Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  And this year, for some reason which he did not attempt to explain to himself, he lingered on in Rome, living a lonely life, avoiding the club where many of his acquaintances still congregated, taking his meals irregularly at garden restaurants, and spending most of his evenings in wandering about Rome by himself. The old places attracted him strongly. Many associations clung to the shady streets, the huge old palaces, and the dusky churches. Ten years of such a life as he had led had left many traces behind them, many sensitive spots in his complicated nature which inanimate things had power to touch keenly and thrill again with pain or pleasure. There was much that was sad, indeed, in these recollections, but there were also many memories dear and tender and almost free from the sting of self-reproach. He was not one to crave excitement for its own sake, nor to miss it when it was past. It often chanced, indeed, that he could find the few things that pleased him, the few people he liked, in the midst of the world’s noisiest fair, but he would always have preferred to be alone with them, to meet with them when he was quite sure of being altogether himself and not the overwrought, nervous being which he came to be during the rush of the season, in spite of his undeniable physical strength. Those who need excitement most are either those who have never lived in it, or those unhappily morbid beings who cannot live without it, because by force of habit it has become the only atmosphere which their lungs can breathe and in which they can act more or less normally.

  Ghisleri followed the Ardens in imagination as they pursued their wedding trip. He rarely knew exactly where they were, but he was familiar with all the places they were visiting, and he liked to fancy them enjoying together all there was to be seen and done. Had he not himself still been young, he would almost have fancied that he felt a fatherly interest in their doings. Then he heard that they were in England, and at last, when he had made up his mind to go away for a month or two, he learned that Arden was in bad health. He was distressed by the news, and wished he could see his old friend, if only for a day, to judge for himself of his condition. But that was impossible at present. He was not always free to dispose of his time as he pleased, and as he had been during the past months. Moreover, the world was not quite just when it said that Ghisleri did not “care,” as it expressed the state of mind it attributed to him. Between going to England, and going to Vallombrosa, near Florence, he did not hesitate a moment.

  So the autumn came round again, and when he returned to his lodging in Rome, he found that the Ardens were already installed in the Tempietto. The Savelli couple were still out of town at the family castle in the Sabines, but the Prince and Princess of Gerano had come back.

  Ghisleri found both Laura and Arden greatly changed. The latter’s appearance shocked him especially, and he felt almost from the first that his friend was doomed. The man who was not supposed to care spent at least one sleepless night, turning over in his mind the various possibilities of life and death. On the following morning at twelve o’clock, he climbed the steps to the Trinità de’ Monti, and asked to see Lady Herbert Arden alone, a request which was easily granted, as her husband now rarely rose until one, and then only for a few hours.

  Laura’s eyes looked preternaturally large and deep — almost sunken, Ghisleri thought — and she had grown thin, and even paler than she usually was when in good health. He took the seat she pointed to, by the open fire, and stared into the flames absently for some seconds. It was a rather dreary morning early in November, and the air in the streets was raw and damp. At last he looked up.

  “You are anxious about your husband, Lady Herbert?” he said.

  Laura sighed, and opened her white hands to the warmth, as she sat on the other side of the fireplace. But she said nothing. She could not deny what he had told her, for she was in mortal anxiety by day and night.

  “It is very natural,” said Ghisleri, trying to speak more cheerfully. “But I do not think there is any very serious reason for anticipating danger. I have known Arden many years, and I have often known him to be ill before now.”

  Laura glanced nervously at Pietro, and looked away again almost instantly. There was a frightened look in her face as though she feared something unexpected. Perhaps she was afraid of believing too readily in Ghisleri’s comforting view.

  “All the same,” he continued, “there is no denying that he is in very bad health. Forgive me if I seem officious. I do not love him as you do, of course, but we have been more or less good friends these many years — since very long before you knew him.”

  “More or less good friends!” repeated Laura, in a disappointed tone. “Herbert calls you his best friend.”

  “I dare say he has many better than I am,” answered Ghisleri, quietly. “But I have certainly never liked any man as much as I like him. That is why I come to you to-day. Do you not think that he should be taken care of, or, at least thoroughly examined by the best specialist to be found?”

  “I have thought of it,” said Laura, after a short pause. “Of course the doctor comes regularly, but I do not think he is a really great authority. I am afraid that anything like a consultation might alarm Herbert. I see how determined he is to be cheerful, but I cannot help seeing also that he is despondent about himself.”

  “There need be nothing like a consultation. Will you trust me in this matter?”

  Laura looked at him. She felt, on a sudden, the old, almost inexplicable, timid dislike of him with which she had long been familiar, and she hesitated before she answered.

  “Could I not manage it myself?” she asked abruptly. “It would seem more natural.”

