Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “It will produce a good effect,” he said; “most people are fools or cowards, or both, and imitation as a rule needs neither courage nor wisdom. Come and dine with us to-morrow night, and I will have a party ready for you who do not belong to the majority. I shall go to the club now and give an account of the day’s doings.”

  “Why not wait and let people find out for themselves what has happened?” asked Pietro. “Will it do any good to talk of it?”

  “Since people must talk or die,” answered San Giacinto, “I am of opinion that they had better tell the truth than invent lies.”

  When he was gone Ghisleri wondered what had impelled him to take so much trouble. It would have been quite enough if he had appeared at the right moment to give security for him, and that alone would have been a very valuable service. But San Giacinto had done much more, for his action had shown the world from the first that he intended to take Ghisleri’s side. The latter, who was always surprised when any one showed anything approaching to friendship for him, was exceedingly grateful, and determined that he would not in future laugh at the idea of spontaneous human kindness without motive, as he had often laughed in the past.

  Meanwhile San Giacinto went to his club. A score of men were lounging in the rooms, and most of them had been talking of the new scandal, though in a rather guarded way, for no one wished to quarrel either with Ghisleri or his ally. On seeing the latter go to the smoking-room, almost every one in the club followed him, out of curiosity, in the hope that he would give some explanation of what had occurred. They were not disappointed. San Giacinto stood with his back to the fireplace, looking at each face that presented itself before him.

  “Gentlemen,” he began: “I see that you expect me to say something. I will. I do not wish to offend any one; but, with the exception of all of ourselves here assembled, most people tell lies, consciously or unconsciously, when they do not know the truth, and sometimes when they do, which is worse. So I mean to tell you the truth about my driving with Ghisleri and two policemen to-day, and the reason why I have been driving with him all the afternoon. After that you may believe what you like about the matter. The facts are these. Yesterday Ghisleri wrote me a note telling me that he expected shortly to be arrested on a charge of extortion and asking if I would be bail for him. That is what I have done. The accusation comes from Casa Savelli, and declares that for two years and a half Ghisleri has had possession of that letter belonging to Donna Adele which she wrote to her confessor, which was lost on the way, and of which we have all heard vague hints for some time. Casa Savelli says that Ghisleri has been trying to make her pay money for it, and has otherwise made her life unbearable to her by means of it. There are letters of Ghisleri’s referring to the manuscript of Isabella Montevarchi’s confession which was for sale this autumn, and Casa Savelli says that this manuscript was spoken of in order to disguise the real transaction contemplated. Ghisleri says it is a plot to ruin him, and that he has been aware of it ever since last spring. Meanwhile he has actually been arrested and I have given bail for him. That is the story. I drove about with him this afternoon to show that I, for my part, take his side, and believe him to be perfectly innocent. That is what I had to say. I am obliged to you for having listened so patiently.”

  As he turned to go away, not caring for any further discussion at the time, he was aware that a dark man of medium height, with very broad shoulders and fierce, black eyes, was standing beside him, facing the crowd.

  “I am entirely of San Giacinto’s opinion,” said Gianforte Campodonico, in clear tones. “I believe Ghisleri utterly incapable of any such baseness. Donna Adele Savelli is a relation of mine, but I will stand by Ghisleri in this, come what may. I hope that no one will have the audacity to propose any action of the club in the case, such as requesting him to withdraw, until after the trial.”

  “But when a man is indicted for crime, and has been arrested—” began some one in the crowd.

  “I said,” repeated Gianforte, interrupting the speaker in a hard and menacing voice, “that I hoped no one would have the audacity to propose that the club should take any action in the case. I hope I have made myself clearly understood.”

  Such was the character and reputation of Campodonico that the man who had begun to speak did not attempt to proceed, not so much from timidity, perhaps, as because he felt that in the end two men like Gianforte and San Giacinto must carry public opinion with them. As they stood side by side before the fireplace, they were as strong and determined a pair of champions as any one could have wished to have.

  “You are quite right,” said San Giacinto, in an approving tone. “Of course I have neither the power nor the right to prevent discussion. Every one will talk about this case and the trial, and as it is a public affair every one has a right to do so, I suppose. I only wish it to be known that I believe Ghisleri innocent, and I am glad to see that Campodonico, who knows him very well, is of my opinion.”

  After this there was nothing more to be said, and the crowd dispersed, talking together in low tones. The two men who had undertaken Ghisleri’s defence remained together. San Giacinto looked down at his young companion, and his stern face softened strangely. A certain kind of manly courage and generosity was the only thing that ever really touched him.

  “I am glad to see that there are still men in the world,” he said. “Will you have a game of billiards?”

