Contini smiled suddenly and his bright eyes sparkled. He was profoundly attached to Orsino, and thought perhaps as much of the loss of his companionship as of the destruction of his material hopes in the event of a liquidation.
“If that could be, I should not care what became of the business,” he said simply.
“How long do you think we shall last?” asked Orsino after a short pause.
“If business grows worse, as I think it will, we shall last until the first bill that falls due after the doors and windows are put in.”
“That is precise, at least.”
“It will probably take us into January, or perhaps February.”
“But suppose that Del Ferice himself gets into trouble between now and then. If he cannot discount any more, what will happen?”
“We shall fail a little sooner. But you need not be afraid of that. Del Ferice knows what he is about better than we do, better than his confidential clerk, much better than most men of business in Rome. If he fails, he will fail intentionally and at the right moment.”
“And do you not think that there is even a remote possibility of an improvement in business, so that nobody will fail at all?”
“No,” answered Contini thoughtfully. “I do not think so. It is a paper system and it will go to pieces.”
“Why have you not said the same thing before? You must have had this opinion a long time.”
“I did not believe that Ronco could fail. An accident opens the eyes.”
Orsino had almost decided to let matters go on but he found some difficulty in actually making up his mind. In spite of Contini’s assurances he could not get rid of the idea that he was under an obligation to Del Ferice. Once, at least, he thought of going directly to Ugo and asking for a clear explanation of the whole affair. But Ugo was not in town, as he knew, and the impossibility of going at once made it improbable that Orsino would go at all. It would not have been a very wise move, for Del Ferice could easily deny the story, seeing that the paper was all in the bank’s name, and he would probably have visited the indiscretion upon the unfortunate clerk.
In the long silence which followed, Orsino relapsed into his former despondency. After all, whether he confessed his failure or not, he had undeniably failed and been played upon from the first, and he admitted it to himself without attempting to spare his vanity, and his self-contempt was great and painful. The fact that he had grown from a boy to a man during his experience did not make it easier to bear such wounds, which are felt more keenly by the strong than by the weak when they are real.
As the day wore on the longing to see Maria Consuelo grew upon him until he felt that he had never before wished to be with her as he wished it now. He had no intention of telling her his trouble but he needed the assurance of an ever ready sympathy which he so often saw in her eyes, and which was always there for him when he asked it. When there is love there is reliance, whether expressed or not, and where there is reliance, be it ever so slender, there is comfort for many ills of body, mind and soul.
CHAPTER XXII.
ORSINO FELT SUDDENLY relieved when he had left his office in the afternoon. Contini’s gloomy mood was contagious, and so long as Orsino was with him it was impossible not to share the architect’s view of affairs. Alone, however, things did not seem so bad. As a matter of fact it was almost impossible for the young man to give up all his illusions concerning his own success in one moment, and to believe himself the dupe of his own blind vanity instead of regarding himself as the winner in the fight for independence of thought and action. He could not deny the facts Contini alleged. He had to admit that he was apparently in Del Ferice’s power, unless he appealed to his own people for assistance. He was driven to acknowledge that he had made a great mistake. But he could not altogether distrust himself and he fancied that after all, with a fair share of luck, he might prove a match for Ugo on the financier’s own ground. He had learned to have confidence in his own powers and judgment, and as he walked away from the office every moment strengthened his determination to struggle on with such resources as he might be able to command, so long as there should be a possibility of action of any sort. He felt, too, that more depended upon his success than the mere satisfaction of his vanity. If he failed, he might lose Maria Consuelo as well as his self-respect: He had that sensation, familiar enough to many young men when extremely in love, that in order to be loved in return one must succeed, and that a single failure endangers the stability of a passion which, if it be honest, has nothing to do with failure or success. At Orsino’s age, and with his temper, it is hard to believe that pity is more closely akin to love than admiration.
Gradually the conviction reasserted itself that he could fight his way through unaided, and his spirits rose as he approached the more crowded quarters of the city on his way to the hotel where Maria Consuelo was stopping. Not even the yells of the newsboys affected him, as they announced the failure of the great contractor Ronco and offered, in a second edition, a complete account of the bankruptcy. It struck him indeed that before long the same brazen voices might be screaming out the news that Andrea Contini and Company had come to grief. But the idea lent a sense of danger to the situation which Orsino did not find unpleasant. The greater the difficulty the greater the merit in overcoming it, and the greater therefore the admiration he should get from the woman he loved. His position was certainly an odd one, and many men would not have felt the excitement which he experienced. The financial side of the question was strangely indifferent to him, who knew himself backed by the great fortune of his family, and believed that his ultimate loss could only be the small sum with which he had begun his operations. But the moral risk seemed enormous and grew in importance as he thought of it.
