Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She sat down to wait, strangely affected by what had happened. It is hardly to be wondered at, if the whole thing seemed inexplicable. Even at first she could not suspect Pietro Ghisleri. She would hardly have believed him capable of such an action as he was accused of had she seen him write the letters to which these of Adele were supposed to be answers. And yet those answers were there in the drawer, within reach of her hand. She had not the slightest doubt but that the original of which she had already seen a copy was amongst them. She could take it out and read it if she pleased. It was damning evidence — but she would not have believed in Ghisleri’s guilt for twice as much proof as that. The one thing she was forced to admit was that Adele had really written the letters, though when, or for what purpose, or in what connexion, she could not guess. The whole thing might turn out to be some Carnival jest carried on by correspondence, and of which she had never heard. That was the only explanation she could find, as she waited for Pietro Ghisleri. He came within the hour.

  “Has anything happened?” he asked, as he took her hand. “I thought there was something anxious about your note.”

  “Something very strange has happened,” she answered, looking into his bright blue eyes, and acknowledging for the hundredth time that she would believe him in spite of any testimony to the contrary. “Sit down,” she said. “I have something to give you which seems to belong to you. I will tell you the story afterwards.”

  She opened the drawer again and handed him the envelope. He looked at it in surprise.

  “Am I to read what is inside?” he asked.

  “See for yourself.”

  He took out the letters and looked at them as he had first looked at the outer address. Then, realising that they were addressed to himself, his expression changed. He recollected Adele’s handwriting though she had rarely written to him anything more than an invitation, and he knew the paper on which she wrote. But where or when he had received these particular ones, or how they had got into Laura’s hands, was a mystery.

  “What are they?” he asked. “Are they old invitations? Why have they been sent to you?”

  “I believe them to be forgeries,” said Laura, “or else that they refer to some standing jest you and she once may have kept up for a time. I have not read them, but I have read a copy of one of them which was sent me, and I know what they are about. I will tell you the whole story afterwards. See for yourself, as I said before.”

  Ghisleri drew out the first sheet.

  “If they are forgeries, they are very cleverly done,” he said, with a laugh. “The person has even imitated my way of opening a letter.”

  His face grew very grave, as Laura watched it while he was reading, and his brow knit together angrily. He read the second and the third, and she could see his anger rising visibly in his eyes as he silently looked at her each time he had finished one of them. When he had reached the end of the last he did not speak for some moments.

  “Did you say that you knew what these letters were about?” he asked at length, in a steady, cold voice.

  “I think so. I read a copy of one of them almost without knowing what I was doing. Adele pretends that you are trying to get money from her for a letter of hers you found at Gerano.”

  “Yes, that is what they are about. It is her doing, but it is my fault.”

  “Your fault!” exclaimed Laura. “But surely there never even was such a letter as she refers to. Do you understand at all?”

  “Yes, I understand much too well. She has done this for a distinct purpose. Tell me in the first place one thing. Do you still trust me in the face of such evidence as this?”

  “I trust you as much as ever,” answered Laura.

  “Thank you,” he said simply, and he looked into her deep eyes a moment before he continued. “There are two stories to tell, yours and mine. Tell yours first. Tell me how you came by the copy you speak of. Who sent it to you, and when?”

  As briefly as she could, Laura gave him all the details she could remember from the day she had received the first request for help from Maria B. It was painful to her to repeat what she could of the substance of the copy sent her, but she went through with it to the end.

  “That letter is not among these,” said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. “It is one of the two which have been kept back for future use. Now let me tell you what I can remember. Do not be surprised that I should never have told you the story before. Since you can trust me in such a matter as this, you will believe me when I say that there was a good reason for not telling you.”

  He gave a concise account of the conversation which had taken place between himself and Adele at the Montevarchi’s party, omitting only what referred to his own suspicions concerning the manner of Arden’s death. If possible, he meant always to conceal that side of the question from Laura. But it was necessary to tell her something about the document constantly mentioned in the letters.

  “There is a story in circulation,” he said, “to the effect that when Donna Adele was ill at Gerano nearly two years ago, she was unwilling to confess to the parish priest, and wrote a confession to be sent to her confessor in Rome. A servant stole it, says the story, and it is supposed to be in existence, passing from hand to hand in society. It is quite possible that she believes that I bought it of the thief. But I doubt even that. She has most probably regained possession of it before attempting this stroke. And this is almost what I suggested to her in a general way, and laughing, as one way of ruining a man. I remember my own words — an injury that would make a woman who loves a man turn upon him. Substitute friendship for love, and the case is almost identical.”

  “Yes,” Laura answered thoughtfully. “Substitute friendship for love.” She hardly knew why she repeated the words, and a moment later a faint colour rose in her cheeks.

  “She has done this thing, therefore, with the deliberate intention of ruining me in your eyes,” said Ghisleri.

  “And she has utterly failed to do so, or even to change my opinion of you a little. But it is very well done. There are people who would have been deceived. The idea of forging — it is not forging — of writing imaginary letters to you herself is masterly.”

