Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Through the arch, Ruggiero,” said San Miniato to him as the boat cleared the rocks of the landward needle.

  “Let us go home,” said Beatrice, with a little impatience in her voice. “I am so tired.”

  Would she be tired of such a night if she loved the man beside her? Ruggiero thought not, any more than he would ever be weary of being near her to steer the boat that bore her — even for ever.

  “It is so beautiful,” said San Miniato.

  Beatrice said nothing, but made an impatient movement that betrayed that she was displeased.

  “Home, Ruggiero,” said San Miniato’s voice.

  “Make sail!” Ruggiero called out, he himself hauling out the mizzen. A minute later the sails filled and the boat sped out over the smooth water, white-winged as a sea-bird under the great summer moon.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  IT WAS LATE on the following morning when the Marchesa came out upon her curtained terrace, moving slowly, her hands hanging listlessly down, her eyes half closed, as though regretting the sleep she might be still enjoying. Beatrice was sitting by a table, an open book beside her which she was not reading, and she hardly noticed her mother’s light step. The young girl had spent a sleepless night, and for the first time since she had been a child a few tears had wet her pillow. She could not have told exactly why she had cried, for she had not felt anything like sadness, and tears were altogether foreign to her nature. But the unsought return of all the impressions of the evening had affected her strangely, and she felt all at once shame, anger and regret — shame at having been so easily deceived by the play of a man’s face and voice, anger against him for the part he had acted, and regret for something unknown but dreamt of and almost understood, and which could never be. She was too young and girlish to understand that her eyes had been opened upon the workings of the human heart. She had seen two sights which neither man nor woman can ever forget, love and love’s counterfeit presentment, and both were stamped indelibly upon the unspotted page of her maiden memory.

  She had seen a man whom she had hitherto liked, and whom she had unconsciously respected for a certain dignity he seemed to have, degrade himself — and for money’s sake, as she rightly judged — to the playing of a pitiful comedy. As the whole scene came back to her in all distinctness, she traced the deception from first to last with amazing certainty of comprehension, and she knew that San Miniato had wilfully and intentionally laid a plot to work upon her feelings and to produce the result he had obtained — a poor result enough, if he had known the whole truth, yet one of which Beatrice was sorely ashamed. She had been deceived into the expression of something which she had never felt — and which, this morning, seemed further from her than ever before. It was bitter to think that any man could say she had uttered those three words “I love you,” when there was less truth in them than in the commonest, most pardonable social lie. He had planned the excursion, knowing how beautiful things in nature affected her, knowing exactly at what point the moon would rise, precisely at what hour that mysterious light would gleam upon the water, knowing the magic of the place and counting upon it to supplement his acting where it lacked reality. It had been clever of him to think it out so carefully, to plan each detail so thoughtfully, to behave so naturally until his opportunity was all prepared and ready for him. But for one little mistake, one moment’s forgetfulness of tact, the impression might have remained and grown in distinctness until it would have secured the imprint of a strong reality at the beginning of a new volume in her life, to which she could always look back in the hereafter as to something true and sweet to be thought of. But his tact had failed him at the critical and supreme moment when he had got what he wanted and had not known how to keep it, even for an hour. And his mistake had been followed by a strange accident which had revealed to Beatrice the very core of a poor human heart that was beating itself to death, in true earnest, for her sake.

  She had seen what many a woman longs for but may never look upon. She had seen a man, brave, strong, simple and true, with the death mark of his love for her upon his face. What matter if he were but an unlettered sailor, scarcely knowing what moved him nor the words he spoke? Beatrice was a woman and, womanlike, she knew without proof or testimony that his heart and hands were clean of the few sins which woman really despises in man.

  They are not many — be it said in honour of womanly generosity and kindness — they are not many, those bad deeds which a woman cannot forgive, and that she is right is truly shown in that those are the sins which the most manly men despise in others. They are, I think, cowardice, lying for selfish ends, betraying tales of woman’s weakness — almost the greatest of crimes — and, greatest of all, faithlessness in love.

  Let a man be brave, honest, discreet, faithful, and a woman will forgive him all manner of evil actions, even to murder and bloodshed; but let him flinch in danger, lie to save himself, tell the name of a woman whose love for him has betrayed her, or break his faith to her without boldly saying that he loves her no more, and she will not forgive him while he lives, though she may give him a kindly thought and a few tears when he is gone for ever.

  So Beatrice, who could never love Ruggiero, understood him well and judged him rightly, and set him up on a sort of pedestal as the anti-type of his scheming master. And not only this. She felt deeply for him and pitied him with all her heart, since she had seen his own almost breaking before her eyes for her sake. She had always been kind to him, but henceforth there would be something even kinder in her voice when she spoke to him, as there would be something harder in her tone when she talked with San Miniato.

