Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Oh, you need not use so much learning with me,” said Nino. “I assure you that I will be neither dilatory nor ambiguous. In fact, I will go at once, without even dusting my boots, and I will say, Give me your daughter, if you can; and if you cannot, I will still hope to marry her. He will probably say ‘No,’ and then I will carry her off. It appears to me that is simple enough.”

  “Take my advice, Nino. Carry her off first, and ask permission afterwards. It is much better. The real master up there is Benoni, I fancy, and not the count. Benoni is a gentleman who will give you much trouble. If you go now to see Hedwig’s father, Benoni will be present at the interview.” Nino was silent, and sat stretching his legs before him, his head on his breast. “Benoni,” I continued, “has made up his mind to succeed. He has probably taken this fancy into his head out of pure wickedness. Perhaps he is bored, and really wants a wife. But I believe he is a man who delights in cruelty, and would as lief break the contessina’s heart by getting rid of you as by marrying her.” I saw that he was not listening.

  “I have an idea,” he said at last. “You are not very wise, Messer Cornelio, and you counsel me to be prudent and to be rash in the same breath.”

  “You make very pretty compliments, Sor Nino,” I answered, tartly. He put out his hand deprecatingly.

  “You are as wise as any man can be who is not in love,” he said, looking at me with his great eyes. “But love is the best counsellor.”

  “What is your idea?” I asked, somewhat pacified.

  “You say they ride together every day. Yes — very good. The contessina will not ride to-day, partly because she will be worn out with fatigue from last night’s interview, and partly because she will make an effort to discover whether I have arrived to-day or not. You can count on that.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Very well,” he continued; “in that case, one or two things will happen: either the count will go out alone, or they will all stay at home.”

  “Why will Benoni not go out with the count?”

  “Because Benoni will hope to see Hedwig alone if he stays at home, and the count will be very glad to give him the opportunity.”

  “I think you are right, Nino. You are not so stupid as I thought.”

  “In war,” continued the boy, “a general gains a great advantage by separating his adversary’s forces. If the count goes out alone, I will present myself to him in the road, and tell him what I want.”

  “Now you are foolish again. You should, on the contrary, enter the house when the count is away, and take the signorina with you then and there. Before he could return you would be miles on the road to Rome.”

  “In the first place, I tell you once and for all, Sor Cornelio,” he said, slowly, “that such an action would be dishonourable, and I will not do anything of the kind. Moreover, you forget that, if I followed your advice, I should find Benoni at home, — the very man from whom you think I have everything to fear. No; I must give the count one fair chance.” I was silent, for I saw he was determined, and yet I would not let him think I was satisfied.

  The idea of losing an advantage by giving an enemy any sort of warning before the attack seemed to me novel in the extreme; but I comprehended that Nino saw in his scheme a satisfaction to his conscience, and smelled in it a musty odour of forgotten knight-errantry that he had probably learned to love in his theatrical experiences. I had certainly not expected that Nino Cardegna, the peasant child, would turn out to be the pink of chivalry and the mirror of honour. But I could not help admiring his courage, and wondering if it would not play him false at the perilous moment. I did not half know him then, though he had been with me for so many years. But I was very anxious to ascertain from him what he meant to do, for I feared that his bold action would make trouble, and I had visions of the count and Benoni together taking sudden and summary vengeance on myself.

  “Nino,” I said, “I have made great sacrifices to help you in finding these people,” — I would not tell him I had sold my vineyard to make preparations for a longer journey, though he has since found it out,— “but if you are going to do anything rash I will get on my little ass and ride a few miles from the village until it is over.” Nino laughed aloud.

  “My dear professor,” he said, “do not be afraid. I will give you plenty of time to get out of the way. Meanwhile, the contessina is certain to send the confidential servant of whom you speak to give me instructions. If I am not here, you ought to be, in order to receive the message. Now listen to me.”

  I prepared to be attentive and to hear his scheme. I was by no means expecting the plan he proposed.

  “The count may take it into his head to ride at a different hour, if he rides alone,” he began. “I will therefore have my mule saddled now, and will station my man — a countryman from Subiaco and good for any devilry — in some place where he can watch the entrance to the house, or the castle, or whatever you call this place. So soon as he sees the count come out he will call me. As a man can ride in only one of two directions in this valley, I shall have no trouble whatever in meeting the old gentleman, even if I cannot overtake him with my mule.”

  “Have you any arms, Nino?”

  “No. I do not want weapons to face an old man in broad daylight; and he is too much of a soldier to attack me if I am defenceless. If the servant comes after I am gone, you must remember every detail of what he says, and you must also arrange a little matter with him. Here is money, as much as will keep any Roman servant quiet. The man will be rich before we have done with him. I will write a letter which he must deliver; but he must also know what he has to do.

