In the evening she told Bosio, the count’s brother, of what she had done. His gentle eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a few seconds, and he did not smile, nor did he make any observation.
A few minutes later he was talking of a picture he had seen for sale — a mere sketch, but by Ribera, called the Spagnoletto. She made up her mind to buy it for him as a surprise, for it pleased her to give him pleasure.
But when she was alone in her room that night she recalled Bosio’s expression when she had told him about the will. She was sure that he was not pleased, and she wondered why he had not at least said something in reply — something quite indifferent perhaps, but yet something, instead of looking at her in total silence, just for those few seconds. After all, she was really more intimate with him than with her aunt and uncle, and liked him better than either of them, so that she had a right to expect that he should have answered with something more than silence when she told him of such a matter.
She sat a long time in a deep chair near her toilet table, thinking about her own life, in the great dim room which half a dozen candles barely lighted; and perhaps it was the first time that she had really asked herself how long her present mode of existence was to continue, how long she was to lie half-hidden, as it were, in the sombrely respectable dimness of the Macomer establishment, how long she was to remain unmarried. Knowing the customs of her own people in regard to marriage, as she did, it was certainly strange that she should not have heard of any offer made to her uncle and aunt for her hand. Surely the mothers of marriageable sons knew of her existence, of her fortune, of the titles she held in her own right and could confer upon her husband and leave to her children. It was not natural that no one should wish to marry her, that no mother should desire such an heiress for her son.
With the distrustful introspection of maiden youth, she suddenly asked herself whether by any possibility she were different from other girls and whether she had not some strange defect, physical or mental, of which the existence had been most carefully concealed from her all her life. In the quick impulse she rose and brought all the burning candles to the toilet table, and lighted others, and stood before the mirror, in the yellow light, gazing most critically at her own reflexion. She looked long and earnestly and quite without vanity. She told herself, cataloguing her looks, that her hair was neither black nor brown, but that it was very thick and long and waved naturally; that her eyes were very dark, with queer little angles just above the lids, under the prominent brows; that her nose, seen in full face, looked very straight and rather small, though she had been told by the girls in the convent that it was aquiline and pointed; that her cheeks were thin and almost colourless; that her chin was round and smooth and prominent, her lips rather dark than red, and modelled in a high curve; that her ears were very small — she threw back the heavy hair to see them better, turning her face sideways to the glass; that her throat was over-slender, and her neck and arms far too thin for beauty, but with a young leanness which might improve with time, though nothing could ever make them white. She was dark, on the whole. She was willing to admit that she was sallow, that her eyes had a rather sad look in them, and even that one was almost imperceptibly larger than the other, though the difference was so small that she had never noticed it before, and it might be due to the uncertain light of the candles in the dim room. But most assuredly there was no physical defect to be seen. She was not beautiful like poor Bianca Corleone; but she was far from ugly — that was certain.
And in mind — she laughed as she looked at herself in the glass. Bosio Macomer told her that she was clever, and he certainly knew. But her own expression pleased her when she laughed, and she laughed again with pleasure, and watched herself in a sort of girlish and innocent satisfaction. Then her eyes met their own reflexion, and she grew suddenly grave again, and something in them told her that they were not laughing with her lips, and might not often look upon things mirthful.
But she was not stupid, and she was not ugly. She had assured herself of that. The worst that could be said was that she was a very thin girl and that her complexion was not brilliant, though it was healthy enough, and clear. No — there was certainly no reason why her aunt should not have received offers of marriage for her, and many people would have thought it strange that she should be still unmarried — with her looks, her name, and that great fortune of which Gregorio Macomer was taking such good care.
CHAPTER II.
ON THAT SAME night, when Veronica had gone to her room, Bosio Macomer remained alone with the countess in the small drawing-room in which the family generally spent the evening. Gregorio was presumably in his study, busy with his perpetual accounts or otherwise occupied. He very often spent the hours between dinner and bed-time by himself, leaving his brother to keep his wife company if Veronica chose to retire early.
The room was small and the first impression of colour which it gave was that of a strong, deep yellow. There was yellow damask on the walls, the curtains were of an old sort of silk material in stripes of yellow and chocolate, and most of the furniture was covered with yellow satin. The whole was in the style of the early part of this century, modified by the bad taste of the Second Empire, with much gilded carving about the doors and the corners of the big panels in which the damask was stretched, while the low, vaulted ceiling was a mass of gilt stucco, modelled in heavy acanthus leaves and arabesques, from the centre of which hung a chandelier of white Venetian glass. There were no pictures on the walls, and there were no flowers nor plants in pots, to relieve the strong colour which filled the eye. Nevertheless the room had the air of being inhabited, and was less glaring and stiff and old-fashioned than it might seem from this description. There were a good many books on the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; and there were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or three open notes. A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adorned with marble and gilt brass.
Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood across a corner of the room far from the fire. One hand lay idly in her lap, the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa, and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down. She had fixed her eyes upon a point of the carpet and had not moved from her position for a long time. The folds of her black gown made graceful lines from her knees to her feet, and her imposing figure was thrown into strong relief against the yellow background as she leaned to the corner, one foot just touching the floor.
Bosio sat at a distance from her, on a low chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at the fire. Neither had spoken for several minutes. Matilde broke the silence first, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.
“You must marry Veronica,” she said slowly; “nothing else can save us.”
It was clear that the idea was not new to Bosio, for he showed no surprise. But he turned deliberately and looked at the countess before he answered her. There were unusual lines in his quiet face — lines of great distress and perplexity.
