Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Not even San Giacinto,” repeated Giovanni, stupidly. His presence of mind began to forsake him, too, and he sank down, burying his face in his hands. As in a dream he saw his cousin installed in the very chair where his father now sat, master of the house in which he, Giovanni, had been born, like his father before him, master of the fortresses and castles, the fair villas and the broad lands, the palaces and the millions to which Giovanni had thought himself heir, lord over the wealth and inheritances of his race, dignified by countless titles and by all the consideration that falls to the lot of the great in this world.

  For a long time neither spoke, for both were equally overwhelmed by the magnitude of the disaster that hung over their heads. They looked furtively at each other, and each saw that his companion was white to the lips. The old man was the first to break the silence.

  “At all events, San Giacinto does not know how the deed stands,” he said.

  “It will make it all the harder to tell him,” replied Giovanni.

  “To tell him? You would not be so mad—”

  “Do you think it would be honourable,” asked the younger man, “for us to remain in possession of what clearly does not belong to us? I will not do it.”

  “We have been in possession for more than a century.”

  “That is no reason why we should continue to steal another man’s

  money,” said Giovanni. “We are men. Let us act like men. It is bitter.

  It is horrible. But we have no other course. After all, Corona has

  Astrardente. She will give you a home. She is rich.”

  “Me? Why do you say me? Us both.”

  “I will work for my living,” said Giovanni, quietly. “I am young. I will not live on my wife.”

  “It is absurd!” exclaimed the prince. “It is Quixotic. San Giacinto has plenty of money without ruining us. Even if he finds it out I will fight the case to the end. I am master here, as my father and my father’s father were before me, and I will not give up what is mine without a struggle. Besides, who assures us that he is really what he represents himself to be? What proves that he is really the descendant of that same Leone?”

  “For that matter,” answered Giovanni, “he will have to produce very positive proofs, valid in law, to show that he is really the man. I will give up everything to the lawful heir, but I will certainly not turn beggar to please an adventurer. But I say that, if San Giacinto represents the elder branch of our house, we have no right here. If I were sure of it I would not sleep another night under this roof.”

  The old man could not withhold his admiration. There was something supremely noble and generous about Giovanni’s readiness to sacrifice everything for justice which made his old heart beat with a strange pride. If he was reluctant to renounce his rights it was after all more on Giovanni’s account, and for the sake of Corona and little Orsino. He himself was an old man and had lived most of his life out already.

  “You have your mother’s heart, Giovannino,” he said simply, but there was a slight moisture in his eyes, which few emotions had ever had the power to bring there.

  “It is not a question of heart,” replied Giovanni. “We cannot keep what does not belong to us.”

  “We will let the law decide what we can keep. Do you realise what it would be like, what a position we should occupy if we were suddenly declared beggars? We should be absolute paupers. We do not own a foot of land, a handful of money that does not come under the provisions of that accursed clause.”

  “Wait a minute,” exclaimed Giovanni, suddenly recollecting that he possessed something of his own, a fact he had wholly forgotten in the excitement of his discovery. “We shall not be wholly without resources. It does not follow from this deed that we must give to San Giacinto any of the property our branch of the family has acquired by marriage, from your great grandfather’s time to this. It must be very considerable. To begin with me, my fortune came from my mother. Then there was your mother, and your father’s mother, and so on. San Giacinto has no claim to anything not originally the property of the old Leone who made this deed.”

  “That is true,” replied the prince, more hopefully. “It is not so bad as it looked. You must be right about that point.”

  “Unless the courts decide that San Giacinto is entitled to compensation and interest, because four generations have been kept out of the property.”

  Both men looked grave. The suggestion was unpleasant. Such judgments had been given before and might be given again.

  “We had better send for our lawyer,” said the prince, at last. “The sooner we know the real value of that bit of parchment the better it will be for us. I cannot bear the suspense of waiting a day to know the truth. Imagine that the very chair I am sitting upon may belong to San Giacinto. I never liked the fellow, from the day when I first found him in his inn at Aquila.”

