“That is fortunate,” replied his wife, coldly. “It would be hard, if there were no confidence on either side.”
“Yes. Of course, you have none in me?”
He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like the unexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room. Matilde’s lips quivered and her brow contracted spasmodically. She hated his voice at all times, as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but during the past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which set her teeth on edge every time she heard it.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked impatiently. “Why do you laugh in that way?”
“Did I laugh?” he inquired, by way of answer. “It was unconscious. But my voice was never musical. However, in the present state of our family affairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts. Have you seen Bosio to-day? Why did he not come to luncheon? I hope he is not ill, just at this moment.”
Matilda ‘placed’ her voice carefully, as a singer would do, before she answered.
“He is not ill,” she said. “He was here an hour ago. I did not ask him why he did not come to luncheon, because it did not concern me.”
“Well? And the rest?”
“The rest? How anxious you are!” she exclaimed scornfully. “The rest is as well as ill can be. I think he will marry Veronica.”
“I should suppose so, if she will marry him,” observed Macomer. “It would be as sensible to doubt that a starving man would take bread, as to question whether a poor man will accept a fortune, especially in such an agreeable shape. It is quite another matter, whether the fortune will give itself to the poor man. What does Veronica say? Is she pleased with the idea?”
“Moderately. She has not refused. She wishes to think about it.”
“I hope that she will not think too long. To-day is the tenth of December. There are just three weeks. By the bye, Matilde, I hope you have put the will in a safe place. Where is it?”
Matilde paused two seconds before she answered. Though she could not imagine in what way Gregorio could improve his desperate position by getting the will out of her hands, nor by tampering with it, of which she knew him to be quite capable, yet, on general principles, she distrusted him so wholly and profoundly that she determined to deceive him as to the place in which she kept it. Being clever at concealing things, she began by showing it to him. She rose, took a key from behind a photograph on the mantelpiece, and unlocked the drawer of her writing-table. The will lay there, folded in a big envelope.
“Here it is,” she said. “Do you wish to look over it again?”
She drew it half out of the cover and held it up before him. He recognized the document and seemed satisfied.
“Oh! no,” he answered. “I know it by heart. I only wished to know where it was.”
“Very well; it is here,” said Matilde, putting it back and locking the drawer again. “I generally carry the key about with me,” she added carelessly, “but I have no pocket in this gown, so I laid it behind that photograph. It is not a very good place for it, is it?”
She hesitated, holding the key in her hand, and looking about the room while he watched her. The woman’s enormous power of deception showed itself in the spontaneous facility with which she went through a complicated little scene, quite improvised, in order to mislead her husband. She knew that he himself would suggest some place for the key to lie in.
“Put it under the edge of the carpet in the corner near the door,” he suggested. “You can easily turn the carpet up a little between the rings.”
“That is a good idea,” she said. “It is as well that you should know where it is, in case anything were to happen to me.”
She was already in the corner, and she thrust the key under the doubled edge of the crimson carpet.
“You are ingenious,” she observed drily, as she rose to her feet. “I should not have thought of that. It is a pity that you have not been able to apply your ingenuity better in other ways, too. It has been wasted.”
“I am not sure,” answered Macomer, thoughtfully. “If Bosio marries
Veronica, our position will be a very good one, considering the
misfortunes through which we have passed. If he should not, and if
Veronica should die, it will be much better. I am not sure but that, if
I had no affection for the girl, I might prefer that she should die.”
Matilde glanced at him sideways, uneasily.
“We will not speak of that,” she said, as though it were a disagreeable subject.
“No.”
Then, without warning, his jarring, crashing laughter filled the room again for a moment, and she started as she heard it, and looked round nervously.
“I really wish you would not laugh in that way,” she said, with a frown.
“There is nothing to laugh at, I assure you.”
“I did not know that I laughed,” said Macomer, indifferently. “That is the second time in a quarter of an hour. How odd it would be if I were to laugh unconsciously in that way when—” He seemed to check the words that were coming.
