Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘It seemed to me,’ he said, ‘that I might let him have the benefit of any doubt there may be, though I have none myself. The story will be a terrible injury to the family.’

  ‘You are certainly not called upon to tell it to everyone,’ said Corona. ‘I only wished to know what you really thought.’

  ‘I am sorry to say that I feel sure of the man’s identity, mother. And I want you to help me,’ he added suddenly. ‘I wish to see Donna Vittoria alone. You can manage it.’

  Corona did not answer at once, but looked long and earnestly at her eldest son.

  ‘What is it, mother?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘It is a very terrible thing,’ she answered slowly. ‘You love the girl, you wish to marry her, and you have killed her brother. Is not that the truth?’

  ‘Yes, that is the truth,’ said Orsino. ‘Help me to see her. No one else can.’

  ‘Does anyone know? Did you speak about it to her mother, or her brothers, before you left? Does Ippolito know?’

  ‘No one knows. Will you help me, mother?’

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Corona thoughtfully. ‘Not that I wish you to marry into that family,’ she added. ‘They have a bad name.’

  ‘But she is not like them. It is not her fault.’

  ‘No, it is not her fault, and she has not their faults. But for her brothers — well, we need not talk of that. For the sake of what there has been between you two, already, you have a sort of right to see Vittoria.’

  ‘I must see her.’

  ‘I went there yesterday, after we read the news in the papers,’ said Corona. ‘Her mother was ill. Later your father came in and said he had seen Don Tebaldo at the club. You heard what he said. They mean to deny the relationship. In fact, they have done so. I can therefore propose to take Vittoria to drive to-morrow afternoon, and I can bring her here to tea, in my own sitting-room. Then you may come here and see her, and I will leave you alone for a little while. Yes — you have a right to see her and to defend yourself to her, and explain to her how you killed that poor man, not knowing who he was.’

  ‘Thank you — you are very good to me. Mother—’ he hesitated a moment— ‘if my father had killed your brother by accident, would you have married him?’

  He fixed his eyes on Corona’s. She was silent for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered presently. ‘The love of an honest woman for an honest man can go farther than that.’

  She turned her beautiful face from Orsino as she spoke, and her splendid eyes grew dreamy and soft, as she leaned back in her chair beside her writing-table. He watched her, and a wave of hope rose slowly to his heart. But all women were not like his mother.

  Early on the following morning she wrote a note to Vittoria. The answer came back after a long time, and the man sent up word that he had been kept waiting three-quarters of an hour for it. It was written in a tremulous hand, and badly worded, but it said that Vittoria would be ready at the appointed time. Her mother, she added, was ill, but wished her to accept the Princess’s invitation.

  Vittoria had grown thin and pale, and there was a sort of haunted look in her young eyes as she sat beside Corona in the big carriage. Corona herself hesitated as to what she should say, for the girl was evidently in a condition to faint, or break down with tears, at any sudden shock. Yet it was necessary to tell her that Orsino was waiting for her, and it might be necessary also to use some persuasion in inducing her to meet him.

  ‘My dear,’ said Corona, after a little while, ‘I want you to come home with me when we have had a little drive. Do you mind? We will have tea together in my little room.’

  ‘Yes — of course — I should like it very much,’ answered Vittoria.

  ‘We shall not be quite alone,’ Corona continued. ‘I hope you will not mind.’

  Corona Saracinesca had many good qualities, but she was not remarkably clever, and when she wished to be tactful she often found herself in conflict with the singular directness of her own character. At the same time, she feared to let the girl at her side see how much she knew. Vittoria looked so pale and nervous that she might faint. Corona had never fainted. The girl naturally supposed that Orsino was still in Sicily.

  They were near the Porta Salaria, and there was a long stretch of lonely road between high walls, just beyond it. Corona waited till they had passed the gate.

  ‘My dear,’ she began again, taking Vittoria’s hand kindly, ‘do not be surprised at what I am going to tell you. My son Orsino—’

  Vittoria started, and her hand shook in her companion’s hold.

