Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Tell it me,” said she, still looking in his face.

  “There was once a solitary castle in the mountains, with battlement and moat both high and broad. Far up in a lonely turret dwelt a rare maiden, of such surpassing beauty and fairness that the peasants thought she was not mortal, but an angel from heaven, resting in that tower from the doing of good deeds. She had flowers up there in her chamber, and the seeds of flowers; and as the seasons passed by, she took from her store the dry germs, and planted them one after another in a little earth on the window-sill. And the sun shone on them and they grew, and she breathed upon them and they were sweet. But they withered and bore no offspring, and fell away, so that year by year her store became diminished. At last there was but one little paper bag of seed left, and upon the cover was written in a strange character, ‘This is the Seed of the Thorn of the World.’ But the beautiful maiden was sad when she saw this, for she said ‘All my flowers have been sweet, and now I have but this thing left, which is a thorn!’ And she opened the paper and looked inside, and saw one poor little seed all black and shrivelled. Through that day she pondered what to do with it, and was very unhappy. At night she said to herself, ‘I will not plant this one; I will throw it away rather than plant it.’ And she went to the window, and tore the paper, and threw out the little seed into the darkness.”

  “Poor little thing!” said Hedwig. She was listening intently.

  “She threw it out, and as it fell, all the air was full of music, sad and sweet, so that she wondered greatly. The next day she looked out of the window, and saw, between the moat and the castle wall, a new plant growing. It looked black and uninviting, but it had come up so fast that it had already laid hold on the rough gray stones. At the falling of the night it reached far up towards the turret, a great sharp-pointed vine, with only here and there a miserable leaf on it. ‘I am sorry I threw it out,’ said the maiden. ‘It is the Thorn of the World, and the people who pass will think it defaces my castle.’ But when it was dark again the air was full of music. The maiden went to the window, for she could not sleep, and she called out, asking who it was that sang. Then a sweet, low voice came up to her from the moat. ‘I am the Thorn,’ it said, ‘I sing in the dark, for I am growing.’— ‘Sing on, Thorn,’ said she, ‘and grow if you will.’ But in the morning when she awoke, her window was darkened, for the Thorn had grown to be a mighty tree, and its topmost shoots were black against the sky. She wondered whether this uncouth plant would bear anything but music. So she spoke to it.

  “‘Thorn,’ she said, ‘why have you no flowers?’

  “‘I am the Thorn of the World,’ it answered, ‘and I can bear no flowers until the hand that planted me has tended me, and pruned me, and shaped me to be its own. If you had planted me like the rest, it would have been easy for you. But you planted me unwillingly, down below you by the moat, and I have had far to climb.’

  “‘But my hands are so delicate,’ said the maiden. ‘You will hurt me, I am sure.’

  “‘Yours is the only hand in the world that I will not hurt,’ said the voice, so tenderly and softly and sadly that the gentle fingers went out to touch the plant and see if it were real. And touching it they clung there, for they had no harm of it. Would you know, my lady, what happened then?”

  “Yes, yes — tell me!” cried Hedwig, whose imagination was fascinated by the tale.

  “As her hands rested on the spiked branches, a gentle trembling went through the Thorn, and in a moment there burst out such a blooming and blossoming as the maiden had never seen. Every prick became a rose, and they were so many that the light of the day was tinged with them, and their sweetness was like the breath of paradise. But below her window the Thorn was as black and forbidding as ever, for only the maiden’s presence could make its flowers bloom. But she smelled the flowers, and pressed many of them to her cheek.

  “‘I thought you were only a Thorn,’ she said, softly.

  “‘Nay, fairest maiden,’ answered the glorious voice of the bursting blossom, ‘I am the Rose of the World for ever, since you have touched me.’

  “That is my story, signorina. Have I wearied you?”

  Hedwig had unconsciously moved nearer to him as he was speaking, for he never raised his voice, and she hung on his words. There was colour in her face, and her breath came quickly through her parted lips. She had never looked so beautiful.

  “Wearied me, signore? Ah no; it is a gentle tale of yours.”

