“He will never come back! Something dreadful has happened to him!” And therewith she broke down completely and burst into tears.
“You must go and look for him,” said Maddalena quietly to Corbario.
“I think you are right,” he answered. “I am going to find him,” he said softly, bending down to his wife as she lay in her chair, trying to control her sobs. “I will send some of the men towards Porto d’Anzio and will go towards Nettuno myself.”
She loved him and believed in him, and she was comforted when she saw him go away and heard him calling the men from their hut.
Aurora was left alone with the two women.
“I am afraid Marcello is gone to Rome,” she said, with an effort.
The Signora raised herself in her long chair and stared hard at the girl. The Contessa looked at her in surprise.
“What do you know about it?” cried the Signora. “Why have you not spoken, if you know anything? Don’t you see that I am half mad with anxiety?”
Aurora had never seen the good lady in such a state, and was almost frightened; but there was nothing to be done now, except to go on. She told her little story timidly, but truthfully, looking from her mother to the Signora while she spoke, and wondering what would happen when she had finished.
“He said, ‘You shall wish me back, but I will not come.’ I think those were his last words.”
“You have broken my boy’s heart!” cried the Signora Corbario, turning her face away.
Maddalena, whose heart had really been broken long ago, could not help smiling.
“I am sure I did not mean to,” cried Aurora, contritely. “And after all, though I daresay it was my fault, he called me a miserable little flirt, and I only called him a baby.”
Maddalena would have laughed if her friend had not been in such real distress. As for Aurora, she did not know whether she would have laughed or cried if she had not felt that her girl’s dignity was at stake. As it was, she grew preternaturally calm.
“You have driven him away,” moaned the Signora piteously. “You have driven away my boy! Was he not good enough for you?”
She asked the question suddenly and vehemently, turning upon poor Aurora with something like fury. She was quite beside herself, and the Contessa motioned the girl away. Aurora rose and disappeared round the corner of the house.
Alone with her friend, Maddalena did her best to comfort her. There were arguments enough: it was barely noon, and Marcello had not been gone four hours; he was used to taking long walks, he had probably gone as far as the tower, and had rested there before coming back; or he had gone to meet Ercole on the road to Porto d’Anzio; or he had gone off towards the Nettuno woods to get over his anger in solitude; it was natural enough; and after all, if he had gone to Rome as Aurora thought, no harm could come to him, for he would go home, and would surely send a telegram before evening. It was unlike him, yes; but just at his age boys often did foolish things.
“Marcello is not foolish!” objected the Signora indignantly.
She could by no means listen to reason, and was angry because her friend tried to argue with her. She rose with an energy she seldom displayed, and began to walk up and down the verandah. Her face was very pale, her lip quivered when she spoke, and there was an unnatural light in her eyes. There was room for much moderate affection in her gentle nature; she had loved her first husband; she loved Corbario dearly; but the passion of her life was her son, and at the first presentiment of real danger to him the dominant preoccupation of her heart took violent possession of everything else in her, regardless of reason, friendship, consideration for others, or common sense.
Maddalena walked up and down beside her, putting one arm affectionately round her waist, and doing the best she could to allay the tempest.
It subsided suddenly, and was followed by a stony silence that frightened the Contessa. It was time for luncheon, and Aurora came back, hoping to find that she had been forgiven during her absence, but the Signora only looked at her coldly once or twice and would not speak. None of the three even pretended to have an appetite.
“I shall not go back to Rome to-day,” said the Contessa. “I cannot leave you in such anxiety.”
“Folco will take care of me,” answered the Signora in a dull tone. “Do not change your plans on my account. The carriage is ordered at three o’clock.”
She spoke so coldly that Maddalena felt a little pardonable resentment, though she knew that her friend was not at all herself.
“Very well,” she answered quietly. “If you had rather that I should not stay with you we will go back this afternoon.”
“It will be much better.”
When the carriage appeared neither Folco nor any of the men had returned. The Signora made an evident attempt to show a little of her habitual cordiality at parting, and she even kissed Aurora coldly on the forehead, and embraced Maddalena with something like her usual affection. The two looked back as they drove away, calling out a last good-bye, but they saw that the Signora was not even looking after them; she was leaning against one of the wooden supports of the verandah, gazing towards the trees, and pressing one hand to her forehead.
“Do you think it was my fault, mamma?” asked Aurora, when they were out of sight of the cottage.
“No, dear,” answered Maddalena. “Something has happened, I wish I knew what!”
“I only told him he was a baby,” said Aurora, settling herself in the corner of the carriage, and arranging her parasol behind her so that it rested on the open hood; for the weather had cleared and the sun was shining brightly after the storm.
So she and her mother went back to Rome that afternoon. But when the Signora was alone, she was sorry that her friend was gone, and was all at once aware that her head was aching terribly. Every movement she made sent an agonizing thrill through her brain, and her hand trembled from the pain, as she pressed her palm to her forehead.
