Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “We must get money somewhere,” answered Orsino with indifference. “If not from Del Ferice, then from some other bank. And as for obligations, as you call them, he is not the bank himself, and the bank does not lend its money in order to amuse me or to humiliate you, my friend. But if you insist, I shall say that the convenience is not on one side only. If Del Ferice supports us it is because we serve his interests. If he has done us a good turn, it is a reason why we should do him one, and build his houses rather than those of other people. You talk about my conferring a favour upon him. Where will he find another Andrea Contini and Company to make worthless property valuable for him? In that sense you and I are earning his gratitude, by the simple process of being scrupulously honest. I do not feel in the least humiliated, I assure you.”

  “I cannot help it,” replied Contini, biting his cigar savagely. “I have a heart, and it beats with good blood. Do you know that there is blood of Cola di Rienzo in my veins?”

  “No. You never told me,” answered Orsino, one of whose forefathers had been concerned in the murder of the tribune, a fact to which he thought it best not to refer at the present moment.

  “And the blood of Cola di Rienzo burns under the shame of an obligation!” cried Contini, with a heat hardly warranted by the circumstances. “It is humiliating, it is base, to submit to be the tool of a Del Ferice — we all know who and what Del Ferice was, and how he came by his title of count, and how he got his fortune — a spy, an intriguer! In a good cause? Perhaps. I was not born then, nor you either, Signor Principe, and we do not know what the world was like, when it was quite another world. That is not a reason for serving a spy!”

  “Calm yourself, my friend. We are not in Del Ferice’s service.”

  “Better to die than that! Better to kill him at once and go to the galleys for a few years! Better to play the fiddle, or pick rags, or beg in the streets than that, Signor Principe. One must respect oneself. You see it yourself. One must be a man, and feel as a man. One must feel those things here, Signor Principe, here in the heart!”

  Contini struck his breast with his clenched fist and bit the end of his cigar quite through in his anger. Then he suddenly seized his hat and rushed out of the room.

  Orsino was less surprised at the outburst than might have been expected, and did not attach any great weight to his partner’s dramatic rage. But he lit a cigarette and carefully thought over the situation, trying to find out whether there were really any ground for Contini’s first remarks. He was perfectly well aware that as Orsino Saracinesca he would cut his own throat with enthusiasm rather than borrow a louis of Ugo Del Ferice. But as Andrea Contini and Company he was another person, and so Del Ferice was not Count Del Ferice, nor the Onorevole Del Ferice, but simply a director in a bank with which he had business. If the interests of Andrea Contini and Company were identical with those of the bank, there was no reason whatever for interrupting relations both amicable and profitable, merely because one member of the firm claimed to be descended from Cola di Bienzo, a defunct personage in whom Orsino felt no interest whatever. Andrea Contini, considering his social relations, might be on terms of friendship with his hatter, for instance, or might have personal reasons for disliking him. In neither case could the buying of a hat from that individual be looked upon as an obligation conferred or received by either party. This was quite clear, and Orsino was satisfied.

  “Business is business,” he said to himself, “and people who introduce personal considerations into a financial transaction will get the worst of the bargain.”

  Andrea Contini was apparently of the same opinion, for when he entered the room again at the end of an hour his excitement had quite disappeared.

  “If we take another contract from the count,” he said, “is there any reason why we should not take a larger one, if it is to be had? We could manage three or four buildings now that you have become such a good bookkeeper.”

  “I am quite of your opinion,” Orsino answered, deciding at once to make no reference to what had gone before.

  “The only question is, whether we have capital enough for a margin.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Orsino determined to consult his mother, in whose judgment he felt a confidence which he could not explain but which was not misplaced. The fact was simple enough. Corona understood him thoroughly, though her comprehension of his business was more than limited, and she did nothing in reality but encourage his own sober opinion when it happened to be at variance with some enthusiastic inclination which momentarily deluded him. That quiet pushing of a man’s own better reason against his half considered but often headstrong impulses, is after all one of the best and most loving services which a wise woman can render to a man whom she loves, be he husband, son or brother. Many women have no other secret, and indeed there are few more valuable ones, if well used and well kept. But let not graceless man discover that it is used upon him. He will resent being led by his own reason far more than being made the senseless slave of a foolish woman’s wildest caprice. To select the best of himself for his own use is to trample upon his free will. To send him barefoot to Jericho in search of a dried flower is to appeal to his heart. Man is a reasoning animal.

  Corona, as was to be expected, was triumphant in Orsino’s first success, and spent as much time in talking over the past and the future with him as she could command during his own hours of liberty. He needed no urging to continue in the same course, but he enjoyed her happiness and delighted in her encouragement.

  “Contini wishes to take a large contract,” he said to her, after the interview last described. “I agree with him, in a way. We could certainly manage a larger business.”

  “No doubt,” Corona answered thoughtfully, for she saw that there was some objection to the scheme in his own mind.

