Prince Savelli met them all in an outer drawing-room, the same indeed in which poor Herbert Arden had talked with Francesco a few days before his death. He was coldly courteous to San Giacinto, but greeted the others somewhat more warmly.
“May I ask what the nature of your communication is?” he inquired of the former.
“I prefer to explain it in the presence of Donna Adele, as it concerns her directly,” answered San Giacinto: “It is useless to tell a story twice.”
The extremely high and mighty head of all the Savelli stared up at the giant through his big spectacles. He was not at all used to being treated with so little consideration. But the other was a match for him, and stood carelessly waiting for the master of the house to lead the way.
“Considering whom you represent,” said the Prince, “your manner is somewhat imperative.”
San Giacinto’s heavy brows bent in an ominous frown, and Savelli found it impossible to meet the gaze of the hard, deep-set eyes for more than a few seconds.
“I represent an innocent man, whom you and yours are trying to ruin. As for my manners, they were learned in an inn and not in Casa Savelli. I shall be obliged if you will lead the way.”
Sant’ Ilario suppressed a smile. He had seen his strong cousin in more than one such encounter, but he had never seen any one resist him long. Savelli did not reply, but turned and went before them and opened the door. They passed through another drawing-room and through a third, and then found themselves in Adele’s boudoir. She was seated in a deep chair near the fire, warming her transparent hands at the flame. Her face was exactly of the colour of the yellow ashes of certain kinds of wood. It seemed impossible that any human being could be so thin as she seemed, and live. But there was yet some strength left, and her strong will, aided by the silent but insane satisfaction she felt in Ghisleri’s ruin, kept her still in a sort of animation which was sometimes almost like her old activity. She had, of course, been warned of the impending interview, but she thought that San Giacinto had come to propose some compromise to the advantage of Ghisleri, and her father-in-law and husband were inclined to share her opinion; she meant to refuse everything, and to say that she would abide the judgment of the courts. She did not rise when the party entered, but held out her hand to each in succession. Francesco Savelli stood beside her, and also shook hands with each, but made no remark.
“Sit down,” said Prince Savelli, moving forward a chair.
“Thank you,” answered San Giacinto, “but it is useless. We shall stay only long enough for Donna Adele to sign a paper I have brought with me. We do not wish to disturb you further than necessary. With your permission I will read the document.”
And thereupon, standing before her, he read it slowly and distinctly. Prince Savelli gradually turned pale, for he knew the man, and guessed that he possessed some terribly sure means of enforcing his will. But Adele laughed scornfully and her husband followed her example.
“Is there any reason why I should sign that very singular and untrue declaration?” she asked, with contempt.
San Giacinto looked at her steadily for a moment, and without reasoning she began to feel afraid.
“I have a strong argument in my pocket,” he said. “For I have your confession here, and the priest with whom it has been deposited since the day it was found is waiting in the hall, if you wish to see him.”
Adele shook from head to foot, and her hands moved spasmodically. She made a great effort, however, and succeeded in speaking.
“The fact that it has been in a place where Ghisleri knew how to find it is the last proof of his guilt we required,” she said, mechanically repeating the words she had heard her father-in-law use more than once.
“Ghisleri never saw it and never knew where it was until yesterday,” answered San Giacinto. “If you will oblige me by signing this paper, I will not trouble you any further.”
“I will not sign it, nor anything of such a nature,” said Adele, desperately.
“You are perfectly free to do as you please,” answered San Giacinto. “And so am I. Since you positively refuse, there is nothing left for me to do but to go away. But I forgot to tell you that the humble person who found it was able to read, and read it, before taking it to the priest, and that he has informed me most minutely of the contents. I see you are annoyed at that, and I am not surprised, for in half an hour it will be in the hands of the attorney-general. Good morning, Princess.”
In the dead silence that followed one might have heard a pin fall, or a feather. San Giacinto waited a few moments and then turned to go. Instantly Adele uttered a sharp cry and sprang to her feet. With a quickness of which no one present would have believed her capable, she was at his side, and holding him back by the arm. He turned again and looked calmly down at her.
“You do not mean to do what you threaten?” she cried, in abject terror.
“I mean to take this sealed document to the attorney-general without losing a moment,” he answered. “You know very well what will happen if I do that.”
Both Savelli and his son came forward while he was speaking.
“I will not allow you to hint in my house that anything in that confession could have any consequences to my daughter-in-law,” said the Prince, in a loud voice. “You have no right to make any such assertions.”
“If Donna Adele wishes it, I will break the seal and read her own account,” answered San Giacinto. He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the packet.
Altogether losing control of herself, Adele tried to snatch it from his hand, but he held it high in air, and his vast figure towered above the rest of the group, still more colossal by the gesture of the upstretched arm.
“You see for yourselves what importance Donna Adele attaches to this trifle,” he said, in deep tones. “You would do well to persuade her to sign that paper. That is the only exchange I will take for what I hold. She knows that every word written there is true — as true as every word she has written here,” he added, glancing up at the sealed letter. “I will wait one minute more by that clock, and then I will go.”