  “It is not his fault,” answered Giovanni, quietly. “This is a perfectly simple matter. We did not know what these papers were. Even if we had known, we should have laughed at them until we discovered that we had a cousin. After all we shall not starve, and what is a title? The Pope will give you another when he knows what has happened. I would as soon be plain Don Giovanni as Prince of Sant’ Ilario.”

  “For that matter, you can call yourself Astrardente.”

  “I would rather not,” said Giovanni, with something like a laugh. “But

  I must tell Corona this news.”

  “Wait till she is herself again. It might disturb her too much.”

  “You do not know her!” Giovanni laughed heartily this time. “If you think she cares for such things, you are very much mistaken in her character. She will bear the misfortune better than any of us. Courage, padre mio! Things are never so black as they look at first.”

  “I hope not, my boy, I hope not! Go and tell your wife, if you think it best. I would rather be alone.”

  Giovanni left the room, and Saracinesca was alone. He sank back once more in his chair and folded his strong brown hands together upon the edge of the table before him. In spite of all Giovanni could say, the old man felt keenly the horror of his position. Only those who, having been brought up in immense wealth and accustomed from childhood to the pomp and circumstance of a very great position, are suddenly deprived of everything, can understand what he felt.

  He was neither avaricious nor given to vanity. He had not wasted his fortune, though he had spent magnificently a princely income. He had not that small affection for greatness which, strange to say, is often found in the very great. But his position was part of himself, so that he could no more imagine himself plain Don Leone Saracinesca, than he could conceive himself boasting of his ancient titles. And yet it was quite plain to him that he must either cease to be a prince altogether, or accept a new title as a charity from his sovereign. As for his fortune, it was only too plain that the greater part of it had never been his.

  To a man of his temperament the sensation of finding himself a mere impostor was intolerable. His first impulse had of course been to fight the case, and had the attack upon his position come from San Giacinto, he would probably have done so. But his own son had discovered the truth and had put the matter clearly before him, in such a light as to make an appeal to his honour. He had no choice but to submit. He could not allow himself to be outdone in common honesty by the boy he loved, nor could he have been guilty of deliberate injustice, for his own advantage, after he had been convinced that he had no right to his possessions. He belonged to a race of men who had frequently committed great crimes and done atrocious deeds, notorious in history, from motives of personal ambition, for the love of women or out of hatred for men, but who had never had the reputation of loving money or of stooping to dishonour for its sake. As soon as he was persuaded that everything belonged to San Giacinto, he felt that he must resign all in favour of the latter.

  One doubt alone remained to be solved. It was not absolutely certain that San Giacinto was the man he represented himself to
be. It was quite possible that he should have gained possession of the papers he held, by some means known only to himself; such things are often sold as curiosities, and as the last of the older branch of whom there was any record preserved in Rome had died in obscurity, it was conceivable that the ex-innkeeper might have found or bought the documents he had left, in order to call himself Marchese di San Giacinto. Saracinesca did not go so far as to believe that the latter had any knowledge whatsoever of the main deed which was about to cause so much trouble, unless he had seen it in the hands of Montevarchi, in which case he could not be blamed if he brought a suit for the recovery of so much wealth.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  GIOVANNI WAS QUITE right in his prediction concerning Corona’s conduct. He found her in her dressing-room, lying upon the couch near the fire, as he had found her on that fatal evening three weeks earlier. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. She had not wholly recovered her strength yet, but her beauty had returned and seemed perfected by the suffering through which she had passed. In a few words he told her the whole story, to which she listened without showing any great surprise. Once or twice, while he was speaking, her dark eyes sought his with an expression he did not fully understand, but which was at least kind and full of sympathy.

  “Are you quite sure of all the facts?” she asked when he had finished. “Are you certain that San Giacinto is the man? I cannot tell why, but I have always distrusted him since he first came to us.”

