Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Herbert! Herbert!” cried Laura, in sudden agony. She thought he was going mad before her eyes.

  “No, dear,” he said, with an immense effort, and making a gesture with his hand as though to keep her in her place. “It is better to say it now, and it need never be said again. Perhaps I should not have the strength. I see it all. You are so kind and good that you will never show it to me — but when you are alone — then you let yourself go — is it any wonder? Are you to blame? You see that you have made the great mistake — that it was all pity and not love — and you long to be free from me as you should be, as you shall be, dear.”

  A wild cry broke from Laura’s very heart when she realised what he meant.

  “Love! Darling — Herbert! I never loved you as I love you now!”

  She did not know that she spoke articulate words as she sprang to her feet and clasped him in her arms, half mad with grief at the thought of what he must have suffered, and loving him as she said she did, far beyond the love of earlier days. But he hardly understood yet that it was really love, and he tried to look up into her face, almost fainting with the terrible strain he had borne so bravely, and still struggling to be calm.

  “Laura darling,” he said, in a low voice, “it was all too natural. Unless you tell me what it was that made you act as I saw you just now, how can I understand?”

  She turned her deep eyes straight to his.

  “Do you doubt me still, Herbert?” she asked. And she saw that he could not help doubting.

  “But if I tell you that what I was thinking of would pain you very much, and that it would be of no use—”

  “It cannot be like the pain I feel now,” he answered simply.

  She realised that what he said was true. Then she told him the whole story, as she knew it. And so, in a few hours, the conversation Ghisleri had held with Gouache began to bear fruit in a direction where neither of them had suspected it possible that their words could penetrate.

  Arden had allowed himself to sink into a chair at Laura’s side, and he listened with half-closed eyes and folded hands while she spoke. Under ordinary circumstances he would probably have betrayed some emotion, and might have interrupted her with a question or two, but the terrible excitement of the last few minutes was followed by a reaction, and he felt himself growing colder and calmer every moment, while his heart, which had been beating furiously when he had first spoken to her, seemed now about to stand still. As she proceeded, however, he was aware of the most conflicting feelings of happiness and anger — the latter of the quiet and dangerous sort. He saw at once that he had been utterly mistaken in doubting Laura’s love, and from that direction peace descended upon his heart; but when he heard what the world was saying of her, he felt that weak as he was, he had the sudden strength to dare and do anything to avenge the insult. He was human enough, too, to resent bitterly the story about himself, though that, after all, was but a secondary affair in comparison with the gossip about Laura.

  When she had finished, he rose slowly, and sat upon the arm of her easy-chair, drawing her head to his shoulder. He kissed her hair tenderly.

  “My beloved — can you forgive me?” he asked, in a very gentle voice. “My darling — that I should have doubted you!”

  “I am glad you did, dear — this once,” she answered. “You see how it is. You are all the world to me — the mere thought that any one can hurt you by word or deed — oh, it drives me mad!”

  And she, who was usually so very calm and collected, again made that desperate gesture with her hands, as though she had them on a woman’s throat and would strangle out the life of her in the grip of her firm fingers.

  “As for me, it matters little enough,” said Arden, taking her hands and stroking them as though to soothe her anger. “Of course it is an absurd and disgusting story, and I suppose some people believe it. But what they say of you is a very different matter.”

  “I do not think so,” broke in Laura, indignantly. “Of course every one knows that we love each other, and that it is all a lie — but when such a tale is started about a man — that he drinks — oh, it is too utterly vile!”

  “Dear — shall we try and forget it? At least for this evening. Let us do our best. You have made me so happy in another way — I suffered in that moment very much.”

  She looked up into his face as he sat on the arm of the chair, and she saw that he looked very ill. The scene had been almost too much for him, and she realised that when he spoke of forgetting it was because he could bear no more.

  “Yes, love,” she said, “we will put it all away for this evening and be happy together as we always are.”

  Each was conscious, no doubt, that the other was making a great effort, but neither of them referred to the matter again that night. They talked of all manner of subjects, rather nervously and resolutely at first, then naturally and easily as ever, when the deep sympathy which existed between them had asserted itself. During two hours, at least, they nearly forgot what had so violently moved them both.

  When Arden laid his head upon his pillow, his anger had not subsided, but he knew that his love had taken greater strength and depth than ever before. He spent a sleepless night indeed, but when he rose in the morning he did not feel tired. Something within him which was quite new seemed to sustain him and nourish him. He could not tell whether it was love for Laura, or anger against the woman who slandered her, or both acting at once, and he did not waste much time in speculating upon his mental condition. He had formed a resolution upon which he meant to act without delay.

  It was a rainy morning, chilly and raw again, as the weather had been earlier in the year.

  “Give me warm clothes, Donald,” he said to his man. “I am going out.”

  “Going out, my lord! In this weather!” Donald’s face expressed the greatest anxiety.

  “Never mind the weather,” said Arden. “Give me warm clothes, and send for a closed carriage.”

  Donald obeyed, shaking his head, and muttering in detached expressions of disapproval. He was a privileged person.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  ARDEN, FOR THE first time in his life, paid no attention to Laura’s remonstrances when she tried to prevent him from going out in the rain, and he would not hear of her accompanying him on any condition. He assured her that with his fur coat, and in a closed carriage with a foot-warmer, he was as safe as at home in the drawing-room, and he gave her to understand that he had a small surprise in store for her, of which all the effect would be spoiled if she went with him. Very reluctantly she let him go. Even after he was gone, when she heard the brougham rattling down the Via Gregoriana, she was tempted to open the window and call the driver back. Then she reflected that she was probably foolish in being so anxious, since he now seemed almost as well as ever.

  When he left the house, Arden drove to a certain studio, and then and there bought a small picture which Laura had admired very much, and had been two or three times to see. To the artist’s surprise, he insisted upon carrying it away with him at once, just as it was. Then he told the coachman to drive to the Palazzo Savelli. He sent up his card and asked to see Don Francesco, and at once received an answer, begging him to go up stairs.

  Francesco was very much surprised by the visit, and could not conceive what had brought Lord Herbert Arden to him at eleven o’clock in the morning. He awaited him in a vast and gloomy drawing-room in which there was no fire. The walls were hung with old portraits of the Savelli in armour, the carpet was of a sombre hue, and the furniture consisted of three superb marble tables with carved and gilt feet, and sixteen chairs of the style of Louis the Fourteenth’s reign, all precisely alike, and standing side by side against the walls. Francesco Savelli stood facing the door, his yellow hair, blue eyes, and fresh complexion contrasting strongly with the dark background. He was a fine-looking fellow, with a mild face, a quiet manner, and a good deal of old-fashioned formality, which latter, however, seemed to wear off every evening in society, coming back as
soon as he returned to the dim and shadowy halls of his home.

  The connexion between him and Arden was in reality so distant, that they had never assumed even the outward forms of intimacy, though their wives called each other sister. Savelli disliked Lord Herbert because he was a cripple, and chiefly because he had married Laura Carlyon. Arden, on his side, was more or less indifferent to Francesco, but treated him always with a shade more warmth than an ordinary acquaintance, as being, in a sense, a member of his wife’s family.

  Savelli came forward as Arden entered. The servant allowed the heavy curtain to drop, closed the door, and went out, and the two men were left alone.

  “Good morning, my dear Arden,” said Savelli, taking his hand. “I hope you are quite well. Pray be seated.”

  “Good morning. Thanks.” Both spoke in French.

  They sat down, side by side, on the stiff, high-backed gilt chairs, and each looked at the other.

  “I have something especial to say to you,” began Arden, in his calm and even voice — a man quicker-witted than Savelli would have noticed the look of determination about the smooth-shaven lips and the prominent chin — the look of a man who will not be trifled with, and will say what he means in spite of all difficulties and all opposition.

  “I am entirely at your service,” answered Don Francesco, politely.

  “Thanks. I have thought it best to come to you directly, because my business concerns your wife and mine, and it is better that we should settle such matters between us without the intervention of others.”

  Savelli opened his eyes in surprise, but said nothing, only making a slight inclination of the head in answer. Arden continued in the cool and collected manner with which he had begun.

  “A number of outrageous lies,” he said slowly, “are in circulation concerning my wife, and some of them concern myself. May I inquire whether you have heard them?”

  “It would facilitate matters, if you would tell me something of their nature,” observed Savelli, more and more astonished.

  “There is no difficulty about that. I can even repeat them to you, word for word, or nearly so. It is said, in the first place, that my wife is very much in love with you—”

  “With me?” cried Savelli, startled out of his formality for once.

  “Yes — with you — and that she has loved you long. Secondly, it is said that I am a confirmed drunkard, and that my wife leads a most unhappy existence with me in consequence. It is further stated that she makes no secret of this supposed fact, but complains loudly to her friends, and especially selects you for her confidence in the matter.”

  “That is totally untrue,” said Don Francesco, gravely. “She has never spoken of you to me except in terms of the highest praise.”

  “I am aware that it is not true, but I am much obliged to you for your very plain statement. I will go on. It is asserted that my wife has given you to understand that she loves you, and that, if you would consent, she would be ready to leave me and Rome in your company. These things, it appears, are current gossip, and are confidently stated as positive truths.”

  “I have not heard any of them, except some vague reports about yourself, to the effect that you once took too much wine at the Gerano’s house. But Ghisleri made a scene about it at the club, and I have heard no more of the absurd story.”

  “I did not know that Ghisleri had actively taken my part,” answered Arden. “But the story has now reached the form in which I repeated it. For myself, I care very little. It is on account of its connexion with the tales about my wife that I have told it to you.”

  “May I ask who your informant is?”

  “My wife.”

  “And hers?”

  “A reliable and truthful person, whom I shall not name at present. The affair concerns you and me. I have not come to the most important point, which will explain why I came to you.”

  “I supposed that you came, as to a connexion of the family, to ask advice or assistance.”

  “No. That is not it. I do not need either, thank you. I come to you because all these stories are distinctly traceable to Donna Adele Savelli.”

  Francesco started violently, and almost rose from his seat, his face flushing suddenly.

  “Lord Herbert — take care!” he cried in a loud and angry voice, and with a passionate gesture.

  “Be calm,” said Arden, in an unnaturally quiet tone. “If you strike me, you will be disgraced for life, because I am a cripple. But I assure you that I am not in the least afraid of you.”

  “You are wrong!” exclaimed Savelli, still furious, and turning upon him savagely.

  “Not at all,” returned the Englishman, unmoved. “I came here to settle this business, and I have not the smallest intention of going away until I have said all I meant to say. After that, if you are inclined to demand satisfaction of me, as is the custom here, you can do so. I will consider the matter. I shall probably not exchange shots with you, because I believe that duelling is wrong. But let me say that I do not in the least mean to insult you, nor, as I think, have I been lacking in civility to-day. I have given you a number of facts which I have every reason for believing to be true. You will in all likelihood have no difficulty in finding out whether they are true or not. If we, jointly, are convinced that the statements are false, I shall be happy to offer you my best apologies; if not, and if you are convinced that Donna Adele has been slandering my wife, I shall expect you to act upon your conviction, as a man of honour should, and take measures to have these reports instantly and fully denied everywhere by Donna Adele herself. I think I have stated the case plainly, and what I have said ought not to offend you, in my opinion.”

  “It is certainly impossible to be more plain,” answered Savelli, regaining something of his outward calm. “As to what may or may not give offence, opinions may differ in England and in Italy.”

  “They probably do,” returned Arden, coolly. “It is not my intention to offend you.”

  Francesco Savelli looked at the shrunken figure and the thin hands with an odd sensation of repulsion and respect. He had been very far from supposing that Herbert Arden possessed such undeniable courage and imperturbable coolness, and not being by any means a coward himself, he could not help admiring bravery in others. He was none the less angry, however, though he made a great effort to keep his temper. He did not love his wife, but he had all the Roman traditions concerning the sacredness of the family honour, which he now felt was really at stake, and he had all a Roman’s dread of a public scandal.

  “I must beg you once more to tell me by whom these stories were told to Lady Herbert,” he said, after a pause.

  “I cannot do so, without consulting that person,” answered Arden. “I do not wish to drag other people into the affair. You will be able to find out for yourself, and probably through members of your own family, how much truth there is in it all.”

  “You positively refuse to tell me?”

  “I have said so. If you wish to be confronted with the person in question, I will consult that person, as I said before.”

  “And if I then, on my side, positively refuse to do anything without having previously spoken to that person — to him or to her — what then?”

  “In my opinion, you will be allowing a state of things to continue which will not ultimately reflect credit upon you or yours. Moreover, you will oblige me to take some still more active measures.”

  “What measures?”

  “I do not know. I will think about it. And now I will wish you good morning.”

  He got upon his feet, and stood before Savelli.

  “Good morning,” said the latter, very stiffly. “Allow me to accompany you to the hall.”

  “Thanks,” said Arden, as he began to move towards the door in his ungainly, dislocated fashion, while Savelli walked slowly beside him, towering above him by a third of his own height.

  Arden shivered as he slipped on his fur coat in the hall, for it had been very cold in the drawing-room thoug
h he had scarcely noticed the fact in his preoccupied state of mind. While driving homeward, he looked at the little picture as it stood opposite to him on the seat of the carriage. It was one of those exquisite views of the Campagna, looking across the Tiber, which Sartorio does so wonderfully in pastel.

  “She will be glad to have it,” said Arden to himself, “and she will understand why I went out alone.”

  He was tolerably well satisfied with the morning’s work. It had seemed to him that there was nothing else to be done under the circumstances, and he certainly did not choose the least wise course, in going directly to Savelli. He did not regret a word of what he had said, nor did he feel that he had said too little. As he anticipated, Laura suspected nothing, and was delighted with the picture. She scolded him a little for having insisted upon going out on such a morning, especially for her sake, but as the clouds just then were breaking and the sunshine was streaming into the room, she felt as though it could not have been a great risk after all. Before they had finished luncheon, a note was brought in. Laura laughed oddly as she read it.

  “It is an invitation to dinner from Adele,” she said. “It is for the day after to-morrow, shall we accept?”

  Arden’s face grew thoughtful. He could not be sure whether the invitation had been sent before his interview with Savelli, or since. It was therefore not easy to decide upon the wisest course.

  “Better to accept it, is it not?” asked Laura. “It is of no use to make an open breach.”

  “No. It is of no use. Accept, dear. It is more sensible.”

  Neither of them liked the thought of dining at the Palazzo Savelli just then, and Laura, at least, knew that she would find it hard to behave as though nothing had happened. Both would have been very much surprised, could they have known why they were asked, and that the idea had originated with Pietro Ghisleri.