She meant to go down to the beach alone, for she was sure that she could find Marcello, and at least she would meet the men who were searching for him, and have news sooner than if she stayed in the cottage. But she could not have walked fifty steps without fainting while her headache lasted. She would take five grains of phenacetine, and in a little while she would be better.
She found the glass tube with the screw cap, and swallowed one of the tablets with a little water. Then she sat down on the edge of her long chair in the verandah to wait for the pain to pass. She was very tired, and presently, she scarcely knew how it was, she was lying at full length in her chair, her head resting comfortably against the cushion.
The sunlight fell slanting across her feet. Amongst the trees two or three birds were twittering softly; it was warm, it was dreamy, she was forgetting Marcello. She tried to rouse herself as the thought of him crossed her mind, and she fancied that she almost rose from the chair; but she had hardly lifted one hand. Then she saw his face close before her, her lips relaxed, the pain was gone, she smiled happily, and she was asleep.
Half an hour later her maid came quietly out to ask whether she needed anything, and seeing that she was sleeping peacefully spread a light shawl over her feet, placed the silver handbell within easy reach on the table, and went away again.
Towards evening Folco came back and then the men, straggling in on their tired little horses, for they had ridden far and fast. Marcello was not with them.
Corbario came in alone, and saw his wife lying in her chair in the evening light. He stood still a moment, and then came over and bent near her, looking earnestly into her quiet face.
“Already,” he said aloud, but in a very low voice.
His hand shook as he laid it on her heart, bending low. Then he started violently and stood bolt upright, as an unearthly howl rent the air.
Nino, Ercole’s queer dog, was close beside him, his forepaws planted on the upper step of the verandah, his head thrown up, his half-open jaws showing his jagged teeth, his rough coat bristling like spikes of bear
ded barley.
And Ercole, still a hundred yards away amongst the trees, shook his head and hurried forward as he heard the long-drawn note of brute terror.
“Somebody is dead,” he said to himself.
CHAPTER V
FOR A FEW weeks all Italy was profoundly interested in the story of Marcello Corbario’s disappearance and of his mother’s almost unaccountable death. It was spoken of as the “double tragedy of the Campagna,” and the newspapers were full of it.
The gates of the beautiful villa on the Janiculum were constantly assailed by reporters; the servants who came out from time to time were bribed, flattered, and tempted away to eat sumptuous meals and drink the oldest wine in quiet gardens behind old inns in Trastevere, in the hope that they might have some information to sell. But no one gained admittance to the villa except the agents of the police, who came daily to report the fruitless search; and the servants had nothing to tell beyond the bare truth. The young gentleman had gone for a walk near the sea, down at the cottage by the Roman shore, and he had never been heard of again. His mother had been suffering from a bad headache, had lain down to rest in a cane chair on the verandah, and had been found dead, with a smile on her face, by her husband, when he came back from his first attempt to find Marcello. The groom who always went down with the carriage could describe with greatest accuracy the spot where the Signorina Aurora had last seen him; the house servants gave the most minute details about the cane chair, the verandah, and the position in which the poor lady had been found; but that was all, and it was not at all what the reporters wanted. They had all been down to the cottage, each with his camera and note-book, and had photographed everything in sight, including Nino, Ercole’s dog. What they wanted was a clue, a story, a scandal if possible, and they found nothing of the sort.
Folco Corbario’s mourning was unostentatious and quiet, but none of the few persons who saw him, whether detectives or servants, could doubt that he was profoundly affected. He grew paler and thinner every day, until his own man even began to fear that his health was failing. He had done, and continued to do, everything that was humanly possible. He had brought his wife’s body to Rome, and had summoned the very highest authorities in the medical profession to discover, if possible, the cause of her death. They had come, old men of science, full of the experience of years, young men of the future, brimming with theories, experts in chemistry, experts in snake poisons; for Folco had even suggested that she might have been bitten by a viper or stung by a venomous spider, or accidentally poisoned by some medicine or something she had eaten.
But the scientific gentlemen were soon agreed that no such thing had happened. Considerably disappointed, and with an unanimity which is so unusual in the confraternity as to be thought absolutely conclusive when it is observed, they decided that the Signora Corbario had died of collapse after intense excitement caused by the disappearance of her son. Thereafter she was buried out at San Lorenzo, with the secret, if there were any; masses were said, the verdict of the doctors was published, with the signatures of the most eminent practitioners and specialists in Italy; and the interest of the public concentrated itself upon the problem of Marcello’s mysterious removal, or abduction, or subduction, or recession, or flight, from the very bosom of his family.
This problem had the merit of defying solution. In a comparatively open country, within a space of time which could certainly be limited to five minutes, at a place whence he should have been clearly seen by Folco Corbario as soon as Aurora dell’ Armi could no longer see him, the boy had been spirited away, leaving not even the trace of his footsteps in the sand. It was one of the most unaccountable disappearances on record, as Folco insisted in his conversations with the Chief of Police, who went down with him to the cottage and examined the spot most carefully, with several expert detectives. Folco showed him exactly where Aurora had stood, and precisely the direction he himself had followed in approaching the gap, and he declared it to be almost a physical impossibility that Marcello should have become suddenly invisible just then.
