Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “May I ask you one serious question?” he inquired, leaning forward.

  “With a little ingenuity you may even ask me a dozen, all equally serious, my dear Orsino. But I cannot promise to answer all or any particular one. I am not omniscient, you know.”

  “My question is this. I have no sort of right to ask it. I know that. Are you nearly related to Madame d’Aranjuez?”

  Spicca looked curiously at him.

  “Would the information be of any use to you?” he asked. “Should I be doing you a service in telling you that we are, or are not related?”

  “Frankly, no,” answered Orsino, meeting the steady glance without wavering.

  “Then I do not see any reason whatever for telling you the truth,” returned Spicca quietly. “But I will give you a piece of general information. If harm comes to that lady through any man whomsoever, I will certainly kill him, even if I have to be carried upon the ground.”

  There was no mistaking the tone in which the threat was uttered. Spicca meant what he said, though not one syllable was spoken louder than another. In his mouth the words had a terrific force, and told Orsino more of the man’s true nature than he had learnt in years. Orsino was not easily impressed, and was certainly not timid, morally or physically; moreover he was in the prime of youth and not less skilful than other men in the use of weapons. But he felt at that moment that he would infinitely rather attack a regiment of artillery single-handed than be called upon to measure swords with the cadaverous old invalid who sat on the other side of the table.

  “It is not in my power to do any harm to Madame d’Aranjuez,” he answered proudly enough, “and you ought to know that if it were, it could not possibly be in my intention. Therefore your threat is not intended for me.”

  “Very good, Orsino. Your father would have answered like that, and you mean what you say. If I were young I think that you and I should be friends. Fortunately for you there is a matter of forty years’ difference between our ages, so that you escape the infliction of such a nuisance as my friendship. You must find it bad enough to have to put up with my company.”

  “Do not talk like that,” answered Orsino. “The world is not all vinegar.”

  “Well, well — you will find out what the world is in time. And perhaps you will find out many other things which you want to know. I must be going, for I have letters to write. Checco! My bill.”

  Five minutes later they parted.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  ALTHOUGH ORSINO’S CHARACTER was developing quickly in the new circumstances which he had created for himself, he was not of an age to be continually on his guard against passing impressions; still less could it be expected that he should be hardened against them by experience, as many men are by nature. His conversation with Spicca, and Spicca’s own behaviour while it lasted, produced a decided effect upon the current of his thoughts, and he was surprised to find himself thinking more often and more seriously of Maria Consuelo than during the months which had succeeded her departure from Rome. Spicca’s words had acted indirectly upon his mind. Much that the old man had said was calculated to rouse Orsino’s curiosity, but Orsino was not naturally curious and though he felt that it would be very interesting to know Maria Consuelo’s story, the chief result of the Count’s half confidential utterances was to recall the lady herself very vividly to his recollection.

  At first his memory merely brought back the endless details of his acquaintance with her, which had formed the central feature of the first season he had spent without interruption in Rome and in society. He was surprised at the extreme precision of the pictures evoked, and took pleasure in calling them up when he was alone and unoccupied. The events themselves had not, perhaps, been all agreeable, yet there was not one which it did not give him some pleasant sensation to remember. There was a little sadness in some of them, and more than once the sadness was mingled with something of humiliation. Yet even this last was bearable. Though he did not realise it, he was quite unable to think of Maria Consuelo without feeling some passing touch of happiness at the thought, for happiness can live with sadness when it is the greater of the two. He had no desire to analyse these sensations. Indeed the idea did not enter his mind that they were worth analysing. His intelligence was better employed with his work, and his reflexions concerning Maria Consuelo chiefly occupied his hours of rest.

  The days passed quickly at first and then, as September came they seemed longer, instead of shorter. He was beginning to wish that the winter would come, that he might again see the woman of whom he was continually thinking. More than once he thought of writing to her, for he had the address which the maid had given him — an address in Paris which said nothing, a mere number with the name of a street. He wondered whether she would answer him, and when he had reached the self-satisfying conviction that she would, he at last wrote a letter, such as any person might write to another. He told her of the weather, of the dulness of Rome, of his hope that she would return early in the season, and of his own daily occupations. It was a simply expressed, natural and not at all emotional epistle, not at all like that of a man in the least degree in love with his correspondent, but Orsino felt an odd sensation of pleasure in writing it and was surprised by a little thrill of happiness as he posted it with his own hand.

  He did not forget the letter when he had sent it, either, as one forgets the uninteresting letters one is obliged to write out of civility. He hoped for an answer. Even if she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might not, and probably would not, reply by return of post. And it was not probable that she would be in town at the beginning of September. Orsino calculated the time necessary to forward the letter from Paris to the most distant part of frequented Europe, allowed her three days for answering and three days more for her letter to reach him. The interval elapsed, but nothing came. Then he was irritated, and at last he became anxious. Either something had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had somehow unconsciously offended her by what he had written. He had no copy of the letter and could not recall a single phrase which could have displeased her, but he feared lest something might have crept into it which she might misinterpret. But this idea was too absurd to be tenable for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must be ill or in some great trouble. He was amazed at his own anxiety.

  Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet no word of reply had reached him. Then he sought out Spicca and asked him boldly whether anything had happened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written to her and had got no answer. Spicca looked at him curiously for a moment.

  “Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware,” he said, almost immediately. “I saw her this morning.”

  “This morning?” Orsino was surprised almost out of words.

  “Yes. She is here, looking for an apartment in which to spend the winter.”

  “Where is she?”

  Spicca named the hotel, adding that Orsino would probably find her at home during the hot hours of the afternoon.

  “Has she been here long?” asked the young man.

  “Three days.”

  “I will go and see her at once. I may be useful to her in finding an apartment.”

  “That would be very kind of you,” observed Spicca, glancing at him rather thoughtfully.

  On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself at the hotel and asked for Madame d’Aranjuez. She received him in a room not very different from the one of which she had had made her sitting-room during the winter. As always, one or two new books and the mysterious silver paper cutter were the only objects of her own which were visible. Orsino hardly noticed the fact, however, for she was already in the room when he entered, and his eyes met hers at once.

  He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, but the heat was great and might easily account for her pallor. Her eyes were deeper, and their tawny colour seemed darker. Her hand was cold.

  She smiled faintly as she met Orsino, but said nothing and sat down at a distan
ce from the windows.

  “I only heard last night that you were in Rome,” he said.

  “And you came at once to see me. Thanks. How did you find it out?”

  “Spicca told me. I had asked him for news of you.”

  “Why him?” inquired Maria Consuelo with some curiosity.

  “Because I fancied he might know,” answered Orsino passing lightly over the question. He did not wish even Maria Consuelo to guess that Spicca had spoken of her to him. “The reason why I was anxious about you was that I had written you a letter. I wrote some weeks ago to your address in Paris and got no answer.”

  “You wrote?” Maria Consuelo seemed surprised. “I have not been in Paris. Who gave you the address? What was it?”

  Orsino named the street and the number.

  “I once lived there a short time, two years ago. Who gave you the address? Not Count Spicca?”

  “No.”

  Orsino hesitated to say more. He did not like to admit that he had received the address from Maria Consuelo’s maid, and it might seem incredible that the woman should have given the information unasked. At the same time the fact that the address was to all intents and purposes a false one tallied with the maid’s spontaneous statement in regard to her mistress’s mental alienation.

  “Why will you not tell me?” asked Maria Consuelo.

  “The answer involves a question which does not concern me. The address was evidently intended to deceive me. The person who gave it attempted to deceive me about a far graver matter, too. Let us say no more about it. Of course you never got the letter?”

  “Of course not.”

  A short silence followed which Orsino felt to be rather awkward. Maria Consuelo looked at him suddenly.

  “Did my maid tell you?” she asked.

  “Yes — since you ask me. She met me in the corridor after my last visit and thrust the address upon me.”

  “I thought so,” said Maria Consuelo.

  “You have suspected her before?”

  “What was the other deception?”

  “That is a more serious matter. The woman is your trusted servant. At least you must have trusted her when you took her—”

  “That does not follow. What did she try to make you believe?”

  “It is hard to tell you. For all I know, she may have been instructed — you may have instructed her yourself. One stumbles upon odd things in life, sometimes.”

  “You called yourself my friend once, Don Orsino.”

  “If you will let me, I will call myself so still.”

  “Then, in the name of friendship, tell me what the woman said!” Maria Consuelo spoke with sudden energy, touching his arm quickly with an unconscious gesture.

  “Will you believe me?”

  “Are you accustomed to being doubted, that you ask?”

  “No. But this thing is very strange.”

  “Do not keep me waiting — it hurts me!”

  “The woman stopped me as I was going away. I had never spoken to her. She knew my name. She told me that you were — how shall I say? — mentally deranged.”

  Maria Consuelo started and turned very pale.

  “She told you that I was mad?” Her voice sank to a whisper.

  “That is what she said.”

  Orsino watched her narrowly. She evidently believed him. Then she sank back in her chair with a stifled cry of horror, covering her eyes with her hands.

  “And you might have believed it!” she exclaimed. “You might really have believed it — you!”

  The cry came from her heart and would have shown Orsino what weight she still attached to his opinion had he not himself been too suddenly and deeply interested in the principal question to pay attention to details.

  “She made the statement very clearly,” he said. “What could have been her object in the lie?”

  “What object? Ah — if I knew that—”

  Maria Consuelo rose and paced the room, her head bent and her hands nervously clasping and unclasping. Orsino stood by the empty fireplace, watching her.

