Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “So we are left all alone to-day, countess,” remarked Benoni, blowing rings of smoke in the quiet air.

  Hedwig vouchsafed no answer.

  “We are left alone,” he repeated, seeing that she was silent, “and I make it hereby my business and my pleasure to amuse you.”

  “You are good, sir. But I thank you. I need no entertainment of your devising.”

  “That is eminently unfortunate,” returned the baron, with his imperturbable smile, “for I am universally considered to be the most amusing of mortals, — if, indeed, I am mortal at all, which I sometimes doubt.”

  “Do you reckon yourself with the gods, then?” asked Hedwig scornfully. “Which of them are you? Jove? Dionysus? Apollo?”

  “Nay, rather Phaethon, who soared too high—”

  “Your mythology is at fault, sir, — he drove too low; and besides, he was not immortal.”

  “It is the same. He was wide of the mark, as I am. Tell me, countess, are your wits always so ready?”

  “You, at least, will always find them so,” she answered, bitterly.

  “You are unkind. You stab my vanity, as you have pierced my heart.”

  At this speech Hedwig raised her eyebrows and stared at him in silence. Any other man would have taken the chilling rebuke and left her. Benoni put on a sad expression.

  “You used not to hate me as you do now,” he said.

  “That is true. I hated you formerly because I hated you.”

  “And now?” asked Benoni, with a short laugh.

  “I hate you now because I loathe you.” She uttered this singular saying indifferently, as being part of her daily thoughts.

  “You have the courage of your opinions, countess,” he replied, with a very bitter smile.

  “Yes? It is only the courage a woman need have.” There was a pause, during which Benoni puffed much smoke and stroked his white moustache. Hedwig turned over the leaves of her book, as though hinting to him to go. But he had no idea of that. A man who will not go because a woman loathes him will certainly not leave her for a hint.

  “Countess,” he began again, at last, “will you listen to me?”

  “I suppose I must. I presume my father has left you here to insult me at your noble leisure.”

  “Ah, countess, dear countess,” — she shrank away from him,— “you should know me better than to believe me capable of anything so monstrous. I insult you? Gracious heaven! I, who adore you; who worship the holy ground whereon you tread; who would preserve the precious air you have breathed in vessels of virgin crystal; who would give a drop of my blood for every word you vouchsafe me, kind or cruel, — I, who look on you as the only divinity in this desolate heathen world, who reverence you and do you daily homage, who adore you—”

  “You manifest your adoration in a singular manner, sir,” said Hedwig, interrupting him with something of her father’s severity.

  “I show it as best I can,” the old scoundrel pleaded, working himself into a passion of words. “My life, my fortune, my name, my honour, — I cast them at your feet. For you I will be a hermit, a saint, dwelling in solitary places and doing good works; or I will brave every danger the narrow earth holds, by sea and land, for you. What? Am I decrepit, or bent, or misshapen, that my white hair should cry out against me? Am I hideous, or doting, or half-witted, as old men are? I am young; I am strong, active, enduring. I have all the gifts, for you.”

  The baron was speaking French, and perhaps these wild praises of himself might pass current in a foreign language. But when Nino detailed the conversation to me in our good, simple Italian speech, it sounded so amazingly ridiculous that I nearly broke my sides with laughing.

  Hedwig laughed also, and so loudly that the foolish old man was disconcerted. He had succeeded in amusing her sooner than he had expected. As I have told you, the baron is a most impulsive person, though he is poisoned with evil from his head to his heart.

  “All women are alike,” he said, and his manner suddenly changed.

  “I fancy,” said Hedwig, recovering from her merriment, “that if you address them as you have addressed me you will find them very much alike indeed.”

  “What good can women do in the world?” sighed Benoni, as though speaking with himself. “You do nothing but harm with your cold calculations and your bitter jests.” Hedwig was silent. “Tell me,” he continued presently, “if I speak soberly, by the card as it were, will you listen to me?”

  “Oh, I have said that I will listen to you!” cried Hedwig, losing patience.

  “Hedwig von Lira, I hereby offer you my fortune, my name, and myself. I ask you to marry me of your own good will and pleasure.” Hedwig once more raised her brows.

  “Baron Benoni, I will not marry you, either for your fortune, your name, or yourself, — nor for any other consideration under heaven. And I will ask you not to address me by my Christian name.” There was a long silence after this speech, and Benoni carefully lighted a second cigarette. Hedwig would have risen and entered the house, but she felt safer in the free air of the sunny court. As for Benoni, he had no intention of going.

  “I suppose you are aware, countess,” he said at last, coldly eying her, “that your father has set his heart upon our union?”

  “I am aware of it.”

  “But you are not aware of the consequences of your refusal. I am your only chance of freedom. Take me, and you have the world at your feet. Refuse me, and you will languish in this hideous place so long as your affectionate father pleases.”

  “Do you know my father so little, sir,” asked Hedwig very proudly, “as to suppose that his daughter will ever yield to force?”

