Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I wonder if it is big enough to cover us both,” Sabina said, as the idea struck her. “Come! Sit down beside me and we will try.”

  He smiled and sat down beside her, and they managed to hold the coat so that it just covered their shoulders.

  “Paul and Virginia,” said Malipieri, and they both laughed a little.

  But as their laughter died away, Sabina’s teeth chattered, and she drew in her breath. At the slight sound Malipieri looked anxiously into her face, and saw that her lips were blue.

  “This is folly,” he said. “You will fall ill if you stay here any longer. It is quite dry in the vault, and warm by comparison with this place. You must go down there, while I stay here and work.”

  He got up, and in spite of a little resistance he made her put her arms into the sleeves of the coat, and turned the cuffs back, and fastened the buttons. She was shivering from head to foot.

  “What a miserable little thing I am!” she cried impatiently.

  “You are not a miserable little thing, and you are much braver than most men,” said Malipieri. “But it will be of very little use to get you out of the vault alive if you are to die of a fever in a day or two.”

  She said nothing and he led her carefully down the inclined passage and the steps, away from the gloomy overflow, and the roaring water and the fearful dampness. He helped her down into the vault very gently, over the glittering chest of the great imperial statue. The air felt warm and dry, now that she was so badly chilled, and her lips looked a little less blue.

  “I will light the lamp, and turn it very low,” said Malipieri.

  “I am not afraid of the dark,” Sabina answered. “You said that we must not waste our light.”

  “Shall you really not be nervous?” Malipieri supposed that all women were afraid to be in the dark alone.

  “Of course not. Why should I? There are no spiders, and I do not believe in ghosts. Besides, I shall hear you hammering at the wall.”

  “You had better sit on the body of the Venus. I think the marble is warmer than the bronze. But there is the board — I forgot. Wait a minute.”

  He was not gone long, and came back bringing the board and his waistcoat. To his surprise, he found her sitting on the ground, propping herself with one hand.

  “I felt a little dizzy in the dark,” she explained, “so I sat down, for fear of falling.”

  He glanced at her face, and his own was grave, as he placed the board on the ground, and laid the waistcoat over the curving waist of the Aphrodite, so that she could lean against it. She got up quickly when it was ready and seated herself, drawing up her knees and pulling her skirt closely round her damp shoes to keep her feet warm, if possible. He set the lamp beside her and gave her a little silver box of matches, so that she could get a light if she felt nervous. He looked at her face thoughtfully as he stood with his lantern in his hand, ready to go.

  “But you have nothing to put on, if you have to rest again!” she said, rather feebly.

  “I will come and rest here, about once an hour,” he answered.

  Her face brightened a little, and she nodded, looking up into his eyes.

  “Yes. Come and rest beside me,” she said.

  He went away, climbing over the statue and out through the hole in the vault. Just before he disappeared, he held up his lantern and looked towards her. She was watching him.

  “Good-night,” he said. “Try to sleep a little.”

  “Come back soon,” she answered faintly, and smiled.

  Presently he was at work again, steadily driving the bar against the hard bricks, steadily chipping away a little at a time, steadily making progress against the enormous obstacle. The only question was whether his strength would last, for if he had been able to get food, it would have been merely a matter of time. A crowbar does not wear down much on bricks.

  At first, perfectly mechanical work helps a man to think, as walking generally does; but little by little it dulls the faculties and makes thought almost impossible. Senseless words begin to repeat themselves with the movement, fragments of tunes fit themselves to the words, and play a monotonous and exasperating music in the brain, till a man has the sensation of having a hurdy-gurdy in his head, though he may be working for his life, as Malipieri was. Yet the unchanging repetition makes the work easier, as a sailor’s chanty helps at the topsail halliards.

  “We must get out before we starve, we must get out before we starve,” sang the regular blows of the bar to a queer little tune which Malipieri had never heard.

  When he stopped to clear out the chips, the song stopped too, and he thought of Sabina sitting alone in the vault, propped against the Aphrodite; and he hoped that she might be asleep. But when he swung the bar back into position and heard it strike the bricks, the tune and the words came back with the pendulum rhythm; and went on and on, till they were almost maddening, though there no longer seemed to be any sense in them. They made the time pass.

  Sabina heard the dull blows, too, though not very loud. It was a comfort to hear anything in the total darkness, and she tried to amuse herself by counting the strokes up to a hundred and then checking the hundreds by turning in one finger after another. It would be something to tell him when he came back. She wondered whether there would be a thousand, and then, as she was wondering, she lost the count, and by way of a change she tried to reckon how many seconds there were in an hour. But she got into trouble with the ciphers when she tried to multiply sixty by sixty in her head, and she began counting the strokes again. They always stopped for a few seconds somewhere between thirty and forty.

