“I think they are all coming,” Lamberti answered very mechanically.
He had resolutely looked at the Countess until now, but he felt the daughter’s eyes upon him, and he was obliged to meet them, if only for a single instant. The last time he had met their gaze she had cried aloud and had fled from him in terror. He would have given much to turn from her now, without a glance, and mingle with the other guests.
He was perfectly cool and self-possessed, as he afterwards remembered, but he felt that it was the sort of coolness which always came upon him in moments of supreme danger. It was familiar to him, for he had been in many hand-to-hand engagements in wild countries, and he knew that it would not forsake him; but he missed the thrill of rare delight that made him love fighting as he loved no sport he had ever tried. This was more like walking bravely to certain death.
Cecilia was all in white, but her face was whiter than the silk she wore, and as motionless as marble; and her fixed eyes shone with an almost dazzling light. Guido saw and wondered. Then he heard Lamberti’s voice, steady, precise, and metallic as the notes of a bell striking the hour.
“I hope to see something of you by-and-by, Signorina.”
Cecilia’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then Guido was sure that they smiled perceptibly, and she bent her head in assent, but so slightly that her eyes were still fixed on Lamberti’s.
Other guests came up at that moment, and the two friends made way for them.
“Come back through the house,” said Guido, in a low voice.
Lamberti followed him into the great hall, and to the left through the next, where there was no one, and out to a small balcony beyond. Then both stood still and faced each other, and the silence lasted a few seconds. Guido spoke first.
“What has there been between you two?” he asked, with something like sternness in his tone.
“This is the second time in my life that I have spoken to the Contessina,” Lamberti answered. “The first time I ever saw her was at your aunt’s house.”
Guido had never doubted the word of Lamberto Lamberti, but he could not doubt the evidence of his own senses either, and he had watched Cecilia’s face. It seemed utterly impossible that she should look as she had looked just now, unless there were some very grave matter between her and Lamberti. All sorts of horrible suspicions clouded Guido’s brain, all sorts of reasons why Lamberti should lie to him, this once, this only time. Yet he spoke quietly enough.
“It is very strange that two people should behave as you and she do, when you meet, if you have only met twice. It is past my comprehension.”
“It is very strange,” Lamberti repeated.
“So strange,” said Guido, “that it is very hard to believe. You are asking a great deal of me.”
“I have asked nothing, my friend. You put a question to me, — a reasonable question, I admit, — and I have answered you with the truth. I have never touched that young lady’s hand, I have only spoken with her twice in my life, and not alone on either occasion. I did not wish to come here to-day, but you practically forced me to.”
“You did not wish to come, because you knew what would happen,” Guido answered coldly.
“How could I know?”
“That is the question. But you did know, and until you are willing to explain to me how you knew it — —”
He stopped short and looked hard at Lamberti, as if the latter must understand the rest. His usually gentle and thoughtful face was as hard and stern as stone. Until lately his friendship for Lamberti had been by far the strongest and most lasting affection of his life. The thought that it was to be suddenly broken and ended by an atrocious deception was hard to bear.
“You mean that if I cannot explain, as you call it, you and I are to be like strangers. Is that what you mean, Guido? Speak out, man! Let us be plain.”
Guido was silent for a while, leaning over the balcony and looking down, while Lamberti stood upright and waited for his answer.
“How can I act otherwise?” asked Guido, at last, without looking up. “You would do the same in my place. So would any man of honour.”
“I should try to believe you, whatever you said.”
“And if you could not?” Guido enquired almost fiercely.
It was very nearly an insult, but Lamberti answered quietly and firmly.
“Before refusing to believe me, merely on apparent evidence, you can ask the Contessina herself.”
“As if a woman could tell the truth when a man will not!” Guido laughed harshly.
“You forget that you love her, and that she probably loves you. That should make a difference.”
“What do you wish me to do? Ask her the question you will not answer?”
“The question I have answered,” said Lamberti, correcting him. “Yes. Ask her.”
“Your mother was an old friend of her mother’s,” Guido said, with a new thought.
“Yes.”
“Why is it impossible that you two should have met before now?”
“Because I tell you that we have not. If we had, I should not have any reason for hiding the fact. It would be much easier to explain, if we had. But I am not going to argue about the matter, for it is quite useless. Before you quarrel with me, go and ask the Contessina to explain, if she will, or can. If she cannot, or if she can and will not, I shall try to make you understand as much as I do, though that is very little.”
Guido listened without attempting to interrupt. He was not a rash or violent man, and he valued Lamberti’s friendship far too highly to forfeit it without the most convincing reasons. Unfortunately, what he had seen would have convinced an even less suspicious man that there was a secret which his friend shared with Cecilia, and which both had an object in concealing from him. Lamberti ceased speaking and a long silence followed, for he had nothing more to say.
At last Guido straightened himself with an evident effort, as if he had forced himself to decide the matter, but he did not look at Lamberti.