  “It is a true tale — in part,” said he.

  “In part? I do not understand—” But the colour was warmer in her cheek, and she turned her face half away, as though looking out.

  “I will tell you,” he replied, coming closer, on the side from which she turned. “Here is the window. You are the maiden. The thorn — it is my love for you”; he dropped his voice to a whisper “You planted it carelessly, far below you in the dark. In the dark it has grown and sung to you, and grown again, until now it stands in your own castle window. Will you not touch it and make its flowers bloom for you?” He spoke fervently. She had turned her face quite from him now, and was resting her forehead against one hand that leaned upon the heavy frame of the casement. The other hand hung down by her side toward him, fair as a lily against her dark gown. Nino touched it, then took it. He could see the blush spread to her white throat, and fade again. Between the half-falling curtain and the great window he bent his knee and pressed her fingers to his lips. She made as though she would withdraw her hand, and then left it in his. Her glance stole to him as he kneeled there, and he felt it on him, so that he looked up. She seemed to raise him with her fingers, and her eyes held his and drew them; he stood up, and, still holding her hand, his face was near to hers. Closer and closer yet, as by a spell, each gazing searchingly into the other’s glance, till their eyes could see no more for closeness, and their lips met in life’s first virgin kiss, — in the glory and strength of a two-fold purity, each to each.

  Far off at the other end of the room De Pretis struck a chord on the piano. They started at the sound.

  “When?” whispered Nino, hurriedly.

  “At midnight, under my window,” she answered, quickly, not thinking of anything better in her haste. “I will tell you then. You must go; my father will soon be here. No, not again,” she protested. But he drew her to him, and said good-bye in his own manner. She lingered an instant, and tore herself away. De Pretis was playing loudly. Nino had to pass near him to go out, and the maestro nodded carelessly as he went by.

  “Excuse me, maestro,” said Hedwig, as Nino bowed himself out; “it was a question of arranging certain lessons.”

  “Do not mention it,” said he, indifferently; “my time is yours, signorina. Shall we go through with this solfeggio once more?”

  The good maestro did not seem greatly disturbed by the interruption. Hedwig wondered, dreamily, whether he had understood. It all seemed like a dream. The notes were upside down in her sight, and her voice sought strange minor keys unconsciously, as she vainly tried to concentrate her attention upon what she was doing.

  “Signorina,” said Ercole at last, “what you sing is very pretty, but it is not exactly what is written here. I fear you are tired.”

  “Perhaps so,” said she. “Let us not sing any more to-day.” Ercole shut up the music and rose. She gave him her hand, a thing she had never done before; and it was unconscious now, as everything she did seemed to be. There is a point when dreaming gets the mastery and appears infinitely more real than the things we touch.

  Nino, meanwhile, had descended the steps, expecting every moment to meet the count. As he went down the street a closed carriage drove by with the Lira liveries. The old count was in it, but Nino stepped into the shadow of a doorway to let the equipage pass, and was not seen. The wooden face of the old nobleman almost betrayed something akin to emotion. He was returning from the funeral, and it had pained him; for he had liked the wild baroness in a fatherly, reproving way. But the sight of him sent a home
thrust to Nino’s heart.

  “Her death is on my soul for ever,” he muttered between his set teeth. Poor innocent boy, it was not his fault if she had loved him so much. Women have done things for great singers that they have not done for martyrs or heroes. It seems so certain that the voice that sings so tenderly is speaking to them individually. Music is such a fleeting, passionate thing that a woman takes it all to herself; how could he sing like that for anyone else? And yet there is always someone for whom he does really pour out his heart, and all the rest are the dolls of life, to be looked at and admired for their dress and complexion, and to laugh at when the fancy takes him to laugh; but not to love.