“When, for instance?” asked Matilde, not guessing what was passing in his mind.
“At the funeral,” he answered shortly. Matilde started again, and looked at him anxiously. She had resumed her seat after she had hidden the key, but she now rose and went to him. He was still standing before the window, though he had finished his cigarette and had thrown away the end of it. She stood before him a moment before she spoke, fixing her eyes severely on his face.
“Control yourself!” she said sternly. “I understand that you are nervous and over-strained. That is no reason for behaving like a fool.”
He also paused an instant before speaking. Then, all at once, his features assumed an expression of docility, not at all natural to him.
“Yes,” he answered, “I will try. I think you are quite right. I really am very much over-strained in these days.”
Matilde was surprised by his change of manner, but was glad to find that she could control him so easily.
“It will pass,” she said more gently. “You will be better in a day or two, when everything is settled.”
“Yes — when everything is settled. But meanwhile, my dear, perhaps it would be better, if you should notice anything strange in my behaviour, like my laughing in this absurd way, for instance, just to look at me without saying anything — you understand — it will recall me to myself. I am convinced that it is only absence of mind, brought on by great anxiety. But people are spiteful, you know, and somebody might think that I was losing my mind.”
“Yes,” she answered gravely. “If you laugh in that way, without any reason, somebody might think so. I will try and call your attention to it, if I can.”
“Thank you,” said Macomer, with his unpleasant smile. “I think I will go and lie down now, for I feel tired.”
He turned from her, and made a few steps towards the door. He did not walk like a man tired, for he held himself as erect as ever, with his head thrown back, and his narrow shoulders high and square. Nevertheless, Matilde was anxious.
“You do not feel ill, do you?” she asked, before he had reached the door.
He stopped, half turning back.
“No — oh, no! I do not feel ill. Pray do not be anxious, my dear. I will take a little aconite for my heart, and then I will lie down for an hour or two.”
“I did not know that you had been converted to homoeopathy,” said Matilde, indifferently. “But, of course, if it does you good, take the aconite, by all means.”
“I do not take it in homoeopathic doses,” answered Gregorio. “It is the tincture, and I sometimes take as much as thirty or forty drops of it in water. Of course, that would be too much for a person not used to taking it. But it is a very good medicine. Indeed, I should advise you to take it, too, if you ever have any trouble with your heart.”
“How does it affect one?” asked Matilde, turnin
g her face from him, and speaking indifferently.
“It lowers the action of the heart. Of course, one has to be careful. I suppose that one or two hundred drops would stop the heart altogether, but a little of it is excellent for palpitations. Do you suffer from them? Should you like some? I have a large supply, for I always use it. I can give you a small bottle, if you like.”
“No,” answered Matilde, still looking away from him, towards the photographs on the mantelpiece. “I am afraid of those things. They get into the system, as arsenic does, and mercury, and such things.”
“Not at all,” said Macomer. “You are quite mistaken. That is the peculiarity of those vegetable — those strong vegetable medicines. They are quite untraceable in the system, and altogether defy chemistry.”
Matilde was silent a moment.
“Well,” she answered, with an air of indifference, “I have a tendency to a little palpitation of the heart, and if you will give me a bottle of your medicine, I will try it once. It can do no harm, I suppose.”
“Not in small quantities. I will bring it to you by and by.”
“Very well.”
He went out, and a moment later she heard his dreadful laugh outside. In an instant she reached the door, opened it, and called after him: —
“Gregorio! Do not laugh!”
But he was gone, and there was no one in the passage.
CHAPTER VIII.
VERONICA DID NOT appear at dinner that evening, but remained in her room, sending word to the countess that she had a headache and wished to be alone. Matilde thought it not unnatural that the girl should wish to reflect in solitude upon the grave problem which had been given her for consideration. It would be wiser, too, not to disturb her, but to leave her to herself to reach her own conclusions. Matilde knew that Veronica had considerable gifts of contrariety, and that it would be a mistake to press her too closely for a definite answer. Besides, it was always a tradition in such cases that a young girl should have, in name at least, perfect independence of action, and the ultimate right to refuse an offer or accept it.
