“A terrible thing has happened in the night,” she said, when she had opened the windows.
Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim, dark fingers and looked again at Elettra.
“It is a very terrible thing,” continued the woman, gravely. “It happened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let them disturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He was already dead. He had shot himself.”
“Who?” asked Veronica, in instant horror. “Some one in the house? A servant?”
Elettra shook her head.
“No. I would not tell you — but you must know. It was Count Bosio.”
Veronica turned pale and started up. “Bosio? Bosio dead?” she cried in a voice that was almost a scream.
The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should come to Veronica’s room.
But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen any more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. But Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young girl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica’s tears flowed on.
At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to reason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions for the dead man’s sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the evening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes at the sound of Elettra’s voice she had thought that she saw his eyes before her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened. She had not loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something which would have felt, by and by. And suddenly, he was gone. Why? It was so sudden. It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, into space beneath, without warning. There was too much gone, all at once. She could only ask why. And there was no answer to that.
Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn. It lay upon the dressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from her bodice. Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything more. It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented to dress.
Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the happiness to come.
“It was an accident,” she said at last, speaking to herself, as though she had reached a conclusion. “He did not mean to do it.”
Elettra shook her head, but said nothing. Accident, or no accident, it was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened them beyond their power to pay.
She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order. The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.
Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her betrothed husband. But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crape to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning things quickly.
The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness. Bosio Macomer was in his coffin. The servants were exhausted, and there was no one to direct. Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and a frightened chambermaid said that he was going mad. Elettra had great difficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica’s room with a glass of wine.
The girl’s first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, as the hours went by. She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers for the dead. When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt down and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply; and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while. She took the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last night when Bosio kissed her that once — that only once that ever was to be. And she took his photograph and looked at it, too. But she could not bear that yet — at least, not to look at it too closely.
Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid. It seemed to her that she was always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years. As she grew more calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without the companionship of Bosio. That was what she should miss, for she was but little nearer to love than that. It all looked so blank and gloomy that she cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness. But of this she was somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again.
She did not like to leave her room, either. It seemed to her that death was outside, walking up and down throughout the rest of the house, until poor Bosio should be taken away. And again she wondered about Matilde and Gregorio, and what they were doing. She tried to read, but not the novel Bosio had given her. She took up another book, and presently found herself saying prayers over it. The day was very long and very sad.
Before Elettra came back from her errands, a servant knocked at Veronica’s door. He said that there was a priest who was asking for her, and begged her to receive him for a few moments.
“It cannot be for me,” answered Veronica. “It must be a mistake. He wishes to see my aunt, or the count.”
“He asked for the Princess of Acireale,” said the man. “I could not be mistaken, Excellency.”
“He does not know who I am, or he would not ask for me by that name.
Does he look poor? It must be for charity.”
“So, so, Excellency. He had an old cloak, but his face is that of an
honest man.”
“Give him ten francs,” said Veronica, rising to get her pocket-book.
“And tell him that I am sorry that I cannot receive him.”
The servant took the note, and disappeared. In three minutes he came back.
“He does not want money, Excellency,” he said. “He says he is the Reverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency’s church in Muro, and begs you earnestly to receive him.”
Veronica rose again. She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had often spoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend. It was for Bosio’s sake that he had come — that was clear. Veronica asked where her aunt was, and on hearing that Matilde had retired to her own room, she told the servant to bring Don Teodoro to the yellow drawing-room.
A moment later she followed. The tall priest was standing with bent head before the fireplace, on the very spot where so much had happened during the last two days. He held his three-cornered hat in one hand, and was stretching out the other to warm it at the low flame. Veronica was a little startled by his face and extraordinary features, but he looked at her clearly and steadily through his big silver spectacles, and he had a venerable air which she liked. She noticed that when she advanced towards him, he bowed like a man of the world, and not at all like a country priest.