He found Maria Consuelo looking pale and weary. She evidently had no intention of going out that day, for she wore a morning gown and was established upon a lounge with books and flowers beside her as though she did not mean to move. She was not reading, however. Orsino was startled by the sadness in her face.
She looked fixedly into his eyes as she gave him her hand, and he sat down beside her.
“I am glad you are come,” she said at last, in a low voice. “I have been hoping all day that you would come early.”
“I would have come this morning if I had dared,” answered Orsino.
She looked at him again, and smiled faintly.
“I have a great deal to say to you,” she began. Then she hesitated as though uncertain where to begin.
“And I—” Orsino tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.
“Yes, but do not say it. At least, not now.”
“Why not, dear one? May I not tell you how I love you? What is it, love? You are so sad to-day. Has anything happened?”
His voice grew soft and tender as he spoke, bending to her ear. She pushed him gently back.
“You know what has happened,” she answered. “It is no wonder that I am sad.”
“I do not understand you, dear. Tell me what it is.”
“I told you too much yesterday—”
“Too much?”
“Far too much.”
“Are you going to unsay it?”
“How can I?”
She turned her face away and her fingers played nervously with her laces.
“No — indeed, neither of us can unsay such words,” said Orsino. “But I do not understand you yet, darling. You must tell me what you mean to-day.”
“You know it all. It is because you will not understand—”
Orsino’s face changed and his voice took another tone when he spoke.
“Are you playing with me, Consuelo?” he asked gravely.
She started slightly and grew paler than before.
“You are not kind,” she said. “I am suffering very much. Do not make it harder.”
“I am suffering, too. You mean me to understand that you regret what happened yesterday and that you wish to take back your words, that whether you love
me or not, you mean to act and appear as though you did not, and that I am to behave as though nothing had happened. Do you think that would be easy? And do you think I do not suffer at the mere idea of it?”
“Since it must be—”
“There is no must,” answered Orsino with energy. “You would ruin your life and mine for the mere shadow of a memory which you choose to take for a binding promise. I will not let you do it.”
“You will not?” She looked at him quickly with an expression of resistance.
“No — I will not,” he repeated. “We have too much at stake. You shall not lose all for both of us.”
“You are wrong, dear one,” she said, with sudden softness. “If you love me, you should believe me and trust me. I can give you nothing but unhappiness—”
“You have given me the only happiness I ever knew — and you ask me to believe that you could make me unhappy in any way except by not loving me! Consuelo — my darling — are you out of your senses?”
“No. I am too much in them. I wish I were not. If I were mad I should—”
“What?”
“Never mind. I will not even say it. No — do not try to take my hand, for I will not give it to you. Listen, Orsino — be reasonable, listen to me—”
“I will try and listen.”
But Maria Consuelo did not speak at once. Possibly she was trying to collect her thoughts.
“What have you to say, dearest?” asked Orsino at length. “I will try to understand.”
“You must understand. I will make it all clear to you and then you will see it as I do.”
“And then — what?”
“And then we must part,” she said in a low voice.
Orsino said nothing, but shook his head incredulously.
“Yes,” repeated Maria Consuelo, “we must not see each other any more after this. It has been all my fault. I shall leave Rome and not come back again. It will be best for you and I will make it best for me.”
“You talk very easily of parting.”
“Do I? Every word is a wound. Do I look as though I were indifferent?”
Orsino glanced at her pale face and tearful eyes.
“No, dear,” he said softly.
“Then do not call me heartless. I have more heart than you think — and it is breaking. And do not say that I do not love you. I love you better than you know — better than you will be loved again when you are older — and happier, perhaps. Yes, I know what you want to say. Well, dear — you love me, too. Yes, I know it. Let there be no unkind words and no doubts between us to-day. I think it is our last day together.”
“For God’s sake, Consuelo—”
“We shall see. Now let me speak — if I can. There are three reasons why you and I should not marry. I have thought of them through all last night and all to-day, and I know them. The first is my solemn vow to the dying man who loved me so well and who asked nothing but that — whose wife I never was, but whose name I bear. Think me mad, superstitious — what you will — I cannot break that promise. It was almost an oath not to love, and if it was I have broken it. But the rest I can keep, and will. The next reason is that I am older than you. I might forget that, I have forgotten it more than once, but the time will come soon when you will remember it.”
Orsino made an angry gesture and would have spoken, but she checked him.
“Pass that over, since we are both young. The third reason is harder to tell and no power on earth can explain it away. I am no match for you in birth, Orsino—”
The young man interrupted her now, and fiercely.
“Do you dare to think that I care what your birth may be?” he asked.
“There are those who do care, even if you do not, dear one,” she answered quietly.
“And what is their caring to you or me?”