  “I have learned a great deal,” he continued, “and we have much more capital than we had. Besides, I suppose you would lend me a few thousands if we needed them, would you not, mother?”

  “Certainly, my dear. You shall not be hampered by want of money.”

  “And then, it is possible that we might make something like a fortune in a short time. It would be a great satisfaction. But then, too—” He stopped.

  “What then?” asked Corona, smiling.

  “Things may turn out differently. Though I have been successful this time, I am much more inclined to believe that San Giacinto was right than I was before I began. All this movement does not rest on a solid basis.”

  A financier of thirty years’ standing could not have made the statement more impressively, and Orsino was conscious that he was assuming an elderly tone. He laughed the next moment.

  “That is a stock phrase, mother,” he continued. “But it means something. Everything is not what it should be. If the demand were as great as people say it is, there would not be half a dozen houses — better houses than ours — unsold in our street. That is why I am afraid of a big contract. I might lose all my money and some of yours.”

  “It would not be of much consequence if you did,” answered Corona. “But of course you will be guided by your own judgment, which, is much better than mine. One must risk something, of course, but there is no use in going into danger.”

  “Nevertheless, I should enjoy a big venture immensely.”

  “There is no reason why you should not try one, when the moment comes, my dear. I suppose that a few months will decide whether there is to be a crisis or not. In the meantime you might take something moderate, neither so small as the last, nor so large as you would like. You will get more experience, risk less and be better prepared for a crash if it comes, or to take advantage of anything favourable if business grows safer.”

  Orsino was silent for a moment.

  “You are very wise, mother,” he said. “I will take your advice.”

  Corona had indeed acted as wisely as she could. The only flaw in her reasoning was her assertion that a few months would decide the fate of Roman affairs. If i
t were possible to predict a crisis even within a few months, speculation would be a less precarious business than it is.

  Orsino and his mother might have talked longer and perhaps to better purpose, but they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, bearing a note. Corona instinctively put out her hand to receive it.

  “For Don Orsino,” said the man, stopping before him.

  Orsino took the letter, looked at it and turned it over.

  “I think it is from Madame d’Aranjuez,” he remarked, without emotion. “May I read it?”

  “There is no answer, Eccellenza,” said the servant, whose curiosity was satisfied.

  “Read it, of course,” said Corona, looking at him.

  She was surprised that Madame d’Aranjuez should write to him, but she was still more astonished to see the indifference with which he opened the missive. She had imagined that he was more or less in love with Maria Consuelo.

  “I fancy it is the other way,” she thought. “The woman wants to marry him. I might have suspected it.”

  Orsino read the note, and tossed it into the fire without volunteering any information.

  “I will take your advice, mother,” he said, continuing the former conversation, as though nothing had happened.

  But the subject seemed to be exhausted, and before long Orsino made an excuse to his mother and went out.

  CHAPTER XV.

  THERE WAS NOTHING in the note burnt by Orsino which he might not have shown to his mother, since he had already told her the name of the writer. It contained the simple statement that Maria Consuelo was about to leave Rome, and expressed the hope that she might see Orsino before her departure as she had a small request to make of him, in the nature of a commission. She hoped he would forgive her for putting him to so much inconvenience.

  Though he betrayed no emotion in reading the few lines, he was in reality annoyed by them, and he wished that he might be prevented from obeying the summons. Maria Consuelo had virtually dropped the acquaintance, and had refused repeatedly and in a marked way to receive him. And now, at the last moment, when she needed something of him, she chose to recall him by a direct invitation. There was nothing to be done but to yield, and it was characteristic of Orsino that, having submitted to necessity, he did not put off the inevitable moment, but went to her at once.

  The days were longer now than they had been during the time when he had visited her every day, and the lamp was not yet on the table when Orsino entered the small sitting-room. Maria Consuelo was standing by the window, looking out into the street, and her right hand rested against the pane while her fingers tapped it softly but impatiently. She turned quickly as he entered, but the light was behind her and he could hardly see her face. She came towards him and held out her hand.

  “It is very kind of you to have come so soon,” she said, as she took her old accustomed place by the table.

  Nothing was changed, excepting that the two or three new books at her elbow were not the same ones which had been there two months earlier. In one of them was thrust the silver paper-cutter with the jewelled handle, which Orsino had never missed. He wondered whether there were any reason for the unvarying sameness of these details.

  “Of course I came,” he said. “And as there was time to-day, I came at once.”

