“Thank you,” Kalmon answered, “but I must go home. The house is in charge of the police, and there is nothing more to be done here. They have already taken the woman’s body to San Spirito, and they will move Corbario in a few hours. He is badly mauled, but no big arteries are torn. I must go home and write a letter. The Contessa must not hear what has happened through the newspapers.”
“No. Certainly not. As for me, I am going to take Regina away at once. I shall bring my own carriage down from the villa.”
“By the bye,” Kalmon said, “I had thought of that. The house in which I live is divided into many small apartments. There is a very good one to let, decently furnished. I thought of taking it myself, and I looked at it yesterday. You might put the young lady there until you can find what you may prefer. She can move in at once.”
“Nothing could be better. If you are going home, will you say that I take the place and will be there in an hour? No. 16, Via Sicilia, is it not?”
“Yes. I’ll see to it. Shall I take the lease in your name?”
“No. Any name will do better. The reporters would find her at once under mine.”
“I’ll use my own,” said the Professor. “I’ll say that she is a lady who has arrived to consult me — I daresay she will — and that I’m responsible for her.”
“Thank you,” answered Marcello gratefully. “And thank you for all that you have done to help me.”
“My dear Marcello,” Kalmon said, smiling cheerfully, “in the first place, I have done nothing to help you, and secondly, through excess of zeal, I have got you into a very unpleasant situation, by indirectly causing a woman to be murdered in your house, and the murderer almost mauled to death by that very singular wild beast which your man calls a dog, and which I had often noticed in old times at the cottage. So there is nothing at all to thank me for, though I am most heartily at your service.”
The Professor was positively in high spirits just then, and Marcello envied him as they parted and took opposite directions.
Though the Via Sicilia was a long way from the Janiculum, Marcello had been only too glad to accept Kalmon’s suggestion at such a moment. Regina would feel that she was protected by Marcello’s friend, and though she might rarely see him, it would be better for her than to be lodged in a house where she knew no one. Kalmon was a bachelor and a man of assured position, and it had cost him nothing to undertake to give Regina his protection; but Marcello was deeply grateful. He had already made up his mind as to what he would do next.
It had stopped raining at last, and the wind had fallen to a soft breeze that bore the morning mist gently away towards the sea, and hardly stirred the wet leaves that strewed the road all the way up to San Pietro in Montorio. Marcello found the gate of the villa already open, for it was nearly eight o’clock by the time he got there.
He summoned the servants to the library, told them briefly what had happened, and warned them that they might be summoned as witnesses at the coming trial, as most of them had been in his mother’s service. In the days before Corbario had lost his head, and when he had controlled the household, it had been a part of his policy to have really respectable servants about him, and though some of them had never quite trusted him, they had all been devoted to the Signora and to Marcello. They listened in respectful silence now, and waited till he was out of the house before meeting to discuss the tragedy and to decide that Corbario had got his deserts at last.
In a few hours Regina was installed in her new lodging with such belongings as she needed immediately. Kalmon, having finished writing his letter to the Contessa, left nothing undone which could contribute to the comfort of the “lady who had arrived to consult him.” He had a respectable old woman servant, who had been with him for years, and who came from his native town. He took her into his confidence to some extent, and placed her in charge of Regina. As she thought that everything he did must be right, she accepted his statement that the young gentleman who would often come to see the young lady was deeply interested in the latter’s welfare, and that, as the poor young lady had no relations, he, the Professor, had taken her under his protection while she remained in Rome.
The old servant’s name was Teresa, and she belonged to a certain type of elderly old maids who take a very kindly interest in the love affairs of the young. She smiled, shook her head in a very mild disapprobation, and did much more than Kalmon had asked of her; for she took the very first opportunity of informing Regina that the Professor was the greatest, wisest, best, and kindest of mankind; and Regina recognised in her a loyal soul, and forthwith liked her very much.
It was late in the November afternoon when Marcello ascended the stairs and stopped before the door of the little apartment. He realised that he had no key to it, and that he must ring the bell as if he were a mere visitor. It was strange that such a little thing should affect him at all, but he was conscious of a sort of chill, as he pulled the metal handle and heard the tinkling of one of those cheap little bells that feebly imitate their electric betters by means of a rachet and a small weighted wheel. It was all so different from the little house in Trastevere with its bright varnished doors, its patent locks, its smart windows, and its lovely old garden. He wished he had not brought Regina to Via Sicilia, though Kalmon’s advice had seemed so good. To Kalmon, who was used to no great luxury in his own life, the place doubtless seemed very well suited for a young person like Regina, who had been brought up a poor child in the hills. But the mere anticipation of the dark and narrow entry, and the sordid little sitting-room beyond, awoke in Marcello a sense of shame, whether for himself or for the woman who loved him he hardly knew.
Old Teresa had gone out for something, and Regina opened the door herself.
CHAPTER XX
“I HAVE COME to see if you need anything,” Marcello said, when they were in the sitting-room. “I am sorry to have been obliged to bring you to such a wretched place, but it seemed a good thing that you should be so near Kalmon.”
