Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I shall see you to-night,” she answered, almost unconsciously.

  “Tell me,” he said, looking into the clear water in the fountain, “does your dreaming make you restless and nervous? Does it wear on you?”

  “Oh no! I have always dreamt a great deal all my life. I rest just as well.”

  “Yes — but those were ordinary dreams. I mean—”

  “No, they were always the same. They were always about you. I almost screamed when I recognised you at the Princess’s that afternoon.”

  “I had never dreamt of your face,” said Lamberti, “but I was sure I had seen you before.”

  They looked down into the moving water, and the music of its fall made it harmonious with the distant song of the nightingale. Lamberti tried to think connectedly, and could not. It was as if he were under a spell. Questions rose to his lips, but he could not speak the words, he could not put them together in the right way. Once, at sea, on the training ship, he had fallen from the foreyard, and though the fall was broken by the gear and he had not been injured, he had been badly stunned, and for more than an hour he had lost all sense of direction, of what was forward and what was aft, so that at one moment the vessel seemed to be sailing backwards, and then forwards, and then sideways. He felt something like that now, and he knew intuitively that Cecilia felt it also. Amazingly absurd thoughts passed through his mind. Was to-morrow going to be yesterday? Would what was coming be just what was long past? Or was there no past, no future, nothing but all time present at once?

  He was not moved by Cecilia’s presence in the same way that Guido was. Guido was merely in love with her; very much in love, no doubt, but that was all. She was to him, first, the being of all others with whom he was most in sympathy, the only being whom he understood, and who, he was sure, understood him, the only being without whom life would be unendurable. And, secondly, she was the one and only creature in the world created to be his natural mate, and when he was near her he was aware of nature’s mysterious forces, and felt the thrill of them continually.

  Lamberti experienced nothing of that sort at present. He was overwhelmed and carried away out of the region of normal thought and volition towards something which he somehow knew was at hand, which he was sure he had reached before, but which he could not distinctly remember. Between it and him in the past there was a wall of darkness; between him and it in the future there was a veil not yet lifted, but on which his dreams already cast strange and beautiful shadows.

  “I used to see things in the water,” Cecilia said softly, “things that were going to happen. That was long, long ago.”

  “I remember,” said Lamberti, quite naturally. “You told me once—”

  He stopped. It was gone back behind the wall of darkness. When he had begun to speak, quite unconsciously, he had known what it was that Cecilia had told him, but he had forgotten it all now. He passed his hand over his forehead, and suddenly everything changed, and he came back out of an immeasurable distance to real life.

  “I shall be going away in a few days,” he said. “May I see you before I go?”

  “Certainly. Come and see us about three o’clock. We are always at home then.”

  “Thank you.”

  They turned from the fountain while they spoke, and walked slowly towards the house.

  “Does your mother know about your dreaming?” Lamberti asked.

  “No. No one knows. And you?”

  “I have told that doctor. No one else. I wonder whether it will go on when I am far away.”

  “I wonder, too. Where are you going?”

  “I do not know yet. Perhaps to China again. I shall get my orders in a few days.”

  They reached the threshold of the door. Lamberti had been looking for Guido’s face amongst the people he could see as he came up, but Guido was gone.

  “Good-bye,” said Cecilia, softly.

  “Good night,” Lamberti answered, almost in a whisper. “God bless you.”

  He afterwards thought it strange that he should have said that, but at the time it seemed quite natural, and Cecilia was not at all surprised. She smiled and bent her graceful head. Then she joined her mother, and Lamberti disappeared.

  “My dear,” said the Countess, “you remember Monsieur Leroy? You met him at Princess Anatolie’s,” she added, in a stage whisper.

  Monsieur Leroy bowed, and Cecilia nodded. She had forgotten his existence, and now remembered that she had not liked him, and that she had said something sharp to him. He spoke first.

  “The Princess wished me to tell you how very sorry she is that she cannot be here this afternoon. She has one of her attacks.”

  “I am very sorry,” Cecilia answered. “Pray tell her how sorry I am.”

  “Thank you. But I daresay Guido brought you the same message.”

  “Who is Guido?” asked Cecilia, raising her eyebrows a little.

  “Guido d’Este. I thought you knew. You are surprised that I should call him by his Christian name? You see, I have known him ever since he was quite a boy. To all intents and purposes, he was brought up by the Princess.”

  “And you are often at the house, I suppose.”

  “I live there,” explained Monsieur Leroy. “To change the subject, my dear young lady, I have an apology to make, which I hope you will accept.”

  Cecilia did not like to be called any one’s “dear young lady,” and her manner froze instantly.

  “I cannot imagine why you should apologise to me,” she said coldly.

  “I was rude to you the other day, about your courses of philosophy, or something of that sort. Was not that it?”

  “Indeed, I had quite forgotten,” Cecilia answered, with truth. “It did not matter in the least what you thought of my reading Nietzsche, I assure you.”

  Monsieur Leroy reddened and laughed awkwardly, for he was particularly anxious to win her good grace.

  “I am not very clever, you know,” he said humbly. “You must forgive me.”