  “At twelve o’clock to-night the contessina must positively be at the door of the staircase by which you entered yesterday. Positively — do you understand? She will then choose for herself between what she is suffering now and flight with me. If she chooses to fly, my mules and my countryman will be ready. The servant who admits me had better make the best of his way to Rome, with the money he has got. There will be difficulties in the way of getting the contessina to the staircase, especially as the count will be in a towering passion with me, and will not sleep much. But he will not have the smallest idea that I shall act so suddenly, and he will fancy that when once his daughter is safe within the walls for the night she will not think of escaping. I do not believe he even knows of the existence of this staircase. At all events, it appears, from your success in bribing the first man you met, that the servants are devoted to her interests and their own and not at all to those of her father.”

  “I cannot conceive, Nino,” said I, “why you do not put this bold plan into execution without seeing the count first, and making the whole thing so dangerous. If he takes alarm in the night he will catch you fast enough on his good horses before you are at Trevi.”

  “I am determined to act as I propose,” said Nino, “because it is a thousand times more honourable, and because I am certain that the contessina would not have me act otherwise. She will also see for herself that flight is best; for I am sure the count will make a scene of some kind when he comes home from meeting me. If she knows she can escape to-night she will not suffer from what he has to say; but she will understand that without the prospect of freedom she would suffer very much.”

  “Where did you learn to understand women, my boy?” I asked.

  “I do not understand women in general,” he answered, “but I understand very well the only woman who exists for me personally. I know that she is the soul of honour, and that at the same time she has enough common sense to perceive the circumstances of the situation.”

  “But how will you make sure of not being overtaken?” I objected, making a last feeble stand against his plan.

  “That is simple enough. My countryman from Subiaco knows every inch of these hills. He says that the pass above Fillettino is impracticable for any animals save men, mules, and donkeys. A horse would roll down at every turn. My mules are the best of their kind, and there are none like them her
e. By sunrise I shall be over the Serra and well on the way to Ceprano, or whatever place I may choose for joining the railroad.”

  “And I? Will you leave me here to be murdered by that Prussian devil?” I asked, in some alarm.

  “Why, no, padre mio. If you like, you can start for Rome at sunset, or as soon as I return from meeting the count; or you can get on your donkey and go up the pass, where we shall overtake you. Nobody will harm you, in your disguise, and your donkey is even more surefooted than my mules. It will be a bright night, too, for the moon is full.”

  “Well, well, Nino,” said I at last, “I suppose you will have your own way, as you always do in the world. And if it must be so, I will go up the pass alone, for I am not afraid at all. It would be against all the proprieties that you should be riding through a wild country alone at night with the young lady you intend to marry; and if I go with you there will be nothing to be said, for I am a very proper person, and hold a responsible position in Rome. But for charity’s sake, do not undertake anything of this kind again—”

  “Again?” exclaimed Nino, in surprise. “Do you expect me to spend my life in getting married, — not to say in eloping?”

  “Well, I trust that you will have enough of it this time.”

  “I cannot conceive that when a man has once married the woman he loves he should ever look at another,” said Nino, gravely.

  “You are a most blessed fellow,” I exclaimed.

  Nino found my writing materials, which consisted of a bad steel pen, some coarse ruled paper, and a wretched little saucer of ink, and began writing an epistle to the contessina. I watched him as he wrote, and I smoked a little to pass the time. As I looked at him I came to the conclusion that to-day, at least, he was handsome. His thick hair curled about his head, and his white skin was as pale and clear as milk. I thought that his complexion had grown less dark than it used to be, perhaps from being so much in the theatre at night. That takes the dark blood out of the cheeks. But any woman would have looked twice at him. Besides, there was, as there is now, a certain marvellous neatness and spotlessness about his dress; but for his dusty boots you would not have guessed he had been travelling. Poor Nino. When he had not a penny in the world but what he earned by copying music, he used to spend it all with the washerwoman, so that Mariuccia was often horrified, and I reproved him for the extravagance.

  At last he finished writing, and put his letter into the only envelope there was left. He gave it to me, and said he would go out and order his mules to be ready.

  “I may be gone all day,” he said, “and I may return in a few hours. I cannot tell. In any case, wait for me, and give the letter and all instructions to the man, if he comes.” Then he thanked me once more very affectionately, and having embraced me he went out.

  I watched him from the window, and he looked up and waved his hand. I remember it very distinctly — just how he looked. His face was paler than ever, his lips were close set, though they smiled, and his eyes were sad. He is an incomprehensible boy — he always was.

  I was left alone, with plenty of time for meditation, and I assure you my reflections were not pleasant. O love, love, what madness you drive us into, by day and night! Surely it is better to be a sober professor of philosophy than to be in love, ever so wildly, or sorrowfully, or happily. I do not wonder that a parcel of idiots have tried to prove that Dante loved philosophy and called it Beatrice. He would have been a sober professor, if that were true, and a happier man. But I am sure it is not true, for I was once in love myself.

  CHAPTER XVII

  IT FELL OUT as Nino had anticipated, and when he told me all the details, some time afterwards, it struck me that he had shown an uncommon degree of intelligence in predicting that the old count would ride alone that day. He had, indeed, so made his arrangements that even if the whole party had come out together nothing worse would have occurred than a postponement of the interview he sought. But he was destined to get what he wanted that very day, namely, an opportunity of speaking with Von Lira alone.

