Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, most charming Donna Tullia, if you could conceive of my desolation and loneliness. For more than three weeks I have been entirely deprived of the pleasure, the exquisite delight, of conversing with her for whom I have suffered. I still suffer so much. Ah! if my paper were a cloth of gold, and my pen in moving traced characters of diamond and pearl, yet any words which speak of you would be ineffectually honoured by such transcription! In the miserable days and nights I have passed between life and death, it is your image which has consoled me, the echo of your delicate voice which has soothed my pain, the remembrance of the last hours I spent with you which has gilded the feverish dreams of my sickness. You are the guardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna Tullia. Do you know it? But for you I would have wooed death as a comforter. As it is, I have struggled desperately to keep my grasp upon life, in the hope of once more seeing your smile and hearing your happy laugh; perhaps — I dare not expect it — I may receive from you some slight word of sympathy, some little half-sighed hint that you do not altogether regret having been in these long weeks the unconscious comforter of my sorrowing spirit and tormented body. You would hardly know me, could you see me; but saving for your sweet spiritual presence, which has rescued me from the jaws of death, you would never have seen me again. Is it presumption in me to write thus? Have you ever given me a right to speak in these words? I do not know. I do not care. Man has a right to be grateful. It is the first and most divine right I possess, to feel and to express my gratitude. For out of the store of your kindness shown me when I was in the world, strong and happy in the privilege of your society, I have drawn healing medicine in my sickness, as tormented souls in purgatory get refreshment from the prayers of good and kind people who remember them on earth. So, therefore, if I have said too much, forgive me, forgive the heartfelt gratitude which prompts me; and believe still in the respectful and undying devotion of the humblest of your servants, UGO DEL FERICE.”

  Del Ferice read over what he had written with considerable satisfaction, and having addressed his letter to Donna Tullia, he lost no time in despatching Temistocle with it, instructing him to ask if there would be an answer. As soon as the man was out of the house, Ugo rang for his landlady, and sent for the porter’s little boy, to whom he delivered the letter to Don Giovanni, to be dropped into the nearest post-box. Then he lay down, exhausted with his morning’s work. In the course of two hours Temistocle returned from Donna Tullia’s house with a little scented note — too much scented, and the paper just a shade too small. She took no notice of what he had said in his carefully penned epistle; but merely told him she was sincerely glad that he was better, and asked him to call as soon as he could. Ugo was not disappointed; he had expected no compromising expression of interest in response to his own effusions; and he was well pleased with the invitation, for it showed that what he had written had produced the desired result.

  Don Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note late in the evening. He had, of course, together with his father, deposited cards of condolence at the Palazzo Astrardente, and he had been alone to inquire if the Duchessa would receive him. The porter had answered that, for the present, there were standing orders to admit no one; and as Giovanni could boast of no especial intimacy, and had no valid excuse to give, he was obliged to be satisfied. He had patiently waited in the Villa Borghese and by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it for granted that sooner or later Corona’s carriage would appear; but when at last he had seen her brougham, she had driven rapidly past him, thickly veiled, and he did not think she had even noticed him. He would have written to her, but he was still unable to hold a pen; and he reflected that, after all, it would have been a hideous farce for him to offer condolences and sympathy, however much he might desire to hide from himself his secret satisfaction at her husband’s death. Too proud to think of obtaining information through such base channels as Del Ferice was willing to use, he was wholly ignorant of Corona’s intentions; and it was a brilliant proof of Ugo’s astuteness that he had rightly judged Giovanni’s position with regard to her, and justly estimated the value of the news conveyed by his anonymous note.

  Saracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it angrily into the fire. He hated underhand dealings, and scorned himself for the interest the note excited in him, wondering who could find advantage in informing him of the Duchessa’s movements. But the note took effect, nevertheless, although he was ashamed of it, and all night he pondered upon what it told him. The next day, at three o’clock, he went out alone, and walked rapidly towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was unable to bear the suspense any longer; the thought that Corona was going away, apparently to shut herself up in the solitude of the ancient fortress, for any unknown number of months, and that he might not see her until the autumn, was intolerable. He knew that by the mere use of his name he could at least make sure that she should know he was at her door, and he determined to make the attempt. He waited a long time, pacing slowly the broad flagstones beneath the arch of the palace, while the porter himself went up with his card and message. The fellow had hesitated, but Don Giovanni Saracinesca was not a man to be refused by a servant. At last the porter returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the Signora Duchessa would receive him.

  In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing-room. It had cost Corona a struggle to allow him to be admitted. She hesitated long, for it seemed like a positive wrong to her husband’s memory, but the woman in her yielded at last; she was going away on the following morning, and she could not refuse to see him for once. She hesitated again as she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he was in the room beyond; then at last she entered.

  Her face was very pale and very grave. Her simple gown of close-fitting black set off her height and figure, and flowed softly in harmony with her stately movements as she advanced towards Giovanni, who stood almost awestruck in the middle of the room. He could not realise that this dark sad princess was the same woman to whom less than a month ago he had spoken such passionate words, whom he had madly tried to take into his arms. Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in him to think of love in connection with so royal a woman; and yet he knew that he loved her better and more truly than he had done a month before. She held out her hand to him, and he raised it to his lips. Then they both sat down in silence.

