He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But in that, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper to break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strong pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had done his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He was still strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and waste bodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could, and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the moment when he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding the strength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bear the pain, — a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate’s grip, but silently unyielding to the last.
It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer at all. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least what they feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no man can really be measured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cry are the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it, and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the fire that scorches his brother’s soul, to tell us which can suffer the more.
Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had passed between Veronica and him came back to his thoughts.
More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went to Gianluca’s side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, and looked up wonderingly into his friend’s eyes. He scarcely knew that he spoke, as his lips moved.
“I am going to die,” he said, in a far-off tone.
Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile.
“Nonsense — no — no!” he said cheerfully. “You have been dreaming — you are better.”
“Yes — I am dreaming — let me sleep,” answered the sick man, hardly articulating the words.
And in a moment, he was asleep again. Taquisara listened to his breathing, bending down a moment longer. Then he went softly away. He himself slept a little, but it seemed long before the morning broke.
When it was broad daylight, Gianluca seemed better, for the deep sleep had refreshed him. It was still very early, when the professor appeared and paid him a long visit, asking a few questions at first and then suddenly, beginning to talk of politics and the public news. Taquisara left the room with him, and they stood together in Gianluca’s sitting-room.
“He is better, is he not?” asked the Sicilian, eagerly.
To his surprise the doctor shook his head and was silent a long time.
“I know nothing,” he said, at last. “Nobody knows anything. Surgery is a fine art, but medicine is witchcraft, or little better. You see, I speak frankly. I can only give you my experience, and that may be worth something. I have seen two cases of this kind in which, when the change came, the patients partially recovered, and lived for several years, paralyzed downwards from the point in the spine where the disease begins. I have seen several cases where death has resulted rather suddenly.”
“And do you see a change coming?”
“Yes. It has begun already. Is he a devout man?”
“A religious man, at all events,” answered Taquisara, gravely.
“Then, if he wishes to see a priest, it would be as well to send for one this morning. But if he wishes to be moved as usual, and dressed, let him have his way. Do not frighten him, if you can help it. No moral shock can do any good. I leave it to you. It is of no use to tell his father and mother. They are here, and you will see if he is worse. I suppose you know that he suffers great pain when he is moved?”
“No!” said Taquisara, anxiously. “I did not know it. I sometimes hear him draw his breath sharply once or twice — but he never complains. I thought it hurt him a little.”
“It is agony,” said the doctor. “He must be a very brave man.”
The professor seemed much impressed by what Taquisara had said.
CHAPTER XXV.
TAQUISARA WENT IMMEDIATELY to find Don Teodoro, who was generally at home at that hour, in his little house just opposite the castle gate. He found him with his silver spectacles pushed up to the top of his head, his long nose buried in a musty volume, a cup of untasted coffee at his elbow, absorbed in study. The small room was filled with books, old and new, and smelt of them. As Taquisara entered, the old priest looked up, screwing his lids together in the attempt to recognize his visitor without using his spectacles. He took him for the syndic of Muro, a respectable countryman of fifty years, come to consult with him about some public matters.
“Be seated,” he said. “If you will pardon me, for a moment — I was just—”
In an instant his nose almost touched the page again, and he did not complete the sentence, before he was lost in study once more. Taquisara sat down upon the only chair there was and waited a few moments, not realizing that he had not been recognized. But the priest forgot his existence immediately and if not disturbed would probably have gone on reading till noon.
“Don Teodoro!” said Taquisara, rousing him. “Pray excuse me—”
The old man looked up suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise.
“Dear me!” he cried. “Are you there, Baron? I beg your pardon. I think I took you for some one else.”
He drew his spectacles down to the level of his eyes, and let the big book fall back upon the table.
“Our friend is very ill,” said Taquisara, gravely. “That is why I have come to disturb you.”
He told the priest what the doctor had said about Gianluca’s condition. Don Teodoro listened with an expression of concern and anxiety, for he had become fond of the sick man during the past weeks, and Gianluca liked him, too. Almost every day they talked together, and the refined taste and sincere love of literature of the younger man delighted in the profound learning of the old student, while the latter found a rare pleasure in speaking of his favourite occupations to such an appreciative listener.
“The fact is,” Taquisara concluded, “though I have not much faith in doctors, I really believe that he may die at any moment. You know what kind of man he is. Go and sit with him after luncheon to-day — or before — the sooner, the better. Do not frighten him — do not tell him that I have spoken to you about his condition. I believe that he knows it himself, and if he is alone with you for some time, and you speak of the uncertainty of life, as a priest can, he will probably himself propose to make his confession. You understand those things, Don Teodoro — it is your business. It is our business to give you a chance.”
