Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “And is your father — I mean, is Prince Gerano — living?” asked Arden. He had almost forgotten her name and her nationality in the interest he felt in herself.

  “Yes; but he rarely goes into society. I am very fond of him,” she added, scarcely knowing why. “Mother,” she said, as they came up to the Princess, “Lord Herbert Arden.”

  The Princess smiled and held out her hand. At that moment Pietro Ghisleri came up. He had not been seen since he had left Laura and Arden together. By a coincidence, doubtless, the Contessa dell’ Armi had disappeared at about the same time: she had probably gone home, as she was not seen again in the ball-room that evening. But the world in its omniscience knew that there was a certain boudoir beyond the supper-room, where couples who did not care to dance were left in comparative peace for a long time. The world could have told with precision the position of the small sofa on which Ghisleri and the lovely Contessa invariably spent an hour when they met in that particular house.

  “Will you give me a turn, Miss Carlyon?” asked Ghisleri, as Arden began to talk with the Princess.

  “Yes.” Laura was really fond of a certain amount of dancing when a good partner presented himself.

  “What do you think of my friend?” inquired Pietro, as they moved away together.

  “I like him very much. He interests me.”

  “Then you ought to be grateful to me for bringing him to you.”

  “Do you expect gratitude in a ball-room?” Laura laughed a little, more in pleasant anticipation of the waltz than at what she said.

  “A little more than in the average asylum for the aged and infirm, which most people call home,” returned Ghisleri, carelessly.

  “You have no home. How can you talk about it in that way?”

  “For the sake of talking; shall we dance instead?”

  A moment later they were in the thick of the crowd.

  “There are too many people; please take me back,” said Laura, after one turn.

  “Will you come and talk in the conservatory?” asked Ghisleri as they reached the door.

  “No; I would rather not.”

  “You were talking a long time with Arden. I saw you come out of the drawing-room together. Why will you not sit five minutes with me?”

  “Lord Herbert is different,” said Laura, quietly. “He is an Englishman, and I am English.”

  “Oh! is that the reason?”

  He led her back and left her with her mother. Arden was still there.

  CHAPTER II.

  IN SPITE OF his own declarations to the contrary, Lord Herbert Arden was a very sensitive man. When he said he was not, he was perhaps trying to deceive himself, but the attempt was at best only partially successful. Few men in his circumstances can escape the daily sting that lies in comparing their unfortunate outward personality with the average symmetry of the human race. Women seem to feel deformity less than men, or perhaps one only thinks so because they bear it more bravely; it is hard to say. If Darwin is right, men are far more vain of their appearance than women; and there are many who believe that a woman’s passive courage is greater than a man’s. Be that as it may, the particular sufferer who made Laura Carlyon’s acquaintance at the ball was in reality as sensitive a man in almost all respects as could be met with anywhere in ordinary life. When he discovered that he was seriously in love with Laura Carlyon, his existence changed suddenly, and for the worse, so far as his comfort was concerned.

  He reviewed the situation as calmly as he could, when a fortnight or more had passed and he had seen her a dozen times at her step-father’s house and in the world. One main fact was now quite clear to him. She was not what is called popular in society; she had not even any intimate friends. As for his own chances, he did not like to think of them. Though only the younger brother of a peer of high rank, he was entitled to expect a large fortune from an uncle on his mother’s side, who had never made any secret of his intentions in regard to his property, and who, being over eighty years of age, could not be expected to live much longer in the ordinary course of nature. At present his modest portion was quite sufficient for himself, but he doubted whether it would suffice for his needs if he married. That, however, was of minor importance. The great fortune was safe and he was an exceedingly good match from a financial point of view. Miss Carlyon was poor, as he knew from Ghisleri, and Ghisleri had very probably told her that Arden was rich, or would be before long. He refused to believe that Laura, of her own free will, might marry him for his money; but it was intolerable to think that her mother and step-father might try to force her into the match from considerations of interest. He was not just to the Princess of Gerano, but he knew her very slightly as yet and had no means of forming a positive opinion.

