Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Before night he received a note from Laura Arden. She wrote that she had seen him driving, though he had not seen her pass, as he had been looking in the opposite direction. If he was able to bear the fatigue of making a call, she begged that he would come to her at any hour he chose to name, as she wished to speak to him. He answered at once that he would be at her house on the following day at three o’clock.

  He knew very well what she wanted, and why she did not wait until he came of his own accord. She meant to speak to him of the duel, and her questions would be hard to answer, since she was probably in ignorance of many details of his former life, familiar enough to people of his own age. He knew, of course, that the world said he had really fought on her account, and that he could never prevail upon the world to think otherwise. But he was very anxious that Laura herself should know the truth. She might forgive him for having let people believe that she had been concerned in the matter rather than Maddalena dell’ Armi, out of womanly consideration for the latter, but she would assuredly not pardon him if she continued to suppose that he had made her the subject of useless gossip.

  The situation was not an easy one.

  At the appointed hour he entered her drawing-room. He was almost startled by her beauty when he first saw her standing opposite to him. She had developed in every way during the many weeks since he had seen her. The perfectly calm and regular life she led had produced its inevitable good effect. She, on her part, was almost as much shocked by his looks as Maddalena had been.

  “Have I not asked too much of you?” she inquired, pushing forward a comfortable chair for him, and arranging a cushion in it.

  “Not at all. Thanks,” he added, as he sat down, “you are very good, but pray do not imagine that I am an invalid.”

  “I only saw you in the street,” she said, almost apologetically. “I did not realise how desperately ill you still looked. Please forgive me.”

  “But I should have come to-day or to-morrow in any case,” protested Ghisleri. “After what has happened — yes, I think I know why you sent for me. You have heard what every one is saying. The men who came to see me before I could go out told me all about it. I knew beforehand that it would turn out as it has, though we gave our seconds another excuse, as you have probably also heard, and which, if the truth were known, was much nearer to betraying the cause of the quarrel than any one supposed. Am I right? You wished to ask me why I had the impertinence to fight a duel about you. Is that it?”

  “I would not put it in that way,” said Laura. “But I did wish to ask you why you took the matter up so violently. Please do not enter into the question now — you are not strong enough. I am very sorry indeed that I wrote to you.”

  “You need not be, for I am quite able to tell you all about it. I have thought the matter over, and I think you will forgive me if I tell you the whole story from beginning to end. It is a confidence, and I have not the least fear that you will betray it. If you are not willing to hear it, you will always believe that I have wantonly made you the talk of the town. It is entirely to justify myself in your eyes that I ask you to listen to what I am going to say. Some points may shock you a little. Have I your leave?”

  “Yes — if you really wish to tell me for your own sake. For mine, I do not ask you to tell me anything.”

  “It is for my own sake. I am quite selfish. When you have heard all, you will know more or less the history of my life, of which many people know certain details.”

  He paused and leaned back in his deep chair, closing his eyes a moment as though he were collecting his thoughts. Laura settled herself to listen, turning in her seat so as not to face him, but so that she could look at him while he was speaking.

  “I have never told any one this story,” he began, “for I have never had any good reason for doing so. When I was a very young man I loved the Princess Corleone, who was, by her maiden name, Donna Bianca Campodonico, the daughter of the old Duca di Norba who died of paralysis, and own sister to Gianforte Campodonico, with whom I fought this duel. I loved that lady with all my heart to the day of her death, and being young and tactless, I showed it too much. Her brother, Gianforte, hated me in consequence, because there was talk about his sister and me — and our names were constantly coupled together. I did my best to remain on civil terms with him, but at last he insulted me openly and we fought. This first duel took place a little more than six years ago, in Naples, where Donna Bianca lived after her marriage. Campodonico did his best to kill me, and at last I ran him through the arm. On the ground, without heeding the slight wound which disabled his right arm, he demanded pistols, but the seconds on both sides refused, and declared the affair terminated. As the original challenge had come from me, his position was quite untenable. He sought occasion after that to insult me again, but I avoided him. Then the Princess fell ill. Two days before she died, she had herself carried into the drawing-room, and sent for me. Her brother was already there. She made us both promise that for her sake we would never quarrel again. We joined hands and solemnly bound ourselves, for we knew she was dying. Then I took leave of her. I never saw her again, and I shall not see her hereafter.”

  He paused a moment, but not a muscle of his face betrayed emotion. Laura had listened with breathless interest.

  “Do not say that,” she said softly.