The official thought so too, and shook his head. He looked at the detectives, and they shook their heads, also. And then they all looked at Corbario and expressed the opinion that there was some mistake about the length of time supposed by Aurora to have elapsed between the moment when Marcello left her and the instant of Folco’s appearance before her. She had not looked at her watch; in fact, she had not carried a watch. The whole story therefore depended upon her more or less accurate judgment of time. It might have been a quarter of an hour instead of five minutes, in which case Corbario had not yet left the cottage, and Marcello would have had ample leisure to disappear in any direction he pleased. Ercole had been away at Porto d’Anzio, the men had been all at the hut; if Folco had not been on the path precisely at the time guessed by Aurora, everything could be accounted for.
“Very well,” Corbario answered. “Let us suppose that my stepson had time to get away. In that case he can be found, alive or dead. Italy is not China, nor Siberia, and I can place unlimited funds at your disposal. Find him for me; that is all I ask.”
“We shall find him, never fear!” answered the Chief of Police with a confidence he did not feel.
“We shall find him!” echoed the three detectives in chorus.
Ercole watched the proceedings and listened to what was said, for he considered it his duty to attend on such an occasion, his dog at his heels, his gun slung over his shoulder. He listened and looked from one to the other with his deep eyes and inscrutable parchment face, shrivelled by the malarious fever. But he said nothing. The Chief of Police turned to him at last.
“Now what do you think about it?” asked the official. “You know the country. Had there been any suspicious characters about, fellows who could have carried off the boy?”
“Such people would ask a ransom,” answered Ercole. “You would soon hear from them. But I saw no one. There have been no brigands about Rome for more than twenty years. Do you dream that you are in Sicily? Praise be to Heaven, this is the Roman Campagna; we are Christians and we live under King Victor! Where are the brigands? They have melted. Or else they are making straw hats in the galleys. Do I know where they are? They are not here. That is enough.”
“Quite right, my friend,” answered the Chief of Police. “There are no brigands. But I am sorry to say that there are thieves in the Campagna, as there are near every great city.”
Ercole shrugged his angular shoulders contemptuously.
“Thieves would not carry a man away,” he answered. “You know that, you who are of the profession, as they say. Such ruffians would have knocked the young gentleman on the head to keep him quiet, and would have made off. And besides, we should have found their tracks in the sand, and Nino would have smelt them.”
Nino pricked up one ragged ear at the sound of his name.
“He does not look very intelligent,” observed the official. “A clever dog might have been used to track the boy.”
“How?” inquired Ercole with scorn. “The footsteps of the young gentleman were everywhere, with those of all the family, who were always coming and going about here. How could he track them, or any of us? But he would have smelt a stranger, even if it had rained. I know this dog. He is the head dog on the Roman shore. There is no other dog like him.”
“I daresay not,” assented the Chief of Police, looking at Nino. “In fact, he is not like any animal I ever saw.”
The detectives laughed at this.
“There is no other,” said Ercole without a smile. “He is the only son of a widowed mother. I am his family, and he is my family, and we live in good understanding in this desert. If there were no fever we should be like the saints in paradise — eating our corn meal together. And I will tell you another thing. If the young gentleman had been wounded anywhere near here, Nino would have found the blood even after three days. As for a dead man, he would make a point for him and howl half a mile off, unless the wind was the wrong way.”
“Would he really?” asked Corbario with a little interest.
Ercole looked at him and nodded, but said no more, and presently the whole party of men went back to Rome, leaving him to the loneliness of the sand-banks and the sea.
Then Ercole came back to the gap and stood still a little while, and his dog sat bolt upright beside him.
“Nino,” he said at last, in a rather regretful tone, “I gave you a good character. What could I say before those gentlemen? But I tell you this, you are growing old. And don’t answer that I am getting old too, for that is my business. If your nose were what it was once, we should know the truth by this time. Smell that!”
Ercole produced a small green morocco pocket-book, of the sort made to hold a few visiting cards and a little paper money, and held it to Nino’s muzzle.
Nino smelt it, looked up to his master’s face inquiringly, smelt it again, and then, as if to explain that it did not interest him, lay down in the sand with his head on his forepaws.
“You see!” growled Ercole. “You cannot even tell whether it belonged to the boy or to Corbario. An apoplexy on you! You understand nothing! Ill befall the souls of your dead, you ignorant beast!”
Nino growled, but did not lift his head.
“You understand that,” said Ercole, discontentedly. “If you were a Christian you would stick a knife into me for insulting your dead! Yet you cannot tell whose pocket-book this is! And if I knew, I should know something worth knowing.”
The pocket-book disappeared in the interior recesses of Ercole’s waistcoat. It was empty and bore no initial, and he could not remember to have seen it in Corbario’s or Marcello’s hands, but he was quite sure that it belonged to one of them. He was equally sure that if he showed it to Corbario the latter would at once say that it was Marcello’s, and would take it away from him, so he said nothing about it. He had found it in the sand, a little way up the bank, during his first search after Marcello’s disappearance.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1079