  “That is the only point that remains to be cleared up,” answered Giovanni. “If he is not the man he will not venture to take any steps in the matter, lest he should be exposed and lose what he has.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I hardly know. If he is really our cousin, we must give up everything without a struggle. We are impostors, or little better. I think I ought to tell him plainly how the deed is made out, in order that he may judge whether or not he is in a position to prove his identity.”

  “Do you imagine that he does not know all about it as well as we ourselves?”

  “Probably not — otherwise he would have spoken.”

  “The papers came back from Montevarchi to-day,” said Corona. “It is gratuitous to suppose that the old man has not told his future son-in-law what they contain. Yes — you see it yourself. Therefore San Giacinto knows. Therefore, also, if he is the man he pretends to be, he will let you know his intentions soon enough. I fancy you forgot that in your excitement. If he says nothing, it is because he cannot prove his rights.”

  “It is true,” replied Giovanni, “I did not think of that. Nevertheless I would like to be beforehand. I wish him to know that we shall make no opposition. It is a point of honour.”

  “Which a woman cannot understand, of course,” added Corona, calmly.

  “I did not say that. I do not mean it.”

  “Well — do you want my advice?”

  “Always.”

  The single word was uttered with an accent implying more than mere trust, and was accompanied by a look full of strong feeling. But Corona’s expression did not change. Her eyes returned the glance quietly, without affectation, neither lovingly nor unlovingly, but indifferently. Giovanni felt a sharp little pain in his heart as he realised the change that had taken place in his wife.

  “My advice is to do nothing in the matter. San Giacinto may be an impostor; indeed, it is not at all unlikely. If he is, he will take advantage of your desire to act generously. He will be forewarned and forearmed and will have time to procure all the proofs he wants. What could you say to him? ‘If you can prove your birth, I give you all I possess.’ He will at once see that nothing else is necessary, and if he is a rogue he will succeed. Besides, as I tell you, he knows what that deed contains as well as you do, and if he is the man he will bring an action against your father in a week. If he does not, you gain the advantage of having discovered that he is an impostor without exposing yourself to be robbed.”

  “It goes against the grain,” said Giovanni. “But I suppose you are right.”

  “You will do as you think best. I have no power to make you follow my advice.”

  “No power? Ah, Corona, do not say that!”

  A short silence followed, during which Corona looked placidly at the fire, while Giovanni gazed at her dark face and tried to read the thoughts that were passing in her mind. She did not speak, however, and his guesswork was inconclusive. What hurt him most was her indifference, and he longed to discover by some sign that it was only assumed.

  “I would rather do as you think best,” he said at last.

  She glanced at him and then looked back at the blazing logs.

  “I have told you what I think,” she answered. “It is for you to judge and to decide. The whole matter affects you more than it does me.”

  “Is it not the same?”

  “No. If you lose the Saracinesca titles and property we shall still be rich enough. You have a fortune of your own, and so have I. The name is, after all, an affair which concerns you personally. I should have married you as readily had you been called anything else.”

  The reference to the past made Giovanni’s heart leap, and the colour came quickly to his face. It was almost as though she had said that she would have loved him as well had he borne another name, and that might mean that she loved him still. But her calmness belied the hasty conclusion he drew from her words. He thought she looked like a statue, as she lay there in her magnificent rest, her hands folded upon her knees before her, her eyes so turned that he could see only the drooping lids.

  “A personal affair!” he exclaimed suddenly, in a bitter tone. “It was different once, Corona.”

  For the first time since they had been talking her face betrayed some emotion. There was the slightest possible quiver of the lip as she answered.

  “Your titles were never anything but a personal affair.”

  “What concerns me concerns you, dear,” said Giovanni, tenderly.

  “In so much that I am very sorry — sincerely sorry, when anything troubles you.” Her voice was kind and gentle, but there was no love in the words. “Believe me, Giovanni, I would give all I possess to spare you this.”