  “It is one thing to talk of not yielding, and it is quite another to bear prolonged suffering with constancy,” returned Benoni coolly, as though he were discussing a general principle instead of expounding to a woman the fate she had to expect if she refused to marry him. “I never knew anyone who did not talk bravely of resisting torture until it was applied. Oh, you will be weak at the end, countess, believe me. You are weak now; and changed, though perhaps you would be better pleased if I did not notice it. Yes, I smile now, — I laugh. I can afford to. You can be merry over me because I love you, but I can be merry at what you must suffer if you will not love me. Do not look so proud, countess. You know what follows pride, if the proverb lies not.”

  During this insulting speech Hedwig had risen to her feet, and in the act to go she turned and looked at him in utter scorn. She could not comprehend the nature of a man who could so coldly threaten her. If ever anyone of us can fathom Benoni’s strange character we may hope to understand that phase of it along with the rest.

  He seemed as indifferent to his own mistakes and follies as to the sufferings of others.

  “Sir,” she said, “whatever may be the will of my father, I will not permit you to discuss it, still less to hold up his anger as a threat to scare me. You need not follow me,” she added, as he rose.

  “I will follow you, whether you wish it or not, countess,” he said, fiercely; and, as she flew across the court to the door he strode swiftly by her side, hissing his words into her ear. “I will follow you to tell you that I know more of you than you think, and I know how little right you have to be so proud. I know your lover. I know of your meetings, your comings and your goings—” They reached the door, but Benoni barred the way with his long arm, and seemed about to lay a hand upon her wrist, so that she shrank back against the heavy doorpost in an agony of horror and loathing and wounded pride. “I know Cardegna, and I knew the poor baroness who killed herself because he basely abandoned her. Ah, you never heard the truth before? I trust it is pleasant to you. As he left her he has left you. He will never come back. I saw him in Paris three weeks ago. I could tell tales not fit for your ears. And for him you will die in this horrible place unless you consent. For him you have thrown away everything, — name, fame, and happiness, — unless you will take all these from me. Oh, I know you will cry out that it is untr
ue; but my eyes are good, though you call me old! For this treacherous boy, with his curly hair, you have lost the only thing that makes woman human, — your reputation!” And Benoni laughed that horrid laugh of his, till the court rang again, as though there were devils in every corner, and beneath every eave and everywhere.

  People who are loud in their anger are sometimes dangerous, for it is genuine while it lasts. People whose anger is silent are generally either incapable of honest wrath or cowards. But there are some in the world whose passion shows itself in few words but strong ones, and proceeds instantly to action.

  Hedwig had stood back against the stone casing of the entrance, at first, overcome with the intensity of what she suffered. But as Benoni laughed she moved slowly forward till she was close to him, and only his outstretched arm barred the doorway.

  “Every word you have spoken is a lie, and you know it. Let me pass, or I will kill you with my hands!”

  The words came low and distinct to his excited ear, like the tolling of a passing bell. Her face must have been dreadful to see, and Benoni was suddenly fascinated and terrified at the concentrated anger that blazed in her blue eyes. His arm dropped to his side, and Hedwig passed proudly through the door, in all the majesty of innocence gathering her skirts, lest they should touch his feet or any part of him. She never hastened her step as she ascended the broad stairs within and went to her own little sitting-room, made gay with books and flowers and photographs from Rome. Nor was her anger followed by any passionate outburst of tears. She sat herself down by the window and looked out, letting the cool breeze from the open casement fan her face.

  Hedwig, too, had passed through a violent scene that day, and, having conquered, she sat down to think over it. She reflected that Benoni had but used the same words to her that she had daily heard from her father’s lips. False as was their accusation, she submitted to hearing her father speak them, for she had no knowledge of their import, and only thought him cruelly hard with her. But that a stranger — above all, a man who aspired, or pretended to aspire, to her hand — should attempt to usurp the same authority of speech was beyond all human endurance. She felt sure that her father’s anger would all be turned against Benoni when he heard her story.

  As for what her tormentor had said of Nino, she could have killed him for saying it, but she knew that it was a lie; for she loved Nino with all her heart, and no one can love wholly without trusting wholly. Therefore she put away the evil suggestion from herself, and loaded all its burden of treachery upon Benoni.

  How long she sat by the window, compelling her strained thoughts into order, no one can tell. It might have been an hour, or more, for she had lost the account of the hours. She was roused by a knock at the door of her sitting-room, and at her bidding the man entered who, for the trifling consideration of about a thousand francs, first and last made communication possible between Hedwig and myself.

  This man’s name is Temistocle, — Themistocles, no less. All servants are Themistocles, or Orestes, or Joseph, just as all gardeners are called Antonio. Perhaps he deserves some description. He is a type, short, wiry, and broad-shouldered, with a cunning eye, a long hooked nose, and very plentiful black whiskers, surmounted by a perfectly bald crown. His motions are servile to the last degree, and he addresses everyone in authority as “excellency,” on the principle that it is better to give too much titular homage than too little. He is as wily as a fox, and so long as you have money in your pocket, as faithful as a hound and as silent as the grave. I perceive that these are precisely the epithets at which the baron scoffed, saying that a man can be praised only by comparing him with the higher animals, or insulted by comparison with himself and his kind. We call a man a fool, an idiot, a coward, a liar, a traitor, and many other things applicable only to man himself. However, I will let my description stand, for it is a very good one; and Temistocle could be induced, for money, to adapt himself to almost any description, and he certainly had earned, at one time or another, most of the titles I have enumerated.

