Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  For a time Orsino was not conscious of any impulse to act. Gradually, however, his real nature asserted itself, and he remembered how he had told her not long ago that if she went away he would follow her, and how he had said that the world was small and that he would soon find her again. It would undoubtedly be a simple matter to accompany her, if she left Rome. He could easily ascertain the hour of her intended departure and that alone would tell him the direction she had chosen. When she found that she had not escaped him she would very probably give up the attempt and come back, her humour would change and his own eloquence would do the rest.

  He stopped in his walk, looked at his watch and glanced about him. He was at some distance from the hotel and it was growing dusk, for the days were already short. If Maria Consuelo really meant to leave Rome precipitately, she might go by the evening train to Paris and in that case the people of the hotel would have been informed of her intended departure.

  Orsino only admitted the possibility of her actually going away while believing in his heart that she would remain. He slowly retraced his steps, and it was seven o’clock before he asked the hotel porter by what train Madame d’Aranjuez was leaving. The porter did not know whether the lady was going north or south, but he called another man, who went in search of a third, who disappeared for some time.

  “Is it sure that Madame d’Aranjuez goes to-night?” asked Orsino trying to look indifferent.

  “Quite sure. Her rooms will be free to-morrow.”

  Orsino turned away and slowly paced up and down the marble pavement between the tall plants, waiting for the messenger to come back.

  “Madame d’Aranjuez leaves at nine forty-five,” said the man, suddenly reappearing.

  Orsino hesitated a moment, and then made up his mind.

  “Ask Madame if she will receive me for a moment,” he said, producing a card.

  The servant went away and again Orsino walked backwards and forwards, pale now and very nervous. She was really going, and was going north — probably to Paris.

  “Madame regrets infinitely that she is not able to receive the Signor Prince,” said the man in black at Orsino’s elbow. “She is making her preparations for the journey.”

  “Show me where I can write a note,” said Orsino, who had expected the answer.

  He was shown into the reading-room and writing materials were set before him. He hurriedly wrote a few words to Maria Consuelo, without form of address and without signature.

  “I will not let you go without me. If you will not see me, I will be in the train, and I will not leave you, wherever you go. I am in earnest.”

  He looked at the sheet of note-paper and wondered that he should find nothing more to say. But he had said all he meant, and sealing the little note he sent it up to Maria Consuelo with a request for an immediate answer. Just then the dinner bell of the hotel was rung. The reading-room was deserted. He waited five minutes, then ten, nervously turning over the newspapers and reviews on the long table, but quite unable to read even the printed titles. He rang and asked if there had been no answer to his note. The man was the same whom he had sent before. He said the note had been received at the door by the maid who had said that Madame d’Aranjuez would ring when her answer was ready. Orsino dismissed the servant and waited again. It crossed his mind that the maid might have pocketed the note and said nothing about it, for reasons of her own. He had almost determined to go upstairs and boldly enter the sitting-room, when the door opposite to him opened and Maria Consuelo herself appeared.

  She was dressed in a dark close-fitting travelling costume, but she wore no hat. Her face was quite colourless and looked if possible even more unnaturally pale by contrast with her bright auburn hair. She shut the door behind her and stood still, facing Orsino in the glare of the electric lights.

  “I did not mean to see you again,” she said, slowly. “You have forced me to it.”

  Orsino made a step forward and tried to take her hand, but she drew back. The slight uncertainty often visible in the direction of her glance had altogether disappeared and her eyes met Orsino’s directly and fearlessly.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I have forced you to it. I know it, and you cannot reproach me if I have. I will not leave you. I am going with you wherever you go.”

  He spoke calmly, considering the great emotion he felt, and there was a quiet determination in his words and tone which told how much he was in earnest. Maria Consuelo half believed that she could dominate him by sheer force of will, and she would not give up the idea, even now.

  “You will not go with me, you will not even attempt it,” she said.

  It would have been difficult to guess from her face at that moment that she loved him. Her face was pale and the expression was almost hard. She held her head high as though she were looking down at him, though he towered above her from his shoulders.

  “You do not understand me,” he answered, quietly. “When I say that I will go with you, I mean that I will go.”

  “Is this a trial of strength?” she asked after a moment’s pause.

  “If it is, I am not conscious of it. It costs me no effort to go — it would cost me much to stay behind — too much.”

  He stood quite still before her, looking steadily into her eyes. There was a short silence, and then she suddenly looked down, moved and turned away, beginning to walk slowly about. The room was large, and he paced the floor beside her, looking down at her bent head.

  “Will you stay if I ask you to?”

  The question came in a lower and softer tone than she had used before.

  “I will go with you,” answered Orsino as firmly as ever.

  “Will you do nothing for my asking?”

  “I will do anything but that.”

  “But that is all I ask.”

  “You are asking the impossible.”