  “You will send the woman away of course?” he said, in a questioning tone.

  But she shook her head and her anxiety seemed to increase.

  “Is it possible that you will submit to such a thing from a servant?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I have submitted to much,” she answered in a low voice.

  “The inevitable, of course. But to keep a maid whom you can turn away at any moment—”

  “Yes — but can I?” She stopped and looked at him. “Oh, if I only could — if you knew how I hate the woman—”

  “But then—”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are in some way in her power, so that you are bound to keep her always?”

  Maria Consuelo hesitated a moment.

  “Are you in her power?” asked Orsino a second time. He did not like the idea and his black brows bent themselves rather angrily.

  “No — not directly. She is imposed upon me.”

  “By circumstances?”

  “No, again. By a person who has the power to impose much upon me — but this! Oh this is almost too much! To be called mad!”

  “Then do not submit to it.”

  Orsino spoke decisively, with a kind of authority which surprised himself. He was amazed and righteously angry at the situation so suddenly revealed to him, undefined as it was. He saw that he was touching a great trouble and his natural energy bid him lay violent hands on it and root it out if possible.

  For some minutes Maria Consuelo did not speak, but continued to pace the room, evidently in great anxiety. Then she stopped before him.

  “It is easy for you to say, ‘do not submit,’ when you do not understand,” she said. “If you knew what my life is, you would look at this in another way. I must submit — I cannot do otherwise.”

  “If you would tell me something more, I might help you,” answered Orsino.

  “You?” She paused. “I believe you would, if you could,” she added, thoughtfully.

  “You know that I would. Perhaps I can, as it is, in ignorance, if you will direct me.”

  A sudden light gleamed in Maria Consuelo’s eyes and then died away as quickly as it had come.

  “After all, what could you do?” she asked with a change of tone, as though she were somehow disappointed. “What could you do that others would not do as well, if they could, and with a better right?”

  “Unless you will tell me, how can I know?”

  “Yes — if I could tell you.”

  She went and sat down in her former seat and Orsino took a chair beside her. He had expected to renew the acquaintance in a very different way, and that he should spend half an hour with Maria Consuelo in talking about apartments, about the heat and about the places she had visited. Instead, circumstances had made the conversation an intimate one full of an absorbing interest to both. Orsino found that he had forgotten much which pleased him strangely now that it was again brought before him. He had forgotten most of all, it seemed, that an unexplained sympathy attracted him to her, and her to him. He wondered at the strength of it, and found it hard to understand that last meeting with her in the spring.

  “Is there any way of helping you, without knowing your secret?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No. But I thank you for the wish.”

  “Are you sure there is no way? Quite sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “May I say something that strikes me?”

  “Say anything you choose.”

  “There is a plot against you. You seem to know it. Have you never thought of plotting on your side?”

  “I have no one to help me.”

  “You have me, if you will take my help. And you have Spicca. You might do better, but you might do worse. Between us we might accomplish something.”

  Maria Consuelo had started at Spicca’s name. She seemed very nervous that day.

  “Do you know what yo
u are saying?” she asked after a moment’s thought.

  “Nothing that should offend you, at least.”

  “No. But you are proposing that I should ally myself with the man of all others whom I have reason to hate.”

  “You hate Spicca?” Orsino was passing from one surprise to another.

  “Whether I hate him or not, is another matter. I ought to.”

  “At all events he does not hate you.”

  “I know he does not. That makes it no easier for me. I could not accept his help.”

  “All this is so mysterious that I do not know what to say,” said Orsino, thoughtfully. “The fact remains, and it is bad enough. You need help urgently. You are in the power of a servant who tells your friends that you are insane and thrusts false addresses upon them, for purposes which I cannot explain.”

  “Nor I either, though I may guess.”

  “It is worse and worse. You cannot even be sure of the motives of this woman, though you know the person or persons by whom she is forced upon you. You cannot get rid of her yourself and you will not let any one else help you.”

  “Not Count Spicca.”

  “And yet I am sure that he would do much for you. Can you not even tell me why you hate him, or ought to hate him?”

  Maria Consuelo hesitated and looked into Orsino’s eyes for a moment.

  “Can I trust you?” she asked.

  “Implicitly.”

  “He killed my husband.”

  Orsino uttered a low exclamation of horror. In the deep silence which followed he heard Maria Consuelo draw her breath once or twice sharply through her closed teeth, as though she were in great pain.

  “I do not wish it known,” she said presently, in a changed voice. “I do not know why I told you.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I must — since I have spoken.”

  In the surprise caused by the startling confidence, Orsino suddenly felt that his capacity for sympathy had grown to great dimensions. If he had been a woman, the tears would have stood in his eyes. Being what he was, he felt them in his heart. It was clear that she had loved the dead man very dearly. In the light of this evident fact, it was hard to explain her conduct towards Orsino during the winter and especially at their last meeting.