Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said:

  “I told the superioress I came here for a week. I had better stay till that time is expired. Not longer, because as Guido is really dead, my presence is actually necessary in the city.”

  “Indeed! May I ask why?”

  She laughed a little consciously.

  “Simply to prove his last will and testament,” she replied. “Before he left for Rome, he gave it into my keeping.”

  A light flashed on my mind.

  “And its contents?” I inquired.

  “Its contents make me the owner of everything he died possessed of!” she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph.

  Unhappy Guido! What trust he had reposed in this vile, self-interested, heartless woman! He had loved her, even as I had loved her — she who was unworthy of any love! I controlled my rising emotion, and merely said with gravity:

  “I congratulate you! May I be permitted to see this document?”

  “Certainly; I can show it to you now. I have it here,” and she drew a Russia-leather letter-case from her pocket, and opening it, handed me a sealed envelope. “Break the seal!” she added, with childish eagerness. “He closed it up like that after I had read it.”

  With reluctant hand, and a pained piteousness at my heart, I opened the packet. It was as she had said, a will drawn up in perfectly legal form, signed and witnessed, leaving everything unconditionally to “Nina, Countess Romani, of the Villa Romani, Naples.” I read it through and returned it to her.

  “He must have loved you!” I said.

  She laughed.

  “Of course,” she said, airily. “But many people love me — that is nothing new; I am accustomed to be loved. But you see,” she went on, reverting to the will again, “it specifies, ‘everything he dies possessed of;’ that means all the money left to him by his uncle in Rome, does it not?”

  I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.

  “I thought so,” she murmured, gleefully, more to herself than to me; “and I have a right to all his papers and letters.” There she paused abruptly and checked herself.

  I understood her. She wanted to get back her own letters to the dead man, lest her intimacy with him should leak out in some chance way for which she was unprepared. Cunning devil! I was almost glad she showed me to what a depth of vulgar vice she had fallen. There was no question of pity or forbearance in her case. If all the tortures invented by savages or stern inquisitors could be heaped upon her at once, such punishment would be light in comparison with her crimes — crimes for which, mark you, the law gives you no remedy but divorce. Tired of the wretched comedy, I looked at my watch.

  “It is time for me to take my leave of you,” I said, in the stiff, courtly manner I affected. “Moments fly fast in your enchanting company! But I have still to walk to Castellamare, there to rejoin my carriage, and I have many things to attend to before my departure this evening. On my return from Avellino shall I be welcome?”

  “You know it,” she returned, nestling her head against my shoulder, while for mere form’s sake I was forced to hold her in a partial embrace. “I only wish you were not going at all. Dearest, do not stay long away — I shall be so unhappy till you come back!”

  “Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced smile. “May it do so in our case. Farewell, cara mia! Pray for me; I suppose you do pray a great deal here?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied, naively; “there is nothing else to do.”

  I held her hands closely in my grasp. The engagement ring on her finger, and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the crossing of swords.

  “Pray then,” I said, “storm the gates of heaven with sweet-voiced pleadings for the repose of poor Ferrari’s soul! Remember he loved you, though you never loved him. For your sake he quarreled with me, his best friend — for your sake he died! Pray for him — who knows,” and I spoke in thrilling tones of earnestness— “who knows but that his too-hastily departed spirit may not be near us now — hearing our voices, watching our looks?”

  She shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold.

  “Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to pray for him — he was young and not prepared to die.”

  My words had some of the desired effect upon her — for once her ready speech failed — she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found none. I still held her hands.

  “Promise me!” I continued; “and at the same time pray for your dead husband! He and poor Ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to Him ‘from whom no secrets are hid,’ and who reads with unerring eyes the purity of your intentions. Will you do it?”

  She smiled, a forced, faint smile.

  “I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise you.”

  I released her hands — I was satisfied. If she dared to pray thus I felt — I knew that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled wrath of Heaven; for I looked beyond the grave! The mere death of her body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter destruction of her wicked soul that I sought. She should never repent, I swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence, presume to ask admittance into that Eternal Gloryland whither my little child had gone — never, never! No church should save her, no priest should absolve her — not while I lived!

  She watched me as I fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves.

  “Are you going now?” she asked, somewhat timidly.

  “Yes, I am going now, cara mia,” I said. “Why! what makes you look so pale?”

  For she had suddenly turned very white.

  “Let me see your hand again,” she demanded, with feverish eagerness, “the hand on which I placed the ring!”

  Smilingly and with readiness I took off the glove I had just put on.

  “What odd fancy possesses you now, little one?” I asked, with an air of playfulness.

  She made no answer, but took my hand and examined it closely and curiously. Then she looked up, her lips twitched nervously, and she laughed a little hard mirthless laugh.

  “Your hand,” she murmured, incoherently, “with — that — signet — on it — is exactly like — like Fabio’s!”