  It was twelve o’clock when he left me, and the mid-day bell was ringing from the church, while the people bustled about getting their food. Every old woman had a piece of corn cake, and the ragged children got what they could, gathering the crumbs in their mothers’ aprons. A few rough fellows who were not away at work in the valley munched the maize bread with a leek and a bit of salt fish, and some of them had oil on it. Our mountain people eat scarcely anything else, unless it be a little meat on holidays, or an egg when the hens are laying. But they laugh and chatter over the coarse fare, and drink a little wine when they can get it. Just now, however, was the season for fasting, being the end of Holy Week, and the people made a virtue of necessity, and kept their eggs and their wine for Easter.

  When Nino went out he found his countryman, and explained to him what he was to do. The man saddled one of the mules and put himself on the watch, while Nino sat by the fire in the quaint old inn and ate some bread. It was the end of March when these things happened, and a little fire was grateful, though one could do very well without it. He spread his hands to the flame of the sticks, as he sat on the wooden settle by the old hearth, and he slowly gnawed his corn cake, as though a week before he had not been a great man in Paris, dining sumptuously with famous people. He was not thinking of that. He was looking in the flame for a fair face that he saw continually before him, day and night. He expected to wait a long time, — some hours, perhaps.

  Twenty minutes had not elapsed, however, before his man came breathless through the door, calling to him to come at once; for the solitary rider had gone out, as was expected, and at a pace that would soon take him out of sight. Nino threw his corn bread to a hungry dog that yelped as it hit him, and then fastened on it like a beast of prey.

  In the twinkling of an eye he and his man were out of the inn. As they ran to the place where the mule was tied to an old ring in the crumbling wall of a half-ruined house near to the ascent to the castle, the man told Nino that the fine gentleman had ridden toward Trevi, down the valley, Nino mounted, and hastened in the same direction.

  As he rode he reflected that it would be wiser to meet the count on his return, and pass him after the interview, as though going away from Fillettino. It would be a little harder for the mule; but such an animal, used to bearing enormous burdens for twelve hours at a stretch, could well carry Nino only a few miles of good road before sunset, and yet be fresh again by midnight. One of those great sleek mules, if good-tempered, will tire three horses, and never feel the worse for it. He therefore let the beast go her own pace along the road to Trevi, winding by the brink of the rushing torrent: sometimes beneath great overhanging cliffs, sometimes through bits of cultivated land, where the valley widens; and now and then passing under some beech-trees, still naked and skeleton-like in the bright March air.

  But Nino rode many miles, as he thought, without meeting the count, dangling his feet out of the stirrups, and humming snatches of song to himself to pass the time. He looked at his watch, — a beautiful gold one, given him by a very great personage in Paris, — and it was half-past two o’clock. Then, to avoid tiring his mule, he got off and sat by a tree, at a place where he could see far along the road. But three o’clock came, and a quarter past, and he began to fear that the count had gone all the way to Trevi. Indeed, Trevi could not be very far off, he thought. So he mounted again, and paced down the valley. He says that in all that time he never thought once of what he should say to the count when he met him, having determined in his mind once and for all what was to be asked; to which the only answer must be “yes” or “no.”

  At last, before he reached the turn in the valley, and just as the sun was passing down behind the high mountains on the left, beyond the stream, he saw the man he had come out to meet, not a hundred yards away, riding toward him on his great horse, at a foot pace. It was the count, and he seemed lost in thought, for his head was bent on his breast, and the reins hung carelessly loose from his han
d. He did not raise his eyes until he was close to Nino, who took off his hat and pulled up short.

  The old count was evidently very much surprised, for he suddenly straightened himself in his saddle, with a sort of jerk, and glared savagely at Nino; his wooden features appearing to lose colour, and his long moustache standing out and bristling. He also reined in his horse, and the pair sat on their beasts, not five yards apart, eying each other like a pair of duelists. Nino was the first to speak, for he was prepared.

  “Good day, Signor Conte,” he said, as calmly as he could. “You have not forgotten me, I am sure.” Lira looked more and more amazed as he observed the cool courtesy with which he was accosted. But his polite manner did not desert him even then, for he raised his hat.

  “Good-day,” he said, briefly, and made his horse move on. He was too proud to put the animal to a brisker pace than a walk, lest he should seem to avoid an enemy. But Nino turned his mule at the same time.

  “Pardon the liberty, sir,” he said, “but I would take advantage of this opportunity to have a few words with you.”

  “It is a liberty, as you say, sir,” replied Lira, stiffly, and looking straight before him. “But since you have met me, say what you have to say quickly.” He talked in the same curious constructions as formerly, but I will spare you the grammatical vagaries.

  “Some time has elapsed,” continued Nino, “since our unfortunate encounter. I have been in Paris, where I have had more than common success in my profession. From being a very poor teacher of Italian to the signorina, your daughter, I am become an exceedingly prosperous artist. My character is blameless and free from all stain, in spite of the sad business in which we were both concerned, and of which you knew the truth from the dead lady’s own lips.”

  “What then?” growled Lira, who had listened grimly, and was fast losing his temper. “What then? Do you suppose, Signor Cardegna, that I am still interested in your comings and goings?”