“It is not a wretched place,” Regina answered. “It is clean, and the things are new, and the curtains have been washed. It is not wretched. We have been in worse lodgings when we have travelled and stopped in small towns. Professor Kalmon has been very kind. It was wise to bring me here.”
He wished she had seemed discontented.
“Have you rested a little?” he asked.
“I have slept two or three hours. And you? You look tired.”
“I have had no time to sleep. I shall sleep to-night.”
He leaned back in the small green arm-chair and rested his head against a coarse netted antimacassar. His eyes caught Regina’s, but she was looking down thoughtfully at her hands, which lay in her lap together but not clasped. Peasant women often do that; their hands are resting then, after hard work, and they are thinking of nothing.
“Look at me,” Marcello said after a long time.
Her glance was sad and almost dull, and there was no light in her face. She had made up her mind that something dreadful was going to happen to her, and that the end was coming soon. She could not have told why she felt it, and that made it worse. Her eyes had the indescribable look that one sees in those of a beautiful sick animal, the painful expression of an unintelligent suffering which the creature cannot understand. Regina, roused to act and face to face with danger, was brave, clever, and quick, but under the mysterious oppression of her forebodings she was the Roman hill woman, apathetic, hopeless, unconsciously fatalistic and sleepily miserable.
“What is the matter?” Marcello asked. “What has happened?”
“I shall know when you have told me,” Regina answered, slowly shaking her head; and again she looked down at her hands.
“What I have come to tell you will not make you sad,” Marcello replied.
“Speak, heart of my heart. I listen.”
Marcello leaned forward and laid his hand upon hers. She looked up quietly, for it was a familiar action of his.
“I am going to marry y
ou,” he said, watching her, and speaking earnestly.
She kept her eyes on his, but she shook her head again, slowly, from side to side, and her lips were pressed together.
“Yes, I am,” said Marcello, with a little pressure of his hand to emphasise the words.
But she withdrew hers, and leaned far back from him.
“Never,” she said. “I have told you so, many times.”
“Not if I tell you that nothing else will make me happy?” he asked.
“If I still made you happy, you would not talk of marriage,” Regina answered.
For the first time since she had loved him he heard a ring of bitterness in her voice. They had reached that first node of misunderstanding in the love relations of men and women, which lies where the one begins to think and act upon a principle while the other still feels and acts from the heart.
“That is not reasonable,” Marcello said.
“It is truth,” she answered.
“But how?”
“How! I feel it, here!”
Her hands sprang to life and pressed her bosom, her voice rang deep and her eyes flashed, as if she were impatient of his misunderstanding.
He tried to laugh gently.
“But if I want to marry you, it is because I mean never to part from you,” he said.
“No!” she cried. “It is because you are afraid that you will leave me, unless you are bound to me.”
“Regina!” Marcello protested, by his tone.
“It is as I say. It is because you are honourable. It is because you wish to be faithful. It is because you want to be true. But what do I care for honour, or faith, or truth, if I can only have them of you because you are tied to me? I only want love. That is everything. I want it, but I have never asked it of you, and never shall. Is love money, that you can take it out of your purse and give it? Is love a string, that the priest and the mayor can tie the ends so that they can never come undone? I do not know what it is, but it is not that!”
She laughed scornfully, as if she were angry at the thought. But Marcello had made up his mind, and was obstinate.
“We must be married at once,” he said quietly, and fully believing that he could impose his will upon hers. “If I had not been weak and foolish, we should have been married long ago. But for a long time after my illness I had no will of my own. I am sorry. It was my fault.”
“It was not your fault, it was the illness, and it was my will. If I had said, any day in those first two years, ‘Make me your wife, for I wish to be a real signora,’ would you not have done it?”
“You know I would.”
“But I would not, and I will not now. I am not a real signora. I am beautiful — yes, I see that. Am I blind when I look into my glass? I am very beautiful. We have not often met any woman in our travels as beautiful as I am. Am I blind? I have black hair, like the common people, but my hair is not coarse, like a mule’s tail. It is as fine as silk. My eyes are black, and that is common too; but my eyes are not like those of the buffaloes in the Campagna, as the other women’s are where I was born. And I am not dark-skinned; I am as white as the snow on Monte Cavo, as white as the milk in the pan. Also I have been told that I have beautiful feet, though I cannot tell why. They are small, this is the truth, and my hands are like those of a signora. But I am not a real signora, though I have all this. How can you marry me? None of your friends would speak to me, because I have not even been an honest girl. That was for you, but they do not count love. Your servants at the villa would laugh at you behind your back, and say, ‘The master has married one of us!’ Do you think I could bear that? Tell me what you think! Am I of stone, to bear that people should laugh at you?”
She took breath at last and leaned back again, folding her arms and fixing her splendid eyes on his face, and challenging him to answer her.