  And before I had time to say a word she went off into a violent fit of hysterics — sobs, little cries, and laughter all intermingled in that wild and reasonless distraction that generally unnerves the strongest man who is not accustomed to it. I rang the bell to summon assistance; a lay-sister answered it, and seeing Nina’s condition, rushed for a glass of water and summoned Madame la Vicaire. This latter, entering with her quiet step and inflexible demeanor, took in the situation at a glance, dismissed the lay-sister, and possessing herself of the tumbler of water, sprinkled the forehead of the interesting patient, and forced some drops between her clinched teeth. Then turning to me she inquired, with some stateliness of manner, what had caused the attack?

  “I really cannot tell you, madame,” I said, with an air of affected concern and vexation. “I certainly told the countess of the unexpected death of a friend, but she bore the news with exemplary resignation. The circumstance that appears to have so greatly distressed her is that she finds, or says she finds, a resemblance between my hand and the hand of her deceased husband. This seems to me absurd, but there is no accounting for ladies’ caprices.”

  And I shrugged my shoulders as though I were annoyed and impatient.

  Over the pale, serious face of the nun there flitted a smile in which there was certainly the ghost of sarcasm.

  “All sensitiveness and tenderness of heart, you see!” she said, in her chill, passionless tones, which, icy as they were, somehow conveyed to my ear another meaning than that implied by the words she uttered. “We cannot perhaps understand the extreme delicacy of her feelings,
and we fail to do justice to them.”

  Here Nina opened her eyes, and looked at us with piteous plaintiveness, while her bosom heaved with those long, deep sighs which are the finishing chords of the Sonata Hysteria.

  “You are better, I trust?” continued the nun, without any sympathy in her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. “You have greatly alarmed the Count Oliva.”

  “I am sorry—” began Nina, feebly.

  I hastened to her side.

  “Pray do not speak of it!” I urged, forcing something like a lover’s ardor into my voice. “I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune to have hands like those of your late husband! I assure you I am quite miserable about it. Can you forgive me?”

  She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she had behaved somewhat foolishly. She smiled a weak pale smile; but she looked very scared, worn and ill. She rose from her chair slowly and languidly.

  “I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding Mère Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering coldly on her still breast.

  “Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from Avellino.”

  I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently with my lips. She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous idea seemed to enter her mind. She looked at Madame la Vicaire and then came back to me.

  “Addio, amor mio!” she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately.

  Then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room.

  I was somewhat confused. The suddenness and warmth of her caress had been, I knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious scruples of Mère Marguerite. I knew not what to say to the stately woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that moved dumbly as though in prayer. As the door closed after my wife’s retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark lashes.

  “Madame,” I began, earnestly, “I assure you—”

  “Say nothing, signor,” she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory gesture; “it is quite unnecessary. To mock a religieuse is a common amusement with young girls and women of the world. I am accustomed to it, though I feel its cruelty more than I ought to do. Ladies like the Countess Romani think that we — we, the sepulchers of womanhood — sepulchers that we have emptied and cleansed to the best of our ability, so that they may more fittingly hold the body of the crucified Christ; these grandes dames, I say, fancy that we are ignorant of all they know — that we cannot understand love, tenderness or passion. They never reflect — how should they? — that we also have had our histories — histories, perhaps, that would make angels weep for pity! I, even I—” and she struck her breast fiercely, then suddenly recollecting herself, she continued coldly: “The rule of our convent, signor, permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour — that hour has expired. I will summon a sister to show you the way out.”

  “Wait one instant, madame,” I said, feeling that to enact my part thoroughly I ought to attempt to make some defense of Nina’s conduct; “permit me to say a word! My fiancee is very young and thoughtless. I really cannot think that her very innocent parting caress to me had anything in it that was meant to purposely annoy you.”

  The nun glanced at me — her eyes flashed disdainfully.

  “You think it was all affection for you, no doubt, signor? very natural supposition, and — I should be sorry to undeceive you.”

  She paused a moment and then resumed:

  “You seem an earnest man — may be you are destined to be the means of saving Nina; I could say much — yet it is wise to be silent. If you love her do not flatter her; her overweening vanity is her ruin. A firm, wise, ruling master-hand may perhaps — who knows?” She hesitated and sighed, then added, gently, “Farewell, signor! Benedicite!” and making the sign of the cross as I respectfully bent my head to receive her blessing, she passed noiselessly from the room.

  One moment later, and a lame and aged lay-sister came to escort me to the gate. As I passed down the stone corridor a side door opened a very little way, and two fair young faces peeped out at me. For an instant I saw four laughing bright eyes; I heard a smothered voice say, “Oh! c’est un vieux papa!” and then my guide, who though lame was not blind, perceived the opened door and shut it with an angry bang, which, however, did not drown the ringing merriment that echoed from within. On reaching the outer gates I turned to my venerable companion, and laying four twenty-franc pieces in her shriveled palm, I said:

  “Take these to the reverend mother for me, and ask that mass may be said in the chapel to-morrow for the repose of the soul of him whose name is written here.”

