He stopped again, suddenly realising what he was saying. But Beatrice, quick to suspect, saw the look of pained embarrassment in his face and almost guessed the truth. She grew pale by degrees.
“What man?” she asked shortly.
Ruggiero turned his head and looked away from her, gazing out to seaward.
“What was the man’s name?” she asked again with the stern intonation that anger could give her voice.
Still Ruggiero would not speak. But his white face told the truth well enough.
“On what day was it?” she enquired, as though she meant to be answered.
“It was the day when you talked with me about my name, Signorina.”
“At what time?”
“It must have been between midday and one o’clock.”
Beatrice remembered how on that day San Miniato had given a shallow excuse for not remaining to breakfast at that hour.
“And what was his name?” she now asked for the third time.
“Excellency — Signorina — do not ask me!” Ruggiero was not good at lying.
“It was the Conte di San Miniato, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice in a low voice that trembled with anger. Her face was now almost as white as the sailor’s.
Ruggiero said nothing at first, but turned his head away again.
“Per Dio!” he ejaculated after a short pause. But there was no mistaking the tone.
Beatrice turned away and with bent head began to walk towards the ascent. She could not help the gesture she made, clenching her hands once fiercely and then opening them wide again; but she thought no one could see her. Ruggiero saw, and understood.
“She is saying to herself, ‘I must marry that infamous animal,’” thought Ruggiero. “But I do not think that she will marry him.”
At the foot of the ascent, Beatrice turned and looked back. Teresina and Bastianello were coming quickly along the little wooden bridge, but Ruggiero was close to her.
“You have not done me a good service to-day, Ruggiero,” she said, but kindly, dreading to wound him. “But it is my fault, and I should not have pressed you as I did. Do not let the thought trouble you.”
“I thank you, Signorina. And it is true that this was not a good service, and I could bite out my tongue because it was not. But some Saint may give me grace to do you one more, and that shall be very good.”
“Thank you, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice, as the maid and the other sailor came up.
CHAPTER XII.
BEATRICE DID NOT speak again as she slowly walked up the steep ascent to the hotel. Bastianello and Teresina exchanged a word now and then in a whisper and Ruggiero came last, watching the dark outline of Beatrice’s graceful figure, against the bright light which shone outside at the upper end of the tunnel. Many confused thoughts oppressed him, but they were like advancing and retreating waves breaking about the central rock of his one unalterable purpose. He followed Beatrice till they reached the door of the house. Then she turned and smiled at him, and turned again and went in. Bastianello of course carried the bag upstairs for Teresina, and Ruggiero stayed below.
He was very calm and quiet throughout that day, busying himself from time to time with some detail of the preparations for the evening’s excursion, but sitting for the most part alone, far out on the breakwater where the breeze was blowing and the light surf breaking just high enough to wet his face from time to time with fine spray. He had made up his mind, and he calmly thought over all that he meant to do, that it might be well done, quickly and surely, without bungling. To-morrow, he would not be sitting out there, breathing in the keen salt air and listening to the music of the surging water, which was the only harmony he had ever loved.
His was a very faithful and simple nature, and since he had loved Beatrice, it had been even further simplified. He thought only of her, he had but one object, which was to serve her, and all he did must tend to the attainment of that one result. Now, too, he had seen with his eyes and had understood in other ways that she was to be married against her will to a man she hated and despised, and who was already betraying her. He did not try to understand how it all was, but his instinct told him that she had been tricked into saying the words she had spoken to San Miniato at Tragara, and that she had never meant them. That at least was more comprehensible to him than it might have been to a man of Beatrice’s own class. Her head had been turned for a moment, as Ruggiero would have said, and afterwards she had understood the truth. He had heard many stories of the kind from his companions. Women were changeable, of course. Every one knew that. And why? Because men were bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made. He did not love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons for the passion that devoured him. Since he felt it, it was real. What other proof of its reality could he need? It never entered his head to ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.
And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by himself. Beatrice could never love him. The mere idea was absurd beyond words. How could she love a common man like himself? But she did not love San Miniato either, and unless something were done quickly she would be forced into marrying him. Of course a mother could make her daughter marry whom she pleased. Ruggiero knew that. The only way of saving Beatrice was to make an end of San Miniato, and that was a very simple matter indeed. San Miniato would be but a poor thing in those great hands of Ruggiero’s, though he was a well grown man and still young and certainly stronger than the average of fine gentlemen.
Of course it was a great sin to kill San Miniato. Murder was always a sin, and people who did murder and died unabsolved always went straight into eternal fire. But the eternal fire did not impress Ruggiero much. In the first place Beatrice would be free and quite happy on earth, and in the natural course of things would go to Heaven afterwards, since she could have no part whatever in San Miniato’s destruction. Secondly, San Miniato would be with Ruggiero in the flames, and throughout all eternity Ruggiero would have the undying satisfaction of having brought him there without any one’s help. That would pay for any amount of burning, in the simple and uncompromising view of the future state which he took.