  “I lived alone for a long time,” continued Ghisleri, without heeding her remark. “Then at last I came back to the world, and did many things, mostly bad, of which I need not speak. I fell a little in love, now and then, and at last somewhat more seriously with a lady of whom we will not speak, against whose good name no slander had ever been breathed. Now I come to the events which caused the duel. People have been saying that you have the evil eye and are a jettatrice. The absurd tale is repeated from mouth to mouth, and will ultimately make society here unbearable for you. You are enough of a Roman to understand that. There was a big dinner at San Giacinto’s one night, and Campodonico and I sat opposite to each other. He believes in this nonsense and I do not. Pietrasanta mentioned your name, and accidentally broke a glass at almost the same moment. Then a discussion arose about the existence of such a thing as the evil eye, and Campodonico and I talked about it across the table, while everybody listened. We exchanged a few rather incisive remarks, but nothing more. That was the end of the matter so far as you were concerned, and it was owing to this discussion that people said we fought on your account.”

  “I see,” said Laura. “It was all a mistake, then?” “Yes. But I suppose Campodonico was irritated. In the drawing-room I lit a cigarette, and stood some time looking at a copy of Zichy’s picture of Tamara falling into the Demon’s arms. Tamara chances to be a very striking likeness of the Princess Corleone, and if I had reflected that Campodonico might have also noticed the fact, I would not have stood there looking at it as I did. But I forgot. Before I knew it, he was at my elbow, evidently very angry, for he perfectly understood why I liked the picture. He asked me whether I did not think that a solemn promise such as we had made might be broken under certain circumstances. I said I did not think so. He lost his temper completely, and said I was a coward. I still refused to quarrel with him, and he grew more and more insulting, until at last he began a sentence which I would not let him end, to the effect that, could Donna Bianca have been there to judge us both, she might wish the promise broken — I suppose that would have been his inference — if she could have seen that the man she had loved had fallen so low as to love the lady to whom I referred a little while ago. He named her. I answered that Donna Bianca never meant that our promise should shield the liar who slandered a good and defenceless woman, because his name chanced to be Campodonico. We told our seconds that we had quarrelled about the talent of Zichy, the painter of the picture, because no immediate and better excuse suggested itself. That is the whole story.”

  “It is a very strange one,” said Laura, in a low voice, and looking up at his pale face. “If people only knew the truth about what they
see! Tell me, Signor Ghisleri, is it a fact that you did not fire at him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you not?”

  “Because — if you really care to know — I still felt bound to my promise, and I should never have forgiven myself if I had hurt him. Will you say that you understand the rest of the story, and will you forgive me if I let it be thought that the duel was about you?”

  “Indeed I forgive you,” Laura answered without hesitation. “You acted splendidly all through, and I would not—”

  “Please do not praise me,” said Ghisleri, interrupting her with word and gesture. “Whatever I did was only the consequence of former actions of mine, most of which were bad in themselves. Besides, I have told you all this by way of an apology, and I thank you very sincerely for accepting it. Let the matter end there.”

  “Very well. That need not prevent me from thinking what I please, need it?”

  “I shall always be really grateful for any kind thought you give me.”

  Laura was silent for a moment. She was surprised to find that her old feeling of dislike for him had greatly diminished. She had not even noticed it when he had entered the room, for she had been at once struck by his appearance of ill-health, and her first instinct had been that of sympathy for him. And now, whatever effect his personality produced on her, she could hardly conceal her admiration of his conduct. He had told the story very simply, and she felt that he had told it truthfully, and that she was able to judge of the man from a new point of view. She could not but appreciate the courage he had shown in bearing insult, and at last, in not returning his adversary’s fire, and he rose in her estimation because he had done these things for the sake of a woman he had really loved.

  “May I ask you one question?” she inquired after the pause.

  “Of course, and I will answer it if I can.”

  “I dare say you remember something you told me about yourself a long time ago — how you distrust yourself, and torment yourself about everything you do. Will you tell me whether you have found any fault with your own conduct in this affair, apart from everything which went before the dinner party at which you met Don Gianforte? It would interest me very much to know.”

  Ghisleri thought over his answer for a few seconds before he gave it.

  “Except in so far as I involved your name in the affair,” he said, “I do not think I reproach myself with anything very definite.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when the door opened, and Donald announced Don Francesco and Donna Adele Savelli. A very slight shadow passed over Laura’s face, as she rose to meet her step-sister, but Ghisleri remained cold and impassive. Adele started perceptibly, as Laura had done, when she saw him, and Ghisleri was struck by the change in her own appearance. Her expression was that of a woman who is in almost constant pain, and who has grown restless under it, and fears its return at any moment. Her eyes turned uneasily, glancing about the room in all directions, and avoiding the faces of those present. She was pale, too, and looked altogether ill.

  “I am so glad to see you, Ghisleri,” she said, after she had kissed the air somewhere in the neighbourhood of Laura’s cheek. “I had no idea you were out already, and as we are going away to-morrow, I was afraid I might not meet you.”