  He spoke rather coldly, still resenting her former behaviour and expecting that she would immediately say what she wanted of him. He would promise to execute the commission, whatever it might be, and after ten minutes of conversation he would take his leave. There was a short pause, during which he looked at her. She did not seem well. Her face was pale and her eyes were deep with shadows. Even her auburn hair had lost something of its gloss. Yet she did not look older than before, a fact which proved her to be even younger than Orsino had imagined. Saving the look of fatigue and suffering in her face, Maria Consuelo had changed less than Orsino during the winter, and she realised the fact at a glance. A determined purpose, hard work, the constant exertion of energy and will, and possibly, too, the giving up to a great extent of gambling and strong drinks, had told in Orsino’s face and manner as a course of training tells upon a lazy athlete. The bold black eyes had a more quiet glance, the well-marked features had acquired strength and repose, the lean jaw was firmer and seemed more square. Even physically, Orsino had improved, though the change was undefinable. Young as he was, something of the power of mature manhood was already coming over his youth.

  “You must have thought me very — rude,” said Maria Consuelo, breaking the silence and speaking with a slight hesitation which Orsino had never noticed before.

  “It is not for me to complain, Madame,” he answered. “You had every right—”

  He stopped short, for he was reluctant to admit that she had been justified in her behaviour towards him.

  “Thanks,” she said, with an attempt to laugh. “It is pleasant to find magnanimous people now and then. I do not want you to think that I was capricious. That is all.”

  “I certainly do not think that. You were most consistent. I called three times and always got the same answer.”

  He fancied that he heard her sigh, but she tried to laugh again.

  “I am not imaginative,” she answered. “I daresay you found that out long go. You have much more imagination than I.”

  “It is possible, Madame — but you have not cared to develop it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What does it matter? Do you remember what you said when I bade you good-night at the window of your carriage after Del Ferice’s dinner? You said that you were not angry with me. I was foolish enough to imagine that you were in earnest. I came again and again, but you would not see me. You did not encourage my illusion.”

  “Because I would not receive you? How do you know what happened to me? How can you judge of my life? By your own? There is a vast difference.”

  “Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Orsino almost impatiently. “I know what you are going to say. It will be flattering to me of course. The unattached young man is dangerous to the reputation. The foreign lady is travelling alone. There is the foundation of a vaudeville in that!”

  “If you must be unjust, at least do not be brutal,” said Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and she turned her face away from him.

  “I am evidently placed in the world to offend you, Madame. Will you believe that I am sorry for it, though I only dimly comprehend my fault? What did I say? That you were wise in breaking off my visits, because you are alone here, and because I am young, unmarried and unfortunately a little conspicuous in my native city. Is it brutal to suggest that a young and beautiful woman has a right not to be compromised? Can we not talk freely for half an hour, as we used to talk, and then say good-bye and part good friends until you come to Rome again?”

  “I wish we could!” There was an accent of sincerity in the tone which pleased Orsino.

  “Then begin by forgiving me all my sins, and put them down to ignorance, want of tact, the inexperience of youth or a naturally weak understanding. But do not call me brutal on such slight provocation.”

  “We shall never agree for a long time,” answered Maria Consuelo thoughtfully.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, as I told you, there is too great a difference between our lives. Do not answer me as you did before, for I am right. I began by admitting that I was rude. If that is not enough I will say more — I will even ask you to forgive me — can I do more?”

  She spoke so earnestly that Orsino was surprised and almost touched. Her manner now was even less comprehensible than her repeated refusals to see him had been.

  “You have done far too much already,” he said gravely. “It is mine to ask your forgiveness for much that I have done and said. I only wish that I understood you better.”

  “I am glad you do not,” replied Maria Consuelo, with a sigh which this time was not to be mistaken. “There is a sadness which it is better not to understand,” she added softly.

  �
�Unless one can help to drive it away.” He, too, spoke gently, his voice being attracted to the pitch and tone of hers.

  “You cannot do that — and if you could, you would not.”

  “Who can tell?”

  The charm which he had formerly felt so keenly in her presence but which he had of late so completely forgotten, was beginning to return and he submitted to it with a sense of satisfaction which he had not anticipated. Though the twilight was coming on, his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness in the room and he saw every change in her pale, expressive face. She leaned back in her chair with eyes half closed.

  “I like to think that you would, if you knew how,” she said presently.

  “Do you not know that I would?”

  She glanced quickly at him, and then, instead of answering, rose from her seat and called to her maid through one of the doors, telling her to bring the lamp. She sat down again, but being conscious that they were liable to interruption, neither of the two spoke. Maria Consuelo’s fingers played with the silver knife, drawing it out of the book in which it lay and pushing it back again. At last she took it up and looked closely at the jewelled monogram on the handle.

  The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table and glanced sharply at Orsino. He could not help noticing the look. In a moment she was gone, and the door closed behind her. Maria Consuelo looked over her shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar.

  “She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid of mine,” she said.

  “So I should imagine from her face.”

  “Yes. She looked at you as she passed and I saw that you noticed it. She is my protector. I never have travelled without her and she watches over me — as a cat watches a mouse.”

  The little laugh that accompanied the words was not one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not escape Orsino.

  “I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways one submits because one cannot live without them,” he observed.