So he sat on the block of stone and listened to the sea and thought it all over quietly, feeling very happy and proud, since he was to be the means of saving the woman he loved. What more could any man ask, if he could not be loved, than to give his soul and his body for such a good and just end? Perhaps Ruggiero’s way of looking at the present and future state might have puzzled more than one theologian on that particular afternoon.
While Ruggiero was deciding matters of life and death in his own way, with absolute certainty of carrying out his intentions, matters were not proceeding smoothly on the Marchesa’s terrace. The midday breakfast had passed off fairly well, though Beatrice had again grown silent, and the conversation was carried on by San Miniato with a little languid help from the Marchesa. The latter was apparently neither disturbed nor out of humour in consequence of the little scene which had taken place in the morning. She took a certain amount of opposition on Beatrice’s part as a matter of course, and was prepared to be very long-suffering with the girl’s moods, partly because it was less trouble than to do battle with her, and partly because it was really wiser. Beatrice must grow used to the idea of marriage and must be gradually accustomed to the daily companionship of San Miniato. The Marchesa, in her wisdom, was well aware that Beatrice would never see as much of him when he was her husband as she did now that they were only engaged. San Miniato would soon take up his own life of amusement by day and night, in his own fashion, and Beatrice on her side would form her own friendships and her own ties as best pleased her, subject only to occasional interference from the Count, when he chanced to be in a jealous humour, or when it happened that Beatrice was growing intimate with some lady who had once known him too well.
After breakfast, as usual, they drank coffee and smoked upon the terrace, which Beatrice was beginning to hate for its unpleasant associations. Before long, however, she disappeared, leaving her mother and San Miniato together.
The latter talked carelessly and agreeably at first, but insensibly led the conversation to the subject of money in general and at last to the question of Beatrice’s marriage settlement in particular. He was very tactful and would probably have reached this desired point in the conversation in spite of the Marchesa, had she avoided it. But she was in the humour to discuss the matter and let him draw her on without opposition. She had thought it all over and had determined what she should do. San Miniato was surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by her extreme clearness of perception when they actually arrived at the main discussion.
“You are aware, San Miniato mio,” she was saying, “that my poor husband was a very rich man, and you are of course familiar — you who know everything — with the laws of inheritance in our country. As our dear Beatrice is an only child, the matter would have been simple, even if he had not made a will. I should have had my widow’s portion and she would have had all the rest, as she ultimately will.”
“Of course, dearest Marchesa. I understood that. But it is most kind of you to tell me about the details. In Beatrice’s interest — and her interests will of course be my first concern in life—”
“Of course, carissimo,” said the Marchesa, interrupting him. “Can I doubt it? Should I have chosen you out of so many to be my son-in-law if I had not understood from the first all the nobility and uprightness of your fine character?”
“How good you are to me!” exclaimed San Miniato, who mistrusted the preamble, but was careful not to show it.
“Not at all, dear friend! I am never good. It is such horrible trouble to be either good or bad, as you would know if you had my nerves. But we were speaking of my poor husband’s will. One half of his fortune of course he was obliged to leave to his daughter. He could dispose of the other half as he pleased. I believe it was that admirable man, the first Napoleon, who invented that just law, was it not? Yes, I was sure. My husband left the other half to me, provided I should not marry — he was a very thoughtful man! But if I did, the money was to go to Beatrice at once. If I did not, however, I was — as I really am — quite free to dispose of it as I pleased.”
“How very just!” exclaimed San Miniato.
“Do you think so? Yes. But further, I wish to tell you that he set aside a sum out of what he left Beatrice, to be her dowry — just a trifle, you know, to be paid to her husband on the marriage, as is customary. But all the remainder, compared with which the dowry itself is insignificant, does not pass into her hands until she is of age, and of course remains entirely in her control.”
“I understand,” said San Miniato in a tone which betrayed some nervousness in spite of his best efforts to be calm, for he had assuredly not understood before.
“Of course you understand, dearest friend,” answered the Marchesa. “You are so clever and you have such a good head for affairs, which I never had. I assure you I never could understand anything about money. It is all so mysterious and complicated! Give me one of your cigarettes, I am quite exhausted with talking.”
“I think you do yourself injustice, dearest Marchesa,” said San Miniato, offering her his open case. “You have, I think, a remarkably good understanding for business. I really envy you.”
The Marchesa smiled languidly, and slowly inhaled the smoke from the cigarette as he held the match for her.
“I have no doubt you learned a great deal from the Marchese,” continued San Miniato. “I must say that he displayed a keenness for his daughter’s interests such as merits the sincerest admiration. Take the case, which happily has not arisen, dearest friend. Suppose that Beatrice should discover that she had married a mere fortune-hunter. The man would be entirely in your power and hers. It is admirably arranged.”
