Instead of diminishing with his marriage, the obligations under which he was placed towards Donna Francesca were constantly increasing. She saw and understood his wife’s social ambition, and gave herself trouble to satisfy it. Reanda felt this keenly, and while his gratitude increased, he inwardly wished that each kindness might be the last. But Gloria had the ambition and the right to be received in society on a footing of equality, and no one but Francesca Campodonico could then give her what she wanted.
She did not obtain what is commonly called social success, though many people received her and her husband during the following winter. She got admiration in plenty, and she herself believed that it was friendship. Of the two, Reanda, who had no social ambition at all, was by far the more popular. He was, as ever, quiet and unassuming, as became a man of his extraordinary talent. He so evidently preferred in society to talk with intelligent people rather than to make himself agreeable to the very great, that the very great tried to attract him to themselves, in order to appear intelligent in the eyes of others. They altogether forgot that he was the son of the steward of Gerano, though he sometimes spoke unaffectedly of his boyhood.
But Gloria reminded people too often that she had a right to be where she was, as the daughter of Angus Dalrymple, who might some day be Lord Redin. Fortunately for her, no one knew that Dalrymple had begun life as a doctor, and very far from such prospects as now seemed quite within the bounds of realization. But even as the possible Lord Redin, her father’s existence did not interest the Romans at all. They were not accustomed to people who thought it necessary to justify their social position by allusions to their parentage, and since Francesca Campodonico had assured them that Dalrymple was a gentleman, they had no further questions to ask, and raised their eyebrows when Gloria volunteered information on the subject of her ancestors. They listened politely, and turned the subject as soon as they could, because it bored them.
But the admiration she got was genuine of its kind, as admiration and as nothing else. Her magnificent voice was useful to ancient and charitable princesses who wished to give concerts for the benefit of the deserving poor, but her face disturbed the hearts of those excellent ladies who had unmarried sons, and of other excellent ladies who had gay husbands. Her beauty and her voice together were a danger, and must be admired from a distance. Gloria and her husband were asked to many houses on important occasions. Gloria went to see the princesses and duchesses, and found them at home. Their cards appeared regularly at the small house in the Macel de’ Corvi, but there was always a mystery as to how they got there, for the princesses and the duchesses themselves did not appear, except once or twice when Francesca Campodonico brought one of her friends with her, gently insisting that there should be a proper call. Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when she was alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband.
“These Romans!” she exclaimed at last. “They believe that there is nobody like themselves!”
Angelo Reanda’s face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin hand upon hers.
“My dear,” he said gently. “You have married an artist. What would you have? I am sure, people have received us very well.”
“Very well! Of course — as though we had not the right to be received well. But, Angelo — do not say such things — that I have married an artist—”
“It is quite true,” he answered, with a smile. “I work with my hands. They do not. There is the difference.”
“But you are the greatest artist in the world!” she cried enthusiastically, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him again and again. “It is ridiculous. In any other city, in London, in Paris, people would run after you, people would not be able to do enough for you. But it is not you; it is I. They do not like me, Angelo, I know that they do not like me! They want me at their big parties, and they want me to sing for them — but that is all. Not one of them wants me for a friend. I am so lonely, Angelo.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and he tried to comfort her.
“What does it matter, my heart?” he asked, soothingly. “We have each other, have we not? I, who adore you, and you, who love me—”
“Love you? I worship you! That is why I wish you to have everything the world holds, everything at your feet.”
“But I am quite satisfied,” objected Reanda, with unwise truth. “Do not think of me.”
She loved him, but she wished to put upon him some of her uncontrollable longing for social success, in order to justify herself. To please her, he should have joined in her complaint. Her tears dried suddenly, and her eyes flashed.
“I will think of you!” she cried. “I have nothing else to think of. You shall have it all, everything — they shall know what a man you are!”
“An artist, my dear, an artist. A little better than some, a little less good than others. What can society do for me?”
She sighed, and the colour deepened a little in her cheeks. But she hid her annoyance, for she loved him with a love at once passionate and intentional, compounded of reality and of a strong inborn desire for emotion, a desire closely connected with her longing for the life of the stage, but now suddenly thrown with full force into the channel of her actual life.
Reanda began to understand that his wife was not happy, and the certainty reacted strongly upon him. He became more sad and abstracted from day to day, when he was not with her. He longed, as only a man of such a nature can long, for a friend in whom he could confide, and of whom he could ask advice. He had such a friend, indeed, in Francesca Campodonico, but he was too proud to turn to her, and too deeply conscious that she had done all she could to give Gloria the social position the latter coveted.
