Chapter XXII: I Cling to the Rigging

So my poor little Odyssey had come to an end in shipwreck! Mr. Samuel Butler must be wrong, after all. I doubt a woman’s ability to handle these sustained epics. I was to get no farther on my way to Ithaca than the episode of Phæacia. Nor would any Nausicaa come forth to aid me.

After I had cried my heart’s full—cried till that point when you begin to leave off and to laugh like a child at nothing, for pure weariness—the humorous element, which inevitably enters into all human tragedy, pressed itself upon me. On the stage, art never lets these incongruous incidents intervene at critical moments to disturb the current: in real life, they _will_ obtrude their faces, like Paul Pry; and ’tis my misfortune and my good luck that, with some grain of Heine in my composition, I cannot shut my eyes to them. So here, the comic muse, masquerading as Common Sense, stepped in with one grotesque reminder: “You have no money to pay your way back to London.”

Now, gypsy or American or Anglo-Indian or what you will, I am true Briton in this, that whatever misfortune lowers, I see one path of safety—the road home to London. “If only I could get back to London!” is the Briton’s heart-felt cry of distress in a foreign land. He can starve in comfort, so he may starve in Piccadilly.

I have already explained that I am wholly free from the vile vice of prudence. To take no thought for the morrow is to me an article of religion, though ’tis rare among those who profess to accept it as a divine injunction. Acting on this principle, I had bought a single second-class ticket to Venice, as my funds were insufficient to pay for a return. It was my idea, when I started, to trust for my journey home to the saint who lies at the Lido. Now, however, I found myself in an awkward predicament. St. Nicholas had played me a last bad turn. I had bought perforce a new travelling costume before I left England, for I recognised that my rational dress with the knickerbockers would harmonise ill with the genius of Venice; the rest of my cash in hand had gone for beds at Lucerne or Milan, and passing necessaries. I stood face to face with an Italian court of bankruptcy; liabilities, my hotel bill; assets, five paper lire.

To borrow from Romeo was now clearly impossible. And the canals are so redolent of thirty generations of Venetian refuse that suicide does not offer here its normal allurements.

This brought the revulsion. I lay on my bed and laughed to think that, broken heart or not, I could not get away from Venice.

By evening, I had a headache. I was crying once more. But the worst of headache is that it never kills.

Early next morning I woke from a short snatch of sleep with a dull pain in my left side. It was moral, not physical. I rose, to ease it by action. _Oubliez; voyagez!_ I had still qualms of conscience—I who fancied I had dissected conscience out of existence: but this time they were reversed. Had I done right, after all, in speeding Romeo to his fate? Would Michaela be a mate for him? Was it not better as it was before—for the greatest happiness of the greatest number at least? St. Nicholas, help! John Stuart Mill, stand by me!

I dressed, bathed my red eyes, and went out to keep my appointment. I was early at San Giorgio, but Michaela was before me. As I lifted the heavy curtain, her eyes shone happiness. In her radiant countenance I read my doom. She was calmly, serenely joyous. I beckoned her to the _campo_. She flitted out, and with a charming baby impulse flung her arms around me.

Tears rose in my eyes. It was sweet to see her happy. I held her hand and said nothing.

“Well, he has explained all,” she whispered. “You were a dear to speak to him.”

“Explained!” I cried. How true it is that explanations explain nothing!

“Yes, he told mamma he did not know the type-writer girl was coming to Venice. He went out with her in a gondola because he met her by accident—and it was such a surprise to him; and he wanted to avoid mamma. But he is not going to see her again, and I believe he will dismiss her.”

“No, dear,” I said gently, unable to restrain myself, “he will _not_ dismiss her, because—she will go away of her own accord. She does not intend to remain with him. I have seen her, and I can assure you she is better than you think. She did not know Romeo was engaged; and when she fully realised it she relinquished all claim to him, or rather admitted she had never had one. Michaela, dear child, you must not be hard upon her. You promised to forgive her. I feel sure she has suffered, for she loved him devotedly.”

“How good you are!” Michaela cried. “You sympathise so with everyone!”