  ‘Yes — my son Orsino has come back unexpectedly and wishes very much to see you.’

  Vittoria leaned back suddenly and closed her eyes. Corona thought that the fainting fit had certainly come, and tried to put her arm round the slight young figure. But as she looked into Vittoria’s face, she saw that the soft colour was suddenly blushing in her cheeks. In a moment her eyes opened again, and there was light in them for a moment.

  ‘I did not know how you would take it,’ said Corona, simply, ‘but I see that you are glad.’

  ‘For him — that he is safe,’ answered the young girl, in a low voice. ‘But—’

  She stopped, and gradually the colour sank away from her face again, and her eyes grew heavy once more. The trouble was greater than the gladness.

  ‘Will you see him, in my own room?’ asked the elder woman, after a pause.

  ‘Oh, yes — yes! Indeed I will — I must see him. How kind you are!’

  Corona leaned forward and spoke to the footman at once, and the carriage turned back towards the city. She knew well enough how desperately hard it would be for Vittoria to wait for the meeting. She knew also, not by instinct of tact, but by a woman’s inborn charity, that it would be kind of her to speak of other things now that she had said what was necessary, and not to force upon Vittoria the fact that Orsino had revealed his secret, still less to ask her any questions about her true relationship to Ferdinando Pagliuca, which might put her in the awkward position of contradicting Tebaldo’s public statement. But as they swept down the crowded streets, amongst the many carriages, Vittoria looked round into Corona’s face almost shyly, for she was very grateful.

  ‘How good you are to me!’ she exclaimed softly. ‘I shall not forget it.’

  Corona smiled, but said nothing, and ten minutes later the carriage thundered under the archway of the gate. Corona took Vittoria through the state apartments, where they were sure of meeting no one at that time, and into her bedroom by a door she seldom used. Then she pointed to another at the other side.

  ‘That is the way to my sitting-room, my dear,’ she said. ‘Orsino is there alone.’

  With a sudden impulse she kissed her on both cheeks and pushed her towards the door.

  CHAPTER XIV

  ORSINO HEARD THE door of his mother’s bedroom open, and rose to his feet, expecting to see Corona. He started as Vittoria entered, and he touched the writing-table with his hand as though he were unsteady. The young girl came forward towards him quickly, and the colour rose visibly in her face while she crossed the little room. Orsino was white and did not hold out his hand, not knowing what to expect, for it was the hand that had killed her brother but two days ago.

  Vittoria had not thought of what she should do or say, for it had been impossible to think. But as she came near, both her hands went out instinctively to touch him. Almost instinctively, too, he drew back from her touch a little. But she did not see the movement, and her eyes sought his as she laid her fingers lightly upon his shoulders and looked up to him. Then the sadness in his face, that had been almost like fear of her, relaxed toward a change, and his eyes opened wide in a sort of hesitating surprise. Two words, low and earnest, trembled upon Vittoria’s lips.

  ‘Thank God!’

  In an instant he knew that she loved him in spite of all. Yet, arguing against his senses that it was impossible, he would not take her at her word. He took both her hands from hi
s shoulders and held them, so that they crossed.

  ‘Was he really your brother?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered faintly, and looked down.

  Perhaps it seemed to her that she should be ashamed of forgiving, before he had said one word of defence or uttered one expression of sorrow for what he had done. But she loved him, and since she had been a little child she had not seen her brother Ferdinando half a dozen times. It was true that when she had seen him she had been drawn to him, as she was not drawn to the two that were left, for he had not been like the others. She knew that she should have trusted Ferdinando if she had known him better.

  Orsino began his defence.

  ‘We were fired upon several times,’ he said. Her hands started in his as she thought of his danger. ‘I saw a man’s coat moving in the brush,’ he continued, ‘and I aimed at it. I never saw the man’s face till we found him lying dead. It was not an accident, for bullets cut the trees overhead and struck the carriage.’ Again her hands quivered. ‘It was a fight, and I meant to kill the man. But I could not see his face.’