Francesca, on her side, was not slow to notice that something was radically wrong. Reanda’s manner had changed by degrees since his marriage. His pride made him more formal with the woman to whom he owed so much, and she felt that she could do nothing to break down the barrier which was slowly rising between them. She suffered, in her way, for she was far more sincerely attached to the man than she recognized, or perhaps would have been willing to recognize, when she allowed herself to look the situation fairly in the face. For months she struggled against anything which could make her regret the marriage she had made. But at last she admitted the fact that she regretted it, for it thrust itself upon her and embittered her own life. Then she became conscious in her heart of a silent and growing enmity for Gloria, and of a profound pity for Angelo Reanda. Being ashamed of the enmity, as something both sinful in her eyes, and beneath the nobility of her nature, she expressed it, if that were expression, by allowing her pity for the man to assert itself as it would. That, she told herself, was a form of charity, and could not be wrong, however she looked at it.
All mention of Gloria vanished from her conversation with Reanda when they were alone together. At such times she did her best to amuse him, to interest him, and to take him out of himself. At first she had little success. He answered her, and sometimes even entered into an argument with her, but as soon as the subject dropped, she saw the look of harassed preoccupation returning in his face. So far as his work was concerned, what he did was as good as ever. Francesca thought it was even better. But otherwise he was a changed man.
In the course of the winter Paul Griggs returned. One day Francesca was sitting in the hall with Reanda, when a servant announced that Griggs had asked to see her. She glanced at Reanda’s face, and instantly decided to receive the American alone in the drawing-room, on the other side of the house.
“Why do you not receive him here?” asked Reanda, carelessly.
“Because—” she hesitated. “I should rather see him in the drawing-room,” she added a moment later, without giving any further explanation.
Griggs told her that he had come back to stay through the year and perhaps longer. She took a kindly interest in the young man, and was glad to hear that he had improved his position and prospects during his absence. He rarely fou
nd sympathy anywhere, and indeed needed very little of it. But he was capable of impulse, and he had long ago decided that Francesca was good, discreet, and kind. He answered her questions readily enough, and his still face warmed a little while she talked with him. She, on her part, could not help being interested in the lonely, hard-working man who never seemed to need help of any kind, and was climbing through life by the strength of his own hands. There was about him at that time an air of reserved power which interested though it did not attract those who knew him.
Suddenly he asked about Gloria and her husband. There was an odd abruptness in the question, and a hard little laugh, quite unnecessary, accompanied it. Francesca noted the change of manner, and remembered how she had at first conceived the impression that Griggs admired Gloria, but that Gloria was repelled by him.
“I suppose they are radiantly happy,” he said.
Francesca hesitated, being truthful by nature, as well as loyal. There was no reason why Griggs should not ask her the question, which was natural enough, but she had many reasons for not wishing to answer it.
“Are they not happy?” he asked quickly, as her silence roused his suspicions.
“I have never heard anything to the contrary,” answered Francesca, dangerously accurate in the statement.
“Oh!” Griggs uttered the ejaculation in a thoughtful tone, but said no more.
“I hope I have not given you the impression that there is anything wrong,” said Francesca, showing her anxiety too much.
“I saw Dalrymple in England,” answered Griggs, with ready tact. “He seems very well satisfied with the match. By the bye, I daresay you have heard that Dalrymple stands a good chance of dying a peer, if he ever dies at all. With his constitution that is doubtful.”
And he went on to explain to Francesca the matter of the Redin title, and that as Dalrymple’s elder brother, though married, was childless, he himself would probably come into it some day. Then Griggs took his leave without mentioning Reanda or Gloria again. But Francesca was aware that she had betrayed Reanda’s unhappiness to a man who had admired Gloria, and had probably loved her before her marriage. She afterwards blamed herself bitterly and very unjustly for what she had done.
Griggs went away, and called soon afterwards at the small house in the Macel de’ Corvi. He found Gloria alone, and she was glad to see him. She told him that Reanda would also be delighted to hear of his return. Griggs, who wrote about everything which gave him an opportunity of using his very various knowledge, wrote also upon art, and besides the first article he had written about Reanda, more than a year previously, had, since then, frequently made allusion to the artist’s great talent in his newspaper correspondence. Reanda was therefore under an obligation to the journalist, and Gloria herself was grateful. Moreover, Englishmen who came to Rome had frequently been to see Reanda’s work in consequence of the articles. One old gentleman had tried to induce the artist to paint a picture for him, but had met with a refusal, on the ground that the work at the Palazzetto Borgia would occupy at least another year. The Englishman said he should come back and try again.
Between Griggs and Gloria there was the sort of friendly confidence which could not but exist under the circumstances. She had known him long, and he had been her father’s only friend in Rome. She remembered him from the time when she had been a mere child, before her sudden transition to womanhood. She trusted him. She understood perfectly well that he loved her, but she believed that she had it in her power to keep his love as completely in the background as he himself had kept it hitherto. Her instinct told her also that Griggs might be a strong ally in a moment of difficulty. His reserved strength impressed her even more than it impressed Francesca Campodonico. She received him gladly, and told him to come again.
