“You meant yourself, just now,” said Orsino softly.
She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale. Then he fancied that there was a hardly perceptible movement of her head, the merest shade of an inclination. He leaned a little towards her, resting against the marble sill of the window.
“And you meant something more—” he began to say. Then he stopped short.
His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed in his temples, his lips closed tightly and his breathing was audible.
Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him quickly and instantly looked back at the smooth glass before her and at the green light on the shutters without. He was scarcely conscious that she had moved. In love, as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a few moments.
“You meant that you might still—” Again he stopped. The words would not come.
He fancied that she would not speak. She could not, any more than she could have left his side at that moment. The air was very sultry even in the cool, closed room. The green light on the shutters darkened suddenly. Then a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly over the city. Still neither moved from the window.
“If you could—” Orsino’s voice was low and soft, but there was something strangely overwrought in the nervous quality of it. It was not hesitation any longer that made him stop.
“Could you love me?” he asked. He thought he spoke aloud. When he had spoken, he knew that he had whispered the words.
His face was colourless. He heard a short, sharp breath, drawn like a gasp. The small white hand fell from the window and gripped his own with sudden, violent strength. Neither spoke. Another peal of thunder, nearer and louder, shook the air. Then Orsino heard the quick-drawn breath again, and the white hand went nervously to the fastening of the window. Orsino opened the casement and thrust back the blinds. There was a vivid flash, more thunder, and a gust of stifling wind. Maria Consuelo leaned far out, looking up, and a few great drops of rain, began to fall.
The storm burst and the cold rain poured down furiously, wetting the two white faces at the window. Maria Consuelo drew back a little, and Orsino leaned against the open casement, watching her. It was as though the single pressure of their hands had crushed out the power of speech for a time.
For weeks they had talked daily together during many hours. They could not foresee that at the great moment there would be nothing left for them to say. The rain fell in torrents and the gusty wind rose and buffeted the face of the great palace with roaring strength, to sink very suddenly an instant later in the steadily rushing noise of the water, springing up again without warning, rising and falling, falling and rising, like a great sobbing breath. The wind and the rain seemed to be speaking for the two who listened to it.
Orsino watched Maria Consuelo’s face, not scrutinising it, nor realising very much whether it were beautiful or not, nor trying to read the thoughts that were half expressed in it — not thinking at all, indeed, but only loving it wholly and in every part for the sake of the woman herself, as he had never dreamed of loving any one or anything.
At last Maria Consuelo turned very slowly and looked into his eyes. The passionate sadness faded out of the features, the faint colour rose again, the full lips relaxed, the smile that came was full of a happiness that seemed almost divine.
“I cannot help it,” she said.
“Can I?”
“Truly?”
Her hand was lying on the marble ledge. Orsino laid his own upon it, and both trembled a little. She understood more than any word could have told her.
“For how long?” she asked.
“For all our lives now, and for all our life hereafter.”
He raised her hand to his lips, bending his head, and then he drew her from the window, and they walked slowly up and down the great room.
“It is very strange,” she said presently, in a low voice.
“That I should love you?”
“Yes. Where were we an hour ago? What is become of that old time — that was an hour ago?”
“I have forgotten, dear — that was in the other life.”
“The other life! Yes — how unhappy I was — there, by that window, a hundred years ago!”
She laughed softly, and Orsino smiled as he looked down at her.
“Are you happy now?”
“Do not ask me — how could I tell you?”
“Say it to yourself, love — I shall see it in your dear face.”
“Am I not saying it?”
Then they were silent again, walking side by side, their arms locked and pressing one another.
It began to dawn upon Orsino that a great change had come into his life, and he thought of the consequences of what he was doing. He had not said that he was happy, but in the first moment he had felt it more than she. The future, however, would not be like the present, and could not be a perpetual continuation of it. Orsino was not at all of a romantic disposition, and the practical side of things was always sure to present itself to his mind very early in any affair. It was a part of his nature and by no means hindered him from feeling deeply and loving sincerely. But it shortened his moments of happiness.
“Do you know what this means to you and me?” he asked, after a time.
Maria Consuelo started very slightly and looked up at him.
“Let us think of to-morrow — to-morrow,” she said. Her voice trembled a little.
“Is it so hard to think of?” asked Orsino, fearing lest he had displeased her.
“Very hard,” she answered, in a low voice.
“Not for me. Why should it be? If anything can make to-day more complete, it is to think that to-morrow will be more perfect, and the next day still more, and so on, each day better than the one before it.”
Maria Consuelo shook her head.
“Do not speak of it,” she said.
“Will you not love me to-morrow?” Orsino asked. The light in his face told how little earnestly he asked the question, but she turned upon him quickly.
“Do you doubt yourself, that you should doubt me?” There was a ring of terror in the words that startled him as he heard them.
“Beloved — no — how can you think I meant it?”
“Then do not say it.” She shivered a little, and bent down her head.
“No — I will not. But — dear — do you know where we are?”
