“Of course you have telegraphed the news of the engagement to your sister?” said the Marchesa as soon as she saw him, and making a sign to intimate that he must answer in the affirmative.
“Of course — and to all my best friends,” he replied promptly with a ready smile. Beatrice heard his answer just as she passed through the door, but she did not turn her head. She guessed that her mother had asked the question in haste in order that San Miniato might say something which should definitely prove to Beatrice that he considered himself betrothed. Yesterday she would have believed his answer. To-day she believed nothing he said. She went to her room and bathed her eyes in cold water and sat down for a moment before her glass and looked at herself thoughtfully. There she was, the same Beatrice she saw in the mirror every day, the same clear brown eyes, the same soft brown hair, the same broad, crayon-like eyebrows, the same free pose of the head. But there was something different in the face, which she did not recognise. There was something defiant in the eyes, and hard about the mouth, which was new to her and did not altogether please her, though she could not change it. She combed the little ringlets on her forehead and dabbed a little scent upon her temples to cool them, and then she rose quickly and went out. A thought had struck her and she at once put into execution the plan it suggested.
She took a parasol and went out of the hotel, hatless and gloveless, into the garden of orange trees which lies between the buildings and the gate. She strolled leisurely along the path towards the exit, on one side of which is the porter’s lodge, while the little square stone box of a building which is the telegraph office stands on the other. She knew that just before twelve o’clock Ruggiero and his brother were generally seated on the bench before the lodge waiting for orders for the afternoon. As she expected, she found them, and she beckoned to Ruggiero and turned back under the trees. In an instant he was at her side. She was startled to see how pale he was and how suddenly his face seemed to have grown thin. She stopped and he stood respectfully before her, cap in hand, looking down.
“Ruggiero,” she said, “will you do me a service?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Yes, I know — but it is something especial. You must tell no one — not even your brother.”
“Speak, Excellency — not even the stones shall hear it.”
“I want you to find out at the telegraph office whether your master has sent a telegram anywhere this morning. Can you ask the man and bring me word here? I will walk about under the trees.”
“At once, Excellency.”
He turned and left her, and she strolled up the path. She wondered a little why she was doing this underhand thing. It was not like her, and whatever answer Ruggiero brought her she would gain nothing by it. If San Miniato had spoken the truth, then he had really believed the engagement already binding, as her mother had said. If he had lied, that would not prevent his really telegraphing within the next half hour, and matters would be in just the same situation with a slight difference of time. She would, indeed, in this latter case, have a fresh proof of his duplicity. But she needed none, as it seemed to her. It was enough that he should have acted his comedy last night and got by a stratagem what he could never have by any other means. Ruggiero returned after two or three minutes.
“Well?” inquired Beatrice.
“He sent one at nine o’clock this morning, Excellency.”
For one minute their eyes met. Ruggiero’s were fierce, bright and clear. Beatrice’s own softened almost imperceptibly under his glance. If she had seen herself at that moment she would have noticed that the hard look she had observed in her own face had momentarily vanished, and that she was her gentle self again.
“One only?” she asked.
“Only one, Excellency. No one will know that I have asked, for the man will not tell.”
“Are you sure? What did you say to him? Tell me.”
“I said to him, ‘Don Gennaro, I am the Conte di San Miniato’s sailor. Has the Conte sent any telegram this morning, to any one, anywhere?’ Then he shook his head; but he looked into his book and said, ‘He sent one to Florence at nine o’clock.’ Then I said, ‘I thank you, Don Gennaro, and I will do you a service when I can.’ That was for good manners. Then I said, ‘Don Gennaro, please not to tell any one that I asked the question, and if you tell any one I will make you die an evil death, for I will break all your bones and moreover drown you in the sea, and go to the galleys very gladly.’ Then Don Gennaro said that he would not tell. And here I am, Excellency.”