  Ghisleri’s face grew slowly cold, and his eyes fixed themselves on the fire.

  “I thought I might be able to help you,” he said. “Have you any particular reason for distrusting me as you do, Lady Herbert?”

  Laura’s face contracted. She was not angry, but she was sorry that she had shown him what she thought, and it was hard to answer the question truthfully, for she was not really sure whether she had any excuse for doubting his frankness or not. In the present instance she assuredly had none.

  “I should certainly never distrust you where Herbert is concerned,” she said, after a short pause. “It is only that it seems more natural, as I said, that I should be the one to speak to him and to arrange about the specialist’s visit.”

  “Very well. Forgive me, as I begged you to at first, if I have seemed officious. I will come and see your husband this afternoon.”

  The consequence of this conversation was that Laura, being even more seriously alarmed than before, since she realised that Ghisleri himself was anxious, spoke to Arden about the necessity for seeing a better doctor, breaking it to him with all the loving gentleness she knew how to use with him, and Arden consented without much apparent reluctance to being examined by a man who had a great reputation. The latter took a long time before he gave an opinion, and ultimately declared to Laura that her husband was consumptive and would probably not live a year. Laura suffered in that moment as she would not have believed it possible to suffer, and it was long before she could compose herself enough to go to Arden. It was of course impossible to tell him all the doctor had said. She told him that his lungs were delicate, and that he must be very careful.

  “It seems to me I am always very careful,” said Lord Herbert, patiently.

  She looked at him and saw for the hundredth time how ill he seemed. She tried to turn quickly and leave the room, but she could not. Suddenly the passionate tears broke out, and she fell on her knees beside his chair and clasped the poor little body in her arms.

  “Oh, Herbert, my love, — my love!” she sobbed.

  Then he felt that he was doomed. Had she loved him less, she could have kept the secret better. But he was brave still.

  “Hush, darling, hush!” he said, gently stroking her coal-black hair with his transparent hand. “You must not believe these foolish doctors. I have been just as ill before.”

  But the mischief was done, and she felt that she had done
it, and her remorse knew no bounds. In spite of his courage, Arden lost heart. The next time Ghisleri saw him he was much worse. Laura went out and left the two together.

  “Has anything worried you?” asked Ghisleri. “You look tired.”

  Arden was silent for a long time, and his friend knew that he was carefully weighing his answer.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “something has worried me very much. I can trust you not to speak — never to speak, even to my wife, of what I am going to say — especially if anything should happen,” he added, as though with a painful afterthought.

  “I will never speak of it,” replied Pietro, gravely.

  “I know you will not. We had a consultation the other day. Of course they were very careful not to tell me what they thought, but I could not help guessing it. You know how truthful my wife is — she could not deny it when I put the question directly. It is all up with me, my dear fellow, and I know it. I am consumptive. It will last a year at the most.”

  “I do not believe a word of it!” exclaimed Ghisleri, with unusual heat. “You are not in the least like a consumptive man!”

  “The doctor is a good specialist,” said Arden, quietly. “But that is not all. I have been so happy — I am so happy in many ways still — that I am weak enough to cling to my life, such as it is. But there is something else, Ghisleri. I knew I was ill, and I knew there was danger — but this is different. I had hoped to see my child, even if I were to die. I do not hope to see it now — you understand? Those things are always inherited.”

  A deadly paleness came over Arden’s face, and his clear brown eyes seemed unsteady for a moment. His face twitched nervously, and his hands were strained as they grasped the arms of his chair. Ghisleri looked very grave.

  “I repeat that I believe the doctor to be wholly mistaken. It would hardly be the first time that doctors have made such mistakes. Consumptive people do not behave as you do. They always feel that they are getting well, until the very last, and they have a regular cough, not to be mistaken, and they eat a great deal. You are quite different.”

  “But he examined, me so carefully,” objected Arden, though he could not help seeing a ray of hope.

  “I cannot help that. He was mistaken.”

  That afternoon Ghisleri telegraphed to a great European celebrity whom he knew in Paris, to come if possible at once, no matter at what sacrifice of money. Forty-eight hours later the man of genius was breakfasting with Pietro in his rooms.

  “I will ask leave to bring you as a friend,” said the latter. “I have begged you to come on my own responsibility.”

  He wrote a note to Laura, explaining that an old acquaintance, a man of world-wide fame, was spending a couple of days with him, and begged permission to introduce him. He might amuse Arden, he said. He did not mention the doctor’s profession. It was just possible that neither Arden nor Laura had ever heard of the man who was so great in a world not theirs. Laura asked them both to tea by way of answer.