The two Savelli gazed at Adele in undisguised astonishment and horror. It was clear enough from her face and terrified manner that San Giacinto spoke the truth, and that the confession he held contained some awful secret of which they were wholly ignorant.
“What is the meaning of all this, Adele?” asked the Prince, sternly. “What does that confession contain?”
But she did not answer, as she sank into a chair before the table, and almost mechanically dipped a pen into the ink. San Giacinto laid the formal denial before her, holding the confession behind him, for he believed her capable of snatching it from him and tossing it into the fire at any moment. She signed painfully in large, sloping characters that decreased rapidly in size at the end of each of her two names. The pen fell from her hand as she finished, and San Giacinto quietly laid the sealed letter before her. If she had been on the point of fainting, the sight recalled her to herself. She seized it eagerly and broke the seals, one after the other. Then she went to the fire, assured herself that the sheets were all there, and were genuine, and thrust the whole into the flames, watching until the last shred was consumed.
Meanwhile San Giacinto silently handed the pen to Sant’ Ilario, who signed and passed it to Gianforte. He in his turn gave it to San Giacinto, and the transaction was concluded. The two cousins, as though by common instinct, glanced at the page on which was written twice “Giovanni Saracinesca,” and each thought of all the pain and anxiety the coincidence had caused in days long gone by. The last time they had signed a document together had been in the study of the Palazzo Montevarchi more than twenty years earlier, when they were still young men.
“You see for yourselves,” said San Giacinto, turning to the two Savelli as he neatly folded the paper, “that Donna Adele desires no further explanation, and wishes the contents of the letter she has burned to remain a secret. So far as I am concerned I pledg
e my word never to divulge it, nor to hint at it, and I have reason to believe that those who are acquainted with it will do the same. So far as one man can answer for another, I will be responsible for them. With regard to the finding of the letter and to the manner of its being kept so long, I leave Don Tebaldo, the parish priest of Gerano, to explain that. You can question him at your leisure. Our mission is accomplished, and Pietro Ghisleri’s innocence is established for ever. That is all I wished. Good morning.”
After burning the confession Adele had let herself fall into the deep chair in which she had been sitting when the three friends entered the room. Her head had fallen back, and her jaw dropped in a ghastly fashion. She looked as though she were dead; but her hands twitched convulsively, rising suddenly and falling again upon her knees. It was impossible to say whether she was conscious or not.
The two Savelli, father and son, stood on the other side of the fireplace and looked at her, still speechless at her conduct, which they could only half understand, but which could mean nothing but disgrace to her and dishonour to them. The elder man seemed to suffer the more, and he leaned heavily against the chimney-piece, supporting his head with his hand. Neither the one nor the other paid any attention to the three men as they silently left the room.
San Giacinto begged Don Tebaldo to wait a short time, and then to send a messenger inquiring whether the Prince wished to see him, and if not, to return at once to the palace in which San Giacinto lived. Then he took Bonifazio with him as well as Campodonico and Sant’ Ilario, and went at once to Ghisleri’s lodging. They found him breakfasting alone in a rather sketchy fashion, for Bonifazio had not been allowed by San Giacinto to return to his master until everything was accomplished. He showed some surprise when he opened the door himself, and found the three together on the landing.
“Is anything the matter?” he inquired, as he ushered them into the sitting-room, where he had been taking his meal.
“On the contrary,” said San Giacinto, “we have come to tell you that nothing is the matter. This paper may amuse you; but it is worth keeping, as Campodonico and my cousin can testify, for their names appear in it as witnesses.”
Ghisleri read the contents carefully, and they could see how his brow cleared at every word.
“You have been the best friend to me that any man ever had,” he said, grasping San Giacinto’s huge hand.
“You could have done it quite as well yourself, only I knew you would not do it at all,” answered the latter. “I have no scruples in dealing with such people, nor do I see why any one should have any. But you would have gone delicately and presented Donna Adele with the confession, and then when she had burned it before your eyes, you would have told her that you trusted to her sense of justice to right you in the opinion of the world.”
Ghisleri laughed. He was so happy that he would have laughed at anything. After giving him a short account of what had taken place, all three left him, going, as they said, to breakfast at the club, and inform the world of what had happened. And so they did. And before the clock struck eight that night, Bonifazio had received a hundred visiting cards, each with two words, “to congratulate,” written upon it in pencil, and four invitations to dinner addressed to Pietro Ghisleri. For the world is unconsciously wise in its generation, and on the rare occasions when it has found out that it has made a mistake, its haste to do the civil thing is almost indecent. In eight and forty hours the whole Savelli family and the Prince and Princess of Gerano had left Rome, and Ghisleri found it hard to keep one evening a week free for himself.
But in the afternoon of that day on which San Giacinto had so suddenly turned the tables upon Pietro’s adversaries, Pietro went to see Laura Arden. She, of course, was in ignorance of what had occurred, and was amazed by the change she saw in his face when he entered.
“Something good has happened, I am sure!” she exclaimed, as she came half-way across the room to meet him with outstretched hands.
