Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Will she come?” asked Regina, when he was gone.

  “In half an hour. I have sent a messenger, for they have no telephone.”

  A bright smile lighted up the wasted face.

  “Heaven will reward you,” she said, as the poor say in Rome when they receive a charity.

  Then she seemed to be resting, for her hands lay still, and she closed her eyes. But presently she opened them, looking up gratefully into the big man’s kind face.

  “Shall I be alone with her a little?” she asked.

  “Yes, my dear. You shall be alone with her.”

  Again she smiled, and he left the nurse with her and went and waited downstairs at the street door, till the Contessa and Aurora should come, in order to take them up to the little apartment. He knew that Marcello must have fallen asleep at once, for he had not rested at all for twenty-four hours, and very little during several days past. Kalmon was beginning to fear that he would break down, though he was so much stronger than formerly.

  Marcello had always been grateful to Regina, even when he had convinced himself that he loved her. Love is not very compatible with gratitude. Two people who love each other very much expect everything because they are always ready to give everything, not in return or by way of any exchange, but as if the two were one in giving and taking. A man cannot be grateful to himself. But Marcello had never felt that dear illusion with Regina, because there had been no real companionship; and so he had always been grateful to her, and now that she was perhaps dying, he was possessed by the horribly painful certainty that he could never repay her what he owed, and that this debt of honour must remain unpaid for ever, if she died. There was much more than that in what he felt, of course, for there was his very real affection, tormented by the foreboding of the coming wrench, and there was the profound sympathy of a very kind man for a suffering woman. But all that together was not love like hers for him; it was not love at all.

  Kalmon waited, and smoked a little, reflecting on these things, which he understood tolerably well. The quiet man of science had watched Marcello thoughtfully, and could not help asking himself what look there would be in his own eyes, if Maddalena dell’ Armi were dying and he were standing by her bedside. It would not be Marcello’s look.

  A closed cab stopped before the entrance, and almost before he could throw away his cigarette, the Contessa and Aurora were standing beside him on the pavement.

  “She is very weak,” he said, “but she will not be delirious again for some time — if at all.”

  Neither of the ladies spoke, and they followed him in silence up the ill-lighted staircase.

  “That is where I live,” he said, as he passed his own door on the second landing. “Marcello is camping there. He is probably asleep now.”

  “Asleep!” It was Aurora that uttered the single word, in a puzzled tone.

  “He did not go to bed last night,” Kalmon explained, going on.

  “Oh!” Again the Professor was struck by the young girl’s tone.

  They reached the third landing, and Kalmon pushed the door, which he had left ajar; he shut it when they had all entered, and he ushered the mother and daughter into the small sitting-room. There they waited a moment while he went to tell Regina that Aurora had come.

  The young girl dropped her cloak upon a chair and stood waiting, her eyes fixed on the door. She was a little pale, not knowing what was to come, yet feeling somehow that it was to make a great difference to her ever afterwards. She glanced at her mother, and the Contessa smiled gently, as much as to say that she was doing right, but neither spoke.

  Presently Kalmon came out with the Sister of Charity, who bent her head gravely to the two ladies.

  “She wishes to see you alone,” Kalmon said, in explanation, while he held the door open for Aurora to pass in.

  He closed it after her, and the two were together.

  When Aurora entered, Regina’s eyes were fixed upon her face as if they had already found her and seen her while she had been in the other room. She came straight to the bedside and took the hand that was stretched out to meet hers. It was thin and hot now, and the arm was already wasted. Aurora remembered how strongly it had lifted her to the edge of the rock, far away by Pontresina.

  “You are very kind, Signorina,” said the faint voice. “You see how I am.”

  Aurora saw indeed, and kept the hand in hers as she sat down in the chair that stood where Marcello had left it.

  “I am very, very sorry,” she said, leaning forward a little and looking into the worn face, colourless now that the fever had subsided for a while.

  The same bright smile that Kalmon had seen lighted up Regina’s features.

  “But I am glad!” she answered. “They do not understand that I am glad.”

  “No, no!” cried Aurora softly. “Don’t say you are glad!”

  The smile faded, and a very earnest look came into the hollow dark eyes.

  “But I have not done it on purpose,” Regina said. “I did not know there was fever in that place, or I would not have sat down there. You believe me, Signorina, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  The smile returned very gradually, and the anxious pressure of the hand relaxed.

  “You must not think that I was looking for the fever. But since it came, and I am going from here, I am glad. I shall not be in the way any more. That hindrance will be taken out of his life.”

  “He would not like to hear you speak like this,” Aurora said, with great gentleness.

  “There is no time for anything except the truth, now. And you are good, so good! No, there is no time. To-morrow, I shall be gone. Signorina, if I could kneel at your feet, I would kneel. But you see how I am. You must think I am kneeling at your feet.”

  “But why?” asked Aurora, with a little distress.

