Chapter VIII “Punchinello”
“He laughed... as gaily,
Dancing, joking every night,
‘He’s the maddest, merriest fellow,’
Cried the people with delight.
Bravo, bravo! Punchinello!
Bravo, Punchinello!”
—Old Song.
Mr. Zangwell, in his clever “Serio-Comic Governess,” has shown us a young lady leading two very different lives at one and the same time. In the day-time she is a highly respectable and decorous governess, at night, a music-hall artiste. In both lines she is a success.
Now this success is probably owing to the fact that this particular young lady is gratifying her curiosity and her desire to lead a conventional existence at one and the same time. She is, in short, doing that which she wishes to do.
There are many such “serio-comic governesses” in real life. Perhaps you, who read, may be one; perhaps, unknown to you, the dear friend from whom you have no secrets and who, you fondly believe, has none from you, may have a personality which you have never even guessed at.
In the case of our “serio-comic governess,” however, we must draw a distinction. Lynn Thayer liked neither of her lives, which clashed horribly both with one another and with her sense of right. Since she saw no way in which she could avoid it, however, she continued to lead them to the best of her ability, sustained, if not comforted, by the thought that one of them was bound to terminate with the death of the one being whom she most loved.
We have seen our “serio-comic governess” in one role; now we see her in another. We have seen Punchinello with the mask off and the grin absent; now we see him as he appears daily in the theatre of life.
Lynn had returned from the school where she taught and sat in her aunt’s sitting-room, engaged on a shirtwaist and in conversation. If we listen we shall be able to form a fair idea of the progress of the conversation, if not of that of the shirtwaist. Mrs. Thayer was employed in embroidering a collar and impressed the casual observer as doing the exact thing for which Nature had fitted her. She was one of those pretty, faded, querulous women with worthy hearts but limited intellects of whom one almost instinctively speaks as “poor thing”; why, it is hard to say, except that something in their appearance calls forth the expression. No one ever called Lynn Thayer “poor thing,” nor would, whatever griefs or difficulties she might labour under.
Mrs. Thayer was speaking.
“Now, Lynn, why is he not coming here, to-night?”
“For one thing, because I don’t want him; and, for another, because he is changing his hotel. You know he is staying at the ‘Hastings’ while his house is in the hands of the painters.”
“And he is moving from the ‘Hastings.’ Why?”
“Oh, I think he said it was ‘tough’ and that he would have to leave it. I tried hard not to compliment him upon the altruism of his action. Certainly if one thing more than another is calculated to ‘raise the tone’ of a hotel, it is his leaving it.”
“Lynn! you didn’t tell him so?” shrieked her aunt.
“No,” returned her niece, rather sorrowfully. “I didn’t. I wish I had.”
“Lynn!”
“I don’t often neglect anything calculated to render me unpopular with him,” continued Miss Thayer, composedly, “and when I do I’m always sorry for it, afterwards. You know that, Aunt Lucy?”
“Lynn, dear, don’t use all those long words,” adjured her aunt, piteously. “They do sound so clever. And men do so hate clever women. I don’t mean that you are clever, you understand, dear,” she continued, apologetically, “only that you appear so, sometimes.”
“I wonder whether Mr. Lighton would dislike it if he thought I were clever!” queried Lynn with sudden interest.
“I don’t know. I am afraid—”
“How I would scintillate if I only thought it would annoy him,” Lynn said in a low voice.
Mrs. Thayer started, indignantly.
“I am thankful,” she reflected in loud and severe accents, “that I was never afflicted with a desire to make myself unpleasant to estimable young men.”
“Estimable! Aunt Lucy!”
“It is true,” said Mrs. Thayer, putting two diminutive stitches in the collar which she was embroidering, “it is undeniably true, Lynn, that the poor boy has been a little wild. But he wants to settle down.”
“If he wants to settle down with me, Aunt Lucy, he can want.”
“Lynn, is that the remark of a lady?”
“It is; and, furthermore, it is the remark of a lady who knows her own mind.”
Mrs. Thayer raised a tiny handkerchief to her eyes and deposited two tinier tears, thereupon. Long practice had made her an adept in the gentle art of weeping, by which art she had succeeded in establishing an absolute monarchy in her own home.
“Oh, Lynn, what a way to talk,” she wept, gently, “when the poor boy is so fond of you and has such a good salary and a house of his own, besides. How few young men have houses of their own that you can walk right into as soon as you marry them! What are you laughing at? And anyway he is much too good for you and besides Eva Holt would jump at him.”
“Let her jump.”
“Ah, Lynn, you have no natural, womanly instincts.”
“I am afraid I am lacking in some.”
“Such a nice house as it is, too,” sighed her aunt, “and all being done over—new plumbing, electric light and everything! Electric light is so nice to read by. How fortunate it is that his uncle di—that is to say, how fortunate it is that his uncle left it to him.”
“Yes, indeed. There’s something very attractive about electric lights,” returned her niece, gravely.
Mrs. Thayer looked slightly puzzled and changed the subject.
“Mr. Lighton is really in many ways a very nice young man,” she ventured, timidly. “And not a bit worse than lots of others.”
“Not a bit!” assented the other. Her voice was still cheerful but her face had clouded a little. “The trouble is,” she went on, rather absently, after a moment’s pause, “the trouble is, he’s worse-looking. Vice, pure and simple, one might tolerate; but vice, in conjunction with a vermilion nose”—
“Lynn!” interrupted her aunt with righteous indignation. “Mr. Lighton is as the Lord made him.”
“The Lord! Brandy and soda!”