“It is not so small a matter as you think. I am not talking of a mere difference in rank. It is worse than that. I do not really know who I am. Do you understand? I do not know who my mother was nor whether she is alive or dead, and before I was married I did not bear my father’s name.”
“But you know your father — you know his name at least?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?” Orsino could hardly pronounce the words of the question.
“Count Spicca.”
Maria Consuelo spoke quietly, but her fingers trembled nervously and she watched Orsino’s face in evident distress and anxiety. As for Orsino, he was almost dumb with amazement.
“Spicca! Spicca your father!” he repeated indistinctly.
In all his many speculations as to the tie which existed between Maria Consuelo and the old duellist, he had never thought of this one.
“Then you never suspected it?” asked Maria Consuelo.
“How should I? And your own father killed your husband — good Heavens! What a story!”
“You know now. You see for yourself how impossible it is that I should marry you.”
In his excitement Orsino had risen and was pacing the room. He scarcely heard her last words, and did not say anything in reply. Maria Consuelo lay quite still upon the lounge, her hands clasped tightly together and straining upon each other.
“You see it all now,” she said again. This time his attention was arrested and he stopped before her.
“Yes. I see what you mean. But I do not see it as you see it. I do not see that any of these things you have told me need hinder our marriage.”
Maria Consuelo did not move, but her expression changed. The light stole slowly into her face and lingered there, not driving away the sadness but illuminating it.
“And would you have the courage, in spite of your family and of society, to marry me, a woman practically nameless, older than yourself—”
“I not only would, but I will,” answered Orsino.
“You cannot — but I thank you, dear,” said Maria Consuelo.
He was standing close beside her. She took his hand and tenderly touched it with her lips. He started and drew it back, for no woman had ever kissed his hand.
“You must not do that!” he exclaimed, instinctively.
“And why not, if I please?” she asked, raising her eyebrows with a little affectionate laugh.
“I am not good enough to kiss your hand, darling — still less to let you kiss mine. Never mind — we were talking — where were we?”
“You were saying—” But he interrupted her.
“What does it matter, when I love you so, and you love me?” he asked passionately.
He knelt beside her as she lay on the lounge and took her hands, holding them and drawing her towards him. She resisted and turned her face away.
“No — no! It matters too much — let me go, it only makes it worse!”
“Makes what worse?”
“Parting—”
“We will not part. I will not let you go!”
But still she struggled with her hands and he, fearing to hurt them in his grasp, let them slip away with a lingering touch.
“Get up,” she said. “Sit here, beside me — a little further — there. We can talk better so.”
“I cannot talk at all—”
“Without holding my hands?”
“Why should I not?”
“Because I ask you. Please, dear—”
She drew back on the lounge, raised herself a little and turned her face to him. Again, as his eyes met hers, he leaned forward quickly, as though he would leave his seat. But she checked him, by an imperative glance and a gesture. He was unreasonable and had no right to be annoyed, but something in her manner chilled him and pained him in a way he could not have explained. When he spoke there was a shade of change in the tone of his voice.
“The things you have told me do not influence me in the least,” he said with more calmness than he had yet shown. “What you believe to be the most important reason is no reason at all to me. You are Count Spicca’s daughter. He is an old friend of my father — not that it matters very mate
rially, but it may make everything easier. I will go to him to-day and tell him that I wish to marry you—”
“You will not do that!” exclaimed Maria Consuelo in a tone of alarm.
“Yes, I will. Why not? Do you know what he once said to me? He told me he wished we might take a fancy to each other, because, as he expressed it, we should be so well matched.”
“Did he say that?” asked Maria Consuelo gravely.
“That or something to the same effect. Are you surprised? What surprises me is that I should never have guessed the relation between you. Now your father is a very honourable man. What he said meant something, and when he said it he meant that our marriage would seem natural to him and to everybody. I will go and talk to him. So much for your great reason. As for the second you gave, it is absurd. We are of the same age, to all intents and purposes.”
“I am not twenty-three years old.”
“And I am not quite two and twenty. Is that a difference? So much for that. Take the third, which you put first. Seriously, do you think that any intelligent being would consider you bound by such a promise? Do you mean to say that a young girl — you were nothing more — has a right to throw away her life out of sentiment by making a promise of that kind? And to whom? To a man who is not her husband, and never can be, because he is dying. To a man just not indifferent to her, to a man—”
Maria Consuelo raised herself and looked full at Orsino. Her face was extremely pale and her eyes were suddenly dark and gleamed.
“Don Orsino, you have no right to talk to me in that way. I loved him — no one knows how I loved him!”
There was no mistaking the tone and the look. Orsino felt again and more strongly, the chill and the pain he had felt before. He was silent for a moment. Maria Consuelo looked at him a second longer, and then let her head fall back upon the cushion. But the expression which had come into her face did not change at once.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 564