  “I had despaired of ever seeing you again,” said Giovanni at last, speaking in a subdued voice. “I had wished for some opportunity of telling you how sincerely I sympathise with you in your great loss.” It was a very formal speech, such as men make in such situations. It might have been better, but he was not eloquent; even his rough old father had a better command of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni could speak well enough when he was roused. But he felt constrained in the presence of the woman he adored. Corona herself hardly knew how to answer.

  “You are very kind,” she said, simply.

  “I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,” he answered. “I need not tell you that both my father and myself would hold it an honour to assist you in any way.” He mentioned his father from a feeling of delicacy; he did not wish to put himself forward.

  “You are very kind,” repeated Corona, gravely. “I have not had any annoyance. I have an excellent man of business.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then she seemed to understand that he was embarrassed, and spoke again.

  “I am glad to see that you are recovered,” she said.

  “It was nothing,” answered Giovanni, with a glance at his right arm, which was still confined in a bandage of black silk, but was no longer in a sling.

  “It was very wrong of you,” returned Corona, looking seriously into his eyes. “I do not know why you fought, but it was wrong; it is a great sin.”

  Giovanni smiled a little.

  “We all have to sin sometimes,” he said. “Would you have me stand quietly and see an abominable piece of baseness
, and not lift a hand to punish the offender?”

  “People who do base things always come to a bad end,” answered the

  Duchessa.

  “Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see justice done at once. I am sorry to have done anything you consider wrong,” he added, with a shade of bitterness. “Will you permit me to change the subject? Are you thinking of remaining in Rome, or do you mean to go away?”

  “I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow,” answered Corona, readily. “I want to be alone and in the country.”

  Giovanni showed no surprise: his anonymous information had been accurate;

  Del Ferice had not parted with the grey trousers in vain.

  “I suppose you are right,” he said. “But at this time of year I should think the mountains would be very cold.”

  “The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted up, and there are many warm rooms in it. I am fond of the old place, and I need to be alone for a long time.”

  Giovanni thought the conversation was becoming oppressive. He thought of what had passed between them at their last meeting in the conservatory of the Palazzo Frangipani.

  “I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca,” he said, suddenly. “You know it is not very far. May I hope that I may sometimes be permitted to see you?”

  Corona had certainly had no thought of seeing Giovanni when she had determined to go to Astrardente; she had not been there often, and had not realised that it was within reach of the Saracinesca estate. She started slightly.

  “Is it so near?” she asked.

  “Half a day’s ride over the hills,” replied Giovanni.

  “I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not be denied hospitality.”

  “But you would rather not see me?” asked Saracinesca, in a tone of disappointment. He had hoped for something more encouraging. Corona answered courageously.

  “I would rather not see you. Do not think me unkind,” she added, her voice softening a little. “Why need there be any explanations? Do not try to see me. I wish you well; I wish you more — all happiness — but do not try to see me.”

  Giovanni’s face grew grave and pale. He was disappointed, even humiliated; but something told him that it was not coldness which prompted her request.

  “Your commands are my laws,” he answered.

  “I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask you as a command, you should feel that it ought to be the natural prompting of your own heart,” replied Corona, somewhat coldly.

  “Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you must effectually forbid,” said Giovanni. “I beseech you to be satisfied that what you ask I will perform — blindly.”

  “Not blindly — you know all my reasons.”

  “There is that between you and me which annihilates reason,” answered

  Giovanni, his voice trembling a little.

  “There is that in my position which should command your respect,” said Corona. She feared he was going too far, and yet this time she knew she had not said too much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she was only doing what was strictly necessary for her peace. “I am a widow,” she continued, very gravely; “I am a woman, and I am alone. My only protection lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men like you. You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheerfully fulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very plainly. You recall to me a moment of great pain, and your presence, the mere fact of my receiving you, seems a disloyalty to the memory of my husband. I have given you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater interest in you than such as I might take in a friend. I hourly pray that this — this too great interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and leave you what you were before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I do not mean to speak unkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech you, but take this as my last word. Forget me if you can—”

  “I cannot,” said Giovanni, deeply moved.

  “Try. If you cannot, God help you! but I am sure that if you try faithfully, you will succeed. And now you must go,” she said, in gentler tones. “You should not have come — I should not have let you see me. But it is best so. I am grateful for the sympathy you have expressed. I do not doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as you have promised. Good-bye.”

  Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. Giovanni had no choice. She let her eyes rest upon him, not unkindly, but she did not extend her hand. He stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and left the room without a word. Corona stood still, and her eyes followed his retreating figure until at the door he turned once more and bent his head and then was gone. Then she fell back into her chair and gazed listlessly at the wall opposite.

  “It is done,” she said at last. “I hope it is well done and wisely.” Indeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was better to say it at once than to regret an ill-timed indulgence when it should be too late. And yet it had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had cost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago. She seemed to have gained strength from her sorrows. So he was gone! She gave a sigh of relief, which was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden that she hardly understood it.

