They had scarcely sat down and he could see that Ghisleri was beginning to talk, when Anastase Gouache appeared and stood still before them. To Arden’s surprise the Contessa welcomed him with a bright smile and pointed to a chair at her side of the sofa. Anastase Gouache was a celebrated painter who had married a Roman lady of high birth, and was a very agreeable man, but Arden had not expected that he would be invited so readily to interrupt so promising a conversation. Ghisleri’s face expressed nothing. He appeared to join in the talk for a few minutes and then rose and left the Contessa with Gouache. She looked after him, and Arden thought she grew a shade paler and frowned. A faint smile appeared on the Englishman’s face and was gone again in an instant as Ghisleri came near him, returning again to the ball-room. Ghisleri had glanced at him as he passed and had seen that he was not talking to a lady.
“May I have the next dance, Miss Carlyon?” asked Pietro, when he found Laura in a corner with Francesco Savelli. “Thanks,” he said, as she nodded graciously, and he passed on.
“Will you give me the dance after the next?” he inquired a few minutes later, coming up with Donna Adele, who was moving away on young Frangipani’s arm.
“Certainly, caro Ghisleri,” she answered, with alacrity, “as many as you please.”
“You are very good,” he said, with a slight bow, and withdrew to a window near Laura to wait until the waltz began. He could see Arden through the open door from the place where he stood.
When the dance was over he led Laura out and took one turn through the rooms, making a few commonplace remarks on the way. Coming back, he stopped as though by accident close to Lord Herbert.
“I am afraid you will think me very rude if I ask you to let me leave you,” he said. “I am engaged for the next dance — it is a quadrille — and I must find a vis-à-vis.”
Arden of course heard and presented himself immediately in Ghisleri’s place. Laura was quite ready to go back with him to the sofa in the corner, and they resumed their conversation almost at the point at which it had been interrupted by Francesco Savelli. Neither of them ever knew that Ghisleri had brought them together again by a little social skill, just beyond what most people possess. Arden looked after him, half believing that he had only given Laura an excuse for leaving her in order to return to the Contessa dell’ Armi, who was now surrounded by half a dozen men, beginning with old Spicca, who, as has been said, was still alive in those days, and ending with the little Vicomte de Bompierre, a young French attaché with a pleasant voice, a bright smile, and an incipient black moustache. But to Arden’s surprise Ghisleri took quite a different direction, and began to speak to one man after another, evidently trying to secure a vis-à-vis for the square dance.
“You must not let me bore you, or rather you must not bore yourself with me,” said Arden to Laura, after a short pause in the conversation. “You are altogether much too good to me.”
“You never bore me,” answered the young girl. “You are one of the few people who do not.”
Arden smiled a little sadly.
“I am glad to be one of the ‘few people,’” he said, “even if I am the last.”
“You are too modest.” She tried to laugh, but the effort was not very successful.
“No, I am not. I have much more vanity than you would suppose, or think possible, considering how little I have to be vain of.”
“Opinions may differ about that,” answered Laura, looking into his eyes. “You have much that many men might envy, and probably do.”
“What, for instance?”
Laura hesitated, and then smiled, without effort this time.
“You are very good looking,” she said after a moment.
“No one has ever told me that before,” he answered. A very slight flush rose in his pale face.
“It is not of much importance, either. Would you like me to enumerate your good qualities?”
“Of all things!”
“You are honest and kind, and you are very clever, I think, though I am not clever enough to be sure. You have no right to be unhappy, and you would not be if you were not so sensitive about — about not being so strong and big as some men are. What difference does it make?”
“You will almost tempt me to think that it makes none, if you talk in that way,” said Arden.
“Do you mean to say that you would really and truly change places with any one? With Signor Ghisleri, for instance?”
“Indeed I would, with him, and very gladly. I would rather be Ghisleri than any man I know.”
“I cannot understand that,” answered Laura, thoughtfully. “If I were a man, I would much rather be like you. Besides, they say Signor Ghisleri has been dreadfully wild, and is anything but angelic now. You used that very word about him the first evening we met; do you remember?”
“Of course I do; but what has that to do with it? Must I necessarily choose a saint for my friend, and pick out one to exchange places with me if it were possible? A woman saint may be lovable, too lovable perhaps, but a man saint about town is like a fish out of water. But you are right about Ghisleri, up to a certain point, only you do not understand him. He is an exceedingly righteous sinner, but a sinner he is.”
“What do you mean by a righteous sinner?” asked Laura, gravely.
“Do not bring me down to definitions. I have not at all a logical mind. I mean Ghisleri — that is all I can say. I would much rather talk about you.”
“No, I object to that. Tell me, since you wish so much to be Signor Ghisleri, what do you think you would feel if you were?”
“What he feels — everything that a man can feel!” answered Arden, with a sudden change of tone. “To be straight and strong and a match for other men. Half the happiness of life lies there.”
