.

  Feist smiled in a sickly way.

  'Don't know,' he said. 'Can't find out.'

  'I don't like people who don't know and can't find out,' answered theother. 'I'm in a hurry, I tell you. I'm employing you, and paying youa good salary, and taking a great deal of trouble to have you pushedwith letters of introduction where you can see her, and now you comehere and tell me you don't know and you can't find out. It won't do,Feist. You're no better than you used to be when you were my secretarylast year. You're a pretty bright young fellow when you don't drink,but when you do you're about as useful as a painted clock--and even apainted clock is right twice in twenty-four hours. It's more than youare. The only good thing about you is that you can hold your tongue,drunk or sober. I admit that.'

  Having relieved himself of this plain opinion Isidore Bamberger waitedto hear what Feist had to say, keeping his eyes fixed on the unhealthyface.

  'I've not been drinking lately, anyhow,' he answered, 'and I'll tellyou one thing, Mr. Bamberger, and that is, that I'm just as anxious asyou can be to see this thing through, every bit.'

  'Well, then, don't waste time! I don't care a cent about the divorce,except that it will bring the whole affair into publicity. As soon asall the papers are down on him, I'll start in on the real thing. Ishall be ready by that time. I want public opinion on both sides ofthe ocean to run strong against him, as it ought to, and it's justthat it should. If I don't manage that, he may get off in the end inspite of your evidence.'

  'Look here, Mr. Bamberger,' said Feist, waking up, 'if you want myevidence, don't talk of dropping me as you did just now, or you won'tget it, do you understand? You've paid me the compliment of telling methat I can hold my tongue. All right. But it won't suit you if I holdmy tongue in the witness-box, will it? That's all, Mr. Bamberger. I'venothing more to say about that.'

  There was a sudden vehemence in the young man's tone which portrayedthat in spite of his broken nerves he could still be violent. ButIsidore Bamberger was not the man to be brow-beaten by any one heemployed. He almost smiled when Feist stopped speaking.

  'That's all right,' he said half good-naturedly and halfcontemptuously. 'We understand each other. That's all right.'

  'I hope it is,' Feist answered in a dogged way. 'I only wanted you toknow.'

  'Well, I do, since you've told me. But you needn't get excited likethat. It's just as well you gave up studying medicine and took tobusiness, Feist, for you haven't got what they call a pleasant bedsidemanner.'

  Mr. Feist had once been a medical student, but had given up theprofession on inheriting a sum of money with which he at once began tospeculate. After various vicissitudes he had become Mr. Bamberger'sprivate secretary, and had held that position some time in spite ofhis one failing, because he had certain qualities which made himinvaluable to his employer until his nerves began to give away. One ofthose qualities was undoubtedly his power of holding his tongueeven when under the influence of drink; another was his reallyextraordinary memory for details, and especially for letters he hadwritten under dictation, and for conversations he had heard. He wasskilful, too, in many ways when in full possession of his faculties;but though Isidore Bamberger used him, he despised him profoundly,as he despised every man who preferred present indulgence to futureprofit.

  Feist lit a cigarette and blew a vast cloud of smoke round him, butmade no answer to his employer's last observation.

  'Now this is what I want you to do,' said the latter. 'Go to thisCount Leven and tell him it's a cash transacti
on or nothing, and thathe runs no risk. Find out what he'll really take, but don't cometalking to me about five thousand pounds or anything of that kind, forthat's ridiculous. Tell him that if proceedings are not begun by thefirst of May his wife won't get any more money from Van Torp, and hewon't get any more from his wife. Use any other argument that strikesyou. That's your business, because that's what I pay you for. What Iwant is the result, and that's justice and no more, and I don't careanything about the means. Find them and I'll pay. If you can't findthem I'll pay somebody who can, and if nobody can I'll go to the endwithout. Do you understand?'

  'Oh, I understand right enough,' answered Feist, with his bad smile.'If I can hit on the right scheme I won't ask you anything extrafor it, Mr. Bamberger! By the bye, I wrote you I met Cordova, thePrimadonna, at the Turkish Embassy, didn't I? She hates him as muchas the other woman likes him, yet she and the other have struck up afriendship. I daresay I shall get something out of that too.'

  'Why does Cordova hate him?' asked Bamberger.

  'Don't quite know. Thought perhaps you might.'

  'No.'

  'He was attentive to her last winter,' Feist said. 'That's all I knowfor certain. He's a brutal sort of man, and maybe he offended hersomehow.'

  'Well,' returned Isidore Bamberger, 'maybe; but singers aren't oftenoffended by men who have money. At least, I've always understood so,though I don't know much about that side of life myself.'