It was hard to sit still at the dinner table and behave with an appearance of being reasonable, while knowing that the fate of the household depended upon the answer of the young girl — from the personal liberty of two out of the three persons who sat at the meal, to the disposal of the forks and spoons with which they were eating, and the roof over their heads. It was very hard even to make a pretence of swallowing a little food, when all three knew the truth, and none dared to refer to it in any way lest the servants should guess at what was taking place. They spent a terribly uncomfortable hour in one another’s society. The two men exchanged indifferent remarks. Matilde occasionally said something, but her mind ran constantly on absurd details, such as the incident of the hiding of the will. As soon as her husband had left her, she had taken it from the drawer, relocking the latter, and again placing the key under the carpet. Then she had taken the will into her dressing-room and had hidden it temporarily in another drawer. To distract her mind during dinner, she tried to think of a better place for it, and at last determined to unscrew the wooden back of a large old silver mirror which stood on her dressing-table, and to lay the two open sheets of the document upon the back of the looking-glass. When it was all screwed up again, it would not be easy to find Veronica’s will. Matilde also thought of the aconite which Gregorio had recommended her to keep, and of where she could put it, out of the way of the servants.
Once, towards the end of dinner, Gregorio’s terrifying laugh broke out suddenly, as the butler was offering him something. The man started back a little and stared, and the spoon and fork clattered to the ground over the edge of the silver dish. Bosio started, too, but Matilde fixed her eyes sternly on Gregorio’s face. He saw that she looked at him, and he nodded, suddenly assuming the expression of docility she had noticed for the first time in the afternoon.
Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciating state of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation that his brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or word must ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-shell.
And all the while Veronica sat peacefully in her room, before her fire, wrapped in a loose soft dressing-gown, her little feet upon the fender before her and a book in her hand. A lamp in an upright sliding stand was on one side of her, and on the other stood a small table. From time to time her maid brought her something from dinner, of which she ate a mouthful or two between two paragraphs of her novel.
It was a great pleasure to her to dine in this way, alone, but it was one she rarely had an opportunity of indulging. Even when her aunt and uncle dined out she generally had her dinner in the dining-room with Bosio, who scarcely ever went into society at all. On such occasions they generally sat together half an hour after the meal was over, before separating, and it was then that they really enjoyed each other’s conversation. It was very rarely that Veronica yielded to her wish to be alone and pleaded a more or less imaginary indisposition in order to stay in her room. Even then, she was not quite sure of being alone for the whole evening, for Matilde sometimes came in after dinner and remained with her for half an hour. It had always been the countess’s habit to show the greatest concern and consideration for her niece. But to-night Veronica knew that she should not be disturbed; for she understood that this was to be an important epoch in her life, upon which all the future must depend, and that, since she had asked time for consideration, Matilde would not intrude upon her solitude. Knowing that she had as many hours before her as she pleased to take, she began the arduous task of self-examination by greedily reading a novel which Bosio had given her two days earlier, and which she had not opened. Somehow, she fancied that while she was reading her mind would decide itself. The immediate question was not really whether she should accept Bosio or not, but whether she should go again on the morrow to her friend Bianca Corleone, between eleven and, twelve o’clock. That Gianluca della Spina would be there, she had not a doubt, and the idea of going there to meet him presented itself to her mind as a dangerous and mad adventure. If she hesitated, however, it was not on account of meeting the man who was dying of love for her, but rather for fear of what Taquisara might think of her if she thus answered his summons to the interview. He had promised that he would not be present, and this gave her courage; but Bianca would see and understand, for Bianca had first spoken to her of Gianluca, that very morning, and as for Taquisara, he would, of course, soon know all about it from his friend.