  In the meantime he had been introduced to Donna Adele Savelli, who had received him with the greatest warmth, protesting her love for the English people and everything English, and especially for her step-mother and step-sister. He had also renewed his acquaintance with young Savelli, whom he had known slightly during a former visit to Rome, and who now, he thought, met him rather coldly. He attributed Adele’s gushing manner to a desire to bring about a marriage, and he did not attempt to account for Don Francesco’s stiffness; but he liked neither the one manifestation nor the other, for both wounded him in different degrees.

  Above all other difficulties, the one which was most natural to his delicately organised nature was of a purely disinterested kind. He feared lest Laura, who evidently felt both pity and sympathy for him, should take the two together for genuine love and sacrifice herself in a life which would by and by become unbearable to her. He could not but see that at every meeting she grew more interested in his conversation, until when he was present, she scarcely paid any attention to any one else. Such a friendship, if it could have been a real friendship, might have made Arden happy so long as it lasted; but on his side, at least, nothing of the kind was possible. He knew that he was hopelessly in love, and to pretend the contrary to himself was real pain. He guessed with wonderful keenness the direction Laura’s heart was taking, and he was appalled by the vision of the misery which must spread over her young life if, after she had married him, she should be roused to the great truth that pity and love are not the same, though they be so near akin as to be sometimes mistaken one for the other.

  His weak health suffered and he grew more and more restless. It would have been a satisfaction to speak out a hundredth part of what he felt to Ghisleri. But he was little given to making confidences, and Ghisleri was, or seemed to be, the last man to invite them. They met constantly, however, and talked upon all sorts of topics.

  One day Ghisleri came to breakfast with Arden in his rooms at the hotel, looking more weather-beaten than usual, for he was losing the tan from his last expedition in the south, and there were deep black shadows under his eyes. Moreover, he was in an abominably bad humour with everything and with everybody except his friend. Arden knew that he never gambled, and he also knew the man well enough to guess at the true cause of the disturbance. There was something serious the matter.

  They sat down to breakfast and began to talk of politics and the weather, as old friends do when they are aware that there is something wrong. Ghisleri spoke English perfectly, with an almost imperceptible accent, as many Italians do nowadays.

  “Come along with me, Arden,” he said at last, as though losing patience with everything all at once. “Let us go to Paris or Timbuctoo. This place is not fit to live in.”

  “What is the matter with it?” asked Arden, in a tone of amusement.

  “The matter with it? It is dull, to begin with. Secondly, it is a perfect witches’ caldron of scandal. Thirdly, we are all as bad as we can be. There are three points at least.”

  “My dear fellow, I do not see them in the same light. Take some more hock.”

  “Oh, you — you are amusing yourself! Thank you — I will — half a glass. Of course you like Rome — you always did — you foreigners always will. Yo
u amuse yourselves — that is it.”

  “I see you dancing every night as though you liked it,” observed Arden.

  “No doubt!”

  Ghisleri suddenly grew thoughtful and a distant look came into his eyes, while the shadows seemed to deepen under them, till they were almost black. He had eaten hardly anything, and now, regardless of the fact that the meal was not half over, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair as though he had finished.

  “You are not looking well, Arden,” he said at last. “You must take care of yourself. Take my advice. We will go somewhere together for a couple of months.”

  “There is nothing I should like better, but not just at present. I will stay in Rome until the weather is a little warmer.”

  Arden was not in the least conscious that his expression changed as he thought of the reason which kept him in the city and which might keep him long. But Ghisleri, who had been watching for that particular hesitation of manner and for that almost imperceptible darkening of the eyes, knew exactly what both meant.

  “Oh, very well,” he answered indifferently. “We can go later. People always invent absurd stories if one goes away in the middle of the season without any apparent object.”

  The remark was a little less than general, and Arden was at once confirmed in his suspicion that something unpleasant had happened in Ghisleri’s life, most probably in connection with the Contessa dell’ Armi. His friend was in such a savage humour that he might almost become communicative. Arden was a very keen-sighted man, and not without tact, and he thought the opportunity a good one for approaching a subject which had long been in his mind. But he had been in earnest when he had told Laura that he knew Ghisleri’s character to be what he called complicated, and he was aware that Pietro’s intelligence was even more penetrating than his own. He was therefore very cautious.

