Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Poor Keyork!” exclaimed the Wanderer, half pitying him. “Your big thoughts have cracked your little brain at last.”

  “Poor Keyork? You call me poor Keyork? You boy! You puppet! You ball, that we have bandied to and fro, half sleeping, half awake! It drives me mad to see you standing there, scoffing instead of helping me!”

  “You are past my help, I fear.”

  “Will you not move? Are you dead already, standing on your feet and staring at me?”

  Again Keyork threw himself upon the huge old man, and stamped and struggled and tried to move him backwards. He might as well have spent his strength against a rock. Breathless but furious still, he desisted at last, too much beside himself to see that he whose sudden death he feared was stronger than he, because the great experiment had succeeded far beyond all hope.

  “Unorna has done this!” he cried, beating his forehead in impotent rage. “Unorna has ruined me, and all, — and everything — so she has paid me for my help! Trust a woman when she loves? Trust angels to curse God, or Hell to save a sinner! But she shall pay, too — I have her still. Why do you stare at me? Wait, fool! You shall be happy now. What are you to me that I should even hate you? You shall have what you want. I will bring you the woman you love, the Beatrice you have seen in dreams — and then Unorna’s heart will break and she will die, and her soul — her soul — —”

  Keyork broke into a peal of laughter, deep, rolling, diabolical in its despairing, frantic mirth. He was still laughing as he reached the door.

  “Her soul, her soul!” they heard him cry, between one burst and another as he went out, and from the echoing vestibule, and from the staircase beyond, the great laughter rolled back to them when they were left alone.

  “What is it all? I cannot understand,” the Wanderer said, looking up to the grand calm face.

  “It is not always given to evil to do good, even for evil’s sake,” said the old man. “The thing that he would is done already. The wound that he would make is already bleeding; the heart he is gone to break is broken; the soul that he would torture is beyond all his torments.”

  “Is Unorna dead?” the Wanderer asked, turning, he knew now why, with a sort of reverence to his companion.

  “She is not dead.”

  Unorna waited in the parlour of the convent. Then Beatrice came in, and stood before her. Neither feared the other, and each looked into the other’s eyes.

  “I have come to undo what I have done,” Unorna said, not waiting for the cold inquiry which she knew would come if she were silent.

  “That will be hard, indeed,” Beatrice answered.

  “Yes. It is very hard. Make it still harder if you can, I could still do it.”

  “And do you think I will believe you, or trust you?” asked the dark woman.

  “I know that you will when you know how I have loved him.”

  “Have you come here to tell me of your love?”

  “Yes. And when I have told you, you will forgive me.”

  “I am no saint,” said Beatrice, coldly. “I do not find forgiveness in such abundance as you need.”

  “You will find it for me. You are not bad, as I am, but you can understand what I have done, nevertheless, for you know what you yourself would do for the sake of him we love. No — do not be angry with me yet — I love him and I tell you so — that you may understand.”

  “At that price, I would rather not have the understanding. I do not care to hear you say it. It is not good to hear.”

  “Yet, if I did not love him as I do, I should not be here, of my own free will, to take you to him. I came for that.”

  “I do not believe you,” Beatrice answered in tones like ice.

  “And yet you will, and very soon. Whether you forgive or not — that is another matter. I cannot ask it. God knows how much easier it would have been to die than to come here. But if I were dead you might never have found him, nor he you, though you are so very near together. Do you think it is easier for me to come to you, whom he loves, than it is for you to hear me say I love him, when I come to give him to you? If you had found it all, not as it is, but otherwise — if you had found that in these years he had known me and loved me, as he once loved you, if he turned from you coldly and bid you forget him, because he would be happy with me, and because he had utterly forgotten you — would it be easy for you to give him up?”

  “He loved me then — he loves me still,” Beatrice said. “It is another case.”

  “A much more bitter case. Even then you would have the memory of his love, which I can never have — in true reality, though I have much to remember, in his dreams of you.”