  “To ask you to forgive me for being a hindrance. I want pardon before I go. But I found him half dead on the door-step. What could I do? When I had seen him, I loved him. I knew that he thought of you. That was all he remembered — just your name, and I hated it, because he had forgotten all other names, even his own, and his mother, and everything. He was like a little child that learns, to-day this, to-morrow that, one thing at a time. What could I do? I taught him. I also taught him to love Regina. But when the memory came back, I knew how it had been before.”

  Her voice broke and she coughed, and raised one hand to her chest. Aurora supported her tenderly until it was over, and when the weary head sank back at last it lay upon the young girl’s willing arm.

  “You are tiring yourself,” Aurora said. “If it was to ask my forgiveness that you wished me to come, I forgave you long ago, if there was anything to forgive. I forgave you when we met, and I saw what you were, and that you loved him for himself, just as I do.”

  “Is it true? Really true?”

  “So may God help me, it is quite true. But if I had thought it was not for himself—”

  “Oh, yes, it was,” Regina answered. “It was, and it is, to the end. Will you see? I will show you. For what the eyes see the heart believes more easily. Signorina, will you bring the little box covered with old velvet? It is there, on the table, and it is open.”

  Aurora rose, humouring her, and brought the thing she asked for, and sat down again, setting it on the edge of the bed. Regina turned her head to see it, and raised the lid with one hand.

  “This is my little box,” she said. “What he has given me is all in it. I have no other. Will you see? Here is what I have taken from him. You shall look everywhere, if you do not believe.”

  “But I do believe you!” Aurora cried, feeling that tears were coming to her eyes.

  “But you must see,” Regina insisted. “Or perhaps when I am gone you will say to yourself, ‘There may have been diamonds and pearls in the little box, after all!’ You shall know that it was all for himself.”

  To please her Aurora took up some of the simple trinkets, simpler and cheaper even than what s
he had herself.

  “There are dresses, yes, many more than I wanted. But I could not let him be ashamed of me when we went out together, and travelled. Do you forgive me the dresses, Signorina? I wore them to please him. Please forgive me that also!”

  Aurora dropped the things into the open box and laid both her hands on Regina’s, bending down her radiant head and looking very earnestly into the anxious eyes.

  “Forgiveness is not all from me to you, Regina,” she said. “I want yours too.”

  “Mine?” The eyes grew wide and wondering.

  “Don’t you see that but for me he would have married you, and that I have been the cause of a great wrong to you?”

  For one instant Regina’s face darkened, her brows straightened themselves, and her lip curled. She remembered how, only two days ago, in the very next room, Marcello had insisted that she should he his wife. But as she looked into Aurora’s innocent eyes she understood, and the cloud passed from her own, and the bright smile came back. Aurora had spoken in the simplicity of her true heart, sure that it was only the memory of his love for her that had withheld Marcello from first to last; and Regina well knew that it had always been present with him, in spite of his brave struggle to put it away. That memory of another, which Regina had seen slowly reviving in him, had been for something in her refusal to marry him.

  With the mysterious sure vision of those who are near death, she felt that it would hurt Aurora to know the truth, except from Marcello himself.

  “If you have ever stood between us,” she said, “you had the right. He loved you first. There is nothing to forgive in that. Afterwards he loved me a little. No one can take that from me, no one! It is mine, and it is all I have, and though I am going, and though I know that he is tired of me, it is still more than the world. To have it, as I have it, I would do again what I did, from the first.”

  The voice was weak and muffled, but the words were distinct, and they were the confession of poor Regina’s life.

  “If he were here,” she said, after a moment, “I would lay your hand in his. Only let me take that memory with me!”

  The young girl rose and bent over her as she answered.

  “It is yours, to keep for ever.”

  She stooped a little lower and kissed the dying woman’s forehead.

  Under the May moon a little brigantine came sailing up to a low island just within sight of Italy; when she was within half a mile of the reefs Don Antonino Maresca put her about, for he was a prudent man, and he knew that there are just a few more rocks in the sea than are in the charts. It was a quiet night, and he was beating up against a gentle northerly breeze.

  When the head yards were swung, and braced sharp up for the other tack, and the little vessel had gathered way again, the mate came aft and stood by the captain, watching the light on the island.

  “Are there still convicts on this island, Don Antonino?” the young man asked.

  “Yes, there are the convicts. And there is one among them whom I helped to put there. He is an assassin that killed many when he was at liberty. But now he sits for seven years in a little cell alone, and sees no Christian, and it will be thirty years before he is free.”

  “Madonna!” ejaculated the mate. “When he has been there thirty years he will perhaps understand.”

  “It is as I say,” rejoined the captain. “The world is made so. There are the good and the bad. The Eternal Father has created things thus. Get a little more on the main sheet, and then flatten in those jibs.”