  At midnight Nino was at his post, but he waited long and patiently for a sign. It was past two, and he was thinking it hopeless to wait longer, when his quick ear caught the sound of a window moving on its hinges, and a moment later something fell at his feet with a sharp, metallic click. The night was dark and cloudy, so that the waning moon gave little light. He picked up the thing and found a small pocket handkerchief wrapped about a minute pair of scissors, apparently to give it weight. He expected a letter, and groped on the damp pavement with his hands. Then he struck a match, shaded it from the breeze with his hand, and saw that the handkerchief was stained with ink, and that the stains were letters, roughly printed to make them distinct. He hurried away to the light of a street lamp to read the strange missive.

  CHAPTER X

  HE WENT TO the light and spread out the handkerchief. It was a small thing, of almost transparent stuff, with a plain “H.L.” and a crown in the corner. The steel pen had torn the delicate fibres here and there.

  “They know you have been here. I am watched. Keep away from the house till you hear.”

  That was all the message, but it told worlds. He knew from it that the count was informed of his visit, and he tortured himself by trying to imagine what the angry old man would do. His heart sank like a stone in his breast when he thought of Hedwig, so imprisoned, guarded, made a martyr of, for his folly. He groaned aloud when he understood that it was in the power of her father to take her away suddenly and leave no trace of their destination, and he cursed his haste and impetuosity in having shown himself inside the house. But with all this weight of trouble upon him, he felt the strength and indomitable determination within him which come only to a man who loves, when he knows he is loved again. He kissed the little handkerchief, and even the scissors she had used to weight it with, and he put them in his breast. But he stood irresolute, leaning against the lamppost, as a man will who is trying to force his thoughts to overtake events, trying to shape out of the present. Suddenly he was aware of a tall figure in a fur coat standing near him on the sidewalk. He would have turned to go, but something about the stranger’s appearance struck him so oddly that he stayed where he was and watched him.

  The tall man searched for something in his pockets, and finally produced a cigarette, which he leisurely lighted with a wax match. As he did so his eyes fell upon Nino. The stranger was tall and very thin. He wore a pointed beard and a heavy moustache, which seemed almost dazzlingly white, as were the few locks that appeared, neatly brushed over his temples, beneath his opera hat. His sanguine complexion, however, had all the freshness of youth, and his eyes sparkled merrily, as though amused at the spectacle of his nose, which was immense, curved, and polished, like an eagle’s beak. He wore perfectly-fitting kid gloves, and the collar of his fur wrapper, falling a little open, showed that he was in evening dress.

  It was so late — past two o’clock — that Nino had not expected anything more than a policeman or some homeless wanderer, when he raised his eyes to look on the stranger. He was fascinated by the strange presence of the aged dandy, for such he seemed to be, and returned his gaze boldly. He was still more astonished, however, when the old gentleman came close to him, and raised his hat, displaying, as he did so, a very high and narrow forehead, crowned with a mass of smooth white hair. There was both grace and authority in the courteous gesture, and Nino thought the old gentleman moved with an ease that matched his youthful complexion rather than his hoary locks.

  “Signor Cardegna, the distinguished artist, if I mistake not?” said the stranger, with a peculiar foreign accent, the like of which Nino had never heard. He also raised his hat, extremely surprised that a chance passer-by should know him. He had not yet learned what it is to be famous. But he was far from pleased at being addressed in his present mood.

  “The same, signore,” he replied coldly. “How can I serve you?”

  “You can serve the world you so well adorn better than by exposing your noble voice to the midnight damps and chills of this infernal — I would say, eternal — city,” answered the other. “Forgive me. I am, not unnaturally, concerned at the prospect of loosing even a small portion of the pleasure you know how to give to me and to many others.”

  “I thank you for your flattery,” said Nino, drawing his cloak about him, “but it appears to me that my throat is my own, and whatever voice there may be in it. Are you a physician, signore? And pray why do you tell me that Rome is an infernal city?”

  “I have had some experience of Rome, Signor Cardegna,” returned the foreigner, with a peculiar smile, “and I hate no place so bitterly in all this world — save one. And as for my being a physician, I am an old man, a very singularly old man in fact, and I know something of the art of healing.”

  “When I need healing, as you call it,” said Nino, rather scornfully, “I will inquire for you. Do you desire to continue this interview amid the ‘damps and chills of our ‘infernal city’? If not, I will wish you good-evening.”