In spite of all she was suffering, Beatrice laughed at Ruggiero’s account of the interview. It was quite evident that Ruggiero had repeated accurately every word that had been spoken, and he looked the man to execute the threat without the slightest hesitation. Beatrice wondered how the telegraph official had taken it.
“What did Don Gennaro do when you frightened him, Ruggiero?” she asked.
“He said he would not tell and got a little white, Excellency. But he will say nothing, and will not complain to the syndic, because he knows my brother.”
“What has that to do with it?” asked Beatrice with some curiosity.
“It is natural, Excellency. For if Don Gennaro went to the syndic and said, ‘Signor Sindaco, Ruggiero of the Children of the King has threatened to kill me,’ then the syndic would send for the gendarmes and say, ‘Take that Ruggiero of the Children of the King and put him in, as we say, and see that he does not run away, for he will do a hurt to somebody.’ And perhaps they would catch me and perhaps they would not. Then Bastianello, my brother, would wait in the road in the evening for Don Gennaro, and would lay a hand on him, perhaps, or both. And I think that Don Gennaro would rather be dead in his telegraph office than alive in Bastianello’s hands, because Bastianello is very strong in his hands, Excellency. And that is all the truth.”
“But I do not understand it all, Ruggiero, though I see what you mean. I am afraid it is your language that is different from mine.”
“It is natural, Excellency,” answered the sailor, a deep blush spreading over his white forehead as he stood bareheaded before her. “You are a great lady and I am only an ignorant seaman.”
“I do not mean anything of the sort, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice quickly, for she saw that she had unintentionally hurt him, and the thought pained her strongly. “You speak very well and I have always understood you perfectly. But you spoke of the King’s Children and I could not make out what they had to do with the story.”
“Oh, if it is that, Excellency, I ask your pardon. I do not wonder that you did not understand. It is my name, Excellency.”
“Your name? Still I do not understand—”
“I have no other name but that — dei figli del Rè—” said Ruggiero. “That is all.”
“How strange!” exclaimed Beatrice.
“It is the truth, Excellency, and to show you that it is the truth here is my seaman’s license.”
He produced a little flat parchment case from his pocket, untied the thong and showed Beatrice the first page on which, was inscribed his name in full.
“Ruggiero of the Children of the King, son of the late Ruggiero, native of Verbicaro, province of Calabria — you see, Excellency. It is the truth.”
“I never doubt anything you say, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice quietly.
“I thank you, Excellency,” answered the sailor, blushing this time with pleasure. “For this and all your Excellency’s kindness.”
What a man he was she thought, as he stood there before her, bareheaded in the sun-shot shade under the trees, the light playing upon his fair hair and beard, and his blue eyes gleaming like drops from the sea! What boys and dwarfs other men looked beside him!
“Do you know how your family came by that strange name, Ruggiero?” she asked.
“No, Excellency. But they tell so many silly stories about us in Verbicaro. That is in Calabria where I and my brother were born. And when our mother, blessed soul, was dying — good health to yo
ur Excellency — she blessed us and said this to us. ‘Ruggiero, Sebastiano, dear sons, you could not save me and I am going. God bless you,’ said she. ‘Our Lady help you. Remember, you are the Children of the King.’ Then she said, ‘Remember’ again, as though she would say something more. But just at that very moment Christ took her, and she did not speak again, for she was dead — good health to your Excellency for a thousand years. And so it was.”
“And what happened then?” asked Beatrice, strangely interested and charmed by the man’s simple story.
“Then we beat Don Pietro Casale, Excellency, and spoiled all his face and head. We were little boys, twelve and ten years old, but there was the anger to give us strength. And so we ran away from Verbicaro, because we had no one and we had to eat, and had beaten Don Pietro Casale, who would have had us put in prison if he had caught us. But thanks to Heaven we had good legs. And so we ran away, Excellency.”
“It is very interesting. But what were those stories they told about you in Verbicaro?”