His voice shook a little, and Laura felt that the tears were almost in her eyes as she looked earnestly into his.
“You see what I am,” he continued, more and more bitterly, “I am a cripple. There is no denying it — why should I even try to hide it a little? Nature, or Heaven, or what you please to call it, has been good enough to make concealment impossible. If I am not quite a hunchback, I am very near it, and I can hardly walk even with a stick. And look at yourself, straight and graceful and beautiful — well, you pity me, at least. Why should I make a fool of myself? It is the first time I ever spoke like this to any one.”
“You are quite wrong,” answered Laura, in a tone of conviction. “I do not pity you — indeed I do not think you are the least to be pitied. I see it quite differently. It hardly ever strikes me that you are not just the same as other people, and when it does — I do not know — I mean to say that when it does, it makes no painful impression upon me. You see I am quite frank.”
While she was speaking the colour rose in two bright spots on Arden’s pale cheeks, and his bright eyes softened with a look of wonderful happiness.
“Are you quite in earnest, Miss Carlyon?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Quite, quite in earnest. Please believe me when I say that it would hurt me dreadfully if I thought you doubted it.”
“Hurt you? Why?”
She turned her deep, sad eyes to him, and looked at him without speaking. He was on the point of telling her that he loved her — then he saw how beautiful she was, and he felt his withered knee under his hand, and he was ashamed to speak. It was a cruel moment, and his nerves were already overstrained by perpetual emotion, as well as tired from late hours and lack of sleep. He hesitated a moment. Then bent his head and covered his eyes with his hand. Laura said nothing for several moments, but seeing that he did not move, she touched his sleeve.
“Dear Lord Herbert, do not be so unhappy,” she said softly. “You really have no right to be, you know.”
“No right?” He looked up suddenly. “If you knew, you would not say that.”
“I should always say it. As long as you have friends — friends who love you, and would do anything for you, why should you make yourself so miserable?”<
br />
“I want more than a friend — even than friendship.”
“What?”
“I want love.”
Again she gazed into his eyes and paused. Her face was very white — whiter than his. Then she spoke.
“Are you so sure you have not got that love?” she asked. Her own voice trembled now.
Arden started and a look of something almost like fear came into his face. He could hardly speak.
“Love?” he repeated, and he felt he could say nothing more.
“Yes, I mean it.” So she chose her fate.
She thought there was a touch of the divine in poor Arden’s expression as he heard the words. Then his face grew pale, the light faded from his eyes, and his head sank on his breast. Laura did not at first realise what had happened. She felt so strongly herself, that nothing in his manner would have surprised her. She heard nothing of the hum of the voices in the room, or if she did, she heard the harmony of a happy hymn, and the great branches of candles were the tapers upon an altar in some sacred place.
Still Arden did not move. Laura bent down and looked at his face.
“Lord Herbert!” She called him softly. “Herbert, what is the matter?”
No answer came. She looked round wildly for help. At that moment the dance was just over and Ghisleri passed near her with Donna Adele on his arm. Laura rose and overtook him swiftly, touching his arm in her excitement.
“Lord Herbert has fainted — for heaven’s sake, help him!” she cried, in a low voice.
Pietro Ghisleri glanced at the sofa.
“Excuse me,” he said hastily to Donna Adele, and left her standing in the middle of the room. He bent down and felt Arden’s forehead and hands.
“Yes, he has fainted,” he said to Laura. “Show me the way to a quiet place.”
Thereupon he took his unconscious friend in his arms and followed Laura quickly through the surging crowd that already filled the room, escaping in haste from the heat as soon as the dance was over in the ball-room beyond.
For a few seconds one of those total silences fell upon the party which always follow an accident. Then, as Ghisleri disappeared with his burden, every one began to talk at once, speculating upon the nature of Lord Herbert Arden’s indisposition. Heart disease — epilepsy — nervous prostration — most things were suggested.
“Probably too much champagne,” laughed Donna Adele in the ear of the lady nearest to her.
CHAPTER III.
IT IS PERHAPS useless to attempt to trace and recapitulate the causes which had led Laura Carlyon to the state of mind in which she had found courage to tell Arden that she loved him. There might be harder moments in store for her, but this had been the hardest she had known hitherto. Nothing short of a real and great love, she believed, could have carried her through it, and she had been conscious for some days that if the opportunity came she meant to do what she had done. In other words, she had been quite sure that Arden loved her and that she loved him. This being granted, it was in accordance with her character to take the initiative. With far less sympathy than she felt in all her thoughts, she would have understood that a man of his instincts would never speak of his love to her unless almost directly bidden to do so. Laura was slow to make up her mind, sure of her decision when reached, and determined to act upon it without consulting any one. Many people said later that she had sacrificed herself for Lord Herbert’s expected fortune, or for his position. A few said that she was a very good woman and that, finding herself neglected, she had decided to devote her life to the happiness of a very unhappy man for whom she felt a sincere friendship. That was at least the more charitable view. But neither was at all the right one. She honestly and really believed that she loved the man: she saw beyond a doubt that he loved her, and she took the shortest and most direct way of ending all doubts on the subject. On that same night when Arden had quite recovered and had gone home with Ghisleri, she spoke to her mother and told her exactly what had happened.
