Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I knew, indeed, that one member of that illustrious family survived in Rome,” he answered, gravely, “but I was not aware that you were he. I am glad to make your acquaintance, and I sincerely wish that you were the father of the young man who has married my daughter. If you were, I would be ready to arrange matters.” He looked at me searchingly.

  “Unfortunately, I am not any relation of his,” I answered. “His father and mother were peasants on my estate of Serveti, when it still was mine. They died when he was a baby, and I took care of him and educated him.”

  “Yes, he is well educated,” reflected the count, “for I examined him myself. Let us talk no more about fighting. You are quite sure that the marriage is legal?”

  “Quite certain. You can do nothing, and any attempt would be a useless scandal. Besides, they are so happy, you do not know.”

  “So happy, are they? Do you think I am happy too?

  “A man has every reason to be so, when his daughter marries an honest man. It is a piece of good luck that does not happen often.”

  “Probably from the scarcity of daughters who are willing to drive their fathers to distraction by their disobedience and contempt of authority,’” he said, savagely.

  “No, — from the scarcity of honest men,” I said. “Nino is a very honest man. You may go from one end of Italy to the other and not meet one like him.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” growled Lira. “Otherwise Italy would be as wholly unredeemed and unredeemable as you pretend that some parts of it are now. But I will tell you, Conte Grandi, you cannot walk across the street, in my country, without meeting a dozen men who would tremble at the idea of such depravity as an elopement.”

  “Our ideas of honesty differ, sir,” I replied. “When a man loves a woman, I consider it honest in him to act as though he did, and not to go and marry another for consolation, beating her with a thick stick whenever he chances to think of the first. That seems to be the northern idea of domestic felicity.” Lira laughed gruffly, supposing that my picture was meant for a jest. “I am glad you are amused,” I added.

  “Upon my honour, sir,” he replied, “you are so vastly amusing that I am half inclined to forgive my daughter’s rashness, for the sake of enjoying your company. First you entrench yourself behind your furniture; then you propose to fight me; and now you give me the most original views upon love and marriage that I ever heard. Indeed I have cause to be amused.”

  “I am happy to oblige you,” I said, tartly, for I did not like his laughter. “So long as you confine your amusement to me, I am satisfied; but pray avoid using any objectionable language about Nino.”

  “Then my only course is to avoid the subject?”

  “Precisely,” I replied, with a good deal of dignity.

  “In that case I will go,” he said. I was immensely relieved, for his presence was most unpleasant, as you may readily guess. He got upon his feet, and I showed him to the door, with all courtesy. I expected that he would say something about the future before leaving me, but I was mistaken. He bowed in silence, and stumped down the steps with his stick.

  I sank into my arm-chair with a great sigh of relief, for I felt that, for me at least, the worst was over. I had faced the infuriated father, and I might now face anybody with the consciousness of power. I always feel conscious of great power when danger is past. Once more I lit my cigar, and stretched myself out to take some rest. The constant strain on the nerves was becoming very wearing, and I knew very well that on the morrow I should need bleeding and mallows tea. Hardly was I settled and comfortable when I heard that dreadful bell again.

  “This is the day of the resurrection indeed,” cried Mariuccia frantically from the kitchen. And she hurried to the door. But I cannot describe to you the screams of joy and the strange sounds, between laughing and crying, that her leathern throat produced when she found Nino and Hedwig on the landing, waiting for admission. And when Nino explained that he had been married, and that this beautiful lady with the bright eyes and the golden hair was his wife, the old woman fairly gave way, and sat upon a chair in an agony of amazement and admiration. But the pair came toward me, and I met them with a light heart.

  “Nino,” said Hedwig, “we have not been nearly grateful enough to Signor Grandi for all he has done. I have been very selfish,” she said, penitently turning to me.

  “Ah no, signora,” I replied, — for she was married now, and no longer “signorina,”— “it is never selfish of such as you to let an old man do you service. You have made me very happy.” And then I embraced Nino, and Hedwig gave me her hand, which I kissed in the old fashion.