  The first result of this was that there was relatively very little talk about Ghisleri among the men when they were together. It is probable that both San Giacinto and Campodonico would have spoken precisely as they did, if all the assembled tribe of Savelli and Gerano had been present to hear them; and when the two families heard what had been said, they were very angry indeed. Unfortunately for them, nothing could be done. As San Giacinto had rightly put it, the trial was to be a public affair, and every one had a right to his own opinion. But there were not wanting those who sided with the Savelli, for though Ghisleri had few enemies, if any, besides Adele, yet there were many who were jealous of him for his social successes, and who disliked his calm air of superiority. The story became the constant topic of conversation in most of the Roman families, and many who had for years received Ghisleri immediately determined that they would be very cautious and cool until he should prove his innocence to the world.

  He himself, during the days which followed, saw much of San Giacinto, who told him what Campodonico had said at the club.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  WHEN LAURA ARDEN returned to Rome, she was met by her mother with a full account of what had taken place. Under any ordinary circumstances the Princess of Gerano would have been very merciful in her judgment and would assuredly not have hastened to give her daughter every detail of the last great scandal. But she had never liked Ghisleri, and she had feared that Laura was falling in love with him, and he with Laura. Moreover, neither her love for her own child nor Adele’s shortcomings had destroyed all her affection for the latter, and under her husband’s influence she had lately come to look upon Ghisleri as a monster of iniquity and on Adele as little less than a martyr. She spared Laura nothing as she told the story, and was unconsciously guilty of considerable exaggeration in explaining the view the world in general took of the case, though that was bad enough at best. Laura’s dark eyes flashed with indignation as she listened.

  “I do not believe a word of this story, mother,” she said. “As for the part I am supposed to have played in it, you had better know the truth at once. When I got those letters, I sent for Signor Ghisleri, and gave them to him. We knew at once that they came from Adele herself.”

  She told her mother exactly what had occurred, and how she had believed in him then, and should believe in him still. The Princess sighed and shook her head.

  “There is very little left to believe in, my dear,” she said, “trustful though you are, to a fault. I hope you will at all events not receive him until after the trial. Indeed, it will be quite impossible — I am sure you woul
d not think of it. If he has any sense of decency left, he will not call.”

  “I will not only receive him,” answered Laura, without hesitation: “whenever he chooses to come, but if he does not come of his own accord, I will make him. What is the use of friendship, if it will not bear any test?”

  “I suppose it is of no use to discuss the matter,” said the Princess, wearily. “You will do as you please. I do not recognise you any longer.”

  As soon as her mother was gone, Laura wrote a note to Pietro, telling him that she had heard all the story, that she believed in him as firmly as ever, and begging him to come and see her on the following day at the usual hour. The last words dropped from her pen naturally. It seemed but yesterday that they had spoken of meeting “at the usual hour” on the morrow of the day after that. Ghisleri’s heart beat faster as he broke the seal, and when he came to the words he was conscious that its beating annoyed him. He knew, now, that he loved her well, as he had loved but once before in his life. But he determined that he would not go and see her. He blessed her for believing in his innocence, but there were many strong reasons against his going to her house, or even seeing her. Merely on general grounds he would have kept away, while under the accusation which hung over him, as even the Princess of Gerano had anticipated that he would, and feeling as he did that he loved her in good earnest, it would have seemed absolutely dishonourable to renew their former relations until he had cleared himself. He wrote her a short note.

  “My Dear Friend: — I am deeply touched by your wishing to see me, and I am more than ever grateful for your friendship and for the faith you have in me. But I will not come to you at present. I am accused of a crime worse than most crimes, in my opinion, and the world is by no means altogether on my side. When I have cleared myself publicly, I will come and thank you — if I can find words for the thanks you deserve.

  “Most gratefully and faithfully,

  “Pietro Ghisleri.”

  He was not prepared for the answer which came within the hour in the shape of a second note, short, vigorous, and decisive. It seemed hard to realise that the sweet, dark woman with deep, holy eyes, as he had once described her, could be the writer of such determined words.

  “My Dear Signor Ghisleri: — I care for the world and its opinion much less than you do for my sake, or than you suppose I do for myself. I mean to see you, and to have it known that I see you, and I will. If you are not here to-morrow at precisely one o’clock I will go to your lodgings and wait for you if you are out. People may say what they please.

  “Ever yours sincerely,

  “Laura Arden.”

  Ghisleri read the note over several times, to be quite sure that he had not misunderstood it, and then burned it, as he had always burned everything in the nature of writing until his last difficulties had begun. He saw that Laura had forced the situation, and he knew her well enough not to doubt that she would execute her threat to the letter, and wait for him, watch in hand, on the morrow. He hated himself for being glad, for he knew that the world she despised would give her little credit for her generous act. Yet, in spite of his self-contempt, he was happy. Five minutes before one o’clock on the next day he rang at her door. She had returned as usual to the small apartment she had occupied since leaving the Tempietto.

  He found her dressed for walking, all in black, and looking at the clock. As he entered she turned and laughed happily. There was a faint colour in her cheeks too.