  'It would be just one thing more to break his character if Cordovawould say something against him,' suggested Feist. 'Her popularity issomething tremendous, and people always believe a woman who says thata man has insulted her. In those things the bare word of a pretty ladywho's no better than she should be is worth more than an honest man'scharacter for thirty years.'

  'That's so,' said Bamberger, looking at him attentively. 'That's quitetrue. Whatever you are, Feist, you're no fool. We may as well have thepretty lady's bare word, anyway.'

  'If you approve, I'm nearly sure I can get it,' Feist answered. 'Atleast, I can get a statement which she won't deny if it's publishedin the right way. I can furnish the materials for an article on herthat's sure to please her--born lady, never a word against her, highlyconnected, unassailable private life, such a contrast to several othercelebrities on the stage, immensely charitable, half American, halfEnglish--every bit of that all helps, you see--and then an anecdote ortwo thrown in, and just the bare facts about her having had to escapein a hurry from a prominent millionaire in a New York hotel--fairlyran for her life and turned the key against him. Give his name if youlike. If he brings action for libel, you can subpoena Cordova herself.She'll swear to it if it's true, and then you can unmask your big gunsand let him have it hot.'

  'No doubt, no doubt. But how do you propose to find out if it istrue?'

  'Well, I'll see; but it will answer almost as well if it's not true,'said Feist cynically. 'People always believe those things.'

  'It's only a detail,' said Bamberger, 'but it's worth something,and if we can make this man Leven begin a suit against his wife,everything that's against Van Torp will be against her too. That's notjustice, Feist, but it's fact. A woman gets considerably less pity formaking mistakes with a blackguard than for liking an honest man toomuch, Feist.'

  Mr. Bamberger, who had divorced his own wife, delivered these opinionsthoughtfully, and, though she had made no defence, he might besupposed to know what he was talking about.

  Presently he dismissed his visitor with final injunctions to lose notime, and to 'find out' if Lady Maud was interested in any one besidesVan Torp, and if not, what was at the root of her eccentric hours.

  Mr. Feist went away, apparently prepared to obey his employer withall the energy he possessed. He went down the dimly-lighted stairsquickly, but he glanced nervously upwards, as if he fancied thatIsidore Bamberger might have silently opened the door again to lookover the banister and watch him from above. In the dark entry below hepaused a moment, and took a satisfactory pull at a stout flask beforegoing out into the yellowish gloom that had settled on Hare Court.

  When he was in the narrow alley he stopped again and laughed, withoutmaking any sound, so heartily that he had to stand still till the fitpassed; and the expression of his unhealthy face just then would havedisturbed even Mr. Bamberger, who knew him well.

  But Mr. Bamberger was sitting in the easy-chair before the fireplace,and his eyes were fixed on the bright point at which the shiny copperkettle reflected the gaslight. His head had fallen slightly forward,so that his bearded chin was out of sight below the collar of hisovercoat, leaving his eagle nose and piercing eyes above it. He waslike a bird of prey looking down over the edge of its nest. He had nottaken off his hat for Mr. Feist, and it was pushed back from his bonyforehead now, giving his face a look that would have been half comicif it had not been almost terrifying: a tall hat set on a skull, alittle back or on one side, produces just such an effect.

  There was no moisture in the keen eyes now. In the bright spot on thecopper kettle they saw the vision of the end towards which he wasstriving with all his strength, and all his heart, and all his wealth.It was a grim little picture, and the chief figure in it was athick-set man who had a queer cap drawn down over his face and hishands tied; and the eyes that saw it were sure that under the capthere were the stony features of a man who had stolen his friend'swife and killed his friend's daughter, and was going to die for whathe had done.

  Then Isidore Bamberger's right hand disappeared inside the breast ofhis coat and closed lovingly upon a full pocket-book; but there wasonly a little money in it, only a few banknotes folded flat againsta thick package of sheets of notepaper all covered with clear, closewriting, some in ink and some in pencil; and if what was written therewas all true, it was enough to hang Mr. Rufus Van Torp.

  There were other matters, too, not written there, but carefullyentered in the memory of the injured man. There was the story of hismarriage with a beautiful, penniless girl, not of his own faith, whomhe had taken in the face of strong opposition from his family. Shehad been an exquisite creature, fair and ethereal, as degeneratessometimes are; she had cynically married him for his money, deceivinghim easily enough, for he was willing to be blinded; but differenceshad soon arisen between them, and had turned to open quarrelling, andMr. Van Torp had taken it upon himself to defend her and to reconcilethem, using the unlimited power his position gave him over his partnerto force the latter to submit to his wife's temper and caprice, as theonly alternative to ruin. Her friendship for Van Torp grew stronger,till they spent many hours of every day together, while her husbandsaw little of her, though he was never altogether estranged from herso long as they lived under one roof.