“We will go and live in Calabria, at San Domenico, for a while,” he said. “We need not live in Rome at all, unless we please, for we have the whole world before us.”
“We saw the world together without being married,” Regina answered obstinately. “What difference would there be, if we were husband and wife? Do you wish to know what difference there would be? I will tell you. There would be this difference. One day I should see no light in your eyes, and your lips would be like stone. Then I should say, ‘Heart of my heart, you are tired of me, and I go.’ But you would answer, ‘You cannot go, for you are my wife.’ What would that be? That would be the difference. Do you understand, or do you not understand? If you do not understand, I can do nothing. But I will not marry you. Have you ever seen a mule go down to the ford in spring, too heavily laden, when there is freshet? He drowns, if he is driven in, because the burden is too heavy. I will not be the burden; but I should be, if I were your wife, because I am not a real signora. Now you know what I think.”
“Yes,” Marcello answered, “but I do not think in the same way.”
He was not sure how to answer her arguments, and he lit a cigarette to gain time. He was quietly determined to have his own way, but in order to succeed he knew that he must persuade her till she agreed with him. He could not drag her to the altar against her will.
Before he had thrown away the match, Regina had risen from her chair. She leaned against the little marble mantelpiece, looking down at him.
“There are things that you do not know,” she said. “If you knew them you would not want to marry me. In all the time we have been together, you have hardly ever spoken to me of your mother.”
Marcello started a little and looked up, unconsciously showing that he was displeased.
“No,” he answered. “Why should I?”
“You were right. Your mother is now one of the saints in Paradise. How do I know it? Even Settimia knew it. I am not going to talk of her now. I am not fit to speak her name in your hearing. Very well. Do you know what my mother was?”
“She is dead,” Marcello replied, meaning that Regina should let her memory alone.
“Or my father?” she asked, going on. “They were bad people. I come of a bad race. Perhaps that is why I do wrong easily, for you. My father killed a man and left us, though he was allowed to go free, and I never saw him again. He had reason to kill the man. I was a little girl, but I remember. My mother took other men. They came and went; sometimes they were drunk and they beat us. When I was twelve years old one of them looked upon me with bad eyes. Then my mother cursed him, and he took up a stone and struck her on the head, and she died. They sent him to the galleys, and me to work at the inn, because I had no friends. This is the family of Regina. It is a race of assassins and wicked women. If I were your wife, that would be the family of your wife. If God sent children, that would be the blood they would have of me, to mix with that of your mother, who is one of the saints in heaven. This is the truth. If you think I am telling you one thing for another, let us go to the inn on the Frascati road. Paoluccio and Nanna know. They would laugh if they could see me dressed like a real signora, and they would say, ‘This girl is her mother’s daughter!’ And so I am.”
She ceased speaking, and again waited for his answer, but he had none ready, and there was silence. She had put the ugly truth too plainly before him, and he could not shut up his understanding against it; he could not deny what she said, he could never teach himself to believe that it did not matter. And yet, he did not mean to draw back, or give up his purpose, even then. Men of good birth had married peasant women before now. They had given up the society of their old friends, they had lived in remote places, they had become half peasants themselves, their sons had grown up to be rough farmers, and had done obligatory military service in the ranks for years, because they could not pass an easy examination. But was all that so very terrible after all, in the light of the duty that faced him?
The woman had saved his life, had carried him in her arms, had tended him like a child, had stolen food to keep him alive, had faced starvation for him when she had got him to the hospital, had nursed him �
� had loved him, had given him all she had, and she would have died for him, if there had been need. Now, she was giving him something more, for she was refusing to be his wife because she was sure that sooner or later she must be a burden to him, and that her birth would be a reproach to his children. No woman could do more for a man than she had done. She had been his salvation and his good angel; when she had found out that the life in Paris that amused her was killing him, she had brought him back to himself, she had made him at last fit and able to face those who would have destroyed him. She had loved him like a woman, she had obeyed him and served him like a devoted servant, she had watched over him like a faithful dog; and he had given her nothing in return for all that, not one thing that deserved to be counted. Perhaps he had not even really loved her; most surely his love had been far less large and true and devoted than hers, and he felt that it was so. The reparation he was determined to make was not really for her honesty’s sake; it was to be an attempt at repaying a debt that was weighing upon his conscience like a debt of honour.
That was it. He felt that unless he could in some way repay her for what she had done, his man’s honour would not be satisfied. That was very well, in its way, but it was not love. It was as if he had said to himself, “I cannot love her as she loves me, but I can at least marry her; and that is better than nothing, and has the merit of being morally right.”
She had told him that if she still made him happy he would not talk of marriage. The brutal truth shamed him, now that he knew it from her own lips. It was not the whole truth, but it was a great part of it. If he was happy with her now, when there was nothing to disturb them, it was by force of habit, it was because her beauty appealed to him, it was because her touch was dearer to him than her heart’s devotion. Now that he was a grown man, he knew well enough that he craved something else which poor Regina could never give him.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1099