Mrs. Thayer had her answer ready in her pocket; she drew it out and deposited three more tears upon its snowy surface. Lynn hesitated; she had a truly masculine aversion to tears, an aversion which had cost her many a domestic battle.
“Please don’t cry, Aunt Lucy,” she burst forth at length. “I don’t see why you are so very anxious to get me married. I thought you liked having me in the house. If you don’t”—
“Of course I like having you,” said the older woman, reproachfully. “But I must confess that it makes me feel dreadfully to think of having you, always—that is, I mean that it makes me feel dreadfully to see you throw away such good chances. For you know, Lynn, you are not in the least pretty.”
“Dear Aunt Lucy, you have told me that so often,” returned her niece, patiently. “But I cannot for the life of me see why the fact of my not possessing a Greek profile should make me want to marry Mr. Lighton.”
“That is just where you are so incomprehensible. And, besides, he has such a lovely horse.”
“His horse is certainly a dream. Unfortunately, though, it was not his horse who proposed. If I could marry the horse and lock the gentleman up in the stable, I’d do it with pleasure. O dear, why will you talk about it and make me say such horrid things. The plain truth of the matter is that I do not like the man and I hate talking about the whole affair. It irritates me, someway. I hate to see anything wasted.”
“Then why do you”—
“Oh, Aunt Lucy, don’t start it, again! after all I’ve said.”
“I perceive at last,” said Mrs. Thayer with dignity, “that I may as well let the matter drop.”
“You might have seen that at first, if you had wished to,” thought Lynn.
“I only hope you may never regret this.”
“I hope so, too. By the way, I am going to drop in at Estelle’s for tea at five. A lot of the girls are going there. Have you any message?”
“None, whatever; but, as you are going there, I trust that you will talk this matter over with her. You could not have a better confidante. Talk it over with her, won’t you?”
“I don’t think it is necessary to promise that,” replied Lynn, wearily, “for she is quite certain to talk it over with me, which comes to the same thing in the end.”
Mrs. Thayer compressed her lips and continued to embroider. Lynn departed to make some change in her toilet and, that being concluded, left the house. Once on the street her face changed and contracted a little, making her look curiously older.
“There are times,” she said slowly, regarding the little terrier which gambolled joyfully at her side, “there are times, Bob, when I find the society of the four-legged portion of humanity infinitely more congenial than that of the two-legged. This is one of them. How I wish sometimes that Aunt Lucy were dumb or I deaf! How thankful I am that you can’t talk reason with me or advise me for my good or do any other unpleasant thing of the kind, Bob. If they only knew what they were talking about! if they only knew why I can’t marry Lighton or—or anyone else”—She broke off, abruptly, biting her lip as though in pain. “What’s the use of thinking?” she went on, presently. “I’ve got to face Del and twenty other women nearly as sharp in five minutes’ time and I can’t show my feelings here in this horrible street, either. Oh, to get away from it all!—here, don’t be a fool! You have about two minutes to pull yourself together in, you weak, whining—I’ll put it out of my mind, entirely. Whom has Del asked, I wonder. If it’s one of those vile functions where you’re wedged tightly between layers of fat, stupid women who gabble inanely and continuously and spill ice-cream and coffee over your good clothes, I’ll never forgive her. No, she said distinctly that it was just a few of the girls and she always tells the truth to me, if she doesn’t to anyone else. Oh, Del, Del! I wonder if you are the right person to go by. I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you of all this miserable coil of deception and misery. Of course I know what you would say; you would say that I was a fool and so I am; that wouldn’t help matters, much. What could you, or anyone suggest? Nothing, nothing that would be of any use; anyway, if I were dying for advice, I am not free to obtain it. If I had an unfailing fund of common sense and a heart of stone what would I do, I wonder? God knows. Being myself I’ll do what I’m doing—and God grant it can’t last forever.” She set her lips firmly and walked along until she reached Pine Avenue.
Pine Avenue lies at the foot of Mount Royal and, in fact, is built upon its slope. It is a broad, fine street and some of the handsomest residences in Montreal are situated upon, or, rather, directly above it. At all seasons of the year it is largely frequented and, in winter, is a favourite haunt of snowshoers and “skiers.” At the present hour, however, it was practically deserted; and Lynn drew a long breath of relief as, leaving the crowded city streets behind, she sought its solitude. For some little time she walked on in silence.
The golden January sun turned Mount Royal into a mass of shining marble, flecked with skeleton-like maples and crowned with dark green pines. Beyond—behind its towering whiteness—lay the dead of Montreal. Lynn winced at the thought of them and fiercely refused to let her thought dwell on their impenetrable peace.
“I’m going to an At Home, Bob,” she said, half-aloud, trying to laugh. “There will be about twenty other women there—and, in all probability, half of them are wearing veils over their faces like the minister in Hawthorne’s story. ‘I look around me and lo! on every visage a black veil.’ Only people don’t go in for black veils unless they’re cowards; they go in for scarlet and gold, which makes a far better disguise and renders life more cheerful. What’s the use of making a fuss? Anyway, whatever happens, whatever nasty knocks Fate may hand me, there is one thing she can’t do—she can’t make me whine.” She threw her head back and laughed; then called the dog to her side and smiled as he licked her gloved hand.
“Del doesn’t like you, old boy,” she said, fondly. “But I’ll hide you, somewhere, and I won’t stay any longer than I can help. Ah! there’s the house, already. It’s just as well. I don’t feel like being alone, to-day, more than I can help. I wonder why it is that things seem so much worse at some times than they do at others.”