  She wished he would come back soon, for she was beginning to feel very cold again, so cold that presently she got upon her feet and walked a dozen steps, feeling her way along the great bronze statue. It was better than sitting still. She had heard of prisoners who had kept themselves sane in a dark dungeon by throwing away a few pins they had, and finding them again. It was a famous prisoner who did that. It was the prisoner of Quillon — no, “quillon” had something to do with a sword — no, it was Chillon. Then she felt dizzy again, and steadied herself against the statue, and presently groped her way back to her seat. She almost fell, when she sat down, but saved herself and at last succeeded in getting to her original position. It was not that she was faint from hunger yet; her dizziness was probably the result of cold and weariness and discomfort, and most of all, of the unaccustomed darkness.

  She was ashamed of being so weak, when she listened to the steady strokes, far off, and thought of the strength and endurance it must need to do what Malipieri seemed to be doing so easily. But she was very cold indeed, chilled to the bone and shivering, and she could not think of any way of getting warm. She rose again, and struck one of the matches he had given her, and by its feeble light she walked a few seconds without feeling dizzy, and then sat down just as the little taper was going to burn her fingers.

  A few minutes later she heard footsteps overhead, and saw a faint light through the hole. He was coming at last, and she smiled happily before she saw him.

  He came down and asked how she was, and he sat on the Aphrodite beside her.

  “If I could only get warm!” she answered.

  “Perhaps you can warm your hands a little on the sides of the lantern,” he said.

  She tried that and felt a momentary sensation of comfort, and asked him what progress he was making.

  “Very slow,” he replied. “I cannot hear the least sound from the other side yet. Masin is not there.”

  She did not expect any other answer, and said nothing, as she sat shivering beside him.

  “You are very brave,” he said presently.

  A long pause followed. She had bent her head low, so that her face almost touched her knees.

  “Signor Malipieri—” she began, at last, in rather a trembling tone.

  “Yes? What is it?” He bent down to her, but she did not look up.

  “I — I — hardly know how to say it,” she faltere
d. “Shall you think very, very badly of me if I ask you to do something — something that—” She stopped.

  “There is nothing in heaven or earth I will not do for you,” he answered. “And I shall certainly not think anything very dreadful.” He tried to speak cheerfully.

  “I think I shall die of the cold,” she said. “There might be a way—”

  “Yes? Anything!”

  Then she spoke very low.

  “Do you think you could just put your arms round me for a minute or two?” she asked.

  Piteously cold though she was, the blood rushed to her face as she uttered the words; but Malipieri felt it in his throat and eyes.

  “Certainly,” he answered, as if she had asked the most natural thing in the world. “Sit upon my knees, and I will hold my arms round you, till you are warm.”

  He settled himself on the marble limbs of the Aphrodite, and the frail young girl seated herself on his knees, and nestled to him for warmth, while he held her close to him, covering her with his arms as much as he could. They went quite round her, one above the other, and she hid her face against his shoulder. He could feel her trembling with the cold like a leaf, under the coat he had made her put on.

  Suddenly she started a little, but not as if she wished to go; it was more like a sob than anything else.

  “What is the matter?” he asked, steadying his voice with difficulty.

  “I am so ashamed of myself!” she answered, and she buried her face against his shoulder again.

  “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said gently. “Are you a little warmer now?”

  “Oh, much, much! Let me stay just a little longer.”

  “As long as you will,” he answered, pressing her to him quietly.

  He wondered if she could hear his heart, which was beating like a hammer, and whether she noticed anything strange in his voice. If she did, she would not understand. She was only a child after all. He told himself that he was old enough to be her father, though he was not; he tried not to think of her at all. But that was of no use. He would have given his body, his freedom, his soul and the life to come, to kiss her as she lay helpless in his arms; he would have given anything the world held, or heaven, if it had been his; anything, except his honour. But that he would not give. His heart might beat itself to pieces, his brain might whirl, the little fires might flash furiously in his closed eyes, his throat might be as parched as the rich man’s in hell — she had trusted herself to him like a child, in sheer despair and misery, and safe as a child she should lie on his breast. She should die there, if they were to die.

  “I am warm now,” she said at last, “really quite warm again, if you want to go back.”

  He did not wonder. He felt as if he were on fire from his head to his feet. At her words he relaxed his arms at once, and she stood up.

  “You are so good to me,” she said, with an impulse of gratitude for safety which she herself did not understand. “What makes you so good to me?”

  He shook his head, as if he could not answer then, and smiled a little sadly.

  “Now that you are warm, I must not lose time,” he said, a moment later, taking up his lantern.

  She sat down in her old place, and gathered her skirt to her feet and watched him as he climbed out and the last rays of light disappeared. Then the pounding at the wall began again, far off, and she tried to count the strokes, as she had done before; but she wished him back, and whether she felt cold or not, she wished herself again quietly folded in his arms, and though she was alone and it was quite dark she blushed at the thought. It seemed to her that the blows were struck in quicker succession now than before. Was he willing to tire himself out a little sooner, so as to earn the right to come back to her?

