Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  For a long time neither spoke again. Orsino, indeed, had nothing to say at first, for nothing he could say could reasonably be supposed to be of any use. He had learned the existence of something like a tragedy in Maria Consuelo’s life, and he seemed to be learning the first lesson of friendship, which teaches sympathy. It was not an occasion for making insignificant phrases expressing his regret at her loss, and the language he needed in order to say what he meant was unfamiliar to his lips. He was silent, therefore, but his young face was grave and thoughtful, and his eyes sought hers from time to time as though trying to discover and forestall her wishes. At last she glanced at him quickly, then looked down, and at last spoke to him.

  “You will not make me regret having told you this — will you?” she asked.

  “No. I promise you that.”

  So far as Orsino could understand the words meant very little. He was not very communicative, as a rule, and would certainly not tell what he had heard, so that the promise was easily given and easy to keep. If he did not break it, he did not see that she could have any further cause for regretting her confidence in him. Nevertheless, by way of reassuring her, he thought it best to repeat what he had said in different words.

  “You may be quite sure that whatever you choose to tell me is in safe keeping,” he said. “And you may be sure, too, that if it is in my power to do you a service of any kind, you will find me ready, and more than ready, to help you.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, looking earnestly at him.

  “Whether the matter be small or great,” he added, meeting her eyes.

  Perhaps she expected to find more curiosity on his part, and fancied that he would ask some further question. He did not understand the meaning of her look.

  “I believe you,” she said at last. “I am too much in need of a friend to doubt you.”

  “You have found one.”

  “I do not know. I am not sure. There are other things—” she stopped suddenly and looked away.

  “What other things?”

  But Maria Consuelo did not answer. Orsino knew that she was thinking of all that had once passed between them. He wondered whether, if he led the way, she would press him as she had done at their last meeting. If she did, he wondered what he should say. He had been very cold then, far colder than he was now. He now felt drawn to her, as in the first days of their acquaintance. He felt always that he was on the point of understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for something which should help him to pass that point.

  “What other things?” he asked, repeating his question. “Do you mean that there are reasons which may prevent me from being a good friend of yours?”

  “I am afraid there are. I do not know.”

  “I think you are mistaken, Madame. Will you name some of those reasons — or even one?”

  Maria Consuelo did not answer at once. She glanced at him, looked down, and then her eyes met his again.

  “Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman chooses for her friend?” she asked at length, with a faint smile.

  “I have not thought of the matter—”

  “But you should — before offering your friendship.”

  “Why? If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, if I am—” he hesitated, weighing his words— “if I am personally attached to you, why can I not help you? I am honest, and in earnest. May I say as much as that of myself?”

  “I believe you are.”

  “Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom a woman might take for a friend when a better is not at hand.”

  “And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?” asked Maria Consuelo quietly.

  “I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve anything nowadays,” answered Orsino.

  “True — and the word ‘friend’ has such a pretty sound!” She laughed, for the first time since he had entered the room.

  “Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame. Is not that a sign that you need no friend at all, and that your questions are not seriously meant?”

  “Perhaps. Who knows?”

  “Do you know, yourself?”

  “No.” Again she laughed a little, and then grew suddenly grave.

  “I never knew a woman who needed a friend more urgently than you do,” said Orsino. “I do not in the least understand your position. The little you have told me makes it clear enough that there have been and still are unusual circumstances in your life. One thing I see. That woman whom you call your maid is forced upon you against your will, to watch you, and is privileged to tell lies about you which may do you a great injury. I do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, but I see that you must, and I guess that you hate it. Would it be an act of friendship to free you from her or not?”

  “At present it would not be an act of friendship,” answered Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully.

  “That is very strange. Do you mean to say that you submit voluntarily—”

  “The woman is a condition imposed upon me. I cannot tell you more.”

  “And no friend, no friendly help can change the condition, I suppose.”

  “I did not say that. But such help is beyond your power, Don Orsino,” she added turning towards him rather suddenly. “Let us not talk of this any more. Believe me, nothing can be done. You have sometimes acted strangely with me, but I really think you would help me if you could. Let that be the state of our acquaintance. You are willing, and I believe that you are. Nothing more. Let that be our compact. But you can perhaps help me in another way — a smaller way. I want a habitation of some kind for the winter, for I am tired of camping out in hotels. You who know your own city so well can name some person who will undertake the matter.”

  “I know the very man,” said Orsino promptly.

  “Will you write out the address for me?”

  “It is not necessary. I mean myself.”

  “I could not let you take so much trouble,” protested Maria Consuelo.

  But she accepted, nevertheless, after a little hesitation. For some time they discussed the relative advantages of the various habitable quarters of the city, both glad, perhaps, to find an almost indifferent subject of conversation, and both relatively happy merely in being together. The talk made one of those restful interludes which are so necessary, and often so hard to produce, between two people whose thoughts run upon a strong common interest, and who find it difficult to exchange half a dozen words without being led back to the absorbing topic.