  And now her mother had appeared and settled herself in her lazy way upon her long chair, and slowly moved her fan, from habit, though too indolent to lift it to her face. Beatrice rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  “Good morning, mamma carissima,” she said. “Are you very tired after the excursion?”

  “Exhausted, in mind and body, my angel. A cigarette, my dear — it will give me an appetite.”

  Beatrice brought her one, and held a match for her mother. Then the Marchesa shut her eyes, inhaled the smoke and blew out four or five puffs before speaking again.

  “I want to speak to you, my child,” she said at last, “but I hardly have the strength.”

  “Do not tire yourself, mamma. I know what you are going to say, and I have made up my mind.”

  “Have you? That will save me infinite trouble. I am so glad.”

  “Are you really? Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course. You are going to marry San Miniato, and we have the best excuse in the world for going to Paris to see about your trousseau.”

  “I will not marry San Miniato,” said Beatrice. “I have made up my mind that I will not.”

  The Marchesa started slightly as she took her cigarette from her lips, and turned her head slowly so that she could look into Beatrice’s eyes.

  “You are engaged to marry him,” she said slowly. “You cannot break your word. You know what that means. Indeed, you are quite mad!”

  “Engaged? I? I never gave my word! It is not true!” The blood rose, in Beatrice’s face and then sank suddenly away.

  “What is this comedy?” asked the Marchesa, raising her brows. For the first time in many years she was almost angry.

  “Ah! If you ask me that, I will tell you. I will tell you everything and you know that I speak the truth to you as I do to everybody—”

  “Except to San Miniato when you tell him you love him,” interrupted the Marchesa.

  Beatrice blushed again, with anger this time.

  “Yes,” she said, after a short pause, “it is quite true that I said I loved him, and for one moment I meant it. But I made a mistake. I am sorry, and I will tell him so. But I will tell him other things, too. I will tell him that I saw through his acting before we left Tragara last night, and that I will never forgive him for the part he played. You know as well as I that it was all a play, from be
ginning to end. I liked him better than the others because I thought him more manly, more honest, more dignified. But I have changed my mind. I see the whole truth now, every detail of it. He planned it all, and he did it very well — probably he planned it the night before last, out here with you, while I was playing waltzes. You could not make me marry him, and he got leave of you to speak to me. Do you think I do not understand it all? Would you have let me go away last night and sit with him on the rocks, out of your hearing, without so much as a remark, unless you had arranged the matter between you? It is not like you, and I know you meant it. It was all a plot. He had even been there to study the place, to see the very point at which the moon would rise, the very place where he would make me sit, the very spot where your table could stand. He said to himself that I was a mere girl, that of course no man had ever made love to me and that between the beauty of the night, my liking for him, and his well arranged comedy, he might easily move me. He did. I am ashamed of it. Look at the blood in my cheeks! That tells the truth, at all events. I am utterly ashamed. I would give my right hand to have not spoken those words! I would almost give my life to undo yesterday if it could be undone — and undo it I will, so far as I can. I will tell San Miniato what I think of myself, and then I will tell him what I think of him, and that will be enough. Do you understand me? I am in earnest.”

  The Marchesa had listened to Beatrice’s long speech with open eyes, surprised at the girl’s keenness and at her determined manner. Not that the latter was new in her experience, but it was the first time that their two wills had been directly opposed in a matter of great importance. The Marchesa was a very indolent person, but somewhere in her nature there lay hidden a small store of determination which had hardly ever expressed itself clearly in her life. Now, however, she felt that much was at stake. For many reasons San Miniato was precisely the son-in-law she desired. He would give Beatrice an ancient and honourable name, a leading position in any Italian society he chose to frequent, whether in the north or the south, and he was a man of the world at all points. The last consideration had much weight with the Marchesa who, in spite of her title and fortune had seen very little of the men of the great world, and admired them accordingly. Therefore when Beatrice said she would not marry him, her mother made up her mind that she should, and the struggle commenced.

  “Beatrice, my angel,” she began, “you are mistaken in yourself and in San Miniato. I am quite unable to go through all the details as you have done. I only say that you are mistaken.”

  Beatrice’s lip curled a little and she slowly shook her head.

  “I am not mistaken, mamma,” she answered. “I am quite right, and you know it. Can you deny that what I say is true? Can you say that you did not arrange with him to take me to Tragara, and to let him speak to me himself?”

  “It is far too much trouble to deny anything, my dear child. But all that may be quite true, and yet he may love you as sincerely as he can love any one. I do not suppose you expect a man of his sense and education to roll himself at your feet and tear his hair and his clothes as they do on the stage.”

  “A man need not do that to show that he is in earnest, and besides he—”

  “That is not the question,” interrupted the Marchesa. “The real question concerns you much more than it affects him. If you break your promise—”

  “There was no promise.”

  “You told him that you loved him, and you admit it. Under the circumstances that meant that you were willing to marry him. It meant nothing else, as you know very well.”

