



Produced by Dagny; John Bickers





IN THE WILDERNESS


By Robert Hichens




BOOK I--HERMES AND THE CHILD



CHAPTER I

Amedeo Dorini, the hall porter of the Hotel Cavour in Milan, stood on
the pavement before the hotel one autumn afternoon in the year 1894,
waiting for the omnibus, which had gone to the station, and which was
now due to return, bearing--Amedeo hoped--a load of generously inclined
travelers. During the years of his not unpleasant servitude Amedeo had
become a student of human nature. He had learnt to judge shrewdly and
soundly, to sum up quickly, to deliver verdicts which were not unjust.
And now, as he saw the omnibus, with its two fat brown horses, coming
slowly along by the cab rank, and turning into the Piazza that is
presided over by Cavour's statue, he prepared almost mechanically to
measure and weigh evidence, to criticize and come to a conclusion.

He glanced first at the roof of the omnibus to take stock of the luggage
pile there. There was plenty of it, and a good deal of it was leather
and reassuring. Amedeo had a horror of tin trunks--they usually gave
such small tips. Having examined the luggage he sent a searching glance
to two rows of heads which were visible inside the vehicle. The brawny
porters hurried out, the luggage chute was placed in position, the
omnibus door was opened, and the first traveler stepped forth.

A German of the most economical type, large, red and wary, with a mouth
like a buttoned-up pocket, was followed by a broad-waisted wife, with
dragged hair and a looped-up gown. Amedeo's smile tightened. A Frenchman
followed them, pale and elaborate, a "one-nighter," as Amedeo instantly
decided in his mind. Such Frenchmen are seldom extravagant in hotels.
This gentleman would want a good room for a small price, would be
extremely critical about the cooking, and have a wandering eye and a
short memory for all servants in the morning.

An elderly Englishwoman was the fourth personage to appear. She was
badly dressed in black, wore a tam-o'-shanter with a huge black-headed
pin thrust through it, clung to a bag, smiled with amiable patronage as
she emerged, and at once, without reason, began to address Amedeo and
the porters in fluent, incorrect, and too carefully pronounced Italian.
Amedeo knew her--the Tabby who haunts Swiss and Italian hotels, the
eternal Tabby drastically complete.

A gay Italian is gaiety in flight, a human lark with a song. But a
gloomy Italian is oppressive and almost terrible. Despite the training
of years Amedeo's smile flickered and died out. A ferocious expression
surged up in his dark eyes as he turned rather bruskly to scrutinize
without hope the few remaining clients. But suddenly his face cleared as
he heard a buoyant voice say in English:

"I'll get out first, Godfather, and give you a hand."

On the last word, a tall and lithe figure stepped swiftly, and with a
sort of athletic certainty, out of the omnibus, turned at once towards
it, and, with a movement eloquent of affection and almost tender
reverence, stretched forth an arm and open hand.

A spare man of middle height, elderly, with thick gray hair, and a
clean-shaven, much-lined face, wearing a large loose overcoat and soft
brown hat, took the hand as he emerged. He did not need it; Amedeo
realized that, realized also that he was glad to take it, enjoyed
receiving this kind and unnecessary help.

"And now for Beatrice!" he said.

And he gave in his turn a hand to the girl who followed him.

There were still two people in the omnibus, the elderly man's Italian
valet and an Englishman. As the latter got out, and stretched his limbs
cramped with much sitting, he saw Amedeo, with genuine smiles, escorting
the two girls and the elderly man towards the glass-roofed hall, on the
left of which was the lift. The figure of the girl who had stepped out
first was about to disappear. As the Englishman looked she vanished.
But he had time to realize that a gait, the carriage of a head and its
movement in turning, can produce on an observer a moral effect. A joyous
sanity came to him from this unknown girl and made him feel joyously
sane. It seemed to sweep over him, like a cool and fresh breeze of the
sea falling through pine woods, to lift from him some of the dust of
his journey. He resolved to give the remainder of the dust to the public
garden, told his name, Dion Leith, to the manager, learnt that the room
he had ordered was ready for him, had his luggage sent up to it, and
then made his way to the trees on the far side of the broad road which
skirts the hotel. When he was among them he took off his hat, kept it
in his hand, and, so, strolled on down the almost deserted paths. As
he walked he tasted the autumn, not with any sadness, but with an
appreciation that was almost voluptuous. He was at a time of life and
experience, when