The Dream and the Glory

by Barbara Cartland

  “Then the Duca must accept that as final,” Mark Stanton asserted.

  “Will you make him – do so?” she asked quickly. “Will you make him understand that I will not change my mind and that he must not come – near me – must not try to – kiss me – as he was – trying to do just now.”

  “Is the Duca perhaps one of the reasons why you were thinking of entering a Convent?”

  There was silence and once again Mark Stanton had the feeling that Cordelia was wondering whether she should trust him or not.

  “I want to understand everything,” he said quietly.

  “There was – another man in England before we left,” Cordelia began after a moment. “He lives near Stanton Park and I have known him for some – years.”

  “He asked you to marry him?”

  “Yes – and like the Duca he would not – listen to me. He called every day – he wrote to me – he spoke to – David.”

  She gave a deep sigh.

  “It was all very – difficult.”

  “You were not in love with him?”

  “No, he was horrible! There was something coarse and unpleasant about him. I cannot explain because he was very popular with both men and women, but I knew the face he showed to the world was not – really what he was like inside.”

  “And what did David think about him?”

  “He – wanted me to – marry him.”

  There was a pause and then Cordelia continued,

  “I can understand David's point of view. He wants me to settle down so that he can feel free to live his own life without his conscience pricking him – where I am concerned.”

  “So to prevent that happening he has suggested that you should be incarcerated in a Convent!”

  There was no mistaking the sarcasm and also the note of accusation in Mark Stanton’s tone.

  “Perhaps David is right in thinking that is – where I might find – happiness.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I have – thought,” Cordelia said hesitatingly, “that there – might be something – wrong with me. Perhaps I am – different from other women in that I cannot – respond to the men who say they – love me.”

  She was twisting her fingers together as if to speak of what she felt inside herself was to reveal fears that were very real.

  Mark Stanton bent forward and put his hand over hers.

  “Listen to me, Cordelia,” he said, “and listen attentively.”

  She was still at the touch of his fingers and now her eyes were raised to his obediently.

  “There is nothing wrong in what you are feeling. You are not different from other women in any way except perhaps that you are more sensitive and your standards are higher than theirs.”

  “I don’t – understand.”

  “I will try to put it into simple words. In every man and woman there is a dream, a vision if you like, for which they yearn and to which they aspire.”

  “Like David and his – longing to be a Knight?”

  “Exactly!” Mark Stanton agreed. “But for most of us it is very much simpler. We seek love and we try to find it with someone of the opposite sex.”

  “But love – ” Cordelia began and then stopped.

  He knew that she was thinking of the love that she had seen since she came to Naples.

  The amorous voices and the unceasing flirtations of the Neapolitans, the pursuit of women that was the sport of Italian Princelings and young Patricians.

  Deceiving wives, unfaithful husbands and barely veiled indiscretions were all a part of every Neapolitan’s way of life.

  “What you see here is not love,” Mark Stanton said harshly. “Not love as I am speaking of it and not the love you are seeking, Cordelia.”

  He felt as if she moved a little closer to him as she asked,

  “Explain it to – me so that I can – understand.”

  “Love is Divine and comes from a power beyond ourselves,” he said, “but because people cannot always find the real thing, rather than lack love altogether they put up with the imitation, the second rate, the commonplace.”

  “And that it what is – happening here?”

  “To the Neapolitans love and the idea of being in love are as natural as the air they breathe. They are a passionate, emotional and warm-hearted people.”

  “I know – that.”

  “But for those of us who come from a colder and more austere climate love is not so simple. Yet, if we find it, because we love not only with our hearts and bodies, but also with our minds and souls, it is much more wonderful.”

  He paused to say very quietly,

  “In fact it can be the dream we are all seeking and which lies in a secret shrine within ourselves.”

  Cordelia gave a little cry.

  “Now I understand! Now I know – that is what I want – what I have always wanted.”

  She looked at Mark Stanton and her eyes were very large in her small face.

  “Suppose I never – find it?”

  Again there was a touch of fear in her voice, but this time it was different.

  “Will you trust me,” he said, “when I promise you that you will find love? The love in which you believe, the love that you are sure of in your heart, but which has not yet come into your life.”

  “I want to believe it will – happen.”

  “It will,” Mark Stanton said confidently.

  Cordelia gave a little sigh.

  “You have made everything seem so simple and I am no longer – frightened about myself.”

  “I want you to promise me something.”

  She looked at him a little apprehensively.

  “I want you to promise,” he said, “that you will give life a chance, ordinary life as you and I live it, before you do anything drastic.”

  “You mean such as – going into a – Convent?” Cordelia asked.

  “I mean also in not agreeing to marry any man unless you are completely and absolutely certain that the love he offers you and the love you can give him are the real and genuine love that you are seeking in your dream.”

  “I promise,” Cordelia sighed.

  There was a smile on her lips for the first time since they had been talking together.

  Then she added quickly,

  “You will speak to the – Duca?”