  He told me, months afterwards, that when he passed through the courtyard, on his way to Hedwig’s apartment, he found Benoni seated on the stone bench, smoking a cigarette and gazing into space, so that he passed close before him without being noticed.

  CHAPTER XIX

  TEMISTOCLE CLOSED THE door, then opened it again, and looked out, after which he finally shut it, and seemed satisfied. He advanced with cautious tread to where Hedwig sat by the window.

  “Well? What have you done?” she inquired, without looking at him. It is a hard thing for a proud and noble girl to be in the power of a servant. The man took Nino’s letter from his pocket, and handed it to her upon his open palm. Hedwig tried hard to take it with indifference, but she acknowledges that her fingers trembled and her heart beat fast.

  “I was to deliver a message to your excellency from the old gentleman,” said Temistocle, coming close to her and bending down.

  “Ah!” said Hedwig, beginning to break the envelope.

  “Yes, excellency. He desired me to say that it was absolutely and most indubitably necessary that your excellency should be at the little door to-night at twelve o’clock. Do not fear, Signora Contessina; we can manage it very well.”

  “I do not wish to know what you advise me to fear, or not to fear,” answered Hedwig, haughtily; for she could not bear to feel that the man should counsel her or encourage her.

  “Pardon, excellency; I thought—” began Temistocle humbly; but Hedwig interrupted him.

  “Temistocle,” she said, “I have no money to give you, as I told you yesterday. But here is another stone, like the other. Take it, and arrange this matter as best you can.”

  Temistocle took the jewel and bowed to the ground, eying curiously the little case from which she had taken it.

  “I have thought and combined everything,” he said. “Your excellency will see that it is best you should go alone to the staircase; for, as we say, a mouse makes less noise than a rat. When you have descended, lock the door at the top behind you; and when you reach the foot of the staircase, keep that door open. I will have brought the old gentleman by that time, and you will let me in. I shall go out by the great gate.”

  “Why not go with me?” inquired Hedwig.

  “Because, your excellency, one person is less likely to be seen than two. Your excellency will let me pass you. I will mount the staircase, unlock the upper door, and change the key to the other side. Then I will keep watch, and if anyone comes I will lock the door and slip away till he is gone.”

  “I do not like the plan,” said Hedwig. “I would rather let myself in from the staircase.”

  “But suppose anyone were waiting on the inside, and saw you come back?”

  “That is true. Give me the keys, Temistocle, and a taper and some matches.”

  “Your excellency is a paragon of courage,” replied the servant, obsequiously. “Since yesterday I have carried the keys in my pocket. I will bring you the taper this evening.”

  “Bring it now. I wish to be ready.”

  Temistocle departed on the errand. When he returned Hedwig ordered him to give a message to her father.

  “When the count comes home, ask him to see me,” she said. Temistocle bowed once more, and was gone.

  Yes, she would see her father, and tell him plainly what she had suffered from Benoni. She felt that no father, however cruel, would allow his daughter to be so treated, and she would detail the conversation to him.

  She had not been able to read Nino’s letter, for she feared the servant, knowing the writing to be Italian and legible to him. Now she hastened to drink in its message of love. You cannot suppose that I know exactly what he said, but he certainly set forth at some length his proposal that she should leave her father, and escape with her lover from the bondage in which she was now held. He told her modestly of his success, in so far as it was necessary that she should understand his position. It must have been a very eloquent letter, for it nearly persu
aded her to a step of which she had wildly dreamed, indeed, but which in her calmer moments she regarded as impossible.

  The interminable afternoon was drawing to a close, and once more she sat by the open window, regardless of the increasing cold. Suddenly it all came over her, — the tremendous importance of the step she was about to take, if she should take Nino at his word, and really break from one life into another. The long restrained tears, that had been bound from flowing through all Benoni’s insults and her own anger, trickled silently down her cheek, no longer pale, but bright and flushed at the daring thought of freedom.

  At first it seemed far off, as seen in the magician’s glass. She looked and saw herself as another person, acting a part only half known and half understood. But gradually her own individual soul entered into the figure of her imagination; her eager heart beat fast; she breathed and moved and acted in the future. She was descending the dark steps alone, listening with supernatural sense of sound for her lover’s tread without. It came; the door opened, and she was in his arms, — in those strong arms that could protect her from insult and tyranny and cruel wooing; out in the night, on the road, in Rome, married, free, and made blessed for ever. On a sudden the artificial imagery of her labouring brain fell away, and the thought crossed her mind that henceforth she must be an orphan. Her father would never speak to her again, or ever own for his a daughter that had done such a deed. Like icy water poured upon a fevered body, the idea chilled her and woke her to reality.

  Did she love her father? She had loved him — yes, until she crossed his will. She loved him still, when she could be so horror-struck at the thought of incurring his lasting anger. Could she bear it? Could she find in her lover all that she must renounce of a father’s care and a father’s affection, — stern affection, that savoured of the despot, — but could she hurt him so?