  “There are many reasons why you should not come with me. Have you thought of them all?”

  “No.”

  “You should. You ought to know, without being told by me, that you would be doing me a great injustice and a great injury in following me. You ought to know what the world will say of it. Remember that I am alone.”

  “I will marry you.”

  “I have told you that it is impossible — no, do not answer me! I will not go over all that again. I am going away to-night. That is the principal thing — the only thing that concerns you. Of course, if you choose, you can get into the same train and pursue me to the end of the world. I cannot prevent you. I thought I could, but I was mistaken. I am alone. Remember that, Orsino. You know as well as I what will be said — and the fact is sure to be known.”

  “People will say that I am following you—”

  “They will say that we are gone together, for every one will have reason to say it. Do you suppose that nobody is aware of our — our intimacy during the last month?”

  “Why not say our love?”

  “Because I hope no one knows of that — well, if they do — Orsino, be kind! Let me go alone — as a man of honour, do not injure me by leaving Rome with me, nor by following me when I am gone!”

  She stopped and looked up into his face with an imploring glance. To tell the truth, Orsino had not foreseen that she might appeal to his honour, alleging the danger to her reputation. He bit his lip and avoided her eyes. It was hard to yield, and to yield so quickly, as it seemed to him.

  “How long will you stay away?” he asked in a constrained voice.

  “I shall not come back at all.”

  He wondered at the firmness of her tone and manner. Whatever the real ground of her resolution might be, the resolution itself had gained strength since they had parted little more than an hour earlier. The belief suddenly grew upon him again that she did not love him.

  “Why are you going at all?” he asked abruptly. “If you loved me at all, you would stay.”

  She drew a sharp breath and clasped her hands nervously together.

  “I should stay if I lov
ed you less. But I have told you — I will not go over it all again. This must end — this saying good-bye! It is easier to end it at once.”

  “Easier for you—”

  “You do not know what you are saying. You will know some day. If you can bear this, I cannot.”

  “Then stay — if you love me, as you say you do.”

  “As I say I do!”

  Her eyes grew very grave and sad as she stopped and looked at him again. Then she held out both her hands.

  “I am going, now. Good-bye.”

  The blood came back to Orsino’s face. It seemed to him that he had reached the crisis of his life and his instinct was to struggle hard against his fate. With a quick movement he caught her in his arms, lifting her from her feet and pressing her close to him.

  “You shall not go!”

  He kissed her passionately again and again, while she fought to be free, straining at his arms with her small white hands and trying to turn her face from him.

  “Why do you struggle? It is of no use.” He spoke in very soft deep tones, close to her ear.

  She shook her head desperately and still did her best to slip from him, though she might as well have tried to break iron clamps with her fingers.

  “It is of no use,” he repeated, pressing her still more closely to him.

  “Let me go!” she cried, making a violent effort, as fruitless as the last.

  “No!”

  Then she was quite still, realising that she had no chance with him.

  “Is it manly to be brutal because you are strong?” she asked. “You hurt me.”

  Orsino’s arms relaxed, and he let her go. She drew a long breath and moved a step backward and towards the door.

  “Good-bye,” she said again. But this time she did not hold out her hand, though she looked long and fixedly into his face.

  Orsino made a movement as though he would have caught her again. She started and put out her hand behind her towards the latch. But he did not touch her. She softly opened the door, looked at him once more and went out.

  When he realised that she was gone he sprang after her, calling her by name.

  “Consuelo!”

  There were a few people walking in the broad passage. They stared at Orsino, but he did not heed them as he passed by. Maria Consuelo was not there, and he understood in a moment that it would be useless to seek her further. He stood still a moment, entered the reading-room again, got his hat and left the hotel without looking behind him.

  All sorts of wild ideas and schemes flashed through his brain, each more absurd and impracticable than the last. He thought of going back and finding Maria Consuelo’s maid — he might bribe her to prevent her mistress’s departure. He thought of offering the driver of the train an enormous sum to do some injury to his engine before reaching the first station out of Rome. He thought of stopping Maria Consuelo’s carriage on her way to the tram and taking her by main force to his father’s house. If she were compromised in such a way, she would be almost obliged to marry him. He afterwards wondered at the stupidity of his own inventions on that evening, but at the time nothing looked impossible.

  He bethought him of Spicca. Perhaps the old man possessed some power over his daughter after all and could prevent her flight if he chose. There were yet nearly two hours left before the train started. If worst came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the last minute and leave Rome with her.

  He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca’s lodgings. The count was at home, writing a letter by the light of a small lamp. He looked up in surprise as Orsino entered, then rose and offered him a chair.

  “What has happened, my friend?” he asked, glancing curiously at the young man’s face.