  “I do not think she is quite sane. The morphia she takes is beginning to affect her brain. She does not always know what she is doing.”

  “You take far too merciful and charitable a view,” answered Laura, with some scorn.

  “No, on the contrary, if she were quite what she used to be, she would be more dangerous — she would not make mistakes. Two or three years ago she would not have gratuitously thrown herself into danger as she has now. She would not have made such a failure as this.”

  “And what a failure it is! Do you know? It was very puzzling at first. To know positively that you never could have received those letters, and yet to see that they are still in existence, addressed to you, and opened in your peculiar way. I felt as though I were in a dream.”

  “I wonder you did not feel inclined to believe me guilty. The evidence was almost as strong as it could be. In your position I should have hesitated.”

  “Would you have believed such a thing of me, if it had been just as it is, only if the letters had gone to you instead of to me?” asked Laura.

  “Certainly not!” exclaimed Ghisleri, with strong emphasis. “That would be quite another matter.”

  “I do not see that it would. You would have been exactly in my position, as you hinted a moment ago.”

  “I was not thinking of you. The day I do not believe in you I shall not believe in God. You are the last thing I have left to believe in — and the best, my dear friend.”

  He was very much in earnest, as Laura knew from the tone of his voice. But she would not look at him just then, because she felt that he was looking at her, and she preferred that their eyes should not meet.

  “Will you do anything about this?” she asked, after a pause, and not referring to what he had last said. “Will you destroy those vile things?”

 
“Since they are addressed to me, I suppose I have a right to do so,” answered Ghisleri, and he began slowly to tear up the sheets of the first letter.

  “There can be no doubt about their being genuine?” asked Laura, with sudden emotion.

  “Not at all, I should say. But you are the best judge of that. You should know her handwriting better than I. If you like,” he added, with a short laugh, “I will go and show them to her and ask her if she wrote them. Shall I?”

  “Oh, no! Do not do that!” exclaimed Laura, who knew that he was quite capable of following such a course as he suggested.

  There was apparently nothing to be done. Laura believed that any attempt to make use of the two remaining letters would be as abortive as the first, and there could certainly be no use in keeping those which had been sent. On the contrary, it was possible that if they were preserved, chance might throw them into hands in which they might become far more dangerous than they were.

  “Shall I write to Maria B., whoever she is?” asked Laura.

  “You might send her another five francs,” answered Ghisleri, grimly. “It would show her how much you value the documents she has for sale.”

  “I will,” said Laura, with a laugh. “How furious she will be! Of course it is Adele who gets these things.”

  “Of course. Five francs is quite enough.”

  And Laura, little knowing or guessing how it would be used against her, sent a five-franc note with her card in an envelope and addressed it. On the card she had written in pencil, “For Maria B., with best thanks.”

  “There is one other thing I would like to do,” she said. “But I do not know whether you would approve. It would give me such satisfaction — you know I am only a woman, after all.”

  “What is that?” asked Ghisleri, “and why should you need my approval?”

  “Only this. To-morrow, and perhaps the next day, when she is quite sure I must have received those letters, I would like to drive with you in an open carriage where we should be sure to meet Adele. I would give anything to see her face.”

  Ghisleri laughed. The womanly side of Laura’s nature was becoming more apparent of late, and its manifestations pleased and surprised him. He thought Laura would hardly have seemed human if she had not wished to let Adele see how completely the attempt had failed which she had so ingeniously planned and carried out.

  “If anything would make the town talk, that would,” he answered. “The only way to manage it would be to get the Princess to go with you and then take me as—” He stopped short, rather awkwardly.

  “I should rather go without her,” said Laura, turning her face away to hide her amusement at the slip of the tongue of which he had been guilty.

  In Rome, for Ghisleri to be seen driving with the Princess of Gerano and her daughter would have been almost equivalent to announcing his engagement to Laura.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  ADELE HAD NOT anticipated such complete failure in the first instance. The five-franc note with Laura Arden’s card told her plainly enough what her step-sister thought of the matter, but she had no means of finding out whether Ghisleri had been informed of what she had done or not, and her efforts to extract information from him when she met him were not successful. His tone and his manner towards her were precisely the same as formerly, and he was as ready as ever to enter into desultory conversation with her; but if she ventured to lead the talk in such a direction as to find out what she wanted to know, he instantly met her with a counter-allusion to her doings which frightened her and silenced her effectually. So the months passed in a sort of petty skirmishing which led to no positive result, and she secretly planned some further step which should complete those she had already taken, reverse Laura’s judgment, and completely ruin Pietro Ghisleri with her and before the world. The uneasy workings of her unsettled brain grew more and more tortuous every day, until at last she felt unable to reason the question out without the help of some experienced person. She felt quite sure that there must be some way out of all her difficulties, by a short cut to victory, and that a clever man, a good lawyer, for instance, if he could be deceived into believing the story she had concocted, would know how to make use of it against her enemies. The difficulty was two-fold. In the first place she must put together such a body of evidence as no experienced advocate could refuse as ground for an action at law, and, secondly, she must find the said advocate and explain the whole matter to him from her own point of view. The action would be brought in self-defence against Pietro Ghisleri, who would be accused of having systematically attempted to levy blackmail. That was the crude form in which the idea suggested itself to Adele when she set to work.