“Silly stories, Excellency. They say that once upon a time King Roger came riding by with all his army and many knights; and all armed because there was war. And he took Verbicaro from the Turks and gave it to a son of his who was called the Son of the King, as I would give Bastianello half a cigar or a pipe of tobacco in the morning — it is true he always has his own — and so the Son of the King stayed in that place and lived there, and I have heard old men say that when their fathers — who were also old, Excellency — were boys, many houses in Verbicaro belonged to the Children of the King. But then they ate everything and we have had nothing but these two hands and these two arms and now we go about seeking to eat. But thanks to Heaven — and to-day is Saturday — we have been able to work enough. And that is the truth, Excellency.”
“What a strange tale!” exclaimed the young girl. “But to-day is Tuesday, Ruggiero. Why do you say it is Saturday?”
“I beg pardon of your Excellency, it is a silly custom and means nothing. But when a man says he is well, or that there is a west wind, or that his boat is sound, he says ‘to-day is Saturday,’ because it might be Friday and he might have forgotten that. It is a silly custom, Excellency.”
“Do not call me excellency, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice. “I have no right to be called so.”
“And what could I call you when I have to speak to you, Excellency? I have been taught so.”
“Only princes and dukes and their children are excellencies,” answered Beatrice. “My father was only a Marchese. So if you wish to please me, call me ‘signorina.’ That is the proper way to speak to me.”
“I will try, Excellency,” answered Ruggiero, opening his blue eyes very wide. Beatrice laughed a little.
“You see,” she said, “you did it again.”
“Yes, Signorina,” replied Ruggiero. “But I will not forget again. When the tongue of the ignorant has learned a word it is hard to change it.”
“Well, good-day Ruggiero. Your story is very interesting. I am going to breakfast, and I thank you for what you did for me.”
“It is not I who deserve any thanks. And good appetite to you, Signorina.” She turned and walked slowly back towards the hotel.
“And may Our Lady bless you and keep you, and send an angel to watch over every hair of your blessed head!” said Ruggiero in a low voice as he watched her graceful figure retreating in the distance.
CHAPTER IX.
AFTER WHAT HAD happened on the previous evening Ruggiero had expected that Beatrice would treat him very differently. He had assuredly not foreseen that she would call him from his seat by the porter’s lodge, ask an important service of him, and then enter into conversation with him about the origin of his family and the story of his own life. His slow but logical mind pondered on these things in spite of the disordered action of his heart, which had almost choked him while he had been talking with the young girl. Instead of going back to his brother, he turned aside and entered the steep descending tunnel through the rock which leads down to the sea and the little harbour.
Two things were strongly impressed on his mind. First, the nature of the service he had done Beatrice in making that enquiry at the telegraph office, and secondly her readiness to forget his own reckless conduct at Tragara. Both these points suggested reflections which pleased him strangely. It was quite clear to him that Beatrice distrusted San Miniato, though he had of course no idea of the nature of the telegram concerning which she had wanted information. He only understood that she was watching San Miniato with suspicion, expecting some sort of foul play. But there was an immense satisfaction in that thought, and Ruggiero’s eyes sparkled as he revolved it in his brain.
As for the other matter, he understood it less clearly. He was quite conscious of the enormity of his misdeed in telling a lady, and a great lady, according to his view, that he loved her, and in daring to touch the sleeves of her dress with his rough hands. He could not find it in him to regret what he had done, but he was prepared for very hard treatment as his just reward. It would not have surprised him if Beatrice had then and there complained of him to her mother or to San Miniato himself, and the latter, Ruggiero supposed, would have had no difficulty in having him locked up in the town gaol for a few weeks on the rather serious ground of misdemeanour towards the visitors at the watering-place. A certain amount of rather arbitrary power is placed in the hands of the local authorities in all great summer resorts, and it is quite right that it should be so — nor is it as a rule unjustly used.