  Beatrice started a little, and her brow grew dark and angry.

  “Then you have tried to get what was not yours by your bad powers!” she cried. “And you have made him sleep — and dream — what?”

  “Of you.”

  “And he talked of love?”

  “Of love for you.”

  “To you?”

  “To me.”

  “And dreamed that you were I? That too?”

  “That I was you.”

  “Is there more to tell?” Beatrice asked, growing white. “He kissed you in that dream of his — do not tell me he did that — no, tell me — tell me all!”

  “He kissed the thing he saw, believing the lips yours.”

  “More — more — is it not done yet? Can you sting again? What else?”

  “Nothing — save that last night I tried to kill you, body and soul.”

  “And why did you not kill me?”

  “Because you woke. Then the nun saved you. If she had not come, you would have slept again, and slept for ever. And I would have let his dreams last, and made it last — for him, I should have been the only Beatrice.”

  “You have done all this, and you ask me to forgive you?”

  “I ask nothing. If you will not go to him, I will bring him to you—”

  Beatrice turned away and walked across the room.

  “Loved her,” she said aloud, “and talked to her of love, and kissed—” She stopped suddenly. Then she came back again with swift steps and grasped Unorna’s arm fiercely.

  “Tell me more still — this dream has lasted long — you are man and wife!”

  “We might have been. He would still have thought me you, for months and years. He would have had me take from his finger that ring you put there. I tried — I tell you the whole truth — but I could not. I saw you there beside me and you held my hand. I broke away and left him.”

  “Left him of your free will?”

  “I could not lie again. It was too much. He would have broken a promise if I had stayed. I love him — so I left him.”

  “Is all this true?”

  “Every word.”

  “Swear it to me.”

  “How can I? By what shall I swear to you? Heaven itself would laugh at any oath of mine. With my life I will answer for every word. With my soul — no — it is not mine to answer with. Will you have my life? My last breath shall tell you that I tell the truth. The dying do not lie.”

  “You tell me that you love that man. You tell me that you made him think in dreams that he loved you. You tell me that you might be man and wife. And you ask me to believe that you turned back from such happiness as would make an angel sin? If you had done this — but it is not possible — no woman could! His words in your ear, and yet turn back? His lips on yours, and leave him? Who could do that?”

  “One who loves him.”

  “What made you do it?”

  “Love.”

  “No — fear — nothing else — —”

  “Fear? And what have I to fear? My body is beyond the fear of death, as my soul is beyond the hope of life. If it were to be done again I should be weak. I know I should. If you could know half of what the doing cost! But let that alone. I did it, and he is waiting for you. Will you come?”

  “If I only knew it to be true — —”

  “How h
ard you make it. Yet, it was hard enough.”

  Beatrice touched her arm, more gently than before, and gazed into her eyes.

  “If I could believe it all I would not make it hard. I would forgive you — and you would deserve better than that, better than anything that is mine to give.”

  “I deserve nothing and ask nothing. If you will come, you will see, and, seeing, you will believe. And if you then forgive — well then, you will have done far more than I could do.”

  “I would forgive you freely — —”

  “Are you afraid to go with me?”

  “No. I am afraid of something worse. You have put something here — a hope — —”

  “A hope? Then you believe. There is no hope without a little belief in it. Will you come?”

  “To him?”

  “To him.”

  “It can but be untrue,” said Beatrice, still hesitating. “I can but go. What of him!” she asked suddenly. “If he were living — would you take me to him? Could you?”

  She turned very pale, and her eyes stared madly at Unorna.

  “If he were dead,” Unorna answered, “I should not be here.”

  Something in her tone and look moved Beatrice’s heart at last.

  “I will go with you,” she said. “And if I find him — and if all is well with him — then God in Heaven repay you, for you have been braver than the bravest I ever knew.”

  “Can love save a soul as well as lose it?” Unorna asked.

  Then they went away together.