  “I never thought of it.”

  “You must think of it now. You know perfectly well that he wished to marry you and had my consent. I have spoken to you several times about it and you refused to have him, saying that you meant to exercise your own free will. You had an opportunity of exercising it last night. You told him clearly that you loved him, and that could only mean that your opposition was gone and that you would marry him. You know what you will be called now, if you refuse to keep your engagement.”

  Beatrice grew slowly pale. Her mother had, for once, a remarkably direct and clear way of putting the matter, and the young girl began to waver. If her mother succeeded in proving to her that she had really bound herself, she would submit. It is not easy to convey to the foreign mind generally the enormous importance which is attached in Italy to a distinct promise of marriage. It indeed almost amounts, morally speaking, to marriage itself, and the breaking of it is looked upon socially almost as an act of infidelity to the marriage bond. A young girl who refuses to keep her engagement is called a civetta — an owlet — probably because owlets are used as a decoy all over the country in snaring and shooting all small birds. Be that as it may, the term is a bitter reproach, it sticks to her who has earned it and often ruins her whole life. That is what the Marchesa meant when she told Beatrice that she knew what the world would call her, and the threat had weight.

  The young girl rose from her seat and began to walk to and fro on the terrace, her head bent, her hands clasped together. The Marchesa slowly puffed at her cigarette and watched her daughter with half-closed eyes.

  “I never meant it so!” Beatrice exclaimed in low tones, and she repeated the words again and again, pausing now and then and looking fixedly at her mother.

  “Dear child,” said the Marchesa, “what does it matter? If it were not such an exertion to talk, I am sure I could make you see what a good match it is, and how glad you ought to be.”

  “Glad! Oh, mamma, you do not understand! The degradation of it!”

  “The degradation? Where is there anything degrading in it?”

  “I see it well enough! To give myself up body and soul to a man I do not love! And for what? Because he has an old name, and I a new one, and I can buy his name with my money. Oh, mother, it is too horrible! Too low! Too vile!”

  “My angel, you do not know what strong words you are using—”

  “They are not half strong enough — I wish I could—”

  But she stopped and began to walk up and down again, her sweet young face pale and weary with pain, her fingers twisting each other nervously. A long silence followed.

  “It is of no use to talk about it, my child,” said the Marchesa, languidly taking up a novel from the table beside her. “The thing is done. You are engaged, and you must either marry San Miniato or take the consequences and be pointed at as a faithless girl for the rest of your life.”

  “And who knows of this engagement, if it is one, but you and I and he?” asked Beatrice, standing still. “Would you tell, or I? Or would he dare?”

  “He would be perfectly justified,” answered the Marchesa. “He is a gentleman, however, and would be considerate. But who is to assure us that he has not already telegraphed the good news to his friends?”

  “It is too awful!” cried Beatrice, leaning back against one of the pillars.

  “Besides,” said her mother without changing her tone. “You have changed to-day, you may change again to-morrow—”

  “Stop, for heaven’s sake! Do not make me worse than I am!”

  Poor Beatrice stopped her ears with her open hands. The Marchesa looked at her and smiled a little, and shook her head, waiting for the hands to be removed. At last the young girl began her walk again.

  “You should not talk about being worse when you are not bad at all, my dear,” said her mother. “You have done nothing to be ashamed of, and all this is perfectly absurd. You feel a passing dislike for the idea perhaps, but that will be gone to-morrow. Meanwhile the one thing which is really sure is that you are engaged to San Miniato, who, as I say, has undoubtedly telegraphed the fact to his sister in Florence and probably to two or three old friends. By to-morrow it will be in the newspapers. You cannot possibly draw back. I have really talked enough. I am utterly exhausted.”

  Beatrice sank into a chair and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, not to hide them, but by sheer pressure forcing back the tears she felt coming. Her beautif
ul young figure bent and trembled like a willow in the wind, and the soft white throat swelled with the choking sob she kept down so bravely. There is something half divine in the grief of some women.

  “Dear child,” said her mother very gently, “there is nothing to cry over. Beatrice carissima, try and control yourself. It will soon pass—”

  “It will soon pass — yes,” answered the young girl, bringing out the words with a great effort. During fully two minutes more she pressed her eyes with all her might. Then she rose suddenly to her feet, and her face was almost calm again.

  “I will marry him, since what I never meant for a promise really is one and has seemed so to you and to him. But if I am a faithless wife to him, I will lay all my sins at your door.”

  “Beatrice!” cried the Marchesa, in real horror this time. She crossed herself.

  “I am young — shall I not love?” asked the young girl defiantly.

  “Dearest child, for the love of Heaven do not talk so—”

  “No — I will not. I will never say it again — and you will not forget it.”

  She turned to leave the terrace and met San Miniato face to face.

  “Good morning,” she said coldly, and passed him.