  She did not speak for a moment. Then, for the first time, she shrank a little, and withdrew her hands from his.

  ‘I know — yes — it is terrible,’ she said in broken tones; and she glanced at him, and looked down again. ‘Do not speak of it,’ she added suddenly, and she was surprised at her own words.

  It was the woman’s impulse to dissociate the man she loved from the deed, for which she could not but feel horror. She would have given the world to sit down beside him and talk of other things. But he wished the situation to be cleared for ever, as any courageous man would.

  ‘I must speak of it,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps we shall never have the chance again—’

  ‘Never? What do you mean?’ she asked quickly. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You may forgive me,’ he answered earnestly. ‘You know that I would have let him shoot me ten times over rather than have hurt you—’

  ‘Orsino—’ She touched his arm nervously, trying to stop him.

  ‘Yes — I wish I were in his grave to-day! You may forgive, but you cannot forget — how can you?’

  ‘How? If — if you still love me, I can forget—’

  Orsino’s eyes were suddenly moist. It seemed as though something broke, and let in the light.

  ‘I shall always love you,’ he said simply; as men sometimes do when they are very much in earnest.

  ‘And I—’

  She did not finish the sentence in words, but her hand and face said the rest.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, after a little silence.

  They went to a little sofa and sat down together, opposite the window.

  ‘Do you think that anything you could do could make me not love you?’ she asked, looking into his face. ‘Are you surprised? Did you think that I should turn upon you and accuse you of my brother’s death, and say that I hated you? You should not have judged me so — it was unkind!’

  ‘It has all been so horrible that I did not know what to expect,’ he said. ‘I have not been able to think sensibly until now. And even now — no, I have not judged you, as you call it, dear. But I expected that you would judge me, as God knows you have the right.’

  ‘Why should I judge you?’ asked Vittoria, softly and lovingly. ‘If you had lain in wait for him and killed him treacherously, as he meant to kill you, it would have been different. If he had killed you, as he was there to kill you — as he might have killed you if you had not been first — I — well, I am only a girl, but even these little hands would have had some strength! But as it is, God willed it. Whom shall I judge? God? That would be wrong. God protected you, and my brother died in his treachery. Do you think that if I had been there, and had been a man, and the guns firing, and the bullets flying, I should not have done as you did, and shot my own brother? It would have been much more horrible even than it is, but of course I should have done it. Then why are you in such distress? Why did you think that I should not love you any more?’

  ‘I did not dare to think it,’ answered Orsino.

  ‘You see, as I said, God willed it — not you. You were but the instrument, unconscious and innocent. It is only a little child that will strike the senseless thing that hurts it.’

  ‘You are eloquent, darling. You will make me think as you do.’

  ‘I wish you would, indeed I wish you would! I am sorry, I am grieved, I shall mourn poor Ferdinando, though I scarcely knew him. But you — I shall love you always, and for me, as I see it, you were no more the willing cause of his death than the senseless gun you held in your hand. Do you believe me?’

  She took his hand again, as though to feel that he understood. And understanding, he drew her close to him and kissed her young eyes, as he had done that first time, out on the bridge over the street.

  ‘You have my life,’ he said tenderly. ‘I give you my life and soul, dear.’

  She put up her face suddenly, and kissed his cheek, and instantly the colour filled her own, and she shrank back, and spoke in a different tone.

  ‘We will put away that dreadful thing,’ she said, drawing a little towards her own end of the sofa. ‘We will never speak of it again, for you understand.’

  ‘But your mother, your brothers,’ answered Orsino. ‘What of them? I hear that they do not acknowledge—’ he stopped, puzzled as to how he should speak.

  ‘My mother is ill with grief, for Ferdinando was her favourite. But Tebaldo and Francesco have determined that they will act as though he were no relation of ours. They say that it would ruin us all to have it said that our brother had been with the brigands. That is true, is it not?’

  ‘It would be a great injury to you,’ answered Orsino.