He came, and she asked him to dinner, feeling sure that Reanda would wish to see him. He accepted the first invitation and another which followed before long. By insensible degrees, during the winter, Griggs became very intimate at the house, as he had been formerly at Dalrymple’s lodgings.
“That young man loves you, my dear,” said Reanda, one day in the following spring, with a smile which showed how little anxiety he felt.
Gloria laughed gaily, and patted her husband’s hand.
“What men like that call love!” she answered. “Besides — a journalist! And hideous as he is!”
“He certainly has not a handsome face,” laughed Reanda. “I am not jealous,” he added, with sudden gravity. “The man has done much for my reputation, too, and I know what I owe him. I have good reason for wishing to treat him well, and I am all the more pleased, if you find him agreeable.”
He made the rather formal speech in a decidedly formal tone, and with the unconscious intention of justifying himself in some way, though he was far too simple by nature to suspect himself of any complicated motive. She looked at him, but did not quite understand.
“You surely do not suppose that I ever cared for him!” she said, readily suspecting that he suspected her.
He started perceptibly, and looked into her eyes. She was very truly in earnest, but her exaggerated self-consciousness had given her tone a colour which he did not recognize. Some seconds passed before he answered her. Then the gentle light came into his face as he realized how much he loved her.
“How foolish you are, love!” he exclaimed. “But Griggs is younger than I — it would not be so very unnatural if you had cared for him.”
She broke out passionately.
“Younger than you! So am I, much younger than you! But you are young, too. I will not have you suggest that you are not young. Of course you are. You are unkind, besides. As though it could make the slightest difference to me, if you were a hundred years old! But you do not understand what my love for you is. You will never understand it. I wish I loved you less; I should be happier than I am.”
He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained look which Francesca knew so well came into his face.
“Are you unhappy, my heart?” he asked gently. “What is it, dear? Tell me!”
She was nervous, and the confession or complaint had been unintentional and the result of irritation more than of anything else. The fact that he had taken it up made matters much worse. She was in that state in which such a woman will make a mountain of a molehill rather than forego the sympathy which her constitution needs in a larger measure than her small sufferings can possibly claim.
“Oh, so unhappy!” she cried softly, hiding her face against his coat, and glad to feel the tears in her eyes.
“But what is it?” he asked very kindly, smoothing her auburn hair with one hand, while the other pressed her to him.
As he looked over her head at the wall, his face showed both pain and perplexity. He had not the least idea what to do, except to humour her as much as he could.
“I am so lonely, sometimes,” she moaned. “The days are so long.”
“And yet you do not come and sit with me in the mornings, as you used to do at first.” There was an accent of regret in his voice.
“She is always there,” said Gloria, pressing her face closer to his coat.
“Indeed she is not!” he cried, and she could feel the little breath of indignation he drew. “I am a great deal alone.”
“Not half as much as I am.”
“But what can I do?” he asked, in despair. “It is my work. It is her palace. You are free to come and go as you will, and if you will not come—”
“I know, I know,” she answered, still clinging to him. “You will say it is my fault. It is just like a man. And yet I know that you are there, hour after hour, with her, and she is young and beautiful. And she loves you — oh, I know she loves you!”
Reanda began to lose patience.
“How absurd!” he exclaimed. “It is ridiculous. It is an insult to Donna Francesca to say that she is in love with me.”
“It is true.” Gloria suddenly raised her head and drew back from him a very little. “I am a woman,” s
he said. “I know and I understand. She meant to sacrifice herself and make you happy, by marrying you to me, and now she regrets it. It is enough to see her. She follows you with her eyes as you move, and there is a look in them—”
Reanda laughed, with an effort.
“It is altogether too absurd!” he said. “I do not know what to say. I can only laugh.”
“Because you know it is true,” answered Gloria. “It is for your sake that she has done it all, that she makes such a pretence of being friendly to me, that she pushes us into society, and brings her friends here to see me. They never come unless she brings them,” she added bitterly. “There is no fear of that. The Duchess of Astrardente would not have her black horses seen standing in the Macel de’ Corvi, unless Donna Francesca made her do it and came with her.”
“Why not?” asked Reanda, simply, for his Italian mind did not grasp the false shame which Gloria felt in living in a rather humble neighbourhood.
“She would not have people know that she had friends living in such a place,” Gloria answered.
Unwittingly she had dealt Reanda a deadly thrust.
He had fallen in love with her and had married her on the understanding with himself, so to say, that she was in all respects as much a great lady as Donna Francesca herself, and he had taken it for granted that she must be above such pettiness. The lodging was extremely good and had the advantage of being very conveniently situated for his work. It had never struck him that because it was in an unfashionable position, Gloria could imagine that the people she knew would hesitate to come and see her. Since their marriage she had done and said many little things which had shaken his belief in the thoroughness of her refinement. She had suddenly destroyed that belief now, by a single foolish speech. It would be hard to build it up again.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 779