“Very well,” he said. “I will speak to her.”
Lamberti bent his head, silently acknowledging Guido’s sensible conclusion. Then Guido turned and went away alone. It was long before Lamberti left the balcony, for he was glad of the solitude and the chance of quietly thinking over his extraordinary situation.
Meanwhile Guido found it no easy matter to approach Cecilia at all, and it looked as if it would be quite impossible to speak with her alone. He went back through the great hall where people were beginning to gather about the tea-table, and he stood in the vast door that opens upon the close garden. Cecilia was still standing beside her mother, but they were surrounded by a group of people who all seemed to be trying to talk to them at once. The garden was crowded, and it would be impossible for Guido to get near them without talking his way, so to say, through countless acquaintances. By this time, however, most of the guests had arrived, and those who were in the inner garden would soon begin to go out to the grounds.
Cecilia was no longer pale; on the contrary, she had more colour than usual, and delicate though the slight flush in her cheeks was, it looked a little feverish to Guido. As he began to make his way forward he tried to catch her eye, but he thought she purposely avoided an exchange of glances. At last he was beside her, and to his surprise she looked at him quite naturally, and answered him without embarrassment.
“You must be tired,” he said. “Will you not sit down for a little while?”
“I should like to,” she answered, smiling.
Then she looked at her mother, and seemed to hesitate.
“May I go and sit down?” she asked, in a low voice. “I am so tired!”
“Of course, child!” answered the Countess, cheerfully. “Signor d’Este will take you to the seat over there by the fountain. I hardly think that any one else will come now.”
Guido and Cecilia moved away, and the Countess smiled affectionately at their backs. Some one said that they were a very well-matched pair, and another ask
ed if it were true that Signor d’Este would inherit the Princess Anatolie’s fortune at her death. A third observed that she would never die; and a fourth, who was going to dine with her that evening, said that she was a very charming woman; whereupon everybody laughed a little, and the Countess changed the subject.
Cecilia was really tired, and gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she sat down and leaned back. Guido looked at her and hesitated.
“I must have shaken hands with at least two hundred people,” she said, “and I am sure I have spoken to as many more!”
“Do you like it?” Guido asked, by way of gaining time.
“What an idle question!” laughed Cecilia.
“I had another to ask you,” he answered gravely. “Not an idle one.”
She looked at him quickly, wondering whether he was going to ask her to be his wife, and wondering, too, what she should answer if he did. For some days past she had understood that what they called their compact of friendship was becoming a mere comedy on his side, if not on hers, and that he loved her with all his heart, though he had not told her so.
“It is rather an odd question,” he continued, as she said nothing. “You have not formally given me any right to ask it, and yet I feel that I have the right, all the same.”
“Friendship gives rights, and takes them,” Cecilia answered thoughtfully.
“Exactly. That is what I feel about it. That is why I think I may ask you something that may seem strange. At all events, I cannot go on living in doubt about the answer.”
“Is it as important as that?” asked the young girl.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Wait a moment. Let these people pass. How in the world did you succeed in getting so many roses to grow in such a short time?”
“You must ask the gardener,” Cecilia answered, in order to say something while a young couple passed before the bench, evidently very much absorbed in each other’s conversation.
Guido bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and not looking at her, but turning his face a little, so that he could speak in a very low tone with an outward appearance of carelessness. It was very hard to put the question, after all, now that he was so near her, and felt her thrilling presence.
“Our agreement is a failure,” he began. “At all events, it is one on my side. I really did not think it would turn out as it has.”
She said nothing, and he knew that she did not move, and was looking at the people in the distance. He knew, also, that she understood him and had expected something of the sort. That made it a little easier to go on.
“That is the reason why I am going to ask you this question. What has there ever been between you and Lamberti? Why do you turn deathly pale when you meet him, and why does he try to avoid you?”
He heard her move now, and he slowly turned his face till he could see hers. The colour in her cheeks had deepened a little, and there was an angry light in her eyes which he had never seen there. But she said not a word in answer.
“Do you love him?” Guido asked in a very low tone, and his voice trembled slightly.
“No!” The word came with sharp energy.
“How long have you known him?” Guido enquired.
“Since I have known you. I met him first on the same day. I have not spoken with him since. I tried to-day, I could not.”
“Why not?”
“Do not ask me. I cannot tell you.”
“Are you speaking the truth?” Guido asked, suddenly meeting her eyes.
She drew back with a quick movement, deeply offended and angry at the brutal question.
“How dare you doubt what I tell you!” She seemed about to rise.
“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. “I really beg your pardon. It is all so strange. I hardly knew what I was saying. Please forgive me!”
“I will try,” Cecilia answered. “But I think I would rather go back now. We cannot talk here.”
She rose to her feet, but Guido tried to detain her, remaining seated and looking up.
“Please, please stay a little longer!” he pleaded.
“No.”
“You are still angry with me?”