  Her conviction now was that Pietro was only partially aware of the substance of the lost confession, and that the letter containing it was still at Gerano. This being the case, she could freely speak of it to her lawyer and describe the contents in any way she pleased, so as to turn the existence of the document to her own advantage. In the letters she had sent Laura and in the other two which she kept by her for future use, she had been careful never to say anything conclusive. Maria B. had indeed spoken of the transaction as being ended, but that could be interpreted as the unfounded supposition of a person not fully acquainted with the facts, and desirous of making money out of them as far as possible. The hardest thing would probably be to produce the woman who was supposed to have written to Laura, in case she should be needed. Money well bestowed, however, would do much towards stimulating the memory of some indigent and unscrupulous person, and the part to be played would, after all, be a small and insignificant one. On the other hand, the weak point in the case would be that Adele, while able to produce an unlimited number of her own letters to Ghisleri, would not have a single line of his writing to show. She could, indeed, fall back upon her own natural sense of caution, and declare that she had destroyed all he had written, in the mistaken belief that it would be safer to do so, and her lawyer could taunt his opponent with his folly in not doing likewise; but that would, after all, be rather a poor expedient. Or it might be pretended that Pietro had invariably written to her in a feigned handwriting signing himself, perhaps, with a single initial, as a precaution in case his letters should fall into the wrong hands. In that case she could produce whatever she chose. The best possible plan would be to extract one or two short notes from him upon which an ambiguous construction might be put by the lawyers. All this, Adele reflected, would need considerable time, and several months must elapse before she could expect to be ready. Her mind, too, worked spasmodically, and she was subject to long fits of apathy and extreme depression in the intervals between her short hours of abnormal activity. She knew that this was the result of the morphia she took in such quantities, and she resolved to make a great effort to cure herself of the fatal habit, if it were not already too late.

  As has been said more than once, Adele Savelli had possessed a very determined will, and it had not yet been altogether destroyed. Having once made up her mind to free herself if she could, she made the attempt bravely and systematically. The result was that, in the course of several months, she had reduced the amount of her daily doses very considerably. The suffering was great, but the object to be gained was great also, and she steeled herself to endure all that a woman could. She was encouraged, also, by the fact that her mind began to act more regularly and seemed more reliable. Physically, she was growing very weak and was becoming almost emaciated. Francesco Savelli watched her narrowly, and it was his opinion that she could not last long. The Prince of Gerano was very anxious about her all through the spring which followed the events last described, and his wife, though she was far less fond of Adele than in former times, could not but feel a sorrowful regret as she saw the young life that had begun so brightly wearing itself away before her eyes. But the Princess had consolations in another direction. Laura Arden seemed to grow daily more lovely in her mature beauty, and Herbert was growing out of his babyhood into a sturdy little boy of phenomenal strengt
h and of imperturbably good temper. Laura was headstrong where Ghisleri was concerned, but in all other respects she was herself still.

  The first consequence of Adele’s attempt to break the strong friendship which united Laura and Pietro, was to draw them still more closely together, and to make Laura, at least, more defiant of the world’s opinion than ever. As for Ghisleri, he almost forgot to ask himself questions. The time to separate for the summer was drawing near, and he knew, when he thought of it, what a different parting this one would be from the one which had preceded it a year earlier. But he tried to think of the present and not of the weary months of solitude he looked forward to between June and November or December. He remembered, in spite of himself, how he had more than once enjoyed the lonely life, even refusing invitations to pleasant places rather than lose a single week of an existence so full of charm. But another interest had been growing, slowly, deep-sown, spreading its roots in silence, and fastening itself about his heart while he had not even suspected that it was there at all. Little by little, without visible manifestation, the strong thing had drawn more strength from his own life, mysteriously absorbing into itself the springs of thought and the sources of emotion, unifying them and assimilating them all into something which was a part, and was soon to be the chief part, of his being. And now, above the harrowed surface of that inner ground on which such fierce battles had been fought throughout his years of storm, a soft shoot raised its delicate head, not timidly, but quietly and unobtrusively, to meet the warm sunshine of the happier days to come. He saw it, and knew it, and held his peace, dreading it and yet loving it, for it was love itself; but not knowing truly what the little blade would come to, whether it was to bloom all at once into a bright and poisonous flower of evil, bringing to him the death of all possible love for ever; or whether it would grow up slowly, calm and fair, from leaf to shrub, from shrub to sapling, from sapling at last to tree, straight, tall, and strong, able to face tempest and storm without bending its lofty head, rich to bear for him in the end the stately blossom and the heavenly fruit of passionate true love.