“Where we are?” she repeated, not understanding.
“Yes — where we are. This was to have been your home this year.”
“Was to have been?” A frightened look came into her face.
“It will not be, now. Your home is not in this house.”
Again she shook her head, turning her face away.
“It must be,” she said.
Orsino was surprised beyond expression by the answer.
“Either you do not know what you are saying, or you do not mean it, dear,” he said. “Or else you will not understand me.”
“I understand you too well.”
Orsino made her stop and took both her hands, looking down into her eyes.
“You will marry me,” he said.
“I cannot marry you,” she answered.
Her face grew even paler than it had been when they had stood at the window, and so full of pain and sadness that it hurt Orsino to look at it. But the words she spoke, in her clear, distinct tones, struck him like a blow unawares. He knew that she loved him, for her love was in every look and gesture, without attempt at concealment. He believed her to be a good woman. He was certain that her husband was dead. He could not understand, and he grew suddenly angry. An older man would have done worse, or a man less in earnest.
“You must have a reason to give me — and a good one,” he said gravely.
“I have.”
She turned slowly away and began to walk alone. He followed her.
“You must tell it,” he said.
“Tell it? Yes, I will tell it to you. It is a solem
n promise before God, given to a man who died in my arms — to my husband. Would you have me break such a vow?”
“Yes.” Orsino drew a long breath. The objection seemed insignificant enough compared with the pain it had cost him before it had been explained.
“Such promises are not binding,” he continued, after a moment’s pause. “Such a promise is made hastily, rashly, without a thought of the consequences. You have no right to keep it.”
“No right? Orsino, what are you saying! Is not an oath an oath, however it is taken? Is not a vow made ten times more sacred when the one for whom it was taken is gone? Is there any difference between my promise and that made before the altar by a woman who gives up the world? Should I be any better, if I broke mine, than the nun who broke hers?”
“You cannot be in earnest?” exclaimed Orsino in a low voice.
Maria Consuelo did not answer. She went towards the window and looked at the splashing rain. Orsino stood where he was, watching her. Suddenly she came back and stood before him.
“We must undo this,” she said.
“What do you mean?” He understood well enough.
“You know. We must not love each other. We must undo to-day and forget it.”
“If you can talk so lightly of forgetting, you have little to remember,” answered Orsino almost roughly.
“You have no right to say that.”
“I have the right of a man who loves you.”
“The right to be unjust?”
“I am not unjust.” His tone softened again. “I know what it means, to say that I love you — it is my life, this love. I have known it a long time. It has been on my lips to say it for weeks, and since it has been said, it cannot be unsaid. A moment ago you told me not to doubt you. I do not. And now you say that we must not love each other, as though we had a choice to make — and why? Because you once made a rash promise—”
“Hush!” interrupted Maria Consuelo. “You must not—”
“I must and will. You made a promise, as though you had a right at such a moment to dispose of all your life — I do not speak of mine — as though you could know what the world held for you, and could renounce it all beforehand. I tell you you had no right to make such an oath, and a vow taken without the right to take it is no vow at all—”
“It is — it is! I cannot break it!”
“If you love me you will. But you say we are to forget. Forget! It is so easy to say. How shall we do it?”
“I will go away—”
“If you have the heart to go away, then go. But I will follow you. The world is very small, they say — it will not be hard for me to find you, wherever you are.”
“If I beg you — if I ask it as the only kindness, the only act of friendship, the only proof of your love — you will not come — you will not do that—”
“I will, if it costs your soul and mine.”
“Orsino! You do not mean it — you see how unhappy I am, how I am trying to do right, how hard it is!”
“I see that you are trying to ruin both our lives. I will not let you. Besides, you do not mean it.”
Maria Consuelo looked into his eyes and her own grew deep and dark. Then as though she felt herself yielding, she turned away and sat down in a chair that stood apart from the rest. Orsino followed her, and tried to take her hand, bending down to meet her downcast glance.
“You do not mean it, Consuelo,” he said earnestly. “You do not mean one hundredth part of what you say.”
She drew her fingers from his, and turned her head sideways against the back of the chair so that she could not see him. He still bent over her, whispering into her ear.
“You cannot go,” he said. “You will not try to forget — for neither you nor I can — nor ought, cost what it might. You will not destroy what is so much to us — you would not, if you could. Look at me, love — do not turn away. Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth of it and of every word I say.”
Still she turned her face from him. But she breathed quickly with parted lips and the colour rose slowly in her pale cheeks.
“It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear,” he said, bending still lower and closer to her. “It must be some happiness to know that you are so loved. Is there so much joy in your life that you can despise this? There is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we are always together — always, dear, always, always.”
She moved a little, and the drooping lids lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Do not tempt me, dear one,” she said in a faint voice. “Let me go — let me go.”
Orsino’s dark face was close to hers now, and she could see his bright eyes. Once she tried to look away, and could not. Again she tried, lifting her head from the cushioned chair. But his arm went round her neck and her cheek rested upon his shoulder.