  “I will deal with the Duca,” Mark Stanton said firmly. “He will not trouble you again, Cordelia, and you can send any other importunate beau to me. I am quite prepared to listen to the eulogies of your attractions and then kick him downstairs!”

  Cordelia looked startled.

  “I would not wish you to be unnecessarily harsh with anyone. After all, I suppose it’s a compliment that they want me?”

  “Not in every case,” Mark Stanton replied. “Don’t trouble your head over it any further, Cordelia. As long as we are in Naples I will look after you.”

  “And when we are in – Malta?” Cordelia murmured.

  “I do not expect I shall be far away.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “I am taking you back to the ballroom. As I have now constituted myself your Guardian, I cannot allow you to stay too long in the garden. If people notice your absence, they might find a wrong explanation for your being away so long.”

  He knew by the expression on Cordelia's face that this was something that had never occurred to her.

  “Should I not have – gone into the garden?” she asked.

  “It was not very wise unless you were willing to find yourself in the uncomfortable situation that you experienced when alone with the Duca.”

  “It was – foolish of me,” Cordelia admitted, “but he was so – insistent and I did not know how to – refuse him.”

  “Another time be quite firm in saying ‘no’,” Mark Stanton suggested with a smile.

  “I will do that.”

  They had moved to where the path led from the arbour and now she stopped still and the light from the stars turne
d her hair to a silvery gold.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I am sorry I was – rude to you today, but you – frightened me.”

  “And now?” Mark Stanton enquired.

  “I am no longer afraid and – I trust you.”

  She looked up at him.

  He was very tall and strong and she felt glad that he was her cousin and she need no longer be afraid.

  To Mark Stanton she appeared very ethereal in her white gown, she seemed to merge with the flowers around her, with the stars that shone above and the sea that glittered below.

  She was a part of them and yet she was distinctly and individually herself.

  ‘She is like a snowdrop,’ he thought suddenly.

  For a moment the over-scented, lush Italian night vanished and he saw instead the Park at Stanton and the snowdrops, white and pure, pushing their way through the snow beneath the high oak trees.

  ‘A snowdrop!’ Mark Stanton repeated now as he walked homewards.

  He knew that Cordelia was just as fragile, as delicate and as sensitive as the first flower of an English spring.

  *

  In the Palazzo Sessa Cordelia awoke when the sun was golden over the City and was aware of a new happiness that she had not felt for a long time.

  She felt secure and protected.

  It was something that she had lost when her father died, but which magically Mark Stanton had brought back to her so that she was no longer unsure and apprehensive.

  ‘He was kind,’ she told herself, ‘far kinder than I ever imagined he could be.’

  Then she wondered if he had been bored with talking to her for so long and whether he found her very stupid and dull beside the entertaining glittering ladies she had seen surrounding him the whole evening.

  There was one in particular who she had thought was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

  She had in fact met her before Mark’s arrival and knew that she was the Princess Gianetta di Sapuano.

  She was a frequent visitor at the British Embassy and at every party Cordelia attended she was the most outstanding woman present so that everyone seemed to gravitate towards her like moths to a lantern.

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ Cordelia thought to herself and felt that in contrast her own pale gold hair and white skin seemed insipid.

  She remembered now that when they had gone back into the salon where the band was playing soft romantic music they had hardly stepped from the terrace before the Princess had moved towards Mark Stanton.

  “I was half-afraid you had vanished!” she said in a possessive tone that had a note of passion in it that was unmistakable.

  It was impossible for Cordelia not to notice as well the way that her eyes looked provocatively at Mark Stanton and her lips parted invitingly.

  She had never imagined that a woman could look so voluptuous and at the same time so genuinely beautiful.

  She found herself thinking of the Sirens who had sung to Ulysses, who had only been able to escape their fatal charms by plugging his sailors’ ears with wax and having himself tied fast to the mast.

  There was, Cordelia thought, something in the Princess’s voice that was irresistible.

  Perhaps it was her slight accent that made her English sound so much more interesting and attractive than when it was spoken by an Englishwoman.

  Perhaps it was because she seemed to speak to Mark Stanton differently to the way that she spoke to anyone else.

  The partner whose dance Cordelia had forgotten and who reproached her for her neglect now claimed her.

  When she had finished dancing with him, she realised that she could no longer see her cousin Mark in the salon, and the Princess also appeared to be missing.

  *

  When she was dressed, Cordelia went downstairs to find David just coming in through the front door.

  “You are up early, dearest,” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

  “I have been to the dockyard,” he answered. “Mark gave me permission yesterday to spur on those lazy workmen and that is exactly what I have been doing.”

  “When do you think the ship will be ready?”

  David made an expressive gesture with his hands, a trick that he had picked up from the Neapolitans.

  “Heaven knows,” he answered. “They have no intention of hurrying themselves. There is always some excuse for their negligence.”