But Beatrice had acted very differently, very kindly and very generously. That was because she was naturally so good and gentle, thought Ruggiero. But the least he had expected was that she would never again speak to him save to give an order, nor say a kind word, no matter what service he rendered her, or what danger he ran for her sake. And now, a moment ago, she had talked with him with more interest and kindly condescension than she had ever shown before. He refused, and rightly, to believe that this was because she had needed his help in the matter of the telegram. She could have called Bastianello, who was in her own service, and Bastianello would have done just as well. But she had chosen to employ the man who had so rudely forgotten himself before her less than twenty-four hours earlier. Why? Ruggiero, little capable, by natural gifts or by experience, of dealing with such questions, found himself face to face with a great problem of the human self, and he knew at once that he could never solve it, try as he might. His happiness was none the less great, nor his gratitude the less deep and sincere, and with both these grew up instantly in his heart the strong determination to serve her at every turn, so far as lay in his power.
It was not much that he could do, he reflected, unless she would show him the way as she had done this very morning. But, considering the position of affairs, and her evident distrust of her betrothed, it was not impossible that similar situations might arise before long. If they did, Ruggiero would be ready, as he had now shown himself, to do her bidding with startling directness and energy. He was well aware of his physical superiority over every one else in Sorrento, and he was dimly conscious that a threat from him was something which would frighten most men, and which none could afford to overlook. He remembered poor Don Gennaro’s face just now, when he had quietly told him what he might expect if he did not hold his tongue. Ruggiero had never valued his life very highly, and since he had loved Beatrice he did not value it a straw. This state of mind can make a man an exceedingly dangerous person, especially when he is so endowed that he can tear a new horse shoe in two with his hands, and break a five franc piece with his thumbs and forefingers as another man breaks a biscuit.
As Ruggiero came out of the tunnel and reached the platform of rock from which the last part of the descent goes down to the sea in the open air, he stood still a moment and expressed his determination in a low tone. There was no one near to hear him.
“Whatever she asks,” he said. “Truly it is of great importance what becomes of me! If it is a little thing
it costs nothing. If it is a great thing — well, I will do it if I can. Then I will say, ‘Excellency’ — no— ‘Signorina, here it is done. And I beg to kiss your Excellency’s hand, because I am going to the galleys and you will not see me any more.’ And then they will put me in, and it will be finished, and I shall always have the satisfaction.”
Ruggiero produced a fragment of a cigar from his cap and a match from the same safe place and began to smoke, looking at the sea. People not used to the peculiarities of southern thought would perhaps have been surprised at the desperate simplicity of Ruggiero’s statement to himself. But those who have been long familiar with men of his country and class must all have heard exactly such words uttered more than once in their experience, and will remember that in some cases at least they were not empty threats, which were afterwards very exactly and conscientiously fulfilled by him who uttered them, and who now either wears a green cap at Ponza or Ischia, or is making a fortune in South America, having had the luck to escape as a stowaway on a foreign vessel.
Nor did it strike Ruggiero as at all improbable that Beatrice might some day wish to be rid of the Conte di San Miniato, and might express such a wish, ever so vaguely, within Ruggiero’s hearing. He had the bad taste to judge her by himself, and of course if she really hated her betrothed she would wish him to die. It was a sin, doubtless, to wish anybody dead, and it was a greater sin to put out one’s hands and kill the person in question. But it was human nature, according to Ruggiero’s simple view, and of course Beatrice felt like other human beings in this matter and all the principal affairs of life. He had made up his mind, and he never repeated the words he had spoken to himself. He was a simple man, and he puffed at his stump of a black cigar and strolled down to the boat to find out whether the Cripple and the Son of the Fool had spliced that old spare mooring-rope which had done duty last night and had been found chafed this morning.
Meanwhile the human nature on which Ruggiero counted so naturally and confidently was going through a rather strange phase of development in the upper regions where the Marchesa’s terrace was situated.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 588
