Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “In God’s name,” he whispered, thickly, “who are you?”

  “You know me, Guido!” I answered, steadily. “I am Fabio Romani, whom you once called friend! I am he whose wife you stole! — whose name you slandered! — whose honor you despised! Ah! look at me well! your own heart tells you who I am!”

  He uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture.

  “Fabio? Fabio?” he gasped. “He died — I saw him in his coffin—”

  I leaned more closely over him. “I was buried alive,” I said with thrilling distinctness. “Understand me, Guido — buried alive! I escaped — no matter how. I came home — to learn your treachery and my own dishonor! Shall I tell you more?”

  A terrible shudder shook his frame — his head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. With my own handkerchief I wiped his lips and brow tenderly — my nerves were strung up to an almost brittle tension — I smiled as a woman smiles when on the verge of hysterical weeping.

  “You know the avenue,” I said, “the dear old avenue, where the nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido — with her! — on the very night of my return from death — she was in your arms — you kissed her — you spoke of me — you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!”

  He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement.

  “Tell me — quick!” he gasped. “Does — she — know you?”

  “Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon she will — when I have married her!”

  A look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” he exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is horrible, too horrible! Spare me — spare—” A rush of blood choked his utterance. His breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance. Staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped.

  “You know the rest,” I said gently; “you understand my vengeance! But it is all over, Guido — all over, now! She has played us both false. May God forgive you as I do!”

  He smiled — a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes — the old boyish look that had won my love in former days.

  “All over!” he repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. “All over now! God — Fabio — forgive!—” A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted his limbs and features, his throat rattled, and stretching himself out with a long shivering sigh — he died! The first beams of the rising sun, piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees, fell on his clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to his wide-open sightless eyes: there was a smile on the closed lips! A burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat, as of rebellious tears trying to force a passage. I still held the hand of my friend and enemy — it had grown cold in my clasp. Upon it sparkled my family diamond — the ring she had given him. I drew the jewel off: then I kissed that poor passive hand as I laid it gently down — kissed it tenderly, reverently. Hearing footsteps approaching, I rose from my kneeling posture and stood erect with folded arms, looking tearlessly down on the stiffening clay before me. The rest of the party came up; no one spoke for a minute, all surveyed the dead body in silence. At last Captain Freccia said, softly in half-inquiring accents:

  “He is gone, I suppose?”

  I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.

  “He made you his apology?” asked the marquis.

  I bowed again. There was another pause of heavy silence. The rigid smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. The doctor stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes — and then it seemed to me as though Guido merely slept and that a touch would waken him. The Marquis D’Avencourt took me by the arm and whispered, “Get back to the city, amico, and take some wine — you look positively ill! Your evident regret does you credit, considering the circumstances — but what would you? — it was a fair fight. Consider the provocation you had! I should advise you to leave Naples for a couple of weeks — by that time the affair will be forgotten. I know how these things are managed — leave it all to me.”

  I thanked him and shook his hand cordially and turned to depart. Vincenzo was in waiting with the carriage. Once I looked back, as with slow steps I left the field; a golden radiance illumined the sky just above the stark figure stretched so straightly on the sward; while almost from the very side of that pulseless heart a little bird rose from its nest among the grasses and soared into the heavens, singing rapturously as it flew into the warmth and glory of the living, breathing day.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  Entering the fiacre, I drove in it a very little way toward the city. I bade the driver stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the Villa Romani, and there I alighted. I ordered Vincenzo to go on to the hotel and send from thence my own carriage and horses up to the villa gates, where I would wait for it. I also bade him pack my portmanteau in readiness for my departure that evening, as I proposed going to Avellino, among the mountains, for a few days. He heard my commands in silence and evident embarrassment. Finally he said:

  “Do I also travel with the eccellenza?”

  “Why, no!” I answered with a forced sad smile. “Do you not see, amico, that I am heavy-hearted, and melancholy men are best left to themselves. Besides — remember the carnival — I told you you were free to indulge in its merriment, and shall I not deprive you of your pleasure? No, Vincenzo; stay and enjoy yourself, and take no concern for me.”

  Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features wore an expression of obstinacy.