  “Oh certainly,” replied Cecilia. “Your explanation is more than adequate. In my mind, the matter had already explained itself. Will you have some tea?”

  “No, thank you. My nerves are rather troublesome. If I take tea in the afternoon I cannot sleep at night. I met Guido going away as I came. He was enthusiastic!”

  “In what way?”

  “About the villa, and the house, and the flowers, and about you.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone as he spoke the last words.

  “About me?” Cecilia was somewhat surprised.

  “Oh yes! He was overcome by your perfection — like every one else. How could it be otherwise? It is true that Guido has always been very impressionable.”

  “I should not have thought it,” Cecilia said, wishing that the man would go away.

  But he would not, and, to make matters worse, nobody would come and oblige him to move. It was plain to the meanest mind that since Cecilia was to marry Princess Anatolie’s nephew, the extraordinary person whom the Princess called her secretary must not be disturbed when he was talking to Cecilia, since he might be the bearer of some important message. Besides, a good many people were afraid of him, in a vague way, as a rather spiteful gossip who had more influence than he should have had.

  “Yes,” he continued, in an apologetic tone, “Guido is always falling in love, poor boy. Of course, it is not to be wondered at. A king’s son, and handsome as he is, and so very clever, too — all the pretty ladies fall in love with him at once, and he naturally falls in love with them. You see how simple it is. He has more opportunities than are good for him!”

  The disagreeable little man giggled, and his loose pink and white cheeks shook unpleasantly. Cecilia thought him horribly vulgar and familiar, and she inwardly wondered how the Princess Anatolie could even tolerate him, not to speak of treating him affectionately and calling him “Doudou.”

  “I supposed that you counted yourself among Signor d’Este’s friends,” said the young girl, frigidly.r />
  “I do, I do! Have I said anything unfriendly? I merely said that all the women fell in love with him.”

  “You said a good deal more than that.”

  “At all events, I wish I were he,” said Monsieur Leroy. “And if that is not paying him a compliment I do not know what you would call it. He is handsome, clever, generous, everything!”

  “And faithless, according to you.”

  “No, no! Not faithless; only fickle, very fickle.”

  “It is the same thing,” said the young girl, scornfully.

  She did not believe Monsieur Leroy in the least, but she wondered what his object could be in speaking against Guido, and whether he were really silly, as he often seemed, or malicious, as she suspected, or possibly both at the same time, since the combination is not uncommon. What he was telling her, if she believed it, was certainly not of a nature to hasten her marriage with Guido; and yet it was the Princess who had first suggested the match, and it could hardly be supposed that Monsieur Leroy would attempt to oppose his protectress.

  Just then there was a general move to go away, and the conversation was interrupted, much to Cecilia’s satisfaction. There was a great stir in the wide hall, for though many people had slipped away without disturbing the Countess by taking leave, there were many of her nearer friends who wished to say a word to her before going, just to tell her that they had enjoyed themselves vastly, that Cecilia was a model of beauty and good behaviour, and of everything charming, and that the villa was the most delightful place they had ever seen. By these means they conveyed the impression that they would all accept any future invitation which the Countess might send them, and they audibly congratulated one another upon her having at last established herself in Rome, adding that Cecilia was a great acquisition to society. More than that it was manifestly impossible to say in a few well-chosen words. Even in a language as rich as Italian, the number of approving adjectives is limited, and each can only have one superlative. The Countess Fortiguerra’s guests distributed these useful words amongst them and exhausted the supply.

  “It has been a great success, my dear,” said the Countess, when she and her daughter were left alone in the hall. “Did you see the Duchess of Pallacorda’s hat?”

  “No, mother. At least, I did not notice it.” Cecilia was nibbling a cake, thoughtfully.

  “My dear!” cried the Countess. “It was the most wonderful thing you ever saw. She was in terror lest it should come too late. Monsieur Leroy knew all about it.”

  “I cannot bear that man,” Cecilia said, still nibbling, for she was hungry.

  “I cannot say that I like him, either. But the Duchess’s new hat—”

  Cecilia heard her voice, but was too much occupied with her own thoughts to listen attentively, while the good Countess criticised the hat in question, admired its beauties, corrected its defects, put it a little further back on the Duchess’s pretty head, and, indeed, did everything with it which every woman can do, in imagination, with every imaginary hat. Finally, she asked Cecilia if she should not like to have one exactly like it.

  “No, thank you. Not now, at all events. Mother dear,” and she looked affectionately at the Countess, “what a deal of trouble you have taken to make it all beautiful for me to-day. I am so grateful!”

  She kissed her mother on both cheeks just as she had always done when she was pleased, ever since she had been a child, and suddenly the elder woman’s eyes glistened.

  “It is a pleasure to do anything for you, darling,” she said. “I have only you in the world,” she added quietly, after a little pause, “but I sometimes think I have more than all the other women.”

  Then Cecilia laid her head on her mother’s shoulder for a moment, and gently patted her cheek, and they both felt very happy.