  “You say that Rome is such a great place for gossip,” he began, in answer to Ghisleri’s last observation. “I suppose you know it by experience, but I cannot say that we strangers hear much of it.”

  “Perhaps not,” admitted Ghisleri, rather absently.

  “No, we do not hear much scandal. For instance, I go rather often to the Gerano’s. I do not remember to have heard there a single spiteful story, except, perhaps,” — Arden stopped cautiously.

  “Precisely,” said Pietro, “the exceptions are rare in that house. But then, the Prince is generally away, and both the Princess and her daughter are English, and especially nice people.”

  Arden helped himself to something that chanced to be near him, and glanced at his companion’s rather impenetrable face. He knew that at the present moment the latter was perfectly sincere in what he said, but he knew also that Ghisleri spoke of most people in very much the same tone. It was something which Arden could never quite understand.

  “Do you think,” he began presently, “that the fact of their being English has anything to do with Miss Carlyon’s unpopularity here?”

  “My dear fellow, how should I know?” asked Ghisleri, with something almost like a laugh.

  “You do know, of course. I wish you would tell me. As an Englishman, the mother interests me.”

  “From the point of view of our international relations, I see, collecting information for an article in the Nineteenth Century, or else your brother is going to speak on the subject in the Lords. What do you think about the matter yourself? If I can put you right, I will.”

  “What an extraordinary man you are!” exclaimed Arden. “You always insist upon answering one question by another.”

  “It gives one time to think,” retorted Ghisleri. “These cigarettes are distinctly bad; give me one of yours, please. I never can understand why the government monopoly here should exist, and if it does why they should not give us Russian—”

  “My dear Ghisleri,” said Arden, interrupting him, “we were talking about the Princess Gerano.”

  “Were we? Oh, yes, and Miss Carlyon, too, I remember. Do you like them?”

  “Very much; and I think every one should. That is the reason why I am surprised that Miss Carlyon should not receive much more attention than she does. I fancy it is because she is English. Do you think I am right?”

  “No,” said Ghisleri, slowly, at last answering the direct question, “I do not think you are.”

  “Then what in the world is the reason? The fact is clear enough. She knows it herself.”

  “Probably some absurd bit of gossip. Who cares? I am sorry for her, though.”

  “How can there be any scandal about a young girl of her age?” asked Arden, incredulously.

  “In this place you can start a story about a baby a year old,” answered Ghisleri. “It will be remembered, repeated, and properly adorned, and will ultimately ruin the innocent woman when she is grown up. Nobody seems to care for chronology here — anachronism is so much more convenient.”

  “Why are you so absurdly reticent with me, Ghisleri?” asked Arden, with some impatience. “You talk as though we had not known each other ten years.”

  “On the contrary,” answered Pietro, “if we were acquaintances of yesterday, I would not talk at all. That is just the difference. As it is, and because we are rather good friends, I tell you what I believe to be the truth. I believe — well, I will allow that I know, that there is a story about Miss Carlyon, which is commonly credited, and which is a down-right lie. I will not tell you what it is. It does not, strictly speaking, affect her reputation, but it has made her unpopular — since you have used that word. Ask any of the gossips, if you care enough — I am not going to repeat such nonsense. It never does any good to repeat other peoples’ lies.”

  Arden was silent, and his long white fingers played uneasily upon the edge of the table. It had been a hard matter to extract the information, but such as it was he knew that it was absolutely reliable. When Ghisleri spoke at all about such things, he spoke the truth, and when he said that he would positively say no more, his decision was always final. Arden had discovered that in the early days of their acquaintance. Perhaps Pietro went to absurd lengths in this direction, and there were people who called it affectation and made him out to be an even worse man than he was, but his friend knew that it was genuine in its way. He was all the more disturbed by what he had heard, and it was a long time before he spoke again.