“I thank you for receiving me, princess,” he said, gravely. “I have heard the sad news. I was Bosio’s friend for many years. I spent an hour with him only the day before yesterday, during which he told me much about himself and about you. If, before he died, he told you nothing of what he told me, as I think probable, it is necessary for you to know it all from me as soon as possible. Forgive me for speaking hurriedly and abruptly. The case is urgent, and dangerous for you. Shall we be interrupted here?”
; “I think not,” said Veronica, considerably surprised by his manner. “But of course—” she paused doubtingly.
“Have you a room of your own, where you could receive me?” asked the old man, without hesitation.
“Yes — that is — I should not like to—”
“I am an old priest, princess, and this is a time of confusion in the house. You can risk something. It is important. Besides, I am in your own service,” he added, with a quiet smile. “I am the chaplain of your castle at Muro.”
“Yes — that is true.” Veronica looked at him with a little curiosity, for she had never been to Muro, and it was interesting to see one of her dependents of whom she had often heard. “Come,” she said suddenly. “We shall meet no one, except my maid, perhaps — Elettra. Do you know her? Her husband was under-steward, and was killed.”
“I know of her — I buried him,” answered the priest.
She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room which served her as dressing-room and boudoir. After all, as he had said, he was a priest and an old man. She made him sit down beside her fire, in her own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, and she felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was going to say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of his errand.
“Princess—” he began, and paused, choosing his words.
“Do not call me that,” she said. “Nobody does. Call me Donna Veronica.”
“I am old fashioned,” he answered. “You are my princess and feudal liege lady. Never mind. It would be better for you if you were in your own castle of Muro, with your own people about you, though it is a gloomy place, and the scenery is sad. You would be safe there.”
“You speak as though we lived in the Middle Ages,” said the young girl, with a faint smile.
“We live in the dark ages. You are not safe here. Do you know why my dear friend Bosio killed himself last night?”
“It was an accident! It must have been an accident!” Veronica’s face was very sorrowful again.
“I wish it had been,” said Don Teodoro. “They will say so, in charity, in order to give him Christian burial. But it was not an accident, princess. My friend told me all the truth, the day before yesterday. It is very terrible. He killed himself in order not to be bound to marry you.”
The round, silver-rimmed spectacles turned slowly to her face.
“In order not to marry me! You must be mad, Don Teodoro! Or you do not know the truth — that is it! You do not know the truth. It was only last night that he asked me to marry him — that is — it had been my aunt who had asked me, and I gave him the answer.”
“You consented?”
“Yes. I consented—”
“That is why he killed himself,” said the priest, sadly. “I knew he would, if it came to that. It is a terrible story.”
Veronica stared at him in silence, really believing that he was out of his mind, and beginning to feel very nervous in his presence. He shocked her unspeakably, too, by what he said about Bosio; for if the wound was not deep, perhaps, it was fresh, and his words were brine to it. He saw what she felt, and made haste to be plain.
“I am sorry that I am obliged to tell you this,” he continued, after a short pause. “I cannot help it. The only thing I can do for my dead friend is to save you, if I can. I saw the account of his death in a newspaper an hour ago, and I came at once. Will you please not think that I am mad, until you have heard me? I was his friend, and I have eaten your bread these many years. I must speak.”
“Tell me your story,” said Veronica, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands.
He began at the beginning, and told her all, as Bosio had told him. He omitted nothing, for he had the astonishing memory which sometimes belongs to students, besides the desire to be perfectly accurate, and to exaggerate nothing. For he knew that she would find it hard to believe him.
She listened; and as he went on, describing the struggle in poor Bosio’s heart between the desire to save the woman he loved and the horror of sacrificing Veronica as a means to that end, she leaned forward again, drawing nearer to him, and watching his face keenly. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted a little; for whether true or not, the story was terrible as he told it, and as he had said that it would be.
“I do not know what he said to you last night,” he concluded. “I give you a dead man’s words, as he spoke them to me; but I have no right to those he spoke to you. This is true, that I have told you, as I hope for forgiveness of my own sins. If you stay in this house, by the truth of God, I believe that your life is not safe.”