“No. But I cannot talk to you yet. If you do not come with me, I shall go back alone.”
There was nothing to be done. He rose and walked by her side in silence. The garden was almost empty now, and the Countess herself had gone in to get a cup of tea.
“The roses are really marvellous,” Guido remarked in a set tone, as they came to the door.
Suddenly they were face to face with Lamberti, who was coming out, hat in hand. He had waited for his opportunity, watching them from a distance, and Guido knew it instinctively. He was quite cool and collected, and smiled pleasantly as he spoke to Cecilia.
“May I not have the pleasure of talking with you a little, Signorina?” he asked.
Guido could not help looking anxiously at the young girl.
“Certainly,” she answered, without hesitation. “You will find my mother near the tea table, Signor d’Este,” she added, to Guido. “It is really time that I should make your friend’s acquaintance!”
He was as much amazed at her self-possession now as he had been at her evident disturbance before. He drew back as Cecilia turned away from him after speaking, and he stood looking after the pair a few seconds before he went in. At that moment he would have gladly strangled the man who had so long been his best friend. He had never guessed that he could wish to kill any one.
Lamberti did not make vague remarks about the roses as Guido had done, on the mere chance that some one might hear him, and indeed there was now hardly anybody to hear. As for Cecilia, her anger against Guido had sustained her at first, but she could not have talked unconcernedly now, as she walked beside Lamberti, waiting for him to speak. She felt just then that she would have walked on and on, whithersoever he chose to lead her, and until it pleased him to stop.
“D’Este asked me this afternoon how long I had known you,” he said, at last. “I said that I had spoken with you twice, once at the Princess’s, and once to-day. Was that right?”
“Yes. Did he believe you?”
“No.”
“He did not believe me either.”
“And of course he asked you what there was between us,” said Lamberti.
“Yes. I said that I could not tell him. What did you say?”
“The same thing.”
There was a pause, and both realised that they were talking as if they had known each other for years, and that they understood each other almost without words. At the end of the walk they turned towards one another, and their eyes met.
“Why did you run away from me?” Lamberti asked.
“I was frightened. I was frightened to-day when you spoke to me. Why did you go to the Forum that morning?”
“I had dreamt something strange about you. It happened just where I found you.”
“I dreamt the same dream, the same night. That is, I think it must have been the same.”
She turned her face away, blushing red.
He saw, and understood.
“Yes,” he said. “What am I to tell d’Este?” he asked, after a short pause.
“Nothing!” said Cecilia quickly, and the subsiding blush rose again. “Besides,” she continued, speaking rapidly in her embarrassment, “he would not believe us, whatever we told him, and it is of no use to let him know—” she stopped suddenly.
“Has he no right to know?”
“No. At least — no — I think not. I do not mean—”
They were standing still, facing each other. In another moment she would be telling Lamberti what she had never told Guido about her feelings towards him. On a sudden she turned away with a sort of desperate movement, clasping her hands and looking over the low wall.
“Oh, what is it all?” she cried, in great distress. “I am in the dream again, talking as if I had known you all my life! What must you think of m
e?”
Lamberti stood beside her, resting his hands upon the wall.
“It is exactly what I feel,” he said quietly.
“Then you dream, too?” she asked.
“Every night — of you.”
“We are both dreaming now! I am sure of it. I shall wake up in the dark and hear the door shut softly, though I always lock it now.”
“The door? Do you hear that, too?” asked Lamberti. “But I am wide awake when I hear it.”
“So am I! Sometimes I can manage to turn up the electric light before the sound has quite stopped. Are we both mad? What is it? In the name of Heaven, what is it all?”
“I wish I knew. Whatever it is, if you and I meet often, it is quite impossible that we should talk like ordinary acquaintances. Yes, I thought I was going mad, and this morning I went to a great doctor and told him everything. He seemed to think it was all a set of coincidences. He advised me to see you and ask you why you ran away that day, and he thought that if we talked about it, I might perhaps not dream again.”
“You are not mad, you are not mad!” Cecilia repeated the words in a low voice, almost mechanically.
Then there was silence, and presently she turned from the wall and began to walk back along the wide path that passed by the central fountain. The sun, long out of sight behind the hill, was sinking now, the thin violet mist had begun to rise from the Campagna far to south and east, and the mountains had taken the first tinge of evening purple. From the ilex woods above the house, the voice of a nightingale rang out in a long and delicious trill. The garden was deserted, and now and then the sound of women’s laughter rippled out through the high, open door.
“We must meet soon,” Lamberti said, as they reached the fountain.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should say it. She stopped and looked at him, and recognised every feature of the face she had seen in her dreams almost ever since she could remember dreaming. Her fear was all gone now, and she was sure that it would never come back. Had she not heard him say those very words, “We must meet soon,” hundreds and hundreds of times, just as he had said them long ago — ever so long ago — in a language that she could not remember when she was awake? And had they not always met soon?
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1024