  “Everything,” answered Orsino. “I love Madame d’Aranjuez, she loves me, she absolutely refuses to marry me and she is going to Paris at a quarter to ten. I know she is your daughter and I want you to prevent her from leaving. That is all, I believe.”

  Spicca’s cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow eyes grew bright and fixed their glance on an imaginary point at an immense distance, and the thin hand that lay on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the projecting wood. For a few moments he said nothing, but when he spoke he seemed quite calm.

  “If she has told you that she is my daughter,” he said, “I presume that she has told you the rest. Is that true?”

  Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate action, but he understood that the count had a right to ask the question.

  “She has told me that she does not know her mother’s name, and that you killed her husband.”

  “Both these statements are perfectly true at all events. Is that all you know?”

  “All? Yes — all of importance. But there is no time to be lost. No one but you can prevent her from leaving Rome to-night. You must help me quickly.”

  Spicca looked gravely at Orsino and shook his head. The light that had shone in his eyes for a moment was gone, and he was again his habitual, melancholy, indifferent self.

  “I cannot stop her,” he said, almost listlessly.

  “But you can — you will, you must!” cried Orsino laying a hand on the old man’s thin arm. “She must not go—”

  “Better that she should, after all. Of what use is it for her to stay? She is quite right. You cannot marry her.”

  “Cannot marry her? Why not? It is not long since you told me very plainly that you wished I would marry her. You have changed your mind very suddenly, it seems to me, and I would like to know why. Do you remember all you said to me?”

  “Yes, and I was in earnest, as I am now. And I was wrong in telling you what I thought at the time.”

  “At the time! How can matters have changed so suddenly?”

  “I do not say that matters have changed. I have. That is the important thing. I remember the occasion of our conversation very well. Madame d’Aranjuez had been rather abrupt with, me, and you and I went away together. I forgave her easily enough, for I saw that she was unhappy — then I thought how different her life might be if she were married to you. I also wished to convey to you a warning, and it did not strike me that you would ever seriously contemplate such a marriage.”

  “I think you are in a certain way responsible for the present situation,” answered Orsino. “That is the reason why I come to you for help.”

  Spicca turned upon the young man rather suddenly.

  “There you go too far,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me that you have asked that lady to marry you because I suggested it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I am not responsible at all. Besides, you might have consulted me again, if you had chosen. I have not been out of town. I sincerely wish that it were possible — yes, that is quite another matter. But it is not. If Madame d’Aranjuez thinks it is not, from her point of view there are a thousand reasons why I should consider it far more completely out of the question. As for preventing her from leaving Rome I could not do that even were I willing to try.”

  “Then I will go with her,” said Orsino, angrily.

  Spicca looked at him in silence for a few moments. Orsino rose to his feet and prepared to go.

  “You leave me no choice,” he said, as though Spicca had protested.

  “Because I cannot and will not stop her? Is that any reason why you should compromise her reputation as you propose to do?”

  “It is the best of reasons. She will marry me then, out of necessity.”

  Spicca rose also, with more alacrity than generally characterised his movements. He stood before the empty fireplace, watching the young man narrowly.

  “It is not a good reason,” he said, presently, in quiet tones. “You are not the man to do that sort of thing. You are too honourable.”

  “I do not see anything dishonourable in following the woman I love.”

  “That depends on the way in which you follow her. If you go quietly home to-night and write to your father that you hav
e decided to go to Paris for a few days and will leave to-morrow, if you make your arrangements like a sensible being and go away like a sane man, I have nothing to say in the matter—”

  “I presume not—” interrupted Orsino, facing the old man somewhat fiercely.

  “Very well. We will not quarrel yet. We will reserve that pleasure for the moment when you cease to understand me. That way of following her would be bad enough, but no one would have any right to stop you.”

  “No one has any right to stop me, as it is.”

  “I beg your pardon. The present circumstances are different. In the first instance the world would say that you were in love with Madame d’Aranjuez and were pursuing her to press your suit — of whatever nature that might be. In the second case the world will assert that you and she, not meaning to be married, have adopted the simple plan of going away together. That implies her consent, and you have no right to let any one imply that. I say, it is not honourable to let people think that a lady is risking her reputation for you and perhaps sacrificing it altogether, when she is in reality trying to escape from you. Am I right, or not?”

  “You are ingenious, at all events. You talk as though the whole world were to know in half an hour that I have gone to Paris in the same train with Madame d’Aranjuez. That is absurd!”

  “Is it? I think not. Half an hour is little, perhaps, but half a day is enough. You are not an insignificant son of an unknown Roman citizen, nor is Madame d’Aranjuez a person who passes unnoticed. Reporters watch people like you for items of news, and you are perfectly well known by sight. Apart from that, do you think that your servants will not tell your friends’ servants of your sudden departure, or that Madame d’Aranjuez’ going will not be observed? You ought to know Rome better than that. I ask you again, am I right or wrong?”