  “Are you going out of town so soon?” asked Ghisleri, in some surprise.

  “Yes, I am ill, and they say I must go to the country. Do you remember when you met me in the street, and recommended sulphonal? I took it, and it did me good for some time. But then, all at once, I found it did not act so well, and I lost my sleep again. I want the doctors to give me something, but they say all those things become a habit — chloral, you know, and morphia, and a great many things. As if I cared! I would not mind any habit if I could only sleep — and I see things all night — ugh! it is horrible! Have you ever had insomnia? It is quite the most dreadful thing in the world.”

  She shuddered, and Ghisleri could see well enough that the suffering to which she referred was not at all imaginary.

  “No,” he answered. “I have never had anything of that kind. When I go to bed at all I sleep five or six hours very soundly.”

  “How I envy you that! Even five or six hours — I, who used to sleep nine, and always ten after a ball. And now I very often do not close my eyes all night. The sulphonal did me so much good. Can you not tell me of something else?”

  “The best way to get over it would be to find out what causes it, and cure that,” observed Ghisleri. “Generally, too, a quiet and healthy life, exercise, plain food, and a good conscience will do good.” He laughed a little as he spoke, and then he noticed that Adele was looking at him rather strangely. He wondered idly whether her mind were wandering in some other direction.

  “Of course,” he continued, “you have no idea of what produces the trouble. If you could find that out, it would be simpler.”

  “Yes, indeed,” assented Adele, with a forced smile. “If all that is necessary were to have a good conscience and walk an hour or two every day, I should soon get well.”

  “I have no doubt you will in any case. Are you going to Gerano, or to your own place?”

  “To Gerano. It is warmer. Castel Savello is too high for the spring. I should freeze there. It would be a charity if you would drive out and spend a day or two with us, when you are stronger. I wish you would come out and see us, Laura,” she said, turning to her step-sister, to whom Francesco was talking in a low voice. “You used to like Gerano when we were girls. Do you remember dear old Don Tebaldo, who used to shed tears because you were a Protestant?”

  “Indeed I do. I hear he is alive still. It is two years since I was there the last time. Francesco has been telling me all about your illness. I am so sorry. I should think you would do better to consult some good specialist. But, of course, the country can do you no harm.”

  “I hope not,” said Adele, with sudden despondency. “I have borne enough already. I could not bear much more.”

  “Nobody can understand what is the matter with her,” observed Francesco, and his tone showed that he did not care.

  “You have let her dance too much this winter,” said Laura, addressing him. “You ought to keep her from over-tiring herself.”

  “It is not easy to prevent Adele from doing anything she wishes to do,” answered Savelli. “This winter she has insisted on going everywhere. I have warned her a hundred times, but she would not listen to me, and of course this is the result.”

  “When did it begin?” asked Ghisleri, who seemed interested in Adele’s mysterious illness. “When did you first lose your sleep?”

  “You remember,” she answered. “We were just talking of our meeting in the street, and the sulphonal. It was about that time — a little before that, of course, for I had been suffering several days when I met you.”

  “Ah, yes — I remember when that was,” said Ghisleri, in a tone of reflection.

  He joined in the conversation during a few minutes longer, and then took leave of the three. Formerly he would have gone to spend an hour or two with Maddalena, but he had no inclination to do so now. He would gladly have stayed with Laura if the Savelli couple had not come. He wished to be alone, now, and to think over what he had done. It was the first time that he had ever told the story of his love for Bianca Corleone to any one, and calm as he had seemed while telling it, he had felt a very strong emotion. He was glad to be at home again, alone with his own thoughts, and with the picture that reminded him of the dead woman. He knew that she would have forgiven him for speaking of her to-day as he had spoken, and to such a woman as Laura Arden. For in his heart he compared the two. There had been grand lines in Bianca Corleone’s character, as there were in that of her passionate brother, as Ghisleri believed there must be in Laura Arden’s also, and great generosities, the readiness to go to any length for the sake of real passion, the power to hate honestly, to love faithfully, and to forgive wholly — all things which Pietro missed in himself. And Laura had to-day
waked the memory of that great love which had once filled his existence, and which had not ended with the life that had gone out before its day, in all its beauty and freshness. He was grateful to her for that, and he sat long in his chair after his lonely meal, thinking of her and of the other, and of poor Maddalena dell’ Armi, whose very name, sounding in his imagination, sent a throb of remorse through his heart.

  A pencil lay near him and he took a sheet of paper and began to write, as he often did when he was alone, scribbling verses without rhyme, and often with little meaning except in their connection with his thoughts. He was no poet.