Love had taken him, and had clothed him in a new humanity, as it seemed to him, straightening the feeble limbs, strengthening the poor ill-matched shoulders, broadening and deepening the sunken chest that never held breath enough before wherewith to speak out full words of passionate happiness. Love had dawned upon the dusk of his dark morning as the dawn of day upon a leaden sea, scattering unearthly blossoms in the path of the royal sun, breathing the sweet breeze of living joy upon the flat waters of unprofitable discontent.
To those who watch the changing world with its manifold scenes and its innumerable actors, whose merest farce is ever and only the prologue to the tragedy which awaits all, there is nothing more wonderful, nothing more beautiful, nothing more touching — perhaps few things more sacred — than the awakening of a noble heart at love’s first magic touch. The greater miracle of spring is done before our eyes each year, the sun shines and the grass grows, it rains and all things are refreshed, and the dead seed’s heart breaks with the joy of coming life, bursts and shoots up to meet the warmth of the sunshine and be kissed by the west wind. But we do not see, or seeing, care for none of these things in the same measure in which we care for ourselves — and perhaps for others. We turn from the budding flower wearily enough at last, and we own that though it speak to us and touch us, its language is all but strange and its meaning wholly a mystery. Nature tells us little except by association with hearts that have beaten for ours, and then sometimes she tells us all. But the heart itself is the thing, the reality, the seat of all our thoughts and the stay of all our being. Selfishly we see what it does in ourselves, and in others we may see it and watch it without thought of self. It is asleep to-day, lethargic, heavy, dull, scarce moving in the breast that holds it. To-morrow it is awake, leaping, breaking, splendidly alive, the very source of action, the leader in life’s fight, the conqueror of the whole opposing world, bursting to-day the chains of which only yesterday it could not lift a link, overthrowing now, with a touch, the barriers which once seemed so impenetrable and so strong, scorning the deathlike inaction of the past, tossing the mountains of impossibility before it as a child tosses pebbles by the sea. The miracle is done, and love has done it, as only love really can.
But it must be the right sort of love and the heart it touches must be neither common nor unclean in the broad, true sense — such a heart, say, as Herbert Arden’s, and such love as he felt for Laura, then and afterwards.
“My life began on the evening when I first met you, dear,” he said, as they sat by the open window on Easter Day, looking down at the flowers on the terrace behind the Palazzo Braccio.
“You cannot make me believe that you loved me at first sight!” Laura laughed happily.
“Why not?” he asked gravely. “No woman ever spoke to me as you did then, and I felt it. Is it strange? But it hurt me, too, at first, and I used to suffer during that first month.”
“Let that be the first and the last pain you ever have by me,” answered the young girl. “I know you suffered, though I cannot even now tell why. Can you?”
“Easily enough,” said Arden, resting his chin upon his folded hands as they lay upon the white marble sill of the window, scarcely less white than they. The attitude was habitual to him when he was in that place. He could not rest his elbow on the slab as Laura could, for he was too short as he sat in his chair.
“Easily?” she asked. “Then tell me.”
“Very easily. You can understand it too. When I knew that I loved you, I knew — I believed, at least, that another suffering had been found for me, as though I had not enough already. Of course, I was hopeless. How could I tell, how could any one guess that you — you of all women — with your beauty, your youth, your splendid woman’s heart — could ever care for me? Oh, my darling — dear, dearest — is there no other word? If I could only tell you half!”
“If you could tell me all, you would only have told half, love,” said Laura. “There is mine to tell, too — and it is not a little.” She bent down to him and softly kissed the beautiful pale forehead.
The bright flush came to Arden’s cheek and died away again in the happy silence that followed. But he raised his head, and his two hands took one of hers and gently covered it.
“You must always be the same to me,” he said, almost under his breath. “You have given me this new life — do not take it from me again — the old would be impossible now, not to be lived.”
“It need never be lived, it never shall be, if I live myself,” answered Laura. “If only I could make you sure of that, I should be really happy. But you do not really doubt it, Herbert, do you?”