The arguments in favour of going were very strong, since she was asked to say, at short notice, whether she would marry Bosio Macomer or not. In all that Matilde had told Bosio the elder woman had been quite right. Veronica was strongly prejudiced in his favour, and what Taquisara had managed to say in a few words about the interested nature of the proposal, not only had little weight with Veronica, but was the only point which had not pleased her in her interview with the Sicilian. After all, he had attacked her only near relatives in hinting, and more than hinting, that they wished to gain possession of her wealth. She was really ignorant of the fact that Cardinal Campodonico had so rarely even made a pretence of inquiring about the state of her fortune. She met him occasionally, and he never failed to say something pleasant to her, which she afterwards remembered. Whenever Gregorio Macomer spoke to her of business, he used the cardinal’s name to give weight to his statements, and Veronica naturally supposed that the princely prelate was informed of all that took place, and approved of everything which Macomer did. It was no wonder that she turned a deaf ear to Taquisara’s warning, which, as coming from Gianluca’s friend, seemed calculated purposely to influence her against marrying Bosio.
In reality, and apart from the little superficial argumentation with which Veronica had diverted her own mind during the late hours of the afternoon, she had made up her mind that before seriously considering the question of marrying Bosio, she would see Gianluca and give him just such an op
portunity of speaking with her alone, as she had given his friend Taquisara. There was really much directness of understanding and purpose in her young character, together with a fair share of tenacity; for, as Matilde had told Bosio, Veronica was a Serra, which was at least equivalent to saying that she was not an insignificant person of weak will and feeble intelligence. She was indeed the last of her name, but the race had not decayed. It was by accident and by force of circumstances that it had come to be represented by the solitary young girl who sat reading a novel over her fire on that evening, caring very little for the fact that she was a very great personage, related to many royal families, a Grandee of Spain and a Princess of the Holy Roman Empire, all in her own right alone, as Veronica Serra — all of which advantages Taquisara had hastily recapitulated to her that morning. So long as she should live, the race was certainly not extinct, nor worn out; for she had as much vitality as all the tribe of the Spina family taken together. She was not, indeed, conscious of her untried strength, for she had never yet had any opportunity of using it; and in the matter of the will, which was the only one that had yet arisen in which she might have tried herself, she had yielded in the simple desire to get rid of a perpetual importunity. Beyond that she had attached very little importance to it. Her aunt might be miserly, but Veronica, in her youth and health, could not think it even faintly probable that she should die before the elder woman and leave the latter her fortune. Taquisara’s hasty counsel had therefore fallen in barren ground. She scouted the idea that Gregorio Macomer had ruined himself in speculations, for she believed him to be a man of extraordinary caution, and probably something of a miser.
Taquisara had therefore not prejudiced her at all against Bosio, nor against the idea of marrying the latter. And Matilde, as has been said, was quite right in supposing that Veronica would see much in favour of the marriage.
Bosio was distinctly a desirable man for a husband. Nine women out of ten would have admitted this without hesitation. The strongest argument against the statement seemed to lie in the fact that there were a few faintly grey streaks in his thick and silky hair. For the rest, whatever he chose to say of himself, he was still within the limits of what one may call second youth. He was only between fifteen and sixteen years older than Veronica, and such a difference of age between man and wife does not generally begin to be felt as a disadvantage until the man is nearly sixty. He was not at all a worn-out dandy, with no illusions, and no constitution to speak of; for circumstances, as well as his own sober tastes, had caused him to lead a quiet and restful life, admirably adapted to his sound but delicately organized nature. He was decidedly good-looking, especially in a city where beauty is almost the exclusive distinction of the other sex. His figure, though slightly inclined to stoutness, was still graceful, and he carried himself with a good bearing and a quiet manner, which, might well pass for dignity. So much for his appearance. Intellectually, in Veronica’s narrow experience of the world, he was quite beyond comparison with any one she knew. It is true that she really knew hardly any one. But her own intelligence enabled her to judge with tolerable fairness of his capacities, and she had found these varied and broadly developed, precisely in the direction of her own tastes.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 829