Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘I am very glad to see you safely back,’ he said, with a great appearance of frankness. ‘You are the hero of the hour, you know.’

  For a moment even Orsino was confused by the man’s easy manner. Even the eyes did not betray resentment. He said something by way of greeting.

  ‘I have had some difficulty in making out who the brigand was whom you shot,’ continued Tebaldo. ‘It is an odd coincidence. We think it must have been one of the Pagliuca di Bauso. There is a distant branch of the family — rather down in the world, I believe — it must have been one of them.’

  ‘I am glad it was no nearer relation,’ answered Orsino, not knowing what to say.

  ‘No near relative of mine would have been likely to be in such company,’ answered the Sicilian, rather stiffly, for he was a good actor when not angry.

  ‘No — of course not — I did not mean to suggest such a thing. It was an odd coincidence, of course.’ Orsino tried not to look incredulous.

  Tebaldo was about to pass on, when an idea presented itself to Orsino’s mind, of which he had not thought before now. Slow men sometimes make up their minds suddenly, and not having the experience of habitually acting upon impulses, they are much more apt to make mistakes, on the rare occasions when they are carried away by an idea, and do so. It seemed to him that if he were ever to speak to either of Vittoria’s brothers about marrying her, this was the moment to do so. It would be impossible for Tebaldo, in an instant, to deny what he had just now said, and it would be hard for him to find a pretext for refusing to give his sister to such a man. The whole thing might be carried through by a surprise, and Orsino would take the consequences afterwards, and laugh at them, if he were once safely married.

  Tebaldo had already turned away to speak to someone else, and Orsino went after him and called him back.

  ‘There is a matter about which I should like to speak to you, Don Tebaldo,’ he said. ‘Can we get out of this crowd?’

  Tebaldo looked at him quickly and sharply, before he answered by a nod. The two men moved away together to the outer rooms, of which there were three or four, stiffly furnished with pier tables and high-backed gilt chairs, as in most old Roman houses. When they were alone, Orsino stopped.

  ‘It is an important matter,’ he said slowly. ‘I wish to speak with you, as being the head of your family.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Tebaldo, and the lids drooped, vulture-like, at the corners of his eyes, as he met Orsino’s look steadily. ‘By all means. We shall not be interrupted here. I am at your service.’

  ‘I wish to marry your sister, and I desire your consent,’ said Orsino. ‘That is the whole matter.’

  It would have been impossible to guess from the Sicilian’s face whether he had ever anticipated such a proposition or not. There was absolutely no change in his expression.

  ‘My sister is a very charming and desirable young girl,’ he said rather formally. ‘As there seems to be a good deal of liberty allowed to young girls in Rome, as compared with Sicily, you will certainly pardon me if I ask whether you have good reason to suppose that she prefers you in any way.’

  ‘I have good reason for supposing so,’ answered Orsino, but he felt the blood rising to his face as he spoke, for he did not like to answer such a question.

  ‘I congratulate you,’ said Tebaldo, smiling a little, but not pleasantly. ‘Personally, I should also congratulate myself on the prospect of having such a brother-in-law. I presume you are aware that my sister has no dowry. We were ruined by my uncle Corleone.’

  ‘It is a matter of perfect indifference,’ replied Orsino.

  ‘You are generous. I presume that you have inherited some private fortune of your own, have you not?’

  ‘No, I am dependent on my father.’

  ‘Then — pardon my practical way of looking at the affair,’ said Tebaldo, accentuating his smile a little, ‘but, as a mere formality, I think that there must be some proposal from the head of your house. You see, you and Vittoria will be dependent on an allowance from your father, who, again, is doubtless dependent on your grandfather, Prince Saracinesca. As my poor sister has nothing, there must necessarily be some understanding about such an allowance.’

  ‘It is just,’ answered Orsino, but he bit his lip. ‘My father has an independent estate,’ he added, by way of correction. ‘And my mother has all the Astrardente property.’