  “And so this is your old home, Nino?” said Hedwig presently, looking about her, and touching the things in the room, as a woman will when she makes acquaintance with a place she has often heard of. “What a dear room it is! I wish we could live here!” How very soon a woman learns that “we” that means so much! It is never forgotten, even when the love that bred it is dead and cold.

  “Yes,” I said, for Nino seemed so enraptured, as he watched her, that he could not speak. “And there is the old piano, with the end on the boxes because it has no leg, as I dare say Nino has often told you.”

  “Nino said it was a very good piano,” said she.

  “And indeed it is,” he said, with enthusiasm. “It is out of tune now, perhaps, but it is the source of all my fortune.” He leaned over the crazy instrument and seemed to caress it.

  “Poor old thing!” said Hedwig, compassionately. “I am sure there is music in it still — the sweet music of the past.”

  “Yes,” said he laughing, “it must be the music of the past, for it would not stand the ‘music of the future,’ as they call it, for five minutes. All the strings would break.” Hedwig sat down on the chair that was in front of it, and her fingers went involuntarily to the keys, though she is no great musician.

  “I can play a little, you know, Nino,” she said shyly, and looked up to his face for a response, not venturing to strike the chords. And it would have done you good to see how brightly Nino smiled and encouraged her little offer of music — he, the great artist, in whose life music was both sword and sceptre. But he knew that she had greatness also of a different kind, and he loved the small jewels in his crown as well as the glorious treasures of its larger wealth.

  “Play to me, my love,” he said, not caring now whether I heard the sweet words or not. She blushed a little, nevertheless, and glanced at me; then her fingers strayed over the keys, and drew out music that was very soft and yet very gay. Suddenly she ceased, and leaned forward on the desk of the piano, looking at him.

  “Do you know, Nino, it was once my dream to be a great musician. If I had not been so rich I should have taken the profession in earnest. But now, you see, it is different, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is all different now,” he answered, not knowing exactly what she meant, but radiantly happy, all the same.

  “I mean,” she said, hesitating— “I mean that now that we are to be always together, what you do I do, and what I do you do. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, perfectly,” said Nino, rather puzzled, but quite satisfied.

  “Ah no, dear,” said she, forgetting my presence, and letting her hand steal into his as he stood, “you do not understand — quite. I mean that so long as one of us can be a great musician it is enough, and I am just as great as though I did it all myself.”

  Thereupon Nino forgot himself altogether, and kissed her golden hair. But then he saw me looking, for it was so pretty a sight that I could not help it, and he remembered.

  “Oh!” he said in a tone of embarrassment that I had never heard before. Then Hedwig blushed very much too, and looked away, and Nino put himself between her and me, so that I might not see her.

  “Could you play something for me to sing, Hedwig?” he asked suddenly.

  “Oh, yes! I can play ‘Spirto gentil,’ by heart,” she cried, hailing the idea with delight.

  In a momen
t they were both lost, and indeed so was I, in the dignity and beauty of the simple melody. As he began to sing, Nino bent down to her, and almost whispered the first words into her ear. But soon he stood erect, and let the music flow from his lips just as God made it. His voice was tired with the long watching and the dust and cold and heat of the journey; but, as De Pretis said when he began, he has an iron throat, and the weariness only made the tones soft and tender and thrilling, that would perhaps have been too strong for my little room.

  Suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a note, and gazed open-mouthed at the door. And I looked, too, and was horrified; and Hedwig, looking also, screamed and sprang back to the window, overturning the chair she had sat on.

  In the doorway stood Ahasuerus Benoni, the Jew.

  Mariuccia had imprudently forgotten to shut the door when Hedwig and Nino came, and the baron had walked in unannounced. You may imagine the fright I was in. But, after all, it was natural enough that after what had occurred he, as well as the count, should seek an interview with me, to obtain what information I was willing to give.