  Her preparations were all made. She had at the last moment realised that it was not fitting for her, at her age, to travel alone, nor to live wholly alone in her widowhood. She had revolved the matter in her mind, and had decided that there was no woman of her acquaintance whom she could ask even for a short time to stay with her. She had no friends, no relations, none to turn to in such a need. It was not that she cared for company in her solitude; it was merely a question of propriety. To overcome the difficulty, she obtained permission to take with her one of the sisters of a charitable order of nuns, a lady in middle life, but broken down and in ill health from her untiring labours. The thing was easily managed; and the next morning, on leaving the palace, she stopped at the gate of the community and found Sister Gabrielle waiting with her modest box. The nun entered the huge travelling carriage, and the two ladies set out for Astrardente.

  It was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad one for Giovanni Saracinesca. He would have been capable of leaving Rome at once, but that he had promised Corona not to attempt to see her. He would have gone to Saracinesca for the mere sake of being nearer to her, had he not reflected that he would be encouraging all manner of gossip by so doing. But he determined that so soon as Lent began, he would declare his intention of leaving the city for a year. No one ever went to Saracinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the ancestral castle without creating suspicion. He might even go to Paris for a few days, and have it supposed that he was wandering about Europe, for he could trust his own servants implicitly; they were not of the type who would drink wine at a tavern with Temistocle or any of his class.

  The old Prince came into his son’s room in the morning and found him disconsolately looking over his guns, for the sake of an occupation.

  “Well, Giovanni,” he said, “you have time to reflect upon your future conduct. What! are you going upon a shooting expedition?”

  “I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do,” answered Giovanni, laying down the breech-loader and looking out of the window. “The world is turned inside out like a beggar’s pocket, and there is nothing in it.”

  “So the Astrardente is gone,” remarked the Prince.

  “Yes; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca,” replied Giovanni, with an angry intonation.

  “Do not go there yet,” said his father. “Leave her alone a while. Women become frantic in solitude.”

  “Do you think I am an idiot?” exclaimed Giovanni. “Of course I shall stay where I am till Carnival is over.” He was not in a good humour.

  “Why are you so petulant?” retorted the old man. “I merely gave you my advice.”

  “Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When Carnival is over I will go away, and perhaps get to Saracinesca by a rounda
bout way, so that no one will know where I am. Will you not come too?”

  “I daresay,” answered the Prince, who was always pleased when his son expressed a desire for his company. “I wish we lived in the good old times.”

  “Why?”

  “We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente and carrying off the Duchessa for you, my boy,” said the Prince, grimly.

  Giovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed his mind. He was not quite sure whether it was respectful to Corona to think of carrying her off in the way his father suggested; but there was a curious flavour of possibility in the suggestion, coming as it did from a man whose grandfather might have done such a thing, and whose great-grandfather was said to have done it. So strong are the instincts of barbaric domination in races where the traditions of violence exist in an unbroken chain, that both father and son smiled at the idea as if it were quite natural, although Giovanni had only the previous day promised that he would not even attempt to see Corona d’Astrardente without her permission. He did not tell his father of his promise, however, for his more delicate instinct made him sure that though he had acted rightly, his father would laugh at his scruples, and tell him that women liked to be wooed roughly.

  Meanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for him a vast solitude, and the smile soon faded from his face at the thought that he must go out into the world, and for Corona’s sake act as though nothing had happened.

  CHAPTER XX.

  POOR MADAME MAYER was in great anxiety of mind. She had not a great amount of pride, but she made up for it by a plentiful endowment of vanity, in which she suffered acutely. She was a good-natured woman enough, and by nature she was not vindictive; but she could not help being jealous, for she was in love. She felt how Giovanni every day evidently cared less and less for her society, and how, on the other hand, Del Ferice was quietly assuring his position, so that people already began to whisper that he had a chance of becoming her husband. She did not dislike Del Ferice; he was a convenient man of the world, whom she always found ready to help her when she needed help. But by dint of making use of him, she was beginning to feel in some way bound to consider him as an element in her life, and she did not like the position. The letter he had written her was of the kind a man might write to the woman he loved; it bordered upon the familiar, even while the writer expressed himself in terms of exaggerated respect. Perhaps if Del Ferice had been well, she would have simply taken no notice of what he had written, and would not even have sent an answer; but she had not the heart to repulse him altogether in his present condition. There was a phrase cunningly introduced and ambiguously worded, which seemed to mean that he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke of having suffered and of still suffering so much for her, — did he mean to refer to pain of body or of mind? It was not certain. Don Giovanni had assured her that she was in no way concerned in the duel, and he was well known for his honesty; nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might have desired to conceal the truth from her. It seemed like him. She longed for an opportunity of talking with him and eliciting some explanation of his conduct. There had been a time when he used to visit her, and always spent some time in her society when they met in the world — now, on the contrary, he seemed to avoid her whenever he could; and in proportion as she noticed that his manner cooled, her own jealousy against Corona d’Astrardente increased in force, until at last it seemed to absorb her love for Giovanni into itself and turn it into hate.