  ‘There is no lack of fortune on your side, my dear Don Orsino. You are, of course, sure of your father’s consent, so that an interview with him will be a mere formality. For myself, I give you my hand heartily and wish you well. I shall be happy to meet the Prince of Sant’ Ilario at any time which may be agreeable to him.’

  Orsino felt that the man had got the better of him, but he had to take the proffered hand. Mentally he wondered what strange monster this Tebaldo Pagliuca could be within himself, to grasp the hand that had killed his brother less than a week ago, welcoming its owner as his brother-in-law. But he saw that the very simple and natural request for an interview with his father would probably prove a source of almost insurmountable difficulty.

  ‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘to have had the pleasure of seeing Donna Vittoria here this evening. I shall be obliged to return to Sicily in a day or two. May I see her at your house before I go?’

  Tebaldo hesitated a moment.

  ‘You will find her at home with my mother to-morrow afternoon,’ he answered almost immediately. ‘I see no reason why you should not call.’

  ‘But your mother—’ Orsino stopped short.

  ‘What were you going to say?’ enquired Tebaldo, blandly.

  ‘You will be kind enough to tell her that I am coming, will you not?’ Orsino saw that he was getting into a terribly difficult situation.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Tebaldo answered. ‘I shall take great pleasure in announcing you. She is better, I am glad to say, and I have no doubt that this good news will completely restore her.’

  Orsino felt a vague danger circling about his heart, as a hawk sails in huge curves that narrow one by one until he strikes his prey. The man was subtle and ready to take advantage of the smallest circumstance with unerring foresight while wholly concealing his real intention.

  ‘Come at three o’clock, if it is convenient,’ concluded Tebaldo. ‘And now—’ he looked at his watch— ‘you will forgive me if I leave you. I have an engagement which I must keep.’

  He shook hands again with great cordiality, and they parted. Tebaldo went out directly, without returning to the inner rooms, but Orsino went back to stay half an hour longer. Out of curiosity he got a friend to introduce him to Miss Lizzie Slayback.

  The girl looked up with a bright smile when she heard the great name.

  ‘I have so much wanted to meet you,’ she said quickly. ‘You are the man who killed the brigand, are you not? Do tell me all about it!’

  He was annoyed, for he could not escape, but he resigned himself and told the story in the fewest possible words.

  ‘How interesting!’ exclaimed Miss Slayback. ‘And we all thought he was the brother of Don Tebaldo. You know Don Tebaldo, of course? I think he is a perfect beauty, and so kind.’

  Orsino had never thought of Tebaldo Pagliuca as either kind or beautiful, and he said something that meant nothing in reply.

  ‘Oh, you are jealous of him!’ cried the girl, laughing. ‘Of course! All the men are.’

  Orsino got away as soon as he could. As a necessary formality he was introduced to Mrs. Slayback. He asked her an idle question about how she liked Rome, such as all Romans ask all foreigners about whom they know nothing.

  ‘How late is it safe to stay here?’ she asked, with singular directness, by way of an answer.

  ‘Rome becomes unhealthy in August,’ said Orsino. ‘The first rains bring the fever. Until then it is perfectly safe, and one can return in October without danger. The bad time lasts for six weeks to two months at most.’

  ‘Thank you,’ answered Mrs. Slayback with a little laugh.
‘We shall not stay till August, I think. It would be too hot. I suppose that it is hot in June.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Orsino, absently. ‘I suppose that you would find it hot in June.’

  He wanted to be alone, and he left her as soon as he could. He walked home in the warm night and reviewed his position, which had suddenly become complicated. It was clear that he must now speak to his father, since he had committed the folly of making his proposal to Tebaldo. It was almost certain that his father would refuse to hear of the marriage on any consideration, and he knew that his mother disapproved of it. It was clear also that he could not avoid going to call upon Vittoria and her mother on the following afternoon, but he could not understand why Tebaldo had pretended to be so sure that he should be received, when he himself was tolerably certain that Maria Carolina would refuse to see him. That, however, was a simple matter. He should ask for her, and on being told that she could not receive, he should leave his card and go away. But that would not help him to see Vittoria, and it was in order to see her alone before he left that he had suddenly determined to make his proposal to Tebaldo.