  They were scarcely out of sight of the convent gate when another carriage drove up. Almost before it had stopped, the door opened and Keyork Arabian’s short, heavy form emerged and descended hastily to the pavement. He rang the bell furiously, and the old portress set the gate ajar and looked out cautiously, fearing that the noisy peal meant trouble or disturbance.

  “The lady Beatrice Varanger — I must see her instantly!” cried the little man in terrible excitement.

  “She is gone out,” the portress replied.

  “Gone out? Where? Alone?”

  “With a lady who was here last night — a lady with unlike eyes—”

  “Where? Where? Where are they gone?” asked Keyork hardly able to find breath.

  “The lady bade the coachman drive her home — but where she lives—”

  “Home? To Unorna’s home? It is not true! I see it in your eyes. Witch! Hag! Let me in! Let me in, I say! May vampires get your body and the Three Black Angels cast lots upon your soul!”

  In the storm of curses that followed, the convent door was violently shut in his face. Within, the portress stood shaking with fear, crossing herself again and again, and verily believing that the devil himself had tried to force an entrance into the sacred place.

  In fearful anger Keyork drew back. He hesitated one moment and then regained his carriage.

  “To Unorna’s house!” he shouted, as he shut the door with a crash.

  “This is my house, and he is here,” Unorna said, as Beatrice passed before her, under the deep arch of the entrance.

  Then she lead the way up the broad staircase, and through the small outer hall to the door of the great conservatory.

  “You will find him there,” she said. “Go on alone.”

  But Beatrice took her hand to draw her in.

  “Must I see it all?” Unorna asked, hopelessly.

  Then from among the plants and trees a great white-robed figure came out and stood between them. Joining their hands he gently pushed them forward to the middle of the hall where the Wanderer stood alone.

  “It is done!” Unorna cried, as her heart broke.

  She saw the scene she had acted so short a time before. She heard the passionate cry, the rain of kisses, the tempest of tears. The expiation was complete. Not a sight, not a sound was spared her. The strong arms of the ancient sleeper held her upright on her feet. She could not fall, she could not close her eyes, she could not stop her ears, no merciful stupor overcame her.

  “Is it so bitter to do right?” the old man asked, bending low and speaking softly.

  “It is the bitterness of death,” she said.

  “It is well done,” he answered.

  Then came a noise of hurried steps and a loud, deep voice, calling, “Unorna! Unorna!”

  Keyork Arabian was there. He glanced at Beatrice and the Wanderer, locked in each other’s arms, then turned to Unorna and looked into her face.

  “It has killed her,” he said. “Who did it?”

  His low-spoken words echoed like angry thunder.

  “Give her to me,” he said again. “She is mine — body and soul.”

  But the great strong arms were around her and would not let her go.

  “Save me!” she cried in failing tones. “Save me from him!”

  “You have saved yourself,” said the solemn voice of the old man.

  “Saved?” Keyork laughed. “From me?” He laid his hand upon her arm. Then his face changed again, and his laughter died dismally away, and he hung back.

  “Can you forgive her?” asked the other voice.

  The Wanderer stood close to them now, drawing Beatrice to his side. The question was for them.

  “Can you forgive me?” asked Unorna faintly, turning her eyes towards them.

  “As we hope to find forgiveness and trust in a life to come,” they answered.

  There was a low sound in the air, unearthly, muffled, desperate as of a strong being groaning in awful agony. When they looked, they saw that Keyork Arabian was gone.

  The dawn of a coming day rose in Unorna’s face as she sank back.

  “It is over,” she sighed, as her eyes closed.

  Her question was answered; her love had saved her.

  The Three Fates

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  To

  FREDERICK MACMILLAN

  AN EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE

  FROM AN AUTHOR TO HIS PUBLISHER

  AND OF HIGH ESTEEM ENTERTAINED

  BY ONE MAN FOR ANOTHER

  Rome, February 21, 1892

  CHAPTER I.