  What had been said had produced a decided effect upon Orsino. He had come expecting to take up the acquaintance on a new footing, but ten minutes had not elapsed before he had found himself as much interested as ever in Maria Consuelo’s personality, and far more interested in her life than he had ever been before. While talking with more or less indifference about the chances of securing a suitable apartment for the winter, Orsino listened with an odd sensation of pleasure to every tone of his companion’s voice and watched every changing expression of the striking face. He wondered whether he were not perhaps destined to love her sincerely as he had already loved her in a boyish, capricious fashion which would no longer be natural to him now. But for the present he was sure that he did not love her, and that he desired nothing but her sympathy for himself, and to feel sympathy for her. Those were the words he used, and he did not explain them to his own intelligence in any very definite way. He was conscious, indeed, that they meant more than formerly, but the same was true of almost everything that came into his life, and he did not therefore attach any especial importance to the fact. He was altogether much more in earnest than when he had first met Maria Consuelo; he was capable of deeper feeling, of stronger determination and of more decided action in all matters, and though he did not say so to himself he was none the less aware of the change.

  “Shall we make an appointment for to-morrow?” he asked, after they had been talking some time.

  “Yes — but there is one thing I wanted to ask you—�
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  “What is that?” inquired Orsino, seeing that she hesitated.

  The faint colour rose in her cheeks, but she looked straight into his eyes, with a kind of fearless expression, as though she were facing a danger.

  “Tell me,” she said, “in Rome, where everything is known and every one talks so much, will it not be thought strange that you and I should be driving about together, looking for a house for me? Tell me the truth.”

  “What can people say?” asked Orsino.

  “Many things. Will they say them?”

  “If they do, I can make them stop talking.”

  “That means that they will talk, does it not? Would you like that?”

  There was a sudden change in her face, with a look of doubt and anxious perplexity. Orsino saw it and felt that she was putting him upon his honour, and that whatever the doubt might be it had nothing to do with her trust in him. Six months earlier he would not have hesitated to demonstrate that her fears were empty — but he felt that six months earlier she might not have yielded to his reasoning. It was instinctive, but his instinct was not mistaken.

  “I think you are right,” he said slowly. “We should not do it. I will send my architect with you.”

  There was enough regret in the tone to show that he was making a considerable sacrifice. A little delicacy means more when it comes from a strong man, than when it is the natural expression of an over-refined and somewhat effeminate character. And Orsino was rapidly developing a strength of which other people were conscious. Maria Consuelo was pleased, though she, too, was perhaps sorry to give up the projected plan.

  “After all,” she said, thoughtlessly, “you can come and see me here, if—”

  She stopped and blushed again, more deeply this time; but she turned her face away and in the half light the change of colour was hardly noticeable.

  “You were going to say ‘if you care to see me,’” said Orsino. “I am glad you did not say it. It would not have been kind.”

  “Yes — I was going to say that,” she answered quietly. “But I will not.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why do you thank me?”

  “For not hurting me.”

  “Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any way?”

  “I would rather not think so. You did once.”

  The words slipped from his lips almost before he had time to realise what they meant. He was thinking of the night when she had drawn up the carriage window, leaving him standing on the pavement, and of her repeated refusals to see him afterwards. It seemed long ago, and the hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied that it must have been, judging from what he now felt. She looked at him quickly as though wondering what he would say next.

  “I never meant to be unkind,” she said. “I have often asked myself whether you could say as much.”

  It was Orsino’s turn to change colour. He was young enough for that, and the blood rose slowly in his dark cheeks. He thought again of their last meeting, and of what he had heard as he shut the door after him on that day. Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo was sorry for what she had said, and a little ashamed of her weakness, as indeed she had some cause to be, and she immediately turned back to a former point of the conversation, not too far removed from what had last been said.

  “You see,” said she, “I was right to ask you whether people would talk. And I am grateful to you for telling me the truth. It is a first proof of friendship — of something better than our old relations. Will you send me your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer his help?”

  After arranging for the hour of meeting Orsino rose to take his leave.

  “May I come to-morrow?” he asked. “People will not talk about that,” he added with a smile.

  “You can ask for me. I may be out. If I am at home, I shall be glad to see you.”

  She spoke coldly, and Orsino saw that she was looking over his shoulder. He turned instinctively and saw that the door was open and Spicca was standing just outside, looking in and apparently waiting for a word from Maria Consuelo before entering.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  AS ORSINO HAD no reason whatever for avoiding Spicca he naturally waited a moment instead of leaving the room immediately. He looked at the old man with a new interest as the latter came forward. He had never seen and probably would never see again a man taking the hand of a woman whose husband he had destroyed. He stood a little back and Spicca passed him as he met Maria Consuelo. Orsino watched the faces of both.