  “All you possess — is there not a little love left in your all?”

  The cry came from his heart. He took her hand in both of his, and leaned forward towards her. Her fingers lay passively in his grasp, and the colour did not change in her dark cheeks. A moment ago there had been in her heart a passionate longing for the past, which had almost betrayed itself, but when he spoke of present love his words had no power to rouse a responsive echo. And yet she could not answer him roughly, for he was evidently in earnest. She said nothing, therefore, but left her hand in his. His love, which had been as fierce and strong as ever, even while he had doubted her faith, began to take new proportions of which he had never dreamt. He felt like a man struggling with death in some visible and tangible shape.

  “Is it all over? Will you never love me again?” he asked hoarsely.

  Her averted face told no tale, and still her fingers lay inert between his broad hands. She knew how he suffered, and yet she would not soothe him with the delusive hope for which he longed so intensely.

  “For God’s sake, Corona, speak to me! Is there never to be any love again? Can you never forgive me?”

  “Ah, dear, I have forgiven you wholly — there is not an unkind thought left in my heart for you!” She turned and laid the hand that was free upon his shoulder, looking into his face with an expression that was almost imploring. “Do not think it is that, oh, not that! I would forgive you again, a thousand times—”

  “And love me?” he cried, throwing his arms round her neck, and kissing her passionately again and again. But suddenly he drew back, for there was no response to his caresses. He turned very pale as he saw the look in her eyes. There were tears there, for the love that had been, for his present pain, perhaps, but there was not one faint spark of the fire that had burned in other
days.

  “I cannot say it!” she answered at last. “Oh, do not make me say it, for the sake of all that was once!”

  In his emotion Giovanni slipped from the low chair and knelt beside his wife, one arm still around her. The shock of disappointment, in the very moment when he thought she was yielding, was almost more than he could bear. Had not her heart grown wholly cold, the sight of his agonised face would have softened her. She was profoundly moved and pitied him exceedingly, but she could not do more.

  “Giovanni — do not look at me so! If I could! If I only could—”

  “Are you made of stone?” he asked, in a voice choking with pain.

  “What can I do!” she cried in despair, sinking back and hiding her face in her hands. She was in almost as great distress as he himself.

  “Love me, Corona! Only love me, ever so little! Remember that you loved me once—”

  “God knows how dearly! Could I forget it, I might love you now—”

  “Oh, forget it then, beloved! Let it be undone. Let the past be unlived. Say that you never loved me before, and let the new life begin to-day — can you not? Will you not? It is so little I ask, only the beginning. I will make it grow till it shall fill your heart. Sweet love, dear love! love me but enough to say it—”

  “Do you think I would not, if I could? Ah, I would give my whole life to bring back what is gone, but I cannot. It is dead. You — no, not you — some evil thing has killed it. Say it? Yes, dear, I would say it — I will say it if you bid me. Giovanni, I love you — yes, those are the words. Do they mean anything? Can I make them sound true? Can I make the dead alive again? Is it anything but the breath of my lips? Oh, Giovanni, my lost love, why are you not Giovanni still?”

  Again his arms went round her and he pressed her passionately to his heart. She turned pale, and though she tried to hide it, she shrank from his embrace, while her lips quivered and the tears of pain started in her eyes. She suffered horribly, in a way she had never dreamed of as possible. He saw what she felt and let her fall back upon the cushions, while he still knelt beside her. He saw that his mere touch was repugnant to her, and yet he could not leave her. He saw how bravely she struggled to bear his kisses, and how revolting they were to her, and yet the magic of her beauty held his passionate nature under a spell, while the lofty dignity of her spirit enthralled his soul. She was able to forgive, though he had so injured her, she was willing to love him, if she could, though he had wounded her so cruelly; it was torture to think that she could go no further, that he should never again hear the thrill of passion in her voice, nor see the whole strength of her soul rise in her eyes when his lips met hers.