  Ghisleri smoked in silence and drank three cups of coffee while Arden was drinking one. He looked at that time like a man who was living upon his nerves, so to say, instead of upon proper nourishment.

  An hour later the two men went out together, Arden taking Pietro with him in his carriage. The air was bright and keen and the afternoon sunlight was already turning yellow with the gold of the coming evening. The carriage was momentarily blocked at the corner of the Pincio near the entrance, by one that was turning out of the enclosure opposite the band stand. It chanced to be the Princess of Gerano’s landau, and she and her daughter were seated in it, closely wrapped in their furs. It was Arden’s victoria that had to pull up to let the Princess drive across, and by a coincidence the Savelli couple were in the one which hers would have to follow in the descending line after crossing the road.

  Francesco Savelli bowed, smiled, and waved his hat, evidently to Laura rather than to her mother. With a rather forced smile Adele slowly bent her head. Arden bowed at the same moment, and looked from one carriage to the other. Ghisleri followed his example, and there was the very faintest expression of amusement on his face, which Arden of course could not see. A number of men on foot lined the side of the road close to the carriage.

  “People always come back to their first loves!” said a low voice at Arden’s elbow.

  He turned quickly and saw several men watching the Savelli across his victoria. He knew none of them, and it was impossible to guess which had spoken. Ghisleri, being on the right side, as Arden’s guest, could not have heard the words. Having just noticed the rather striking contrast between Francesco Savelli’s demonstrative greeting and his wife�
�s almost indifferent nod, it naturally struck the Englishman that the remark he had overheard might refer to the person he was himself watching at that moment. Donna Adele Savelli’s expression might very well be taken for one of jealousy, but her husband’s behaviour was assuredly too marked for anything more than friendship. Arden coupled the words with the facts and concluded that he had discovered the story of which Ghisleri had spoken. Francesco Savelli was said to be in love with Laura Carlyon. That was evidently the gossip; but he had seen Laura’s face, too, and it was quite plain that she was wholly indifferent. On the whole, though the tale reflected little credit on Savelli, it was not at all clear why it should make Laura unpopular, unless people said that she encouraged the man, which they probably did, thought Lord Herbert Arden, who was a man of the world.

  The more he considered the matter the more convinced he became that he was right, and the conviction was on the whole a relief. He had been uneasy for some time, and Ghisleri’s guarded words had not satisfied him; chance, however, had done what Ghisleri would not do, and the mystery was solved. The Princess of Gerano was at home that evening, and Arden of course went to the palace early, and was the last to leave.

  Three times between half-past ten and half-past two o’clock Laura and he installed themselves side by side at some distance from the drawing-room, and each time their conversation lasted over half an hour. It was not a set ball, but one of the regular weekly informal dances of which there are so many in Rome during the season. The first interruption of Arden’s talk appeared in the shape of Don Francesco Savelli, who asked Laura for a turn. Oddly enough she glanced at Lord Herbert’s face before accepting, and the action sent a strange thrill to his heart. He struggled to his feet as she rose to go away with Savelli, and then sank back again and remained some time where he was, absently watching the people who passed. His face was very pale and weary now that the excitement of conversation had subsided, and he felt that if he was not positively ill, he was losing the little strength he had with every day that passed. Late hours, heated rooms, and strong emotions were not the best tonics for his feeble physical organisation, and he knew it. At last he made an effort, got up, and moved about in the crowd, exchanging a few words now and then with a passing acquaintance, but too preoccupied and perhaps too tired to talk long with indifferent people. He nodded as Ghisleri passed him with the Contessa dell’ Armi on his arm, and he thought there was a bad light in his friend’s eyes, though Pietro was looking better than in the afternoon. The two had evidently been dancing together, for the Contessa’s white neck heaved a little, as though she were still out of breath. She was a short, slight woman of exquisite figure, very fair, with deep violet eyes and small classic features, almost hard in their regularity; evidently wilful and dominant in character. Arden watched the pair as they went on in search of a vacant sofa just big enough for two.