  They drove home in the warm dusk, and when they reached the high road down by the Tiber they looked up and saw moving lights through the great open windows of the villa, and on the terrace, and in the gardens, like fireflies. For the servants were bringing in the chairs and putting things in order. The nightingale was singing again, far up in the woods, but Cecilia could hear the song distinctly as the carriage swept along.

  Now the Countess was kind and true, and loved her daughter devotedly, but she would not have been a woman if she had not wished to know what Guido had said to Cecilia that afternoon; and before they had entered Porta Angelica she asked what she considered a leading question, in her own peculiar contradictory way.

  “Of course, I am not going to ask you anything, my dear,” she began, “but did Signor d’Este say anything especial to you when you went off together?”

  Cecilia remembered how they had driven home from the Princess’s a fortnight earlier, almost at the same hour, and how her mother had then first spoken of Guido d’Este. The young girl asked herself in the moment she took before answering, whether she were any nearer to the thought of marrying him than she had been after that first short meeting.

  “He loves me, mother,” she answered softly. “He has made me understand that he does, without quite saying so. I like him very much. That is our position now. I would rather not talk about it much, but you have a right to know.”

  “Yes, dear. But what I mean is — I mean, what I meant was — he has not asked you to marry him, has he?”

  “No. I am not sure that he will, now.”

  “Yes, he will. He asked me yesterday evening if he might, and of course I gave him my permission.”

  It was a relief to have told Cecilia this, for concealment was intolerable to the Countess.

  “I see,” Cecilia answered.

  “Yes, of course you do. But when he does ask you, what shall you say, dear? He is sure to ask you to-morrow, and I really want to know what I am to expect. Surely, by this time you must have made up your mind.”

  “I have only known him a fortnight, mother. That is not a long time when one is to decide about one’s whole life, is it?”

  “No. Well — it seems to me that a fortnight — you see, it is so important!”

  “Precisely,” Cecilia answered. “It is very important. That is why I do not mean to do anything in a hurry. Either you must tell Signor d’Este to wait a little while before he asks me, or else, when he does, I must beg him to wait some time for his answer.”

  “But it seems to me, if you like him so much, that is quite enough.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry, mother?” asked Cecilia, with a smile.

  “Because I am sure you will be perfectly happy if you marry him,” answered the Countess, with much conviction.

  CHAPTER X

  GUIDO D’ESTE WALKED home from the Villa Madama in a very bad temper with everything. He was not of a dramatic disposition, nor easily inclined to sudden resolutions, and when placed in new and unexpected circumstances his instinct was rather to let them develop as they would than to direct them or oppose them actively. For the first time in his life he now felt that he must do one or the other.

  To treat Lamberti as if nothing had happened was impossible, and it was equally out of the question to behave towards Cecilia as though she had not done or said anything to check the growth of intimacy and friendship on her side and of genuine love on his. He took the facts as he knew them and tried to state them justly, but he could make nothing of them that did not plainly accuse both Cecilia and Lamberti of deceiving him. Again and again, he recalled the words and behaviour of both, and he could reach no other conclusion. They had a joint secret which they had agreed to keep from him, and rather than reveal it his best friend was ready to break with him, and the woman he loved preferred never to see him again. He reflected that he was not the first man who had been checked by a girl and forsaken by a friend, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

  It was quite clear that he could not submit to be so treated by them. Lamberti had asked him to speak to Cecilia before quarrelling definitely. He had done so, and he was more fully convinced than before that both were deceiving him. There
was no way out of that conviction, there was not the smallest argument on the other side, and nothing that either could ever say could shake his belief. It was plainly his duty to tell them so, and it would be wisest to write to them, for he felt that he might lose his temper if he tried to say what he meant, instead of writing it.

  He wrote to Lamberti first, because it was easier, though it was quite the hardest thing he had ever done. He began by proving to himself, and therefore to his friend, that he was writing after mature reflection and without the least hastiness, or temper, or unwillingness to be convinced, if Lamberti had anything to say in self-defence. He expressed no suspicion as to the probable nature of the secret that was withheld from him; he even wrote that he no longer wished to know what it was. His argument was that by refusing to reveal it, Lamberti had convicted himself of some unknown deed which he was ashamed to acknowledge, and Guido did not hesitate to add that such unjustifiable reticence might easily be construed in such a way as to cast a slur upon the character of an innocent young girl.

  Having got so far, Guido immediately tore the whole letter to shreds and rose from his writing table, convinced that it was impossible to write what he meant without saying things which he did not mean. After all, he could simply avoid his old friend in future. The idea of quarrelling with him aggressively had never entered his mind, and it was therefore of no use to write anything at all. Lamberti must have guessed already that all friendship was at an end, and it would consequently be quite useless to tell him so.

  He must write to Cecilia, however. He could not allow her to think, because he had apologised for rudely doubting her word, that he therefore believed what she had told him. He would write.

  Here he was confronted by much greater difficulties than he had found in composing his unsuccessful letter to Lamberti. In the first place, he was in love with her, and it seemed to him that he should love her just as much, whatever she did. He wondered what it was that he felt, for at first he hardly thought it was jealousy, and it was assuredly not a mere passing fit of ill-tempered resentment.