  JONAH WOOD WAS bitterly disappointed in his son. During five and twenty years he had looked in vain for the development of those qualities in George, which alone, in his opinion, could insure success. But though George could talk intelligently about the great movements of business in New York, it was clear by this time that he did not possess what his father called business instincts. The old man could have forgiven him his defective appreciation in the matter of dollars and cents, however, if he had shown the slightest inclination to adopt one of the regular professions; in other words, if George had ceased to waste his time in the attempt to earn money with his pen, and had submitted to becoming a scribe in a lawyer’s office, old Wood would have been satisfied. The boy’s progress might have been slow, but it would have been sure.

  It was strange to see how this elderly man, who had been ruined by the exercise of his own business faculties, still pinned his faith upon his own views and theories of finance, and regarded it as a real misfortune to be the father of a son who thought differently from himself. It would have satisfied the height of his ambition t
o see George installed as a clerk on a nominal salary in one of the great banking houses. Possibly, at an earlier period, and before George had finally refused to enter a career of business, there may have been in the bottom of the old man’s heart a hope that his son might some day become a financial power, and wreak vengeance for his own and his father’s losses upon Thomas Craik or his heirs after him; but if this wish existed Jonah Wood had honestly tried to put it out of the way. He was of a religious disposition, and his moral rectitude was above all doubt. He did not forgive his enemies, but he sincerely meant to do so, and did his best not to entertain any hope of revenge.

  The story of his wrongs was a simple one. He had formerly been a very successful man. Of a good New England family, he had come to New York when very young, possessed of a small capital, full of integrity, industry, and determination. At the age of forty he was at the head of a banking firm which had for a time enjoyed a reputation of some importance. Then he had married a young lady of good birth and possessing a little fortune, to whom he had been attached for years and who had waited for him with touching fidelity. Twelve months later, she had died in giving birth to George. Possibly the terrible shock weakened Jonah Wood’s nerves and disturbed the balance of his faculties. At all events it was at this time that he began to enter into speculation. At first he was very successful, and his success threw him into closer intimacy with Thomas Craik, a cousin of his dead wife’s. For a time everything prospered with the bank, while Wood acquired the habit of following Craik’s advice. On an ill-fated day, however, the latter persuaded him to invest largely in a certain railway not yet begun, but which was completed in a marvellously short space of time. In the course of a year or two it was evident that the road, which Craik insisted on running upon the most ruinous principles, must soon become bankrupt. It had of course been built to compete with an old established line; the usual war of rates set in, the old road suffered severely, and the young one was ruined. This was precisely what Craik had anticipated. So soon as the bankruptcy was declared and the liquidation terminated, he bought up every bond and share upon which he could lay his hands. Wood was ruined, together with a number of other heavy investors. The road, however, having ceased to pay interest on its debts continued to run at rates disastrous to its more honest competitor, and before long the latter was obliged in self-defence to buy up its rival. When that extremity was reached Thomas Craik was in possession of enough bonds and stock to give him a controlling interest, and he sold the ruined railway at his own price, realising a large fortune by the transaction. Wood was not only financially broken; his reputation, too, had suffered in the catastrophe. At first, people looked askance at him, believing that he had got a share of the profits, and that he was only pretending poverty until the scandal should blow over, though he had in reality sacrificed almost everything he possessed in the honourable liquidation of the bank’s affairs, and found himself, at the age of fifty-seven, in possession only of the small fortune that had been his wife’s, and of the small house which had escaped the general ruin, and in which he now lived. Thomas Craik had robbed him, as he had robbed many others, and Jonah Wood knew it, though there was no possibility of ever recovering a penny of his losses. His nerve was gone, and by the time people had discovered that he was the most honest of men, he was more than half forgotten by those he had known best. He had neither the energy nor the courage to begin life again, and although he had cleared his reputation of all blame, he knew that he had made the great mistake, and that no one would ever again trust to his judgment. It seemed easiest to live in the little house, to get what could be got out of life for himself and his son on an income of scarcely two thousand dollars, and to shut himself out from his former acquaintance.