  That was not it. He was growing desperate, and could not control the speed of his hands so perfectly as before. The night was advancing, he knew, though he had not looked at the watch, which was still in Sabina’s glove. It was growing late, and he could distinguish no sound but that of the blows he struck at the bricks and the steady roar of the water. The conviction grew on him that Masin was drowned, and perhaps old Sassi too, and that their bodies lay at the bottom of the outer chamber, between the well and the wall of the cellar. If Masin had been able to get into the well, before the water was too high, he would have risen with it, for he was a good swimmer.

  So was Malipieri, and more than once he thought of making an attempt to reach the widened slit in the wall by diving. That he could find the opening he was sure, but he was almost equally sure that he could never get through it alive and up to the surface on the other side. If he were drowned too, Sabina would be left to die alone, or perhaps to go mad with horror before she was found. He had heard of such things.

  It was no wonder that he unconsciously struck faster as he worked, and at first he felt himself stronger than before, as men do when they are almost despairing. The sweat stood out on his forehead, and his hands tingled, when he drew back the iron to clear away the chips. He worked harder and harder.

  The queer little tune did not ring in his head now, for he could think of nothing but Sabina and of what was to become of her, even if he succeeded in saving her life. It was almost impossible that such a strange adventure should remain a secret, and, being once known, the injury to the girl might be irreparable. He hated himself for having brought her to the place. Yet, as he thought it over, he knew that he would have done it again.

  It had seemed perfectly safe. Any one could have seen that the water had not risen in the well for many years. Day after day, for a long time, he and Masin had worked in the vaults in perfect safety. The way to the statues had been made so easy that only a timid old man like Sassi could have found it impassable. There had been absolutely no cause to fear that after fifty or sixty years the course of the water should be affected, and the chances against such an accident happening during that single hour of Sabina’s visit were as many millions to one. His motive in bringing her had been quixotic, no doubt, but good and just, and so far as Sabina’s reputation was concerned, Sassi’s presence had constituted a sufficient social protection.

  He hammered away at the bricks furiously, and the cavity grew deeper and wider. Surely he had made a mistake at first in wishing to husband his strength too carefully. If he had worked from the beginning as he was working now, he would have made the breach by this time.

  Unless that were impossible; unless, after all, he had struck the end of a cross wall and was working through the length of it instead of through its thickness. The fear of such a misfortune took possession of him, and he laid down his crowbar to examine the wall carefully. There was one way of finding out the truth, if he could only get light enough; no mason that ever lived would lay his bricks in any way except lengthwise along each course. If he had struck into a cross wall, he must be demolishing the bricks from their ends instead of across them, and he could find out which way they lay at the end of the cavity, if he could make the light of the lantern shine in as far as that. The depth was more than five feet now, and his experience told him that even in the construction of a mediaeval palace the walls above the level of the ground were very rarely as thick as that, when built of good brick and cement like this one.

  When he took up his lantern, he was amazed at what he had done in less than four hours; if he had been told that an ordinary man had accomplished anything approaching to it in that time, he would have been incredulous. He had hardly realized that he had made a hole big enough for him to work in, kneeling on one knee, and bracing himself with the other foot.

  But the end was narrow, of course, and when he held the light before it, he could not see past the body of the lantern. He opened the latter, took out the little oil lamp carefully and thrust it into the hole. He could see now, as he carefully examined the bricks; and he was easily convinced that he had not entered a cross wall. Nevertheless, when he had been working with the bar, he had not detected any change in the sound, as he thought he must have done, if
he had been near the further side. Was the wall ten feet thick? He looked again. It was not a vaulting, that was clear; and it could not be anything but a wall. There was some comfort in that. He drew back a little, put the lamp into the lantern again and got out backwards. The passage was bright; he looked up quickly and started.

  Sabina was standing beside him, holding the large lamp. Her big hat had fallen back and her hair made a fair cloud between it and her white face.

  “I thought something had happened to you,” she said, “so I brought the lamp. You stopped working for such a long time,” she explained, “I thought you must have hurt yourself, or fainted.”

  “No,” answered Malipieri. “There is nothing the matter with me. I was looking at the bricks.”

  “You must need rest, for it is past ten o’clock. I looked at the watch.”

  “I will rest when I get through the wall. There is no time to be lost. Are you very hungry?”

  “No. I am a little thirsty.” She looked at the black water, pouring down the overflow shaft.

  “That water is not good to drink,” said Malipieri, thinking of what was at the bottom of the well. “We had better not drink it unless we are absolutely forced to. I hope to get you out in two hours.”

  He stood leaning on his crowbar, his dark hair covered with dust, his white shirt damp and clinging to him, and all stained from rubbing against the broken masonry.

  “It would be better to rest for a few minutes,” she said, not moving.

  He knew she was right, but he went with her reluctantly, and presently he was sitting beside her on the marble limbs of the Aphrodite. She turned her face to him a little shyly, and then looked away again.

  “Were ever two human beings in such a situation before!”

  “Everything has happened before,” Malipieri answered. “There is nothing new.”

  “Does it hurt very much to die of starvation?” Sabina asked after a little pause.

  “Not if one has plenty of water. It is thirst that drives people mad. Hunger makes one weak, that is all.”