  Madame d’Aranjuez put out her hand mechanically and with evident reluctance, and Orsino guessed that but for his own presence she would not have given it. The expression in her face changed rapidly from that which had been there when they had been alone, hardening very quickly until it reminded Orsino of a certain mask of the Medusa which had once made an impression upon his imagination. Her eyes were fixed and the pupils grew small while the singular golden yellow colour of the iris flashed disagreeably. She did not bend her head as she silently gave her hand.

  Spicca, too, seemed momentarily changed. He was as pale and thin as ever, but his face softened oddly; certain lines which contributed to his usually bitter and sceptical expression disappeared, while others became visible which changed his look completely. He bowed with more deference than he affected with other women, and Orsino fancied that he would have held Maria Consuelo’s hand a moment longer, if she had not withdrawn it as soon as it had touched his.

  If Orsino had not already known that Spicca often saw her, he would have been amazed at the count’s visit, considering what she had said of the man. As it was, he wondered what power Spicca had over her to oblige her to receive him, and he wondered in vain. The conclusion which forced itself before him was that Spicca was the person who imposed the serving woman upon Maria Consuelo. But her behaviour towards him, on the other hand, was not that of a person obliged by circumstances to submit to the caprices and dictation of another. Judging by the appearance of the two, it seemed more probable that the power was on the other side, and might be used mercilessly on occasion.

  “I hope I am not disturbing your plans,” said Spicca, in a tone which was almost humble, and very unlike his usual voice. “Were you going out together?”

  He shook hands with Orsino, avoiding his glance, as the young man thought.

  “No,” answered Maria Consuelo briefly. “I was not going out.”

  “I am just going away,” said Orsino by way of explanation, and he made as though he would take his leave.

  “Do not go yet,” said Maria Consuelo. Her look made the words imperative.

  Spicca glanced from one to the other with a sort of submissive protest, and then all three sat down. Orsino wondered what part he was expected to play in the trio, and wished himself away in spite of the interest he felt in the situation.

  Maria Consuelo began to talk in a careless tone which reminded him of his first meeting with her in Gouache’s studio. She told Spicca that Orsino had promised her his architect as a guide in her search for a lodging.

  “What sort of person is he?” inquired Spicca, evidently for the sake of making conversation.

  “Contini is a man of business,” Orsino answered. “An odd fellow, full of talent, and a musical genius. One would not expect very much of him at first, but he will do all that Madame d’Aranjuez needs.”

  “Otherwise you would not have recommended him, I suppose,” said Spicca.

  “Certainly not,” replied Orsino, looking at him.

  “You must know, Madame,” said Spicca, “that Don Orsino is an excellent judge of men.”

  He emphasised the last word in a way that seemed unnecessary. Maria Consuelo had recovered all her equanimity and laughed carelessly.

  “How you say that!” she exclaimed. “Is it a warning?”

  “Against what?” asked Orsino.

  “Probably against you,” she said. “Count Spicca likes to throw out vague hints — but I will d
o him the credit to say that they generally mean something.” She added the last words rather scornfully.

  An expression of pain passed over the old man’s face. But he said nothing, though it was not like him to pass by a challenge of the kind. Without in the least understanding the reason of the sensation, Orsino felt sorry for him.

  “Among men, Count Spicca’s opinion is worth having,” he said quietly.

  Maria Consuelo looked at him in some surprise. The phrase sounded like a rebuke, and her eyes betrayed her annoyance.

  “How delightful it is to hear one man defend another!” she laughed.

  “I fancy Count Spicca does not stand much in need of defence,” replied Orsino, without changing his tone.

  “He himself is the best judge of that.”

  Spicca raised his weary eyes to hers and looked at her for a moment, before he answered.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I am the best judge. But I am not accustomed to being defended, least of all against you, Madame. The sensation is a new one.”

  Orsino felt himself out of place. He was more warmly attached to Spicca than he knew, and though he was at that time not far removed from loving Maria Consuelo, her tone in speaking to the old man, which said far more than her words, jarred upon him, and he could not help taking his friend’s part. On the other hand the ugly truth that Spicca had caused the death of Aranjuez more than justified Maria Consuelo in her hatred. Behind all, there was evidently some good reason why Spicca came to see her, and there was some bond between the two which made it impossible for her to refuse his visits. It was clear too, that though she hated him he felt some kind of strong affection for her. In her presence he was very unlike his daily self.

  Again Orsino moved and looked at her, as though asking her permission to go away. But she refused it with an imperative gesture and a look of annoyance. She evidently did not wish to be left alone with the old man. Without paying any further attention to the latter she began to talk to Orsino. She took no trouble to conceal what she felt and the impression grew upon Orsino that Spicca would have gone away after a quarter of an hour, if he had not either possessed a sort of right to stay or if he had not had some important object in view in remaining.