“Go, love,” he said softly, pressing her more closely. “Go — let us not love each other. It is so easy not to love.”
She looked up into his eyes again with a sudden shiver, and they both grew very pale. For ten seconds neither spoke nor moved. Then their lips met.
CHAPTER XXI.
WHEN ORSINO WAS alone that night, he asked himself more than one question which he did not find it easy to answer. He could define, indeed, the relation in which he now stood to Maria Consuelo, for though she had ultimately refused to speak the words of a promise, he no longer doubted that she meant to be his wife and that her scruples were overcome for ever. This was, undeniably, the most important point in the whole affair, so far as his own satisfaction was concerned, but there were others of the gravest import to be considered and elucidated before he could even weigh the probabilities of future happiness.
He had not lost his head on the present occasion, as he had formerly done when his passion had been anything but sincere. He was perfectly conscious that Maria Consuelo was now the principal person concerned in his life and that the moment would inevitably have come, sooner or later, in which he must have told her so as he had done on this day. He had not yielded to a sudden impulse, but to a steady and growing pressure from which there had been no means of escape, and which he had not sought to elude. He was not in one of those moods of half-senseless, exuberant spirits, such as had come upon him more than once during the winter after he had been an hour in her society and had said or done something more than usually rash. On the contrary, he was inclined to look the whole situation soberly in the face, and to doubt whether the love which dominated him might not prove a source of unhappiness to Maria Consuelo as well as to himself. At the same time he knew that it would be useless to fight against that domination, for he knew that he was now absolutely sincere.
But the difficulties to be met and overcome were many and great. He might have betrothed himself to almost any woman in society, widow or spinster, without anticipating one hundredth part of the opposition which he must now certainly encounter. He was not even angry beforehand with the prejudice which would animate his father and mother, for he admitted that it was hardly a prejudice at all, and certainly not one peculiar to them, or to their class. It would be hard to find a family, anywhere, of any respectability, no matter how modest, that would accept without question such a choice as he had made. Maria Consuelo was one of those persons about whom the world is ready to speak in disparagement, knowing that it will not be easy to find defenders for them. The world indeed, loves its own and treats them with consideration, especially in the matter of passing follies, and after it had been plain to society that Orsino had fallen under Maria Consuelo’s charm, he had heard no more disagreeable remarks about her origin nor the circumstances of her widowhood. But he remembered what had been said before that, when he himself had listened indifferently enough, and he guessed that ill-natured people called her an adventuress or little better. If anything could have increased the suffering which this intuitive knowledge caused him, it was the fact that he possessed no proof of her right to rank with the best, except his own implicit faith in her, and
the few words Spicca had chosen to let fall. Spicca was still thought so dangerous that people hesitated to contradict him openly, but his mere assertion, Orsino thought, though it might be accepted in appearance, was not of enough weight to carry inward conviction with it in the minds of people who had no interest in being convinced. It was only too plain that, unless Maria Consuelo, or Spicca, or both, were willing to tell the strange story in its integrity, there were not proof enough to convince the most willing person of her right to the social position she occupied after that had once been called into question. To Orsino’s mind the very fact that it had been questioned at all demonstrated sufficiently a carelessness on her own part which could only proceed from the certainty of possessing that right beyond dispute. It would doubtless have been possible for her to provide herself from the first with something in the nature of a guarantee for her identity. She could surely have had the means, through some friend of her own elsewhere, of making the acquaintance of some one in society, who would have vouched for her and silenced the carelessly spiteful talk concerning her which had gone the rounds when she first appeared. But she had seemed to be quite indifferent. She had refused Orsino’s pressing offer to bring her into relations with his mother, whose influence would have been enough to straighten a reputation far more doubtful than Maria Consuelo’s, and she had almost wilfully thrown herself into a sort of intimacy with the Countess Del Ferice.
But Orsino, as he thought of these matters, saw how futile such arguments must seem to his own people, and how absurdly inadequate they were to better his own state of mind, since he needed no conviction himself but sought the means of convincing others. One point alone gave him some hope. Under the existing laws the inevitable legal marriage would require the production of documents which would clear the whole story at once. On the other hand, that fact could make Orsino’s position no easier with his father and mother until the papers were actually produced. People cannot easily be married secretly in Rome, where the law requires the publication of banns by posting them upon the doors of the Capitol, and the name of Orsino Saracinesca would not be easily overlooked. Orsino was aware of course that he was not in need of his parents’ consent for his marriage, but he had not been brought up in a way to look upon their acquiescence as unnecessary. He was deeply attached to them both, but especially to his mother who had been his staunch friend in his efforts to do something for himself, and to whom he naturally looked for sympathy if not for actual help. However certain he might be of the ultimate result of his marriage, the idea of being married in direct opposition to her wishes was so repugnant to him as to be almost an insurmountable barrier. He might, indeed, and probably would, conceal his engagement for some time, but solely with the intention of so preparing the evidence in favour of it as to make it immediately acceptable to his father and mother when announced.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 562