“Admirably,” assented the Marchesa without a smile. “It would be precisely as you say. Beyond a few hundred thousand francs which he would control as the dowry, he could touch nothing. He would be wholly dependent on his wife and his mother-in-law. You see my dear husband wished to guard against even the most improbable cases. How thankful I am that heaven has sent Beatrice such a man as you!”
“Always good! Always kind!” San Miniato bent his head a little lower than was necessary as he looked at his watch. He had something in his eyes which he preferred to hide.
Just then Beatrice’s step was heard on the tiled floor of the sitting-room, and neither the Marchesa nor San Miniato thought it worth while to continue the conversation with the danger of being overheard.
So the afternoon wore on, bright and cloudless, and when the air grew cool Beatrice and her mother drove out together along the Massa road, and far up the hill towards Sant’ Agata. They talked little, for it is not easy to talk in the rattling little carriages which run so fast behind the young Turkish horses, and the roads are not always good, even in summer. But San Miniato was left to his own devices and went and bathed, walking out into the water as far as he could and then standing still to enjoy the coolness. Ruggiero saw him from the breakwater and watched him with evident interest. The Count, as has been said before, could not swim a stroke, and was probably too old to learn. But he liked the sea and bathing none the less, as Ruggiero knew. He stayed outside the bathing-house fully half an hour, and then disappeared.
“It was not worth while,” said Ruggiero to himself, “since you are to take another bath so soon.”
Then he looked at the sun and saw that it lacked half an hour of sunset, and he went to see that all was ready for the evening. He and Bastianello launched the old tub between them, and Ruggiero ballasted her with two heavy sacks of pebbles just amidships, where they would be under his feet.
“Better shift them a little more forward,” said Bastianello. “There will be three passengers, you said.”
“We do not know,” answered Ruggiero. “If there are three I can shift them quickly when every one is aboard.”
So Bastianello said nothing more about it, and they got the kettle and the torches and stowed them away in the bows.
“You had better go home and cook supper,” said Ruggiero. “I will come when it is dark, for then the others will have eaten and I will leave two to look out.”
Bastianello went ashore on the pier and his brother pulled the skiff out till he was alongside of the sailboat, to which he made her fast. He busied himself with trifles until it grew dark and there was no one on the pier. Then he got into the boat again, taking a bit of strong line with him, a couple of fathoms long, or a little less. Stooping down he slipped the line under the bags of ballast and made a timber-hitch with the end, hauling it well taut. With the other end he made a bowline round the thwart on which he was sitting, and on which he must sit to pull the bow oar in the evening. He tied the knot wide enough to admit of its running freely from side to side of the boat, and he stowed the bight between the ballast and the thwart, so that it lay out of sight in the bottom. The two sacks of pebbles together weighed, perhaps, from a half to three-quarters of a hundredweight.
When all was ready he went ashore and shouted for the Cripple and the Son of the Fool, who at once appeared out of the dusk, and were put on board the sailboat by him. Then he pulled himself ashore and moored the tub to a ring in the pier. It was time for supper. Bastianello would be waiting for him, and Ruggiero went home.
As the evening shadows fell, Beatrice was seated at the piano in the sitting-room playing softly to herself such melancholy music as she could remember, which was not much. It gave her relief, however, for she could at least try and express something of what would not and could not be put into words. She was not a musician, but she played fairly well, and this evening there was something in the tones she drew from the instrument which many a musician might have envied. She threw into her touch all that she was suffering and it was a faint
satisfaction to her to listen to the lament of the sad notes as she struck them and they rose and fell and died away.
The door opened and San Miniato entered. She heard his footstep and recognised it, and immediately she struck a succession of loud chords and broke into a racing waltz tune.
“You were playing something quite different, when I came to the door,” he said, sitting down beside her.
“I thought you might prefer something gay,” she answered without looking at him and still playing on.
San Miniato did not answer the remark, for he distrusted her and fancied she might have a retort ready. Her tongue was often sharper than he liked, though he was not sensitive on the whole.
“Will you sing something to me?” he asked, as she struck the last chords of the waltz.
“Oh yes,” she replied with an alacrity that surprised him, “I feel rather inclined to sing. Mamma,” she cried, as the Marchesa entered the room, “I am going to sing to my betrothed. Is it not touching?”
“It is very good of you,” said San Miniato.
The Marchesa smiled and sank into a chair. Beatrice struck a few chords and then, looking at the Count with half closed eyes, began to sing the pathetic little song of Chiquita.
“On dit que l’on te marie Tu sais que j’en vais mourir—”
Her voice was very sweet and true and there was real pathos in the words as she sang them. But as she went on, San Miniato noticed first that she repeated the second line, and then that she sang all the remaining melody to it, singing it over and over again with an amazing variety of expression, angrily, laughingly, ironically and sadly.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 593