  “By no means,” said the other, not in the least repulsed by Nino’s coldness. “I will accommpany you a little way, if you will allow me.” Nino stared hard at the stranger, wondering what could induce him to take so much interest in a singer. Then he nodded gravely and turned toward his home, inwardly hoping that his aggressive acquaintance lived in the opposite direction. But he was mistaken. The tall man blew a quantity of smoke through his nose and walked by his side. He strode over the pavement with a long, elastic step.

  “I live not far from here,” he said, when they had gone a few steps, “and if the Signor Cardegna will accept of a glass of old wine and a good cigar I shall feel highly honoured.” Somehow an invitation of this kind was the last thing Nino had expected or desired, least of all from a talkative stranger who seemed determined to make his acquaintance.

  “I thank you, signore,” he answered, “but I have supped, and I do not smoke.”

  “Ah — I forgot. You are a singer, and must of course be careful. That is perhaps the reason why you wander about the streets when the nights are dark and damp. But I can offer you something more attractive than liquor and tobacco. A great violinist lives with me, — a queer, nocturnal bird, — and if you will come he will be enchanted to play for you. I assure you he is a very-good musician, the like of which you will hardly hear nowadays. He does not play in public any longer, from some odd fancy of his.”

  Nino hesitated. Of all instruments he loved the violin best, and in Rome he had had but little opportunity of hearing it well played. Concerts were the rarest of luxuries to him, and violinists in Rome are rarer still.

  “What is his name, signore?” he asked, unbending a little.

  “You must guess that when you hear him,” said the old gentleman, with a short laugh. “But I give you my word of honour he is a great musician. Will you come, or must I offer you still further attractions?”

  “What might they be?” asked Nino.

  “Nay; will you come for what I offer you? If the music is not good, you may go away again.” Still Nino hesitated. Sorrowful and fearful of the future as he was, his love gnawing cruelly at his heart, he would have given the whole world for a strain of rare music if only he were not forced to make it himself. Then it struck him that this might be some pitfall. I would not have gone.

  “Sir,” he said at last, “if you me
ditate any foul play, I would advise you to retract your invitation. I will come, and I am well armed.” He had my long knife about him somewhere. It is one of my precautions. But the stranger laughed long and loud at the suggestion, so that his voice woke queer echoes in the silent street. Nino did not understand why he should laugh so much, but he found his knife under his cloak, and made sure it was loose in its leathern sheath. Presently the stranger stopped before the large door of an old palazzo, — every house is a palazzo that has an entrance for carriages, and let himself in with a key. There was a lantern on the stone pavement inside, and seeing a light, Nino followed him boldly. The old gentleman took the lantern and led the way up the stairs, apologising for the distance and the darkness. At last they stopped, and, entering another door, found themselves in the stranger’s apartment.

  “A cardinal lives downstairs,” said he, as he turned up the light of a couple of large lamps that burned dimly in the room they had reached. “The secretary of a very holy order has his office on the other side of my landing, and altogether this is a very religious atmosphere. Pray take off your cloak; the room is warm.”

  Nino looked about him. He had expected to be ushered into some princely dwelling, for he had judged his interlocutor to be some rich and eccentric noble, unless he were an erratic scamp. He was somewhat taken aback by the spectacle that met his eyes. The furniture was scant, and all in the style of the last century. The dust lay half an inch thick on the old gilded ornaments and chandeliers. A great pier-glass was cracked from corner to corner, and the metallic backing seemed to be scaling off behind. There were two or three open valises on the marble floor, which latter, however, seemed to have been lately swept. A square table was in the centre, also free from dust, and a few high-backed leathern chairs, studded with brass nails, were ranged about it. On the table stood one of the lamps, and the other was placed on a marble column in a corner, that once must have supported a bust, or something of the kind. Old curtains, moth-eaten and ragged with age, but of a rich material, covered the windows. Nino glanced at the open trunks on the floor, and saw that they contained a quantity of wearing apparel and the like. He guessed that his acquaintance had lately arrived.