  “The eccellenza must pardon me,” he said, “but I have just looked at death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again — the eccellenza is sad — it is necessary that I should accompany him to Avellino.”

  I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument.

  “As you will,” I answered, wearily, “only believe me, you make a foolish decision. But do what you like; only arrange all so that we leave to-night. And now get back quickly — give no explanation at the hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage. I will wait alone at the Villa Romani till it comes.”

  The vehicle rumbled off, bearing Vincenzo seated on the box beside the driver. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led me to my own dishonored home. The place looked silent and deserted — not a soul was stirring. The silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it was as if some one lay dead within. A vague wonderment arose in my mind. Who was dead? Surely it must be I — I the master of the household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! This terrible white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the walls was not me — it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak punishment on the guilty. I was dead — I could never have killed the man who had once been my friend. And he also was dead — the same murderess had slain us both — and she lived! Ha! that was wrong — she must now die — but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and shrivel under it into a devil’s flame for the furnace of hell!

  With my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here had Guido stood, poor wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent fury. There on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. On this very spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the curse of a dying man. I was glad he had uttered it — such maledictions cling! There was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he was dead. He had been duped and wronged even as I; and I felt that his spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with mine and aid in her punishment.

  I paced round the silent house till I came to the private wic
ket that led into the avenue; I opened it and entered the familiar path. I had not been there since the fatal night on which I had learned my own betrayal. How intensely still were those solemn pines — how gaunt and dark and grim! Not a branch quivered — not a leaf stirred. A cold dew that was scarcely a frost glittered on the moss at my feet, No bird’s voice broke the impressive hush of the wood-lands morning dream. No bright-hued flower unbuttoned its fairy cloak to the breeze; yet there was a subtle perfume everywhere — the fragrance of unseen violets whose purple eyes were still closed in slumber.

  I gazed on the scene as a man may behold in a vision the spot where he once was happy. I walked a few paces, then paused with a strange beating at my heart. A shadow fell across my path — it flitted before me, it stopped — it lay still. I saw it resolve itself into the figure of a man stretched out in rigid silence, with the light beating full on its smiling, dead face, and also on a deep wound just above his heart, from which the blood oozed redly, staining the grass on which he lay. Mastering the sick horror which seized me at this sight, I sprung forward — the shadow vanished instantly — it was a mere optical delusion, the result of my overwrought and excited condition. I shuddered involuntarily at the image my own heated fancy had conjured up; should I always see Guido thus, I thought, even in my dreams?

  Suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst joyously on the silence — the slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark branches quivered, and the grasses lifted up their green lilliputian sword-blades. Bells! — and such bells! — tongues of melody that stormed the air with sweetest eloquence — round, rainbow bubbles of music that burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes.

  “Peace on earth, good will to men! Peace — on — earth — good — will — to — men!” they seemed to say over and over again, till my ears ached with the repetition. Peace! What had I to do with peace or good-will? The Christ Mass could teach me nothing. I was as one apart from human life — an alien from its customs and affections — for me no love, no brotherhood remained. The swinging song of the chimes jarred my nerves. Why, I thought, should the wild erring world, with all its wicked men and women, presume to rejoice at the birth of the Saviour? — they, who were not worthy to be saved! I turned swiftly away; I strode fiercely past the kingly pines that, now thoroughly awakened, seemed to note me with a stern disdain as though they said among themselves: “What manner of small creature is this that torments himself with passions unknown to us in our calm converse with the stars?”

  I was glad when I stood again on the high-road, and infinitely relieved when I heard the rapid trot of horses, rumbling of wheels, and saw my closed brougham, drawn by its prancing black Arabians, approaching. I walked to meet it; the coachman seeing me drew up instantly, I bade him take me to the Convento dell’Annunziata, and entering the carriage, I was driven rapidly away.