“No, dear, to doubt you would be to doubt everything — though it is hard to believe that it can all be so good, and last.”
“It does not seem hard to me. Perhaps a woman believes everything more easily than a man does. She needs to believe more, I suppose, and so she finds it easy.”
“No woman ever needed to believe as much as I,” answered Arden, thoughtfully. He still held her hand, and passed one of his own lightly over it, just pressing it now and then, as though to make sure that it was real. “Except yourself, dear one,” he added a moment later, with a sharp, short breath, as though something hurt him.
Laura was quick to understand him, and to feel all that he felt. She heard the little sigh and looked into his face and saw the expression of something like pain there. She laid her free hand upon his shoulder and gazed into his soft brown eyes.
“Herbert dear,” she said, “I know what you are thinking about. I was put into the world to make you forget those things, and, God willing, I will. You shall forget them as completely as I do, or if you remember them they shall be dear to you, in a way, as they are to me.”
A wonderful look of loving gratitude was in his face, and he pressed her fingers closely in his.
“Tell me one thing, Laura — only this once and I will not speak of it again. When you touch me — when you lay your hand on my shoulder — when you kiss my forehead — tell me quite truly, dear, do you not feel anything like — like a sort of horror, a kind of repulsion, as if you were touching something — well — unpleasant to touch?”
Poor Arden really did not know how much he was loved. Laura’s deep eyes opened wide for an instant, as he spoke, then almost closed again, and her lips quivered. Then suddenly without warning the bright tears welled up and overflowed. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
“Oh, Herbert,” she cried, “that you should think it of me, when I love you as though my heart would break!”
With a movement that would have cost him a painful effort at any other time, Arden rose and clasped her to him and tried to soothe her, caressing her thick black hair, and kissing her forehead tenderly, with a sort of passionate reverence that was his own, and speaking such words as came to his lips in the deep emotion of the moment.
“Forgive me, darling, how could I hurt you? Laura — sweetheart Laura — beloved — do not cry — I know it now — I shall never think of it again. No, dear, no — there, say you have forgiven me!”
“Forgiven you, dear — what is there to forgive?” She looked up with streaming eyes.
“Everything, love — those tears of yours, first of all—”
She dried her eyes and made him sit down again before she spoke, looking out of the window at the flowers.
“It is not your fault,” she said at last. “I have not shown you how I love yet — that is all. But I will, soon.”
“You have shown it already, dear — far more than you know.”
The world might have been surprised could it have seen the two together — the tipsy cripple, as it called Arden, and the girl who loved Francesco Savelli, as it unhesitatingly denominated Laura. It would have been a little surprised at first, and then, on mature reflection, it would have said that it was all a comedy, and that both acted it very well. Was it not natural that Arden should want a pretty wife and that Laura should take any husband that presented
himself, since she could get no better? And in that case why should not each act a comedy to gain the other’s hand? The world did that sort of thing every day, and what the world did Arden and Laura could very well afford to do; and after all, it was not of the slightest importance, since they were both going away, so why should one talk about them? The answer to that last question is so very hard to find that it may be left to those who put it. Donna Adele seemed satisfied, and that was the principal consideration for the present.
“My poor sister!” she exclaimed to Ghisleri one day.
“Step-sister,” observed Pietro, correcting her.
“Oh, we were always quite like real sisters,” answered Adele. “Of course, my dear Ghisleri, I know what a splendid man Lord Herbert is, in everything but his unfortunate deformity. Any one can see that in his face, and besides, you would not have chosen him for your friend if he were not immensely superior to other men.”
Ghisleri puffed at his cigarette, looked at her, laughed, and puffed again.
“But that one thing,” continued Adele, “I cannot understand how she can overlook it, can you? I assure you if my father had told me to marry Lord Herbert, I should have done something quite desperate. I think I should almost have refused. I would almost rather have had to marry you.”