  “I knew you would not let me ruin my reputation for the sake of your obstinacy,” she said, as she came forward to meet him. “In four minutes I would have left the house.” She grasped his hand warmly as she spoke.

  “No,” he said, “I could not have done that. What ways you have of forcing people to obey you! But you are very wrong; I still maintain that.”

  “Sit down,” she said, “and let us talk of more interesting things. I must hear the whole story from your own lips, though I am sure my mother did her best to be quite truthful; but she does not understand you and never will, as I begin to think.”

  “Tell me first how you are, and about Herbert,” said Ghisleri. “You will hear quite enough of this miserable affair. It will keep a day or two.”

  “It need not keep so long as that,” answered Laura, “I can tell you the news in a few words. I am perfectly well. Herbert is perfectly well too, thank God, and has outgrown his clothes twice and his shoes four times since we have been away. Since I last wrote great things have happened. I have been in England again at last, and have stayed with the Lulworths. You see I am in mourning. Uncle Herbert died a month ago. I never saw the old gentleman but once, for he lived in the most extraordinary way, in complete isolation. You know that — well, he is dead, and he has left all the fortune to my Herbert, with a life interest in one-quarter of it for me, besides an enormous allowance for Herbert’s education. That is all there is to tell.”

  “It is good news indeed,” said Ghisleri. “I am so glad. It will make an immense difference to you, though of course you have known of it a long time.”

  “It will not make so much difference as you fancy. I shall go on living much as I do, for I have had almost all I wanted in these years. But I am glad for Herbert’s sake, of course. And now begin, please, and do not stop until you have told me everything.”

  “Needs must, when you will anything,” Ghisleri answered, with a faint smile.

  So he told her the story, while she listened and watched him. She had developed in strength and decision during the last year, more rapidly than before, and he felt in speaking to her as though she had power to help him and would use it. He was grateful, and more than grateful. Within the last few weeks he had learned that the strongest and most determined men may sometimes need a friend. He had long had one in her, and he had found a new one in San Giacinto; but though the latter’s imposing personality had more influence in the world than that of any man Ghisleri knew, there was that in Laura’s sympathy which gave him a new strength of his own, and fresh courage to face the many troubles he expected to encounter before long. For man gets no such strength in life to do great deeds or to bear torments sudden and sharp or mean, little and harassing, as he gets from the woman he loves, even though he does not yet know that she loves him again.

  “I hope I do not take my own side too much,” he said, as he ended the long tale, “though I suppose that when a man is perfectly innocent he has a right to say hard things of people who accuse him. For my own part, I believe that Donna Adele is mad. There is the ingenuity of madness in everything she does in this affair. No sane person could invent such a story almost out of nothing, and make half the world believe it.”

  “She may be mad,” Laura answered, “but she is bad, too. It will all come out at the trial, and she will get what she deserves.”

  “I hope so. But do you know what I really expect? Unless it can be proved that the confession has been all the time in the safe keeping of some person who has not even read it, I shall be convicted and imprisoned. I am quite prepared for that. I suppose that will come to me by way of expiation for my sins.”

  “Please do not talk like that,” cried Laura. “It is absurd! There is no court in the world that would convict you — a perfectly innocent man. Besides I shall give my evidence about those letters. I shall insist upon it. That alone would be enough to clear you.”

  “I am afraid not. Even my lawyer thinks that your testimony would not help me much. After all, you know what happened. I told you that I was innocent, and you believed me. Or, if you please, you believed me innocent before I said I was. There is only your belief or my word to fall back upon, and neither would prove anything in court. Ubaldini says so. I really expect to be convicted, and I will bear it as well as I can. I will certainly not do anything to escape from it all.” He had hesitated as he reached the last words, but he saw that Laura understood.

  “You should not even think of such things,” she said gravely. “You are far too brave a man to take your ow
n life even if you were convicted, and you shall not be. I tell you that you shall not be!” she repeated, with sudden energy.

  “No one can tell. But I am inclined to think that if you were angry you might terrify judge and jury into doing whatever you pleased.” He laughed a little. “You have grown so strong of late that I hardly recognise you. What has made the change?”

  “Something — I cannot explain it to you. Besides — was I ever a weak woman? Did I ever hesitate much?”

  “No, that is true. Perhaps I did not use the right word. You seem more active, more alive, more determined to influence other people.”

  “Do I? It may be true. I fancy I am less saint-like in your opinion than I was. I am glad of it. You used to think me quite different from what I was. But I know that I have changed during this summer. I feel it now.”

  “So have I. The change began before you went away.” Ghisleri glanced at her, and then looked at the wall.

  A short silence followed. Both felt strangely conscious that their former relation had not been renewed exactly where it had been interrupted by their separation in the summer. But there was nothing awkward about the present break in the conversation.

  “In what way have you changed?” asked Laura at last. She had evidently been thinking of his words during the pause.