The Princess of Gerano opened her quiet brown eyes very wide when she heard the news. She was handsome still at five and forty, a little stout, perhaps, but well proportioned. Her light brown hair was turning grey at the temples, but there were few lines in her smooth, calm face, and her complexion was still almost youthful, though with little colouring. She looked what she was, a woman of the world, very far from worldly, not conscious of half the evil that went on around her, and much given to inward contemplation of a religious kind when not actively engaged in social duty. She had seen Laura’s growing appreciation of Arden and had noticed the frequency of the latter’s visits to the house. But she had herself learned to like him very much during the last month, and it never suggested itself to her that he could wish to marry Laura nor that Laura could care for him, considering that he was undeniably a cripple. It was no wonder that she was surprised.
“Dear child,” she said, “I do not know what to say. Of course I have found out what a really good man he is, though he is so fond of that wild Ghisleri — they are always together. I have a great admiration for Lord Herbert. As far as position goes, there is nothing better, and I suppose he is rich enough to support you, though I do not know. You see, darling, you have nothing but the little I can give you. But never mind that — there is only that one other thing — I wish he were not—”
She checked herself, far too delicate to hurt her daughter by too direct a reference to Arden’s physical shortcomings. But Laura, strange to say, was not sensitive on that point.
“I know, mother,” she said, “he is deformed. It is of no use denying it, as he says himself. But if I do not mind that — if I do not think of it at all when I am with him, why should any one else care? After all, if I marry him, it is to please myself, and not the people who will ask us to dinner.”
The young girl laughed happily as she thought of the new life before her, and of how she would make everything easy for poor Arden, and make him quite forget that he could hardly walk. Her mother looked at her with quiet wonder.
“Think well before you act, dear,” she said. “Marriage is a very serious thing. There is no drawing back afterwards, and if you were to be at all unkind after you are married—”
“O mother, how can you think that of me?”
“No — at least, you would never mean it. You are too good for that. But it would break the poor man’s heart. He is very sensitive, it is not every man who faints when he finds out that a young girl loves him — fortunately, not every man,” she added with a smile.
“If every one loved as we do, the world would be much happier,” said Laura, kissing her mother. “Do not be afraid, I will not break his heart.”
“God grant you may not break your own, dear!” The Princess spoke in a lower voice, and turned away her face to hide the tears that stood in her eyes.
“Mine, mother!” Laura bent over her as she sat in her dressing-chair. “What is it?” she asked anxiously, as she saw that her mother’s cheek was wet.
“You are very dear to me, child,” murmured the Princess, drawing the young head down to her breast, and kissing the thick black hair.
So the matter was settled, and Laura had her way. It is not easy to say how most mothers would have behaved under the circumstances. There are worldly ones enough who would have received the news far more gladly than the Princess of Gerano did; and there are doubtless many who would refuse a cripple for a son-in-law on any condition whatever. Laura’s mother did what she thought right, which is more than most of us can say of our actions.
The Prince was almost as much surprised as his wife when he learned the news, but he was convinced that he had nothing to say in the matter. Laura was quite free to do as she pleased, and, moreover, it was a good thing that she should marry a man of her own faith, and ultimately live among her own people, since nothing could make either a Catholic or a Roman of her. But he was not altogether pleased with her choice. He had an Italian’s exaggerated horror of deformity, and though he liked Lord Herber
t, he could never quite overcome his repulsion for his outward defects. There was nothing to be done, however, and on the whole the marriage had much in its favour in his eyes.
The engagement was accordingly announced with due formality, and the wedding day was fixed for the Saturday after Easter, which fell early in that year. Not until the day before the Princess told the news to every one did Arden communicate it to Ghisleri. He had perfect confidence in his friend’s discretion, but having said that he would not speak of the engagement to any one until the Princess wished it, he kept his word to the letter. He asked Pietro to drive with him, far out upon the campagna. When they had passed the last houses and were in the open country he spoke.
“I am going to marry Miss Carlyon,” he said simply, but he glanced at Ghisleri’s face to see the look of surprise he expected.
“Since you announce it, my dear friend, I congratulate you with all my heart,” answered Pietro. “Of course I knew it some time ago.”
“You knew it?” Arden was very much astonished.
“It was not very hard to guess. You loved each other, you went constantly to the house and you spent your evenings with her in other people’s houses, there was no reason why you should not marry — accordingly, I took it for granted that you would be married. You see that I was right. I am delighted. Ask me to the wedding.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 597