“It is a crime,” he said in a low voice.
Matilda raised her eyes, with an almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders.
“Murder is a crime,” she answered simply. Then Bosio started violently and turned very white, almost rising from his seat.
“Murder?” he cried; “what do you mean?”
Matilde’s smooth red lips smiled.
“I merely mentioned it as an instance of a crime,” she said, without any change of tone. “You said it would be a crime for you to marry Veronica. It did not strike me that it could be called by that name. Crimes are murder, stealing, forgery — such things. Who would say that it was criminal for Bosio Macomer to marry Veronica Serra? There is no reason against it. I daresay that many people wonder why you have not married her already, and that many others suppose that you will before long. You are young, you have never been married, you have a very good name and a small fortune of your own.”
“Take it, then!” exclaimed Bosi
o, impulsively. “You shall have it all to-morrow — everything I possess. God knows, I am ready to give you all I have. Take it. I can live somehow. What do I care? I have given you my life — what is a little money? But do not ask me to marry her, your niece, here, under your very roof. I am not a saint, but I cannot do that!”
“No,” answered the countess, “we are not saints, you and I, it is true. For my part, I make no pretences. But the trouble is desperate, Bosio. I do not know what to do. It is desperate!” she repeated with sudden energy. “Desperate, I tell you!”
“I suppose that all I have would be of no use, then?” asked Bosio, disheartened.
“It would pay the interest for a few months longer. That would be all.
Then we should be where we are now, or shall be in three weeks.”
“Throw yourself upon her mercy. Ask her to forgive you and to lend you money,” suggested Bosio. “She is kind — she will do it, when she knows the truth.”
“I had thought of that,” answered Matilde. “But, in the first place, you do not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico.”
“Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio’s hands, he will not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the guardianship is at an end—”
“The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing the accounts — that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection well enough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him of our trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell Bianca Corleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowing the truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better for us to escape before the crash — if we could. It comes to that — unless you will help us.”
“By marrying Veronica?” asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural to him.
“I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could be married, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would never know, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and still be the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It would be peace — at last, at last!” she repeated, with a sudden change of tone that ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. “You do not know half there is to tell,” she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment’s pause. “We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years. Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago, though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helped himself, as he could — with her money. It was easy, for he controlled everything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarci said so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber, anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house is mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three weeks. We have nothing left — nothing but the hope of Veronica’s charity — or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation and disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was—”
The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring which she wore. She was pale.
“There was what?” asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.
“There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January,” said Matilde, almost in a whisper. “People die young sometimes, you know — very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would be lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!”
Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.
“I am afraid of you,” he said.
“Of me?” Her presence of mind returned. “What an idea! just because I suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And just because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her in the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talk of such sad things?”
“It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them,” answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. “You are overwrought, Matilde — you are unhappy, afraid of the future — what shall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way.”
“Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too—”
“Do not say it—”
“Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace into the house — for my sake, Bosio — for me!”
She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like a gesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes.
“For your sake,” repeated Bosio, dreamily. “For your sake? But you ask the impossible, Matilde. Besides, she would not marry me. She would laugh at the idea. And then — for you and me — it is horrible! You have no right to ask it.”
“No right? Ah, Bosio! Have I not the right to ask anything of you, after all these years?”
“Anything — but not that! Your niece — under your roof! No — no — no! I cannot, even if she would consent.”
“Not even—” Matilda’s splendid eyes, so cruelly close together, fastened themselves upon the weak man’s face, and she frowned.
“Not even if you thought it would be much better for her?” she asked very slowly, completing the sentence.
Again he started and shrank from her.
“Just God!” he exclaimed under his breath. “That a woman should have such thoughts!” Then he turned upon her with an instinctive revival of manhood and honour. “You shall not hurt her!” he cried, as fiercely as his voice could speak. “You shall not hurt a hair of her head, not even to save yourself! I will warn her — I will have her protected — I will tell everything! What is my life worth?”
“You would merely be told that you were mad, and we should have you taken out to the asylum at Aversa — as mad as I am, or soon shall be, if this goes on! You are mad to believe that I could do such things — I, a woman! And yet, I know I say words that have no reason in them! And I think crimes — horrible crimes, when I am alone — and I can tell no one but you. Have pity on me, Bosio! I was not always what I am now—”
She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, for she had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety. The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first to her lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the convulsive sob that was so near.
But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at the fire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably no man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a woman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himself and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strong man, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turned upon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, his heart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. But Bosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow was moist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heart and tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold, but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamed of the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forget the things she had said.
If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but his silence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that she was strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marry Veronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before a man weaker than herself, though she may be near it.
&
nbsp; “You must marry her,” said Matilde, with returning steadiness. “You owe it to your brother and to me. Should I say, ‘to me,’ first? It is to save us from disgrace — from being prosecuted as well as ruined, from being dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded — that is the word they would use! — for having wilfully defrauded Veronica Serra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians and responsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that — your brother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believe that I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant of his affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio — I believe that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power on earth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything but Veronica’s money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much, but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marry her, she will never know — no one will know — no one will ever guess. As her husband you will have control of everything, and no one then will blame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife’s money to save your brother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean, too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? What is the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, a conviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, Count Macomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife.”
“My God! What a choice!” exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold hands to his wet forehead.
“There is no choice!” answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis. “Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I do not care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half in love with you — what other man does she know? And if she did — she would not repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make her happy — as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talk of choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and the galleys, — a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 820