“She has promised me,” I went on, “that she will never again see him, that she will avoid him with care, that she will not speak to him nor write to him. She will try to forget him, though to forget him is as impossible for her as for you. But she will be true to you; she will keep her word. I can answer for her as I could answer for myself; she spoke with such earnestness. She is tearing out her heart; but because she thinks it right she will tear it out ruthlessly.”

Michaela smiled a tranquil smile. “And it is all right now,” she said. “We are to be married in October, as we arranged originally.”

We walked along the canal. We walked side by side, but great gulfs separated us. At last I spoke again. “You forgive her, Michaela?”

“Oh! yes, dear, I forgive her. If she did not know, of course it was natural. He _is_ such a dear! She could not help falling in love with him!”

“So I feel,” I said. She glanced up at me with inquiring blue eyes. I think for a second she half suspected the truth, for I had spoken too deeply.

We walked on in silence a little farther. Then Michaela began again, brimming over with her happiness. “I haven’t a quarter thanked you. But I _am_ so grateful! You were a sweet to see them both. You will come to my wedding?”

“No, dearest,” I answered, driving back the tears with a fierce effort. “If so, I should be breaking a solemn promise.”

Again she seemed to suspect, and again the doubt went from her.

“It was all a mistake,” she continued, in a childish, sunny way, “a passing cloud. And Toto seemed so distressed, I couldn’t help feeling sorry to see him so sorry for me. It has touched him very deep. He cried a great deal. He has been crying all the time. But it is all right now. We shall be quite happy!”

I swallowed a lump. What a child it was! And _there_ lay the irony. I think I could have spared Romeo better had I felt I was sparing him to more of a woman. Self-sacrifice for some great soul would be easy: but for a bit of thistledown! And yet I loved her.

“I told mamma how kind you had been,” Michaela went on, quite guilelessly, “and she wants to see you so much. You must come and dine with us at our hotel. How long do you stop in Venice?”

I paused and reflected. I had done her a service—a very great service; what need to stand on trifles? For I do not share the vulgar dread of putting myself under an obligation.

“Dear little Michaela,” I said, spanning her arm with one hand—it was so fairy-like and tiny—and drawing her towards me, “I will confess the truth. I am travelling with that type-writer girl. I know her intimately. Now, I want to spirit her away from Venice at once, so that she may not see Romeo, and that Romeo may not see her. It would be awkward for both of them. But I have no money. I borrowed from you once and repaid you faithfully; if I borrow from you again I will repay in like manner. This is a worse strait than Holmwood. I shall need six or seven pounds. My dear, can you lend it to me?”

She drew out the dainty purse. “Why, of course, dear, if I have it. Fifty, a hundred and fifty, two hundred lire; will that be enough for you?”

“Yes, my child,” I gasped out, taking the crumpled notes and crushing them in my folded hand. “If I work my fingers to the bone you shall have it back.”

We walked on towards the Molo. O grey, grey Venice! The greatest happiness of the greatest number. Back, back, Stuart Mill! Get thee behind me, Satan! A gondola approached. I hailed it.

“Where are you going?” she cried, surprised.

“Away,” I said, “at once. It is better—safer! I will give the devil no chances.” Then to the gondolier, “Hold off a little!”

He held off beyond jumping distance. Michaela hung over on the bridge close by, wondering.

“Michaela,” I cried, “now I will tell you!” An impulse came over me; I could no longer resist it. “It was _I_ who stole your Romeo’s heart by mistake! It was _I_ who played Carmen and beguiled your Don José. It was _I_ who sent him back. _I_ am the type-writer girl!”

“You!” she cried, waving to me to return. “Oh, you dear thing, come back! If it was you, how good you have been! Why, I can see it in your face. You have suffered for my sake! Come back, and let me kiss you!”

“No, dearest,” I said, melting. “I must go. I dare not trust myself. Good-bye for ever! Good-bye to you; good-bye to Romeo. Give him that message for me; I will never again see him.” I turned to the gondolier. “Quick, row for all you are worth! To my hotel first, then on to the railway station!”

* * * * *

If this book succeeds I mean to repay Michaela. Meanwhile, in any case, I am saving up daily every farthing to repay her. For I am still a type-writer girl—at another office.

THE END
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TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where
multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer
errors occur.

Book cover illustration was taken from Wikipedia Commons. The
resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _The Type-writer Girl_, by Grant Allen.]