“You believe it, I am sure,” said Veronica. “But I cannot. The most I can believe is that poor Bosio was already mad when he told you this. It must be true. Even supposing that my uncle were the man you think, and had ruined himself in speculations and had taken money of mine without my knowledge, would it not be far more natural that he and my aunt should come to me and confess everything, and beg me to forgive and help them for the sake of their good name? Of course it would. You cannot deny that.”
“It is what I told Bosio,” answered Don Teodoro, shaking his head; “but he answered that they feared you, and that your death would be a safer way, because you might not be so kind. You might go to the cardinal and lay the case before him, and they would be lost.”
“I might. I probably should.” Veronica paused. “That is true,” she continued, “but whatever I did, I could not allow the matter to come to a prosecution — for the sake of my own name, if not for theirs. But I do not believe it — I do not believe it — indeed, I do not believe it at all. Poor Bosio was not in his right mind. That is why he killed himself. He was mad, even when he talked with you the day before yesterday — it is the only possible explanation.”
“Nevertheless, something must be done,” said Don Teodoro. “Your safety must be thought of first, princess.”
“I feel perfectly safe here,” answered Veronica. “All this is madness. The countess is my father’s sister. I admit that I have not always liked her, but she has always been kind. You really cannot expect me to believe that she and my uncle would plot against my life — especially now, in this terrible trouble and sorrow! I have listened to you, Don Teodoro, and I am sure that you wish me well, but I never can believe that you are right. Really — with all respect to you — I must say it. It is wildly absurd!”
And the longer she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed. The girl was naturally both sensible and brave, and the whole tale was monstrous in her eyes, though while he had been telling it she had fallen under the spell of its thrilling interest, forgetting that it was all about herself. She looked at the quiet old priest, with his extraordinary face and quiet manner, and it was far easier to believe that a man with such features might be mad than that her Aunt Matilde meant to kill her. He was silent for a few moments.
“There is a terrible logic in the absurdity,” he said at last. “Your aunt constrains you to make a will in her favour, Bosio knew that his brother is ruined and that several large mortgages expire on the first of January. He knew that his brother has defrauded you in a way which is criminal. If they can get control of your money within three weeks they are saved. They persuaded Bosio and you to be betrothed. But Bosio kills himself. The main chance is gone. There remains the one with which the countess threatened him if he would not marry you — your immediate death. Against that, stands the possibility of penal servitude in the galleys for a man and woman of high rank and social position — only the possibility, to be sure, but a possibility, nevertheless. Remember that to those who know the whole extent and criminality of the count’s fraud the case appears very much worse than it does to you, who now hear of it for the first time, in a general way, and who do not understand the nature of such transactions. I have been a confessor many years, princess. I know how few penitents can be made to believe that those they have injured will pardon them, if they frankly ask forgiveness. It is human
nature. The best of us have doubted God’s willingness to forgive — how much more do we doubt man’s! It is all very logical, princess, very logical — far too logical, whether you will believe it or not.”
“If I believed the beginning,” said Veronica, “I might believe it all. But it is not proved that my uncle has defrauded me, and all the rest seems absurd, if that is not true.”
“I beseech you at least to be careful!” answered the priest, earnestly.
“In what way? I shall go on living here, just the same, unless we all go into the country for the rest of the winter. Even if I thought myself in danger, I do not see what I could do.”
“Eat what the others eat. Drink what the others drink. Take nothing especially prepared for you. Lock your door at night. If you will not leave the house, that is all you can do.”
He shook his head thoughtfully.
It was true Italian advice — against poison and smothering. Veronica smiled, even in her sadness.
“I have no fear,” she said. “Let us say no more about it. Can I do anything for the people at Muro?” she asked, by way of preparing to send him away.
“The people at Muro — the people at Muro,” he repeated dreamily. “Oh yes — they are all poor — almost all. Money would help them. The best would be to come and see us yourself, princess. But if you are not careful, you will never come now,” he added, turning the big spectacles slowly towards her and looking long into her face. “I have done what I could to warn you,” he said, beginning to rise. “I will do anything I can to watch over you — but it will be little. Good bye. God preserve you.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 834