  There he stood in his gray clothes, tall and thin and smiling as of yore.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  NINO IS A man for great emergencies, as I have had occasion to say, and when he realised who the unwelcome visitor was, he acted as promptly as usual. With a face like marble he walked straight across the room to Benoni and faced him.

  “Baron Benoni,” he said, in a low voice, “I warn you that you are most unwelcome here. If you attempt to say any word to my wife, or to force an entrance, I will make short work of you.” Benoni eyed him with a sort of pitying curiosity as he made this speech: —

  “Do not fear, Signor Cardegna. I came to see Signor Grandi, and to ascertain from him precisely what you have voluntered to tell me. You cannot suppose that I have any object in interrupting the leisure of a great artist, or the privacy of his very felicitous domestic relations. I have not a great deal to say. That is, I have always a great deal to say about everything, but I shall at present confine myself to a very little.”

  “You will be wise,” said Nino, scornfully, “and you would be wiser if you confined yourself to nothing at all.”

  “Patience, Signor Cardegna,” protested Benoni. “You will readily conceive that I am a little out of breath with the stairs, for I am a very old man.”

  “In that case,” I said, from the other side of the room, “I may as well occupy your breathing time by telling you that any remarks you are likely to make to me have been forestalled by the Graf von Lira, who has been with me this morning.” Benoni smiled, but both Hedwig and Nino looked at me in surprise.

  “I only wished to say,” returned Benoni, “that I consider you in the light of an interesting phenomenon. Nay, Signor Cardegna, do not look so fierce. I am an old man—”

  “An old devil,” said Nino hotly.

  “An old fool,” said I.

  “An old reprobate,” said Hedwig, from her corner, in deepest indignation.

  “Precisely,” returned Benoni, smilingly. “Many people have been good enough to tell me so before. Thanks, kind friends, I believe you with all my heart. Meanwhile, man, devil, fool, or reprobate, I am very old. I am about to leave Rome for St. Petersburg, and I will take this last opportunity of informing you that in a very singularly long life I have met with only two or three such remarkable instances as this of yours.”

  “Say what you wish to say, and go,” said Nino, roughly.

  “Certainly. And whenever I have met with such an instance I have done my very utmost to reduce it to the common level, and to prove to myself that no such thing really exists. I find it a dangerous thing, however; for an old man in love is likely to exhibit precisely the agreeable and striking peculiarities you have so aptly designated.” There was something so odd about his manner and about the things he said that Nino was silent, and allowed him to proceed.

  “The fact is,” he continued, “that love is a very rare thing, nowadays, and is so very generally an abominable sham that I have often amused myself by diabolically devising plans for its destruction. On this occasion I very nearly came to grief myself. The same thing happened to me some time ago — about forty years, I should say, — and I perceive that it has not been forgotten. It may amuse you to look at this paper, which I chance to have with me. Good-morning. I leave for St. Petersburg at once.”

  “I believe you are really the Wandering Jew!” cried Nino, as Benoni left the room.

  “His name was certainly Ahasuerus,” Benoni replied from the outer door. “But it may be a coincidence, after all. Good-day.” He was gone.

  I was the first to take up the paper he had thrown upon a chair. There was a passage marked with a red pencil. I read it aloud: —

  “... Baron Benoni, the wealthy banker of St. Petersburg, who was many years ago an inmate of a private lunatic asylum in Paris, is reported to be dangerously insane in Rome.” That was all. The paper was the Paris Figaro.

  “Merciful Heavens!” exclaimed Hedwig, “and I was shut up with that madman in Fillettino!” Nino was already by her side, and in his strong arms she forgot Benoni, and Fillettino, and all her troubles. We were all silent for some time. At last Nino spoke.

  “Is it true that the count was here this morning?” he asked, in a subdued voice, for the extraordinary visit and its sequel had made him grave.

  “Quite true,” I said. “He was here a long time. I would not spoil your pleasure by telling you of it, when you first came.”

  “What did he — what did my father say?” asked Hedwig, presently.