“Yes,” he said, “something very unexpected has happened. The confession has been found, Donna Adele has admitted that the whole story was a fabrication, and she has signed a formal denial of every accusation, past, present, and to come. I am altogether cleared.”
“Thank God! Thank God!” Laura cried, wringing his two hands, and gazing into his eyes.
“You are glad,” he said. “I suppose I knew you would be, but I could not realise that it would make so much difference to you.”
“In one way it makes no difference,” she said more quietly, as she sat down and pointed to his accustomed place. “I knew the truth from the beginning. But it is for you. I saw how unhappy you were yesterday. Now tell me all about it.”
He told her all that had taken place since he had left her on the previous day, as it has been told in these pages, and his heart beat fast as he saw in her eyes the constant and great interest she felt.
“And so I am quite free of it all at last,” he said, when he had finished.
“And you will be happy now,” answered Laura, softly. “You have been through almost everything, it seems to me. Do you realise how much I know of all your life? It is strange, is it not? You are not fond of making confidences, and you never made but one to me, when you could not help yourself. Yes; it is very strange that I should know so much about you.”
“And still be willing to call me your friend?” added Ghisleri. “I do not know how you can — and yet—” He stopped. “The reason is,” he said suddenly, “that you have long been a part of my life — that is why you know me so well. I think that even long ago we were much more intimate than we knew or dreamed of. There were many reasons for that.”
“Yes,” Laura answered. “And then, after all, I have known you ever since I first went out as a young girl. I did not like you at first, I remember, though I could never tell why. But as for your saying that you cannot see why I should still be your friend, I do not understand how you mean it. It seems to me that you have done much to get my friendship and to strengthen it, and nothing to lose it. Besides, you yourself know that you are not what you were. You have changed. You were saying so only yesterday, and you said the change was for the better.”
“Yes, I have changed,” said Ghisleri. “It is of no use to deny it. I do not mean in everything, though I do not lead the life I did. Perhaps it all goes together after all.”
“That is not very clear,” observed Laura, with a low laugh.
Ghisleri was silent for a moment.
“I do not think of you as I did,” he said. “That is the greatest change of all.”
Laura did not answer. She leaned back in her seat, and looked across the room.
“I never thought it would come,” he said. “For years I honourably believed I could be your friend. I know, now, that I cannot. I love you far too deeply — with far too little right.”
Still Laura did not speak. But she turned her face from him, laying her cheek against the silken cushion behind her.
“Perhaps I am doing very wrong in telling you this,” said Ghisleri, trying to steady his voice. “But I made up my mind that it was better, and more honest. I do not believe that you love me, that you ever can love me in the most distant future of our lives. I am prepared for that. I will not trouble you with my love. I will never speak of it again — for I can never hope to win you. But at least you know the truth.”
Slowly Laura turned her face again and her eyes met his. There was a deep, warm light in them. She seemed to hesitate. Then the words came sharply, in a loud, clear voice, unlike her own, as though the great secret had burst every barrier and had broken out against her will by its own strength, sudden, startling, new to herself and to the man who heard it.
“I love you now!”
Ghisleri turned as deadly pale as when Gianforte’s bullet had so nearly gone through his heart. The words rang out in the quiet room with an intensity and distinctness of tone not to be described. He had not even guessed that she might love him. For one moment they looked at one a
nother, both white with passion, both trembling a little, the black eyes and the blue both gleaming darkly. Then Ghisleri took the two hands that were stretched out to meet his own, and each felt that the other’s were very cold. As though by a common instinct they both rose, and stood a moment face to face. Then his arms went round her. He did not know until long afterwards that when he kissed her he lifted her from the ground.
It had all been sudden, strange, and unlike anything in his whole life, unexpected beyond anything that had ever happened to him. Perhaps it was so with her, too. They remembered little of what they said in those first moments, but by and by, as they sat side by side on the sofa, words came again.
“I knew it when you went away last summer,” said Ghisleri. “And then I thought I should never tell you.”
“And I found it out when I left you,” answered Laura. “I found that I could not live without you and be happy. Did you guess nothing when I made you come to me yesterday? Yesterday — only yesterday! It seems like last year. Did you think it was mere friendship?”
“Yes, I thought it was that and nothing more — but such friendship as I had never dreamed of.”
“Nor any one else, perhaps,” said Laura, with a happy smile. “For I would have come, you know, in spite of every one. What would you have done then, I wonder?”
“Then? Do not speak of yesterday. What could I have done? Could I have told you that I loved you with such an accusation hanging over me? No, you know that. It was only yesterday that I asked you to let me leave you rather suddenly — did you not guess the reason?”
“I thought you were ill — no — well, it crossed my mind that you might be a little, just a little, in love with me.” She laughed.
“I felt ill afterwards. I was horrified when I thought how nearly I had spoken.”
“And why should you not have spoken, if it was in your heart?” asked Laura, taking his hand again. “Why should you have thought, even for a moment, that I could care what people said. You are you, and I am I, whether the world is with us or against us. And I think, dear, that we shall need the world very little now. Perhaps it will change its mind and pretend it needs us.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 636