  “You will have to possess your soul in patience!” Cordelia laughed. “And after all, David, it is only fair that after a long cruise Mark and, of course, the owner, should have a little relaxation.”

  David’s eyes seemed to light up.

  “We are to meet the Baron today,” he said. “He is staying with friends outside Naples, but I understand that Sir William has invited him to luncheon.”

  “Sir William has been so kind,” Cordelia said. “I think, David, it would seem rather ungrateful if you expressed too openly in his presence your fervent desire to depart from Naples.”

  “But that is exactly what I do want! I cannot bear to sit about here doing nothing when I might be with the Knights.”

  “It cannot be very long now,” Cordelia murmured consolingly.

  They walked out onto the terrace and after the cool of the salon the sun was almost blinding.

  “Every day will seem like a century until I reach Malta,” David carried on. “Besides, I am afraid that something might stop us.”

  “What do you mean by ‘something’?” Cordelia enquired.

  David glanced over his shoulder as if he was nervous of being overheard.

  “Everyone was talking last night of the enormous fleet Bonaparte is preparing in Toulon. Some people believe that he has a secret plan.”

  “It’s quite obvious,” Cordelia answered, “that if he has superiority in ships, he is hoping to escape the watch of the British. He may be planning some new campaign by sea.”

  “Why should he wish to move? That is the point! There is plenty for him to conquer without leaving dry land.”

  “More fighting, more suffering! How I hate war!” Cordelia exclaimed.

  “All women feel the same,” David replied. “At the same time I cannot help thinking that Bonaparte is rather fantastic.”

  “Fantastic?”

  “Do you realise that in a simple campaign he has defeated five Armies, won eighteen pitched battles and sixty-seven smaller combats? He has taken more than one hundred and fifty thousand prisoners!”

  He paused to add impressively,

  “Sir William reckons that he has added two hundred million francs to the Treasury of France.”

  “He has not yet conquered England, nor is he likely to!” Cordelia claimed hotly.

  “Nor would he ever be able to conquer Malta,” David said with a note of elation in his voice. “Do you remember, Cordelia, how I read to you the story of the siege by the Turks and it was the most famous siege in history?”

  “That took place a long time ago.”

  “In 1565,” David supplied, “and never had there been such bravery, such endurance and such amazing courage as the Knights showed.”

  His voice rang out as he went on,

  “The Knights saved Sicily and Southern Italy from the Turks. They were out-gunned and out-manned, but they won.”

  “You have told me about it so often,” Cordelia pointed out gently.

  “Who knows when we may have to fight again?” David went on. “Even if it is against the whole might of the French Fleet, I know, Cordelia, that we will win!”

  “Of course you will, dearest,” Cordelia said, anxious to agree with him. “Malta is the strongest fortified place in the whole world.”

  “Fortifications are no use without the right men to man them.”

  There was a sudden light in David’s eyes and a note of elation in his voice as he cried,

  “If only I could have the chance to prove myself! If only I could fight like Jean de la Valette during the siege and carry the Cross to victory!”r />
  Cordelia walked up to her brother and, putting her arms on his shoulders, kissed his cheek.

  “I know that whatever happens you will always do what is right and noble,” she said. “But, oh, David, I am afraid when I think of you fighting.”

  “I want to fight for my faith,” David answered, “but I assure you that I intend to be an expert swordsman and a first class shot!”

  “You are that anyway,” Cordelia said quickly.

  “I hope so,” he replied, “but shooting at partridges is rather different from aiming at men.”

  Cordelia shuddered.

  “I do not like to think of you killing anyone, David, even if they are not Christians.”

  She could not help wondering as she spoke how many people who professed the Christian faith carried out any of its tenets.

  The Churches in Naples might be full, but she was well aware that much of the great and powerful religion that she belonged to had sunk into gross superstitions that were shared alike by the Queen and the beggars.

  All Neapolitans feared the Iettatura or Evil Eye and protected themselves by touching a little bone or coral horn they carried in their pockets.

  When she had been in Naples a few days, she had been taken to the Cathedral where amid scenes of almost frantic excitement the Bishop had shown the phial in which the blood of the Patron Saint of Naples, Saint Gennaro, was changed from a solidified drop into a fresh crimson liquid.

  While Cordelia had been prepared to believe in the miracle, she had in fact felt a distaste she could not check for the hysterical emotionalism of the worshippers.

  They had been so unrestrained, so carried away by the Ceremony that occurred every year, that some critical part of her mind felt their behaviour was unnatural.

  It would be better, she thought, to show more kindliness and charity to their fellow-beings.

  Outside the beggars with their sores, their rags, their blind eyes and their stunted limbs were a disgrace to any civilised country.

  But she was well aware that little or nothing was done for them and she had been told that the hospitals were inadequate because there was not enough money to help those who clamoured for attention and were in desperate need of treatment.

  She tried not to find fault, just as she tried to understand her brother David’s longing to reach Malta where all his dreams would come true.