  And I gave her Guido Ferrari’s visiting-card, adding in lower and more solemn tones:

  “He met with a sudden and unprepared death. Of your charity, pray also for the man who killed him!”

  The old woman looked startled, and crossed herself devoutly; but she promised that my wishes should be fulfilled, and I bade her farewell and passed out, the convent gates closing with a dull clang behind me. I walked on a few yards, and then paused, looking back. What a peaceful home it seemed; how calm and sure a retreat, with the white Noisette roses crowning its ancient gray walls! Yet what embodied curses were pent up in there in the shape of girls growing to be women; women for whom all the care, stern training and anxious solicitude of the nuns would be unavailing; women who would come forth from even that abode of sanctity with vile natures and animal impulses, and who would hereafter, while leading a life of vice and hypocrisy, hold up this very strictness of their early education as proof of their unimpeachable innocence and virtue! To such, what lesson is learned by the daily example of the nuns who mortify their flesh, fast, pray and weep? No lesson at all — nothing save mockery and contempt. To a girl in the heyday of youth and beauty the life of a religieuse seems ridiculous. “The poor nuns!” she says, with a laugh; “they are so ignorant. Their time is over — mine has not yet begun.” Few, very few, among the thousands of young women who leave the scene of their quiet schooldays for the social whirligig of the world, ever learn to take life in earnest, love in earnest, sorrow in earnest. To most of them life is a large dressmaking and millinery establishment; love a question of money and diamonds; sorrow a solemn calculation as to how much or how little mourning is considered becoming or fashionable. And for creatures such as these we men work — work till our hairs are gray and our backs bent with toil — work till all the joy and zest of living has gone from us, and our reward is — what? Happiness? — seldom. Infidelity? — often. Ridicule? Truly we ought to be glad if we are only ridiculed and thrust back to occupy the second place in our own houses; our lady-wives call that “kind treatment.” Is there a married woman living who does not now and then throw a small stone of insolent satire at her husband when his back is turned? What, madame? You, who read these words — you say with indignation: “Certainly there is, and I am that woman!” Ah, truly? I salute you profoundly! — you are, no doubt, the one exception!

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  Avellino is one of those dreamy, quiet and picturesque towns which have not as yet been desecrated by the Vandal tourist. Persons holding “through tickets” from Messrs. Cook or Gaze do not stop there — there are no “sights” save the old sanctuary called Monte Virgine standing aloft on its rugged hill, with all the memories of its ancient days clinging to it like a wizard’s cloak, and wrapping it in a sort of mysterious meditative silence. It can look back through a vista of eventful years to the eleventh century, when it was erected, so the people say, on the ruins of a temple of Cybele. But what do the sheep and geese that are whipp
ed abroad in herds by the drovers Cook and Gaze know of Monte Virgine or Cybele? Nothing — and they care less; and quiet Avellino escapes from their depredations, thankful that it is not marked on the business map of the drovers’ “Runs.” Shut in by the lofty Apennines, built on the slope of the hill that winds gently down into a green and fruitful valley through which the river Sabato rushes and gleams white against cleft rocks that look like war-worn and deserted castles, a drowsy peace encircles it, and a sort of stateliness, which, compared with the riotous fun and folly of Naples only thirty miles away, is as though the statue of a nude Egeria were placed in rivalry with the painted waxen image of a half-dressed ballet-dancer. Few lovelier sights are to be seen in nature than a sunset from one of the smaller hills round Avellino — when the peaks of the Apennines seem to catch fire from the flaming clouds, and below them, the valleys are full of those tender purple and gray shadows that one sees on the canvases of Salvator Rosa, while the town itself looks like a bronzed carving on an old shield, outlined clearly against the dazzling luster of the sky. To this retired spot I came — glad to rest for a time from my work of vengeance — glad to lay down my burden of bitterness for a brief space, and become, as it were, human again, in the sight of the near mountains. For within their close proximity, things common, things mean seem to slip from the soul — a sort of largeness pervades the thoughts, the cramping prosiness of daily life has no room to assert its sway — a grand hush falls on the stormy waters of passion, and like a chidden babe the strong man stands, dwarfed to an infinite littleness in his own sight, before those majestic monarchs of the landscape whose large brows are crowned with the blue circlet of heaven.

  I took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply, and attended only by Vincenzo. I was tired of the ostentation I had been forced to practice in Naples in order to attain my ends — and it was a relief to me to be for a time as though I were a poor man. The house in which I found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built, picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character. She was a Roman, she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes — I could guess that at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded figure, and her free, firm tread — that step which is swift without being hasty, which is the manner born of Rome. She told me her history in a few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through it again as she spoke: her husband had been a worker in a marble quarry — one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him, and he was crushed to death.