  Under the May moon, in the small shaft of white light that fell through the narrow grated window, a man sat on the edge of his pallet bed. His face was ghastly, and there were strange scars on his bare throat. His cell was seven feet by six, and the air was hard to breathe, because the wind was not from the south. But the moon was kinder than the sun. He heard the ripple of the cool sea, and he tried to dream that a great stone was hung to his neck, and that he had been thrown into a deep place. Perhaps, some day, the gaoler would forget to take away the coarse towel which was brought with the water in the morning. With a towel he could hang himself.

  Under the May moon a small marble cross cast its shadow upon young roses and violets and growing myrtle. In the sweet earth below a very loyal heart was at rest for ever. But the flowers were planted and still tended by a woman with radiant hair; and sometimes, when she stooped to train the young roses, bright drops fell quietly upon their bloom. Also, on certain days, a man came there alone and knelt upon the marble border within which the flowers grew. But the man and the woman never came together; and he gave the gardener of that place money, praising him for the care of the flowers.

  Under the May moon the man and the woman went down from the cottage by the Roman shore to the break in the high bank, and stood still a while, looking out at the peaceful sea and the moon’s broad path. Presently they turned to each other, put out their hands, and then their arms, and clasped each other silently, and kissed.

  Soprano

  OR, FAIR MARGARET

  Soprano was published in serial form in Munsey’s Magazine from June 1905 until February 1906. It was first released in book format by Macmillan & Co. in London in September 1905 and the first New York edition was published in November 1905. The novel was called Fair Margaret in America (despite Crawford’s protestations) and was the first in a trilogy which also includes The Primadonna (1908) and The Diva’s Ruby (1908). Crawford began composing the novel in June 1903, but was soon distracted by other projects; he resumed writing it in the autumn of 1904 and completed it by January 1905. During the late 1890’s and early 1900’s Crawford had continued to write and travel, while suffering the loss of his mother and experiencing periodic bouts of illness.

  The novel tells the story of Margaret Donne, a young penniless, but talented singer. At the start of the novel, she meets a prominent critic, Edmund Lushington; a wealthy Greek financier, Constantine Logotheti; and Madame Bonanni, who is a famous and celebrated soprano. Madame Bonanni is impressed by Margaret’s voice and introduces her to a theatre manager, who hires her for an upcoming opera. There is great opposition to Margaret forging a career as a performer, as those close to her fear for her reputation, but she is determined to pursue her passion. A complex love triangle develops between Margaret, Lushington and Logotheti, while Madame Bonanni’s past reveals her to be one of the most sympathetic and nuanced characters in the book.

  The first edition of the novel

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER I

  ‘I AM A realist,’ said Mr. Edmund Lushington, as if that explained everything. ‘We could hardly expect to agree,’ he added.

  It sounded very much as if he had said: ‘As you are not a realist, my poor young lady, I can of course hardly expect you to know anything.’

  Margaret Donne looked at him quietly and smiled. She was not very sensitive to other people’s opinions; few idealists are, for they generally think more of their ideas than of themselves. Mr. Lushington had said that he could not agree with her, that was all, and she was quite indifferent. She had known that he would not share her opinion, when the discussion had begun, for he never did, and she was glad of it. She also knew that her smile irritated him, for he did not resemble her in the very least. He was slightly aggressive, as shy persons often are: and yet, like a good many men who profess ‘realism,’ brutal frankness and a sweeping disbelief of everything not ‘scientifically’ true, Mr. Lushington was almost m
orbidly sensitive to the opinion of others. Criticism hurt him; indifference wounded him to the quick; ridicule made him writhe.

  He was a fair man with a healthy skin, and his eyes were blue; but they had a particularly disagreeable trick of looking at one suddenly for an instant, with a little pinching of the lids, and a slight glitter, turning away again in a displeased way, as if he had expected to be insulted, and was sure that the speaker was slighting him, at the very least. He often blushed when he said something sharp. He wished he were dark, because dark men could say biting things without blushing, and pale, because he felt that it was not interesting to be pink and white. His hair, too, was smoother and softer than he could have wished it. He had tried experiments with his beard and moustache, and had finally made up his mind to let both grow, but he still looked hopelessly neat. When he pushed his hair back from his forehead with a devastating gesture it simply became untidy, as if he had forgotten to brush it. At last he had accepted his fate, and he resigned himself to what he considered his physical disadvantages, but no one would ever know how he had studied the photographs of the big men in the front of things, trying to detect in them some single feature to which his own bore a faint resemblance. Hitherto he had failed.

  Yet he was ‘somebody,’ and perhaps it means more to be somebody nowadays, in the howling fight for place and acknowledgment, than it meant in the latter part of the nineteenth century. How easy life was in the early eighties, compared with this, how mild were the ways of nations, how primitive, pure and upright the dealings of financiers in that day of pristine virtue and pastoral simplicity! It was all very well to be an idealist then, Mr. Lushington sometimes said to Margaret; the world was young, then; there was time for everything, then; there was room for everybody, then; even the seasons were different, then! At least, all old people say so, and it can hardly be supposed that all persons over fifty years of age belong to a secret and powerful association of liars, organised and banded together to deceive the young.