  ‘Yes. That is what they say. And Tebaldo will not let us wear mourning, for fear that people should not believe what he says. This morning when the Princess’s note came, Tebaldo insisted that I should accept, but my mother said that I should not come to the house. They had a long discussion, and she submitted at last. What can she do? He rules everybody — and he is bad, bad in his heart, bad in his soul! Francesco is only weak, but Tebaldo is bad. Beware of him, for though he says that Ferdinando was not his brother, he will not forgive you. But you will not go back to Sicily?’

  ‘Yes, I must go. I cannot leave San Giacinto alone, since I have created so much trouble.’

  ‘Since poor Ferdinando is dead, you will be safer — I mean—’ she hesitated. ‘Orsino!’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘I knew that he would try to kill you — that is why I wanted to keep you here. I did not dare tell you — but I begged so hard — I thought that for my sake, perhaps, you would not go. Tebaldo would kill me if he knew that I were telling you the truth now. He knew that Ferdinando had friends among the outlaws, and that he sometimes lived with them for weeks. And Ferdinando wrote to Tebaldo, and warned him that although he had signed the deed, no one should ever enter the gate of Camaldoli while he was alive. And no one did, for he died. But the Romans would think that he was a common brigand; and I suppose that Tebaldo is right, for it would injure us very much. But between you and me there must be nothing but the truth, so I have told you all. And now beware of Tebaldo; for, in spite of what he says, he will some day try to avenge his brother.’

  ‘I understand it all much better now,’ said Orsino, thoughtfully. ‘I am glad you have told me. But the question is, whether your mother and your brothers will ever consent to our marriage, Vittoria. That is what I want to know.’

  ‘My mother — never! Tebaldo might, for interest. He is very scheming. But my mother will never consent. She will never see you again, if she can help it.’

  ‘What are we to do?’ asked Orsino, speaking rather to himself than to Vittoria.

  ‘I do not know,’ she answered, in a tone of perplexity. ‘We must wait, I suppose. Perhaps she will change, and see it all differently. We can afford to wait — we are young. We love each other, and we can meet. Is it so hard to wait awhile before b
eing married?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Orsino. ‘It is hard to wait for you.’

  ‘I will do anything you like,’ answered Vittoria. ‘Only wait a little while, and see whether my mother does not change. Only a little while!’

  ‘We must, I suppose,’ said Orsino, reluctantly. ‘But I do not see why your mother should not always think of me as she does to-day. I can do nothing to improve matters.’

  ‘Let us be satisfied with to-day,’ replied Vittoria, rather anxiously, and as though to break off the conversation. ‘I was miserably unhappy this evening, and I thought you were in Sicily; and instead, we have met. It is enough for one day — it is a thousand times more than I had hoped.’

  ‘Or I,’ said Orsino, bending down and kissing her hand more than once.

  The handle of Corona’s door turned very audibly just then, and a moment later the Princess entered the room. Without seeming to scrutinise the faces of the two, she understood at a glance that Vittoria had accepted the tragic situation, as she herself would have done; and that if there had been any discussion, it was over.

  Vittoria coloured a little, when she met Corona’s eyes, realising how the older woman had, as it were, arranged a lovers’ meeting for her. But Corona herself did not know whether to be glad or sorry for what had happened.

  Nor was it easy for anyone to foresee the consequences of the present situation. It was only too clear that the young people loved each other with all their hearts; and Corona herself was very fond of Vittoria, and believed her to be quite unlike her family. Yet at best she was an exception in a race that had a bad name; and Corona knew how her husband and his father would oppose the marriage, even though she herself should consent to it. She guessed, too, that Vittoria’s mother would refuse to hear of it. Altogether Orsino had fallen in love very unfortunately, and Corona could see no possible happy termination to the affair.

  Therefore, against her own nature and her affection for her son, she was conscious of a certain disappointment when she saw that the love between the two was undiminished, even by the terrible catastrophe of Ferdinando’s death. It would have been so much simpler if Vittoria had bidden goodbye for ever to the man who had killed her brother.