  He had got himself into a rather serious scrape, and he was not gifted with more tact than the rest of his bold but tactless race. He therefore decided upon the only course which is open to such a man, which was to take his difficulties, one by one, in their natural order and deal with each as best he could.

  He had nothing more to hope from his mother’s intervention. He knew her unchangeable nature and was well aware that she would now hold her position to the last. She would not oppose his wishes, and that was a great deal gained, but she would not help him either.

  Early on the following morning he went to Sant’ Ilario’s own room, feeling that he had a struggle before him in which he was sure to be defeated, but which he could not possibly avoid. His father was reading the paper over his coffee by the open window, a square, iron-grey figure clad in a loose grey jacket. The room smelt of coffee and cigarettes. Sant’ Ilario’s perfect contentment and happiness in his surroundings made him a particularly difficult person to approach suddenly with a crucial question. His serene felicity made a sort of resisting shell around him, through which it was necessary to break before he himself could be reached.

  He looked up and nodded as Orsino entered. Such visits from his sons were of daily occurrence, and he expected nothing unusual. It was of no use to beat about the bush, and Orsino attacked the main question at once.

  ‘I wish to speak to you about a serious matter, father,’ he said, sitting down opposite Sant’ Ilario.

  ‘I wish Sicily were in China, and San Giacinto in Peru,’ was the answer.

  ‘It has nothing to do with San Giacinto,’ said Orsino. ‘I want to be married.’

  Sant’ Ilario looked up sharply, in surprise. His eldest son’s marriage was certainly a serious matter.

  ‘To whom?’ he enquired.

  ‘To Vittoria d’Oriani,’ said Orsino, squaring his naturally square jaw, in anticipation of trouble.

  Sant’ Ilario dropped the paper, took his cigarette from his lips, and crossed one leg over the other angrily.

  ‘I was afraid so,’ he said. ‘You are a fool. Go back to Sicily and do not talk nonsense.’

  The Saracinesca men had never minced matters in telling each other what they thought.

  ‘I expected that you would say something like that,’ answered Orsino.

  ‘Then why the devil did you come to me at all?’ enquired his father, his grey hair bristling and his eyebrows meeting.

  But Orsino was not like him, being colder and slower in every way, and less inclined to anger.

  ‘I came to you because I had no choice but to come,’ he answered quietly. ‘I love her, she loves me, and we are engaged to be married. It was absolutely necessary that I should speak to you.’

  ‘I do not see the necessity, since you knew very well that I should not consent.’

  ‘You must consent in the end, father—’

  ‘I will not. That ends it. It is the worst blood in Italy, and some of the worst blood in Europe. Corleone was a scoundrel, his father was a traitor—’

  ‘That does not affect Donna Vittoria so far as I can see,’ said Orsino, stubbornly.

  ‘It affects the whole family. Besides, if they are decent people, they will not consent either. It is not a week since you killed Ferdinando Pagliuca — Vittoria’s brother—’

  ‘They deny it.’

  ‘They lie, I believe.’

  ‘That is their affair,’ said Orsino.

  ‘The fact does not beautify their family character, either,’ retorted Sant’ Ilario. ‘With the whole of Europe to choose from, excepting a dozen royalties, you must needs fall in love with the sister of a brigand, the niece of a scoundrel, the grand-daughter of—’

  ‘Yes — you have said all that. But I have promised to marry her, and that is a side of the question of which you cannot get rid so easily.’

  ‘You did not promise her my consent, I suppose. I will not give it. If you choose to marry without it, I cannot hinder you. You can take her and live on her dowry, if she has one.’

  ‘She has nothing.’

  ‘Then you may live by your wits. You shall have nothing more from me.’

  ‘If the wits of the family had ever been worth mentioning, I should ask nothing more,’ observed Orsino, coldly. ‘Unfortunately they are not a sufficient provision. You are forcing me into the position of breaking my word to a woman.’