  As it turned out, the Ardens had a very vague idea that the Frenchman was a man of science. In the course of conversation he admitted that he had studied medicine, and then went on to talk about the latest news from Paris, social, artistic, and literary. Arden was charmed with him, and Laura was really grateful to Ghisleri for helping to amuse her husband.

  Would they both come to luncheon the next day? They would, with pleasure, and they went away together.

  “Well?” asked Ghisleri, as they walked towards the Pincio in the early dusk, just to breathe the air.

  “I think he may live,” answered the great man. “I believe it is a trouble of the heart with an almost exhausted vitality.”

  Laura was left alone with her husband. Whether it was the doctor’s personal influence, or whether Arden was really momentarily better, she could not tell, but he looked as he had not looked for two months.

  “That man delights me,” he said dreamily. “I do not know what there is about him, and it is very foolish — but I fancy that if he were a doctor, he might cure me — or keep me alive longer,” he added, with a sort of reluctant sadness.

  Laura looked at him in surprise.

  “He said he had studied medicine,” she answered. “Shall I ask Signor Ghisleri, if, as a friend, he would come and give his opinion?”

  “It is too much to ask of a stranger.”

  “Nothing is too much to ask,” she said quietly. In her own room she wrote a note to Pietro.

  With many apologies, she explained to him that her husband was so delighted with Ghisleri’s friend, that she believed it might make a difference if, as a doctor — since he was one — the latter would be willing to see him once and give his opinion.

  Pietro smiled when he read the note. On the following day the great man went again to the Tempietto, and with many protestations of incompetence did as he was requested, assuring Lady Herbert that it was only in deference to her wishes that he did so.

  “You are not consumptive — in the least, and you may even become strong,” he said, after a very long and thorough examination. “That, at least,” he added, “is my humble opinion.”

  Arden’s face brightened suddenly. But Laura and Ghisleri remained alone together for a moment afterwards, while the doctor was already putting on his coat.

  “After all,” said Laura, despondently, “it was to please Herbert. The man says that his opinion is not worth very much.”

  “He is the greatest living authority on the subject,” answered Ghisleri. “You may safely take his opinion.”

  Laura’s face expressed her surprise, and at the same time, an unspeakable relief.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, in trembling tones.

  “Ask your doctor. He will tell you. Will you forgive me my little trick, Lady Herbert? As he was here, I thought you might like to see him.” Ghisleri put out his hand to take his leave, and Laura pressed it warmly.

  “If I had ever had anything to forgive, I would forgive you — for your great kindness to me,” she said, and the tears were almost in her eyes. “It is you who should forgive me for not trusting you when you first spoke. How wrong I was!”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Ghisleri. “It was very natural.”

  And so it seemed to him, perhaps. But such little tricks, as he called what he had done, cost money, and that year Ghisleri did not buy the bit of land which stood next on the list in his scheme for reacquiring the old estate.

  CHAPTER VII.

  ARDEN’S HEALTH IMPROVED, at first very rapidly, and then more slowly, as he seemed to approach what, for him, was a normal condition of strength. The month of December was fine, and he was able to drive out constantly, to be up most of the day, and to talk with acquaintances without any great fatigue. As a natural consequence, too, Laura regained in a very short time all that she had lost, and her eyes no longer looked sunken and haggard nor her face unnaturally pale.

  Her gratitude to Ghisleri was boundless, and as the days went on and Arden had no relapse, she began to wonder how she could ever have felt anything approaching to dislike for the man to whom she almost owed her husband’s life. Pietro, on his part, came often to the house and saw the change that had taken place in her manner towards him. He was pleased, though he had not thought of producing any impression upon her by what he had done solely for Arden’s sake, for he had long admired her, and felt that she was very like a certain ideal of woman of which he never talked. But his pleasure was not very genuine, after all. He hardly believed that Laura’s mood would last, because he had hitherto had little experience of lasting moods in women. For the present, at least, she believed in him and was grateful.

  About this time Donna Adele, her husband, and his father and mother all came back from the country, and at or near the same period the great majority of the old society stagers appeared again as forerunners of the coming season. The gay set was not yet all assembled, and it was even reported that some of them would not come at all, for there was financial trouble in the air, and many
people had lost money, or found their incomes diminished by the general depression. Nevertheless, when Christmas came, few of the familiar faces of the previous year were missing, and those few have not been seen in this history.

  “This is the beginning,” said Gouache to Ghisleri. “You may remember that charming description of chaos in the sacred writings: ‘in the beginning darkness was over all the earth’ — very like Rome before the season begins. The resemblance ends there, my dear friend. The sentence which follows would hardly be applicable. Are we to have another Shrove Tuesday feast this year for the sake of giving sin a last chance? Have you another diabolical production ready?”