  The convent was situated, I knew, somewhere between Naples and Sorrento. I guessed it to be near Castellamare, but it was fully three miles beyond that, and was a somewhat long drive of more than two hours. It lay a good distance out of the direct route, and was only attained by a by-road, which from its rough and broken condition was evidently not much frequented. The building stood apart from all other habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone wall spiked at the top. Roses climbed thickly among the spikes, and almost hid their sharp points from view, and from a perfect nest of green foliage, the slender spire of the convent chapel rose into the sky like a white finger pointing to heaven. My coachman drew up before the heavily barred gates. I alighted, and bade him take the carriage to the principal hostelry at Castellamare, and wait for me there. As soon as he had driven off, I rang the convent bell. A little wicket fixed in the gate opened immediately, and the wrinkled visage of a very old and ugly nun looked out. She demanded in low tones what I sought. I handed her my card, and stated my desire to see the Countess Romani, if agreeable to the superioress. While I spoke she looked at me curiously — my spectacles, I suppose, excited her wonder — for I had replaced these disguising glasses immediately on leaving the scene of the duel — I needed them yet a little while longer. After peering at me a minute or two with her bleared and aged eyes, she shut the wicket in my face with a smart click and disappeared. While I awaited her return I heard the sound of children’s laughter and light footsteps running trippingly on the stone passage within.

  “Fi donc, Rosie!” said the girl’s voice in French; “la bonne Mère Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi.”

  “Tais-toi, petite sainte!” cried another voice more piercing and silvery in tone. “Je veux voir qui est la! C’est un homme je sais bien — parceque la vieille Mère Laura a rougi!” and both young voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter.

  Then came the shuffling noise of the old nun’s footsteps returning; she evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard her expostulating, scolding and apostrophizing the saints all in a breath, as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little Jesus to forgive their naughtiness. A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of the huge gate were undone slowly — it opened, and I was admitted. I raised my hat as I entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. Here she motioned me to take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said:

  “Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, signor.”

  I bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that I did not even hear the door close behind her. Left alone in what I rightly concluded was the reception-room for visitors, I looked about me with some faint interest and curiosity. I had never before seen the interior of what is known as an educational convent. There were many photographs on the walls and mantelpiece — portraits of girls, some plain of face and form, others beautiful — no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as souvenirs of former pupils. Rising from my chair I examined a few of them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of Murillo’s Virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame surmounted with my own crest and coronet. In it was the portrait of my wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me. I took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. This was she — this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like face — this was the thing for which two men’s lives had been sacrificed! With a movement of disgust I replaced the frame in its former position; I had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun’s band and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me. I saluted her with a deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her head. Her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on her quiet breast. Her voice, though low, was singularly clear and penetrating.

  “I address the Count Oliva?” she inquired.

  I bowed in the affirmative. She looked at me keenly: she had dark, brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered passion still gleamed.

  “You would see the Countess Romani, who is in retreat here?”

  “If not inconvenient or out of rule—” I began.

  The shadow of a smile flitted across the nun’s pale, intellectual face; it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

  “Not at all,” she replied, in the same even monotone. “The Countess Nina is, by her own desire, following a strict regime, but to-day being a universal feast-day all rules are somewhat relaxed. The reverend mother desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass — she has herself already ente
red the chapel. If you will share in our devotions, the countess shall afterward be informed of your presence here.”

  I could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it was unwelcome to me. I was in no humor for either prayers or praise; I thought moodily how startled even this impassive nun might have been, could she have known what manner of man it was that she thus invited to kneel in the sanctuary. However, I said no word of objection, and she bade me follow her. As we left the room I asked:

  “Is the countess well?”

  “She seems so,” returned Mère Marguerite; “she follows her religious duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue.”

  We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry.

  “She was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?”

  The nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild surprise and reproof.

  “I have no favorites,” she answered, coldly. “All the children educated here share my attention and regard equally.”

  I murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile:

  “You must pardon my apparent inquisitiveness, but as the future husband of the lady who was brought up under your care, I am naturally interested in all that concerns her.”

  Again the searching eyes of the religieuse surveyed me; she sighed slightly.

  “I am aware of the connection between you,” she said, in rather a pained tone. “Nina Romani belongs to the world, and follows the ways of the world. Of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young girls’ destinies, there are comparatively few who are called out of the ranks to serve Christ. Therefore, when Nina married the estimable Count Romani, of whom report spoke ever favorably, we rejoiced greatly, feeling that her future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise protector. May his soul rest in peace! But a second marriage for her is what I did not expect, and what I cannot in my conscience approve. You see I speak frankly.”