  ‘If neither her parents nor yours will consent to your marriage, you are not breaking your engagement. They will not give her to you if you cannot support her. Of course you can wait until I die. Judging from my father, and from my own state of health at present, it will be a long engagement.’

  Orsino was silent for a moment. He did not lose his temper even now, but he tried to devise some means of moving Sant’ Ilario.

  ‘I spoke to Tebaldo Pagliuca last night,’ he said, after a pause. ‘In spite of what you seem to expect, he accepted my proposition, so far as he could.’

  ‘Then he is an even greater villain than I had supposed him to be,’ returned Sant’ Ilario.

  ‘That is no reason why you should force me to humiliate myself to him—’

  ‘Send him to me, if you are afraid to face him. I will explain the situation — I will—’

  ‘You will simply quarrel with him, father. You would insult him in the first three words you spoke.’

  ‘That is very probable,’ said Sant’ Ilario. ‘I should like to. He has been scheming to catch you for his sister ever since the evening they first dined here. But I did not think you were such a childish idiot as to be caught so easily.’

  ‘No one has caught me, as you call it. I love Vittoria d’Oriani, and she loves me. You have no right to keep us apart because you did not approve of her grandfather and uncle.’

  ‘No right? I have no right, you say? Then who has?’

  ‘No one,’ answered Orsino, simply.

  ‘I have the power, at all events,’ retorted his father. ‘I would not have you marry her — would not? I will not. It is materially impossible for you to marry with no money at all, and you shall have none. Talk no more about it, or I shall positively lose my temper.’

  It occurred to Orsino that it was positively lost already, but as he kept his own, he did not say so. He rose from his seat and calmly lighted a cigarette.

  ‘Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose,’ he observed.

  ‘Nothing more on that subject,’ answered Sant’ Ilario. ‘Not that I have the least objection to saying over again all I have said,’ he added.

  ‘At all events, you do not pretend that you have any objection to Donna Vittoria herself, do you?’

  ‘No — except that she has made a fool of you. Most women make fools of men, sooner or later.’

  ‘Perhaps, but you should be the last person to say so, I think.’

  ‘I married with my father’s consent,’ replied
Sant’ Ilario, as though the fact were an unanswerable argument. ‘If I had made to him such a proposition as you are making to me, he would have answered in a very different way, my boy, I can tell you!’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Orsino.

  ‘In what way? Why, he would have been furiously angry! He would have called me a fool and an idiot, and would have told me to go to the devil.’

  Orsino laughed in spite of himself.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ enquired Sant’ Ilario, sharply, growing hot again in a moment.

  ‘Those are exactly the words you have been saying to me,’ answered Orsino.

  ‘I? Have I? Well — that only proves that I am like my father, then. And a very good thing, too. It is a pity that you are not more like me than you are. We should understand each other better.’

  ‘We may yet understand each other,’ said Orsino, lingering in the vain hope of finding some new argument.

  ‘No doubt. But not about this matter.’

  Seeing that it was useless to prolong the discussion, Orsino went away to think matters over. He had been quite sure of his father’s answer, of course, but that did not improve the situation at all. It had been a necessity of conscience and honour to go to him, after speaking to Tebaldo on the previous evening, because it was not possible to take his answer for granted. But now it became equally a duty of honour and self-respect to communicate to Tebaldo what Sant’ Ilario had said, and to do so was a most unpleasant humiliation. He cared nothing for the fact that his father’s refusal might almost seem like an insult to Tebaldo Pagliuca, though he could not quite see how he could make the communication without giving offence. The real trouble was that he should be practically obliged to take back what he had said, and to say that after all, in the face of his family’s objections, he could not marry Vittoria at present, and saw no prospect of being able to marry her in the future.

  At the same time he wondered how much Tebaldo had told his mother. She also, according to Vittoria’s statement, would oppose their marriage with all her power. Yet Tebaldo had professed himself quite certain that she would receive Orsino when he called. There was something mysterious about that.