  “My dear children,” I answered, thinking I might well call them so, “he said a great many unpleasant things, so that I offered to fight him if he said any more.” At this they both laid hold of me and began to caress me; and one smoothed my hair, and the other embraced me, so that I was half smothered.

  “Dear Signor Grandi,” cried Hedwig, anxiously, “how good and brave you are!” She does not know what a coward I am, you see, and I hope she will never find out, for nothing was ever said to me that gave me half so much pleasure as to be called brave by her, the dear child; and if she never finds out she may say it again, some day. Besides, I really did offer to fight Lira, as I have told you.

  “And what is he going to do?” asked Nino, in some anxiety.

  “I do not know. I told him it was all legal, and that he could not touch you at all. I also said you were staying at the Hotel Costanzi, where he might find you if he wished.”

  “Oh! Did you tell him that?” asked Hedwig.

  “It was quite right,” said Nino. “He ought to know, of course. And what else did you tell him?”

  “Nothing especial, Nino mio. He went away in a sort of ill temper because I would not let him abuse you as much as he pleased.”

  “He may abuse me and be welcome,” said Nino. “He has some right to be angry with me. But he will think differently some day.” So we chatted away for an hour, enjoying the rest and the peace and the sweet sunshine of the Easter afternoon. But this was the day of interruptions. There was one more visitor to come, — one more scene for me to tell you, and then I have done.

  A carriage drove down the street and seemed to stop at the door of my house. Nino looked idly out of the window. Suddenly he started.

  “Hedwig, Hedwig!” he cried, “here is your father coming back!” She would not look out, but stood back from the window, turning pale. If there was one thing she dreaded, it was a meeting with her father. All the old doubt as to whether she had done right seemed to come back to her face in a moment. But Nino turned and looked at her, and his face was so triumphant that she got back her courage, and, clasping his hand, bravely awaited what was to come.

  I went myself to the door, and heard Lira’s slow tread on the stairs. Before long he appeared, and glanced up at me from the steps, which he climbed, one at a time, with his stick.

  “Is my daughter here?” he asked, as soon as he reached me; and his voice
sounded subdued, just as Nino’s did when Benoni had gone, I conducted him into the room. It was the strangest meeting. The proud old man bowed stiffly to Hedwig, as though he had never before seen her. They also bent their heads, and there was a silence as of death in the sunny room.

  “My daughter,” said Von Lira at last, and with evident effort, “I wish to have a word with you. These two gentlemen — the younger of whom is now, as I understand it, your husband — may well hear what I wish to say.”

  I moved a chair so that he might sit down, but he stood up to his full height, as though not deigning to be older than the rest. I watched Hedwig, and saw how with both hands she clung to Nino’s arm, and her lip trembled, and her face wore the look it had when I saw her in Fillettino.

  As for Nino, his stern, square jaw was set, and his brow bent, but he showed no emotion, unless the darkness in his face and the heavy shadows beneath his eyes foretold ready anger.

  “I am no trained, reasoner, like Signor Grandi,” said Lira, looking straight at Hedwig, “but I can say plainly what I mean, for all that. There was a good old law in Sparta, whereby disobedient children were put to death without mercy. Sparta was a good country, — very like Prussia, but less great. You know what I mean. You have cruelly disobeyed me, — cruelly, I say, because you have shown me that all my pains and kindness and discipline have been in vain. There is nothing so sorrowful for a good parent as to discover that he has made a mistake.”

  (The canting old proser, I thought, will he never finish?)

  “The mistake I refer to is not in the way I have dealt with you,” he went on, “for on that score I have nothing to reproach myself. But I was mistaken in supposing you loved me. You have despised all I have done for you.”

  “Oh, father! How can you say that?” cried poor Hedwig, clinging closer to Nino.

  “At all events, you have acted as though you did. On the very day when I promised you to take signal action upon Baron Benoni you left me by stealth, saying in your miserable letter that you had gone to a man who could both love and protect you.”