“Really?” Pietro showed some amusement. “Do you think you could have loved me in the end?” he inquired as though he were asking for information of the most commonplace kind.
“Loved you?” Adele laughed rather unnaturally. “It would have been something definite, at all events,” she added. “Either love or hate.”
“And you do not believe that your step-sister can ever love or hate Arden? There is more in him than you imagine.”
“I dare say, but not of the kind I should like. Besides, they say that though he never drinks quite too much, he is sometimes very excited and behaves and talks very strangely.”
“They say that, do they? Who are ‘they’?” Ghisleri’s eyes suddenly grew hard, and his jaw seemed to become extremely square.
“They? Oh, many people, of course. The world says so. Do not be so dreadfully angry. What difference can it make to you? I never said that he drank too much.”
“If you should hear people talking about him in that way,” said Ghisleri, quietly, “you might say that the story is not true, since there is really no truth in it at all. Arden is almost like an invalid. He drinks a glass of hock at breakfast and a glass or two of claret at dinner. I rarely see him touch champagne, and he never takes liqueurs. As for his being excited and behaving strangely, that is a pure fabrication. He is the quietest man I know.”
“It is really of no use to be so impressive,” answered Adele. “It makes me uncomfortable.”
“That is almost as disagreeable a thing as to meet a looking-glass when one comes home at seven in the morning,” observed Pietro. “Let us not talk about it.”
Donna Adele had gone as near as she dared to saying something unpleasant about Lord Herbert Arden, and Ghisleri had checked her with a wholesome shock. In his experience he had generally found that his words carried weight with them, for some reason which he did not even attempt to explain. If the truth were known, it would appear that Adele was at that time much inclined to like Ghisleri, and was willing to sacrifice even the pleasure of saying a sharp thing rather than offend him. The short conversation here reported took place in her boudoir late in the afternoon, and when Ghisleri went away his place was soon taken by the Marchesa di San Giacinto — a lady of sufficiently good heart, but of too ready tongue, with coal-black, sparkling eyes, and a dark complexion relieved by a bright and healthy colour — rather a contrast to the rest of the Montevarchi tribe.
“Pietro Ghisleri has been here,” observed Adele, in the course of conversation.
“To meet Maddalena, I suppose,” laughed the Marchesa, not meaning any harm.
“No. They did it once, and I told Pietro that I would not have that sort of thing in my house,” said Adele, with dignity.
As a matter of fact, she had not dared to say a word to Ghisleri on the subject, but he and the Contessa had decided that Adele’s drawing-room was not a safe place for meeting, and it was quite true that they had carefully avoided finding themselves there together ever since. But Adele was well aware that Flavia San Giacinto and Ghisleri were by no means intimate, and were not likely to exchange confidences; and though the Marchesa was ready enough at repeating harmless tales in the world, she was reticent with her husband, whom she really loved, and whose good opinion she valued.
“Was he amusing?” asked Flavia. “He sometimes is.”
“He was not to-day, but the conversation was. You know how intimate he is with Laura’s little lord?”
“Of course! What did he say?”
“And you remember the story about the champagne at the Gerano ball, when he carried Arden out of the room and put him to bed?”
“Perfectly,” answered the Marchesa, with a smile.
“Yes. Well, I pressed him very hard to-day, to find out what the little man’s habits really are. You see he is to be of the family, and we must really find out. My dear, it is quite dreadful! He says positively that Arden never touches liqueurs, but when I drove him to it, he had to admit that he drinks all sorts of wines — Rhine wine, claret, burgundy, champagne — everything! It is no wonder that it goes to his head, poor little fellow. But I am sorry for Laura.”
“After all,” said Flavia, “one cannot blame him much, if he tries to be a little gay. He must suffer terribly.”
“Oh, no, one cannot blame him,” assented Adele.
