Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She did not rise, nor hold out her hand, but pointed to a chair near her, as she spoke.

  “I asked you to come,” she said, “because I wish to speak to you about Gloria.”

  Griggs bent his head, sat down, and waited with a perfectly impassive face. Possibly there was a rather unusual aggressiveness in the straight lines of his jaw and his even lips. There was a short silence before Francesca spoke again.

  “Do you know what you have done?” she asked, finishing a stitch and looking quietly into the man’s deep eyes.

  He met her glance calmly, but said nothing, merely bending his head again, very slightly.

  “It is very wicked,” said she, and she began to make another stitch, looking down again.

  “I have no doubt that you think so,” answered Paul Griggs, slowly nodding a third time.

  “It is not a question of opinion. It is a matter of fact. You have ruