Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Since you ask,” said Ghisleri, with a smile, “I admit that I changed my clothes before coming to see you, for that very reason. Some people do believe in danger of that kind.”

  “I am glad you admit it. So I am not to see you until Lord Herbert is quite well again. I will not answer for the consequences. I have something to say to you to-day. Are you in a hurry?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “It will not take long. I have discovered another proof of your desertion. You know what pleasant things Adele Savelli says about me — and you, too. I have told you more than once exactly what was repeated to me. Did you ever take any steps to prevent her talking about me?”

  “No, I never did. I do not even see how I could. Can I quarrel with Francesco Savelli, because his wife spreads scandalous reports about you? It would look singularly like fighting your battles.”

  “And yet,” retorted the Contessa, speaking slowly, and fixing her eyes on his, “there is no sooner something said against Lady Herbert Arden, than you show your teeth and fight in earnest. Can you deny it?”

  “No, I do not lie,” answered Ghisleri. “But I did not know that you were aware of the fact. Some one has been indiscreet, as usual.”

  “Of course. That sort of thing cannot be a secret long. All Rome knows that there was a dinner of reconciliation at the Palazzo Savelli last night, that every one embraced every one else, that Adele looks like death to-day, and is going about everywhere saying the most delightful things about the Ardens, in the most horribly nervous way. You see what power you have when you choose to use it.”

  She spoke bitterly, though she was conscious that the right was not all on her side, and that Ghisleri, as he said, could defend the Ardens without fear of adverse criticism, whereas it would be a very different matter if he entered the lists in her defence.

  “You are not quite just to me, my dear lady,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “You are not the wife of my old friend, and an otherwise indifferent person—”

  “Quite indifferent?” She looked keenly at him.

  “Quite,” he answered, with perfect sincerity. “A person is indifferent whom one neither loves nor calls an intimate friend. Yet Lady Herbert is beautiful and good, and is admirable in many ways. But the world knows that I am no more in love with her than with Donna Adele, and I am quite free, therefore, to defend her.”

  “Of course you are. The only thing that surprises me is your alacrity in doing so. You do not generally like to give yourself trouble for indifferent people. But then, as Arden really is your friend—” She stopped, with a little impatient movement of the shoulders.

  “I wish you could bring yourself for once to believe that I am not altogether insincere and calculating in everything I do,” said Ghisleri, weary of her perpetual suspicion.

  “I wish I could,” she answered coldly. “But how can I? There are such extraordinary inconsistencies in your character, such contradictions — it is very hard to believe in you. And yet,” she added sadly, “God knows I must — for my own sake.”

  “Then do!” exclaimed Pietro, with energy. “Make an end of all this doubting. Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever made a promise to you and not kept it? How have I deceived you? And yet you never trust me altogether, and I know it.”

  “It is not that — it is not that!” repeated Maddalena. “What you say is all true, in its way. It is — how shall I say it — you did not deceive me, but I was deceived in you. You are not what I thought you were. You used to say that you would stand at nothing — that my word was your law — all those fine phrases you used to make to me, and they all seem to come to nothing when reality begins.”

  “If you would tell me what you expect me to do, you would not find me slow in doing it.”

  “That is the thing. If you loved me as you say you do, would you need any direction? Your heart would tell you.”

  “You are angry with me now, because you do not wish me to take care of Arden—”

  “Can I wish that you should be willing to cut yourself off from me for a week — or two weeks? I suppose that is your idea of love. It is not mine.”

  “Then be frank in your turn. You have the right to ask what you please of me. Say plainly that you wish me to give up the idea, to leave Arden to the doctors and the nurses, and I will obey you unhesitatingly.”

  “I would not have the sacrifice now — not as a gift,” murmured Maddalena, passionately. “If you could think of doing it, you shall do it. I will force you to it now. I will not see you until Arden does not need you any more — not even if you never go near him. If you do not think of me naturally, I would rather that you should never think of me again.”

  Ghisleri rose and went to the fireplace, and looked at the objects on the mantelpiece for a long time, without seeing them. There was a strange conflict in his heart at that moment. He could not tell whether he loved her or not — that he had loved her a very short time since, he was sure. At the present juncture it would be very easy to tell her the truth, if his love were no longer real, and to break with her once and for ever. Did she love him? Cruelly and coldly he compared her love with that of another whom he had sacrificed long ago — a memory that haunted him still at times. That had been love indeed. Was this also love, but of another kind? Then, suddenly, he despised himself for his fickleness, and he thought of what Maddalena had done and risked for him, and for him alone.

  “Maddalena,” he said, and his voice shook as he came to her side, and took her small white hand. “Forgive me, forgive me all there is to forgive. I am a brute sometimes. I cannot help it.”

  Her lip trembled a little, but her face did not relax.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “It is I who have been mistaken.”

  CHAPTER X.

  GHISLERI LEFT THE Contessa’s house anything but calm. To hate himself and the whole world in general, with one or two unvarying exceptions, was by no means a new sensation. He was quite familiar with it and looked upon it as a necessary condition of mind, through which he must pass from time to time, and from which he was never very far removed. But he had rarely, in his ever-changing life, been in such strange perturbation of spirit as on this particular evening. He was almost beyond reasoning, and he seemed to be staring at the facts that faced him in a day-dream horribly like reality. He knew that if he really loved Maddalena, he would sacrifice his friend, even after what the Contessa had said, and that, after a day or two, she would probably relent. Nor did the sacrifice seem a very great one. People were ill all the year round, were taken care of by the members of their own family and by nurses, and recovered or died as the case might be. He had no especial knowledge to help him in watching over Herbert Arden, though he believed himself quiet and skilful in a sick-room, and had more than once done what he could in such cases. He felt, indeed, that he was more deeply attached to the man than he had supposed himself to be, but he had not imagined that, at the critical moment, that attachment would outweigh all consideration for Maddalena Delmar. And yet, he not only clung to the belief that he loved her, but was conscious that there was a broad foundation of truth for that belief to rest upon. He asked himself in vain why he was at that moment going from her house to Arden’s, and he found no answer. That Laura herself contributed in any way to strengthen his resolve was too monstrous to be believed, even by himself, against himself. He was not so bad as that yet. He laughed bitterly at his inability to comprehend his own motives and impulses, as he drove to the little convent of the French Sisters of the “Bon Secours,” to ask for the best nurse they could give him. It was strange, too, that he should be coming directly from Maddalena’s side to the habitation of a community of almost saintly women — stranger still, that he should be on his way to a house where, during the next few days, he expected to spend his time in the society of a woman who ranked even higher than they in his exalted estimate of her character.

  He got the nurse, and she was despatched in the company of another siste
r in a separate cab, while Ghisleri followed in his own. When they reached the house, they found that Arden was much worse. His mind was wandering, and, though he constantly called for Laura, he did not know her when she came to his side, trying to keep back the scalding tears, lest they should fall on him as she bent down to catch his words. The doctor had been sent for a third time in great haste. Meanwhile, the sister went about her duties silently and systematically, making herself thoroughly familiar with the arrangements of the room, and preparing all that could be needed during the night, so far as she could foresee the doctor’s possible instructions. She smoothed Arden’s pillows with a hand the practised perfection of whose touch told a wonderful tale of life-long labour among the sick.

  “Madame should not be here,” she said to Ghisleri, in a quiet, even voice. “It may soon be contagious.”

  Laura heard the words as she stood on the other side of the bed, watching every passing expression on Arden’s flushed face.

  “I will not leave him,” she said simply.

  The sister did not answer. She had done her duty in giving the warning, and she could do no more. When she had finished all her arrangements, she sat down, accustomed to husband her strength always, against the strain that must inevitably fall upon it day by day. She took out her small black book and began to read, glancing at Arden at regular intervals of about a minute.

  Ghisleri entreated Laura to take some rest, or at least to follow the sister’s example and sit down, since nothing could be done. She did not seem to understand. He was glad he had come, for he fancied she was losing her head already. He stood beside her watching his friend and waiting for the doctor, who appeared before long.

  “It is one of the most extraordinarily virulent cases I ever knew,” he said to Ghisleri, when the two were alone together in the drawing-room, for Laura would not leave her husband’s side for a moment. “I hardly know what to make of it, though of course there can be no doubt as to what it is. It is better that you should know how serious the case is. I presume you are an intimate friend of Lord Herbert Arden’s?”

  “Yes, an old friend.”

  “And you are not afraid of catching the fever?” asked the doctor.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Oh, I thought from a question you asked—” He hesitated.

  “I was going to see a friend, and I wanted to be on the safe side,” said Ghisleri.

  “I am glad of that; it is just as well that there should be a man at hand. Shall you spend the night here?”

  “Yes,” replied Ghisleri.

  “Very good. I have told the sister to send for me if the temperature rises more than two-tenths of a degree centigrade higher than it is now. It ought to go down. If I am called anywhere I will leave the address at my lodgings, where one of my servants will sit up all night. I confess that I am surprised by the case. In Rome the scarlet fever is rarely so dangerous.”

  Thereupon the doctor took his leave and Ghisleri remained alone in the drawing-room. He sat down and took up a book. For the present it seemed best not to go back to Arden’s room. His constant presence might be disagreeable to Laura, since she could not be induced to leave her husband as yet. Ghisleri’s turn would come when she was exhausted, or when he had an opportunity of persuading her to take some rest. Until then there was nothing to be done but to wait. A servant came in and put wood on the fire and turned down a lamp that was smoking a little. He inquired of Ghisleri whether her ladyship would wish any dinner served, and Pietro told him to keep something in readiness in case she should be hungry. He himself rarely had much appetite, and to-night he had none at all. He tried to read, without much success, for his own thoughts crowded upon each other so quickly and tumultuously that he found it impossible to concentrate his attention.

  The clocks struck half-past eight, nine, ten, and half-past ten, and still he sat motionless in his place. Again the Italian servant came in, put wood on the fire and looked to the lamps. Did the Signore know what orders were to be given for the night? The Signore did not know, as her ladyship was still with his lordship, and was not to be disturbed, but some food must be kept ready in case she needed it. Eleven, half-past, twelve. Again the door opened. There was something awful in the monotony of it all, Ghisleri thought, but this time Donald appeared instead of the Italian, who had been sent to bed. After making very much the same inquiries as the latter, Donald paused.

  “His lordship is very ill, sir, as I understand,” he said. He had known Ghisleri as his master’s friend for years.

  “Yes, Donald, he is very ill,” answered Ghisleri, gravely. “It is scarlet fever, the doctor says. We must all help to take care of him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The few insignificant words exchanged with the servant seemed to rouse Ghisleri from the reverie in which he had sat so many hours. When Donald was gone he rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the drawing-room. The inaction was irksome, and he longed to be of use. He would have gone to Arden’s room, but he fancied it would be better to let Laura stay there without him, until she was very tired, and then to take her place. She would be more likely to rest if she had a long watch at first, he thought. As a matter of fact, an odd sort of delicacy influenced him, too, almost without his knowing it, — an undefined instinct which made him leave her with the man she so dearly loved in the presence only of a stranger and a woman, rather than intrude himself as the third person and the witness of her anxiety.

  As he turned for the fiftieth time in his short, monotonous walk, he saw Laura entering at the opposite end of the room. She was dressed all in white, in a loose robe of some soft and warm material, gathered about the waist and hanging in straight folds. Her heavy black hair was fastened in a great knot, low at the back of her head. The light fell full upon her pale face and deep, dark eyes as she caught sight of Ghisleri, and stood still at the door, her hand upon the curtain as she thrust it aside from before her. She was so really beautiful at that moment that Pietro started and stared at her.

  “I did not know you were here,” she said softly. He came forward to meet her.

  “I will take my turn when you are willing to go and rest,” he answered. “I have waited for that reason. How is he now?”

  “Much more quiet,” answered Laura. “The sister persuaded me that my being there perhaps prevented his going to sleep, and so I came away. She will call me if there is any change. Oh! if he could only sleep!”

  Ghisleri knew how very improbable such a fortunate circumstance was at the outset of such a severe illness, but he said nothing about it. Any idea which could give Laura hope was good in itself. She sank into a deep chair by the fire and watched the flames, her chin resting on her hand. She seemed almost unconscious of Ghisleri’s presence as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down at her.

  “I will go and see how he is,” he said at last, and went towards the door. Just as he touched the handle she called him in an odd tone as though she were startled by something.

  “Signor Ghisleri! Please come back.”

  He obeyed, and resumed his former attitude.

  “I am very nervous,” she said, with a little shiver. “Please do not leave me — I — I am afraid to be alone. If you wish to go, we will go together.”

  Ghisleri concealed his surprise, which was considerable. The wish she expressed was very foreign to her usually quiet and collected nature. He saw that her nerves were rudely shaken.

  “It is very weak of me,” she said presently, in an apologetic tone. “But I see his face all the time, and I hear that dreadful wandering talk — I cannot bear it.”

  “I do not wonder,” answered Pietro, quietly. “You must be very tired, too. Will you not lie down on the sofa, while I sit here and wait? It would be so much better. You will need your strength to-morrow.”

  “That is true,” she said, as though struck by the truth of the last words.

  She crossed the room and lay down upon a large sofa at a little distance
from the fire, arranged the folds of her dress with that modest, womanly dignity some women have in their smallest actions, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes. Pietro sat down and looked at her, musing over the strange combination of circumstances which formed themselves in his life. It seemed odd that he should be where he was, towards the small hours of the morning, watching over one of the women he admired most in the world, keeping his place at her especial request, when he had in reality come to help in taking care of her husband. How the world would wag its head and talk, he thought, if it could guess where he was!

  For a long time Laura did not move, and he was sure that she was still awake. Then, all at once, he saw her hands relax and loosen from each other, her head turned a little on the dark velvet cushion, and she sighed as she sank to sleep. She was less quiet after that. Her lips moved, and she stirred uneasily from time to time, evidently dreaming over again the painful scenes of the evening. Ghisleri rang the bell, crossed the room swiftly, and opened the door without noise. Donald appeared in the hall outside.

  “Her ladyship has fallen asleep on the sofa,” said Pietro. “She does not wish to be left alone. Is there any woman servant awake in the house?”

  “No, sir. Her ladyship sent her maid to bed.”

  “Never mind. Go and sit quietly in the drawing-room, in case she should need anything, while I go and see how Lord Herbert is.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The world would have been even more surprised now than before, especially if it could have understood the meaning of what Ghisleri did, and the refined reverence implied in his unwillingness to remain in the drawing-room longer than necessary. It would not have believed in his motive, and it would have added that he was very foolish not to enjoy the artistic pleasure of watching over the beautiful woman in her sleep as long as he could, more especially as she had gone to the length of asking him to do so. But Ghisleri thought very differently.

  He entered the sick-room, and sat down by the bedside. Arden was in a restless state between waking and unconsciousness, moaning aloud without articulating any words, his face flushed to a deep purple hue, his eyes half open and turned up under the lids, so that only the white was visible. The sister was seated by the table, on which stood a small lamp, the light being screened from Arden by a makeshift consisting of the cover of a bandbox supported by a few heavy books. When Ghisleri had entered she had glanced at him, and explained by a sign that there was no change. Neither he nor she thought of speaking during the hour that followed. The sister had a watch before her on the table, and at regular intervals she rose, poured a spoonful of something into Arden’s mouth, smoothed his pillow, saw that he was as comfortable as he could be, and went back to her seat. At the end of the hour she took Arden’s temperature with the fever thermometer, and wrote down the result on a sheet of paper. It had fallen one-tenth of a degree since midnight.