Flavia San Giacinto was somewhat amused, knowing, as she did, that Adele had herself originated the tale about Lord Herbert. And late that evening the temptation to repeat what she had heard became too strong for her. She told it all in the strictest confidence to her dearest friend, Donna Maria Boccapaduli. But Donna Maria was a little absent-minded at the moment, her eldest boy having got a cold which threatened to turn into whooping cough, and her husband having written to her from the country, asking her to come down the next day and give her advice about some necessary repairs in the castle.
On the following afternoon — it was still during Lent — she met the Contessa dell’ Armi on the steps of a church after hearing a sermon. The Contessa was very pale and looked as though she had been crying.
“Only think, my dear,” began Donna Maria. “It is quite true that Lord Herbert drinks. Adele knows all about it.”
“Does she?” asked the Contessa, indifferently enough. “How did she find it out?”
“Ghisleri told her ever so many stories about it yesterday afternoon — in the strictest confidence, you know.”
“Indeed! I did not think that Signor Ghisleri was the sort of man who gossiped about his friends. Good-bye, dear. I shall see more of you when Lent is over.”
Thereupon the Contessa got into the carriage with rather an odd expression on her face. As she drove away alone, she bit her lip, and looked as though she were trying to keep back certain tears that rose in her eyes.
CHAPTER V.
ON THE SATURDAY succeeding Easter, Lord Herbert Arden and Laura Carlyon were married. The ceremony was conducted, as they both desired, very quietly and unostentatiously, as was becoming for a young couple who must live economically. Few persons were asked to be present at the wedding service, and among them was Pietro Ghisleri. He had seen English weddings before, but he looked on with some curiosity and with rather mixed feelings of satisfaction and regret. He thought of his own life as he stood there, and for one moment he sincerely wished that he were only awaiting his turn to be dealt with as Arden was, to be taken by the hand, joined to the woman he loved, and turned out upon the world a well-behaved, proper, married man. The next moment he smiled faintly and rather bitterly. Marriage had not been instituted for men like him, thought Ghisleri. If it had been, it would hardly have been so successful an institution as it has proved itself. As for the young couple,
he wished them well. Arden was almost the only man for whom he felt any attachment, and he had the most sincere admiration for Laura.
Without feeling anything in the least resembling affection for the lovely English girl, he was conscious that he thought of her very often. Her eyes, which he called holy, and saintly, and sweet, and dark in his rough rhymed impressions of the day, haunted him by night, like the eyes of a sad angel following him in his unblest wanderings through life. Of love for her, he felt not the slightest thrill. His pulse never quickened when she came, nor was he at all depressed by her departure. If he had cared for her in the very least, it must have caused him some little pain to see her married to another before his eyes. Instead, the only passing regret he felt, was that he could not himself stand in some such position as Arden, but by another woman’s side. To that other he gave all, as he honestly believed, which he had to give. It was long, too, since the very possibility of loving a young girl had crossed his mind, and since his early youth there had not been anything approaching to the reality of such a love in his life. And yet he knew that he was in some degree under Laura’s influence, and in a way in which he was assuredly not under that of the Contessa dell’ Armi. The consciousness of this fact annoyed him. There was a good deal of a certain sort of loyalty in his nature, bad as he believed himself to be, and bad as many honest and good people who read this history will undoubtedly say that he was. If such badness could be justified or even excused, it would not be hard to find some reasonable excuses for him, and after all he was probably not worse than a hundred others to be found in the society of every great city. He thought he was worse, sometimes, as he had told Arden, because he himself also thought that he was more fully aware than most men of what he was doing and of the consequences of his deeds. It is most likely, considering his character, that at that time Laura Carlyon represented to him a species of ideal such as he could admire with all his heart at a distance, and so nearly coinciding with his own as to be very often in his thoughts in the place of the one he had so long ago contracted for himself. All this sounds very complicated, while the facts in the case were broadly plain. He appreciated Laura in the highest degree, and did not love her at all. He was sincerely glad that his best if not his only intimate friend should marry her, and when he bid them good-bye he did not feel the smallest twinge of regret except as at a temporary parting from two persons whom he liked.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 600