  But the time came at last when Bamberger had power too, and Van Torpcould no longer hold him in check with a threat that had become vain;for he was more than indispensable, he was a part of the Nickel Trust,he was the figure-head of the ship, and could not be discarded atwill, to be replaced by another.

  As soon as he was sure of this and felt free to act, Isidore Bambergerdivorced his wife, in a State where slight grounds are sufficient. Forthe sake of the Nickel Trust Van Torp's name was not mentioned. Mrs.Bamberger made no defence, the affair was settled almost privately,and Bamberger was convinced that she would soon marry Van Torp.Instead, six weeks had not passed before she married Senator Moon,a man whom her husband had supposed she scarcely knew, and toBamberger's amazement Van Torp's temper was not at all disturbed bythe marriage. He acted as if he had expected it, and though he hardlyever saw her after that time, he exchanged letters with her duringnearly two years.

  Bamberger's little daughter Ida had never been happy with herbeautiful mother, who had alternately spoilt her and vented her temperon her, according to the caprice of the moment. At the time of thedivorce the child had been only ten years old; and as Bamberger wasvery kind to her and was of an even disposition, though never verycheerful, she had grown up to be extremely fond of him. She neverguessed that he did not love her in ret
urn, for though he was cynicalenough in matters of business, he was just according to his lights,and he would not let her know that everything about her recalled hermother, from her hair to her tone of voice, her growing caprices, andher silly fits of temper. He could not believe in the affection of adaughter who constantly reminded him of the hell in which he hadlived for years. If what Van Torp told Lady Maud of his own pretendedengagement to Ida was true, it was explicable only on that ground, sofar as her father was concerned. Bamberger felt no affection forhis daughter, and saw no reason why she should not be used as aninstrument, with her own consent, for consolidating the position ofthe Nickel Trust.

  As for the former Mrs. Bamberger, afterwards Mrs. Moon, she had goneto Europe in the autumn, not many months after her marriage, leavingthe Senator in Washington, and had returned after nearly a year'sabsence, bringing her husband a fine little girl, whom she hadchristened Ida, like her first child, without consulting him. It soonbecame apparent that the baby was totally deaf; and not very longafter this discovery, Mrs. Moon began to show signs of not being quitesane. Three years later she was altogether out of her mind, and assoon as this was clear the child was sent to the East to be taught.The rest has already been told. Bamberger, of course, had never seenlittle Ida, and had perhaps never heard of her existence, and SenatorMoon did not see her again before he died.

  Bamberger had not loved his own daughter in her life, but since hertragic death she had grown dear to him in memory, and he reproachedhimself unjustly with having been cold and unkind to her. Below thesurface of his money-loving nature there was still the deep andunsatisfied sentiment to which his wife had first appealed, and byplaying on which she had deceived him into marrying her. Her treatmentof him had not killed it, and the memory of his fair young daughternow stirred it again. He accused himself of having misunderstood her.What had been unreal and superficial in her mother had perhaps beentrue and deep in her. He knew that she had loved him; he knew it now,and it was the recollection of that one being who had been devoted tohim for himself, since he had been a grown man, that sometimes broughtthe tears from his eyes when he was alone. It would have been acomfort, now, to have loved her in return while she lived, and to havetrusted in her love then, instead of having been tormented by thebelief that she was as false as her mother had been.

  But he had been disappointed of his heart's desire; for, strange as itmay seem to those who have not known such men as Isidore Bamberger,his nature was profoundly domestic, and the ideal of his youth hadbeen to grow old in his own home, with a loving wife at his side,surrounded by children and grandchildren who loved both himself andher. Next to that, he had desired wealth and the power money gives;but that had been first, until the hope of it was gone. Looking backnow, he was sure that it had all been destroyed from root to branch,the hope and the possibility, and even the memory that might havestill comforted him, by Rufus Van Torp, upon whom he prayed that hemight live to be revenged. He sought no secret vengeance, either, nopitfall of ruin dug in the dark for the man's untimely destruction;all was to be in broad daylight, by the evidence of facts, under theverdict of justice, and at the hands of the law itself.

  It had not been very hard to get what he needed, for his formersecretary, Mr. Feist, had worked with as much industry andintelligence as if the case had been his own, and in spite of thevice that was killing him had shown a wonderful power of holding histongue. It is quite certain that up to the day when Feist called onhis employer in Hare Court, Mr. Van Torp believed himself perfectlysafe.