“Yes — yes,” answered the old man. “I daresay you are right. I suppose that is what I should do.” There was a reluctance in his voice which surprised Taquisara.
“You do not seem convinced,” said the latter.
“I wish there were another priest here,” replied Don Teodoro, thoughtfully, and his clear eyes looked away, avoiding the other’s direct glance.
“Why?” inquired the Sicilian, with increasing astonishment.
“It is a painful office to perform for a friend.” The curate looked down now, and fingered the corner of his old book, in evident hesitation. “It is quite another thing to assist the poor.”
“I do not understand you,” said Taquisara. “I suppose that priests have especial sensibilities of their own—”
“Sometimes — sometimes,” interrupted Don Teodoro, as though speaking to himself. “Yes — I have especial sensibilities.”
“It cannot be helped,” answered Taquisara, in a tone that had something of authority in it. “Of course we laymen do not appreciate those nice questions. A man is dying. He wants a priest. It is your place to go to him, whether he is your own father, or a swineherd. You are alone here, and you have no choice.”
“Yes, I am alone. I wish I were not. I wish that the princess would get me an assistant.”
“It will be best if you come to the castle in about an hour,”
said Taquisara, paying no attention to Don Teodoro’s last remark. “By that time Gianluca will be in his sitting-room, and I shall be with him. The Duca and Duchessa will be out for their walk, for the weather is cool and fine, and they do not know of his imminent danger. Come in without warning, as though you had just come to pay him a visit of a quarter of an hour. You have done the same thing before. I will go away after five minutes and leave you together. Donna Veronica will not interrupt you.”
“Very well,” replied the priest, in a tone that was still reluctant. “If it must be, it must be.”
Taquisara looked at him curiously and went away to arrange matters as he proposed. But Don Teodoro, though he wore his spectacles, with the help of which he really could see very well, did not notice the young man’s glance of curiosity, as he went with him to the door, and carefully fastened it after him, which was an unusual proceeding on his part; for though he lived quite alone, the poor people never found that door locked by day or night. An old woman came every day to do the little household work that was necessary, and to cook something for him, when he ate at home. But to-day, for once, he drew the rusty old bolt across, before he went back to his study. He did nothing which could seem to have justified the precaution, after he had sat down again in his big wooden easy-chair; and if the door had been wide open, and if any one had come in without warning, the visitor would have found the priest before the table, slowly lifting one long, bent shank of his silver spectacles and letting it fall upon the other, in a slow and absent-minded fashion to which no one could have attached any especial importance. People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep it when they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave of their hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to see if it could get a vampire’s dead life for a night, and come out, and draw blood.
Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly than was his wont. In the narrow court within, he stopped before passing through the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of a marble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which was built into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained white while the surrounding blocks had grown black with age. There was no more apparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of the inscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses, all alone in his room. But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro. He had a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible from himself.
But that was not easy. The thing which had taken hold of him was as strong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold for hold, wrench for wrench. It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that to yield a hair’s breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one. He had almost relaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alone with Veronica.
He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turned sharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself that to waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable, since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica. And he had set himself to arrange the meeting between Gianluca and Don Teodoro, and each hour was precious.
His face helped him, for he did not easily betray emotion; he rarely changed colour at all, and was not a man of mobile features. But he had grown thinner since he had been in Muro, and the clearly cut curves that marked the Saracen strain in him were sharper and more defined.
He went in and met Veronica in the large room in which they usually fenced, and which lay between what was really the drawing-room and the apartment set aside for Gianluca and Taquisara. She was standing alone beside the table, her face very white, and as she turned to Taquisara, he saw something desperate in her eyes.
“I have seen the doctor again,” she said, not waiting for any greeting, and knowing that he would understand.
“And I have seen the priest,” answered Taquisara.
She started, and pressed her lips tightly to suppress something. Her eyes wandered slowly and then came back to the Sicilian before she spoke.
“You have done right,” she said, and then paused a second. “He is going to die to-day,” she added, very low.
“That is not sure,” replied Taquisara. “The doctor says that he has known cases—”
“No,” interrupted Veronica. “I know it — I feel it.”
She was resting one hand on the heavy table, and as she spoke she bent down, as though bowed in bodily pain. Taquisara saw the sharp lines in the smooth young forehead, and his teeth bit hard on one another as he watched her. He could not speak. With a quick-drawn breath she straightened herself suddenly and looked at him again. He thought he saw the very slightest moisture, not in her eyes, but on the lower lids and just below them. It was very hard to shed tears, and not like her.
“Hope!” he said gently.
During what seemed a long time they stood looking at each other with unchanging faces, and neither spoke. Some people know that dead silence which descends while fate’s great hand is working in the dark, and men hold their breath and shut their eyes, listening speechless for the dull footfall of near destiny.
At last Veronica, without a word, turned from the table and went slowly towards a door. Taquisara did not move. When her hand was on the lock, she turned her head.
“Stand by me, whatever I do to-day,” she said earnestly.
“Yes. I will.”
He did not find any eloquent words nor oaths of protest, but she saw his face and believed him. She bent her head once, as though acknowledging his promise, and she went out quietly, closing the door behind her.
Some minutes passed before Taquisara also left the room in the other direction. He wondered why she had said those last words, for he had seen again that desperate look in her face and did not understand it. Perhaps she meant to marry Gianluca before he died, and at the thought Taquisara felt as though a strong man had struck him a heavy blow just on his heart, and for one instant he steadied himself by the table and swallowed hard, as though the breath were out of him. It did not last a moment. Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend.
Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning. He had evidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisara standing by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anything of so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection. He certainly did not remember having spoken of dying. But he was very weak, and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usually seemed.
Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings, and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room.
“Tell me,” he said, “does it hurt you very much when I take you up?”
“It hurts,” answered Gianluca, with a smile. “Hurting is relative, you know. I can bear it very well. There are things that hurt more.”
“What? When you try to move alone?”
“Oh no! Imaginary things. You hurt me very little — you are so careful.
What should I have done without you?”
Taquisara had never touched him so tenderly before, though he was always as gentle as a woman with him. He lifted him, carried him from his bedroom and laid him in his accustomed chair. The pale head rested with a sigh upon the brown silk cushion.
“Thank you,” he said faintly. “That was better than ever. But I am better to-day, too.”
The Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid’s small belongings near him, — his books, his cigarettes, — for he sometimes smoked a little, — and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowers which Elettra renewed every morning. Gianluca drew a breath of satisfaction when all was done. He really felt a little better, and by Taquisara’s care had suffered less than usual in the moving. His father and mother had been in to see him as usual, before he was up, and before they went out for their daily walk. Veronica would not come yet, but he had the true invalid’s pleasure in anticipat
ing the coming of a well-loved woman. As often happens in such cases he seemed quite unconscious of his approaching danger.
He was not surprised when Don Teodoro came in, a little later, and the two very soon fell into conversation together. Taquisara presently went away and left them, as he often did when they began to talk of books. Half an hour had not passed since his meeting with Veronica, but as he again entered the room where they had met, he found her standing before the window, looking out, and twisting her handkerchief slowly with both her hands. She started when she heard him come in, and she turned her head to see who it was that had opened the door. To go on, he had to pass near her, and she kept her eyes on his face as he approached her.
“How is he?” she asked in a voice hardly recognizable as her own.
She had an agonized look, and she raised her handkerchief to her mouth quickly, and held it, almost biting it, while he answered her.
“He says that he feels better. Don Teodoro is there. He has just come.
Is there anything that I can do?”
She shook her head, still holding the handkerchief to her lips, and again looked out of the window. He waited a moment longer and then passed on, leaving her alone. He saw that she was half mad with anxiety, and he neither trusted himself to speak, nor believed that speaking could be of any use. He went down to the lower bastion, where he could be alone, and for a long time he walked steadily up and down, trying hard to think of nothing, and sometimes counting his steps as he walked, in order to keep his mind from itself.
He did not idealize the woman he loved, for he was not a man of ideals, nor of much imagination. Such defects as she might have, he did not see, and if he had seen them he would have been indifferent to them. To such a man, loving meant everything and admitted of no comment, because there was no part of him left free to judge. He was a whole-souled man, who asked no questions of himself and no advice of others. He had never needed counsel, in his own opinion, and for the rest, what he felt was himself and not a secondary, dual being of separate passions and impressions which he could analyze and examine. He had never comprehended that strange machine of nicely-balanced doubts and certainties, forever in a state of half-morbid equilibrium between the wish, the thought, and the deed — such a man as Pietro Ghisleri was, for instance, who would refuse a beggar an alms lest the giving should be a satisfaction to his own vanity, and then, perhaps, would turn back in pity and give the poor wretch half a handful of silver. When Taquisara once knew that he loved Veronica, he never reverted to a state of doubt. He fought against it, because his friend had loved her first, and rooting himself where he stood, as it were, he would have let the passion tear him piecemeal rather than be moved by it. But he never had the smallest doubt as to what the passion was in itself and might be, in its consequences, if he should be weak for one moment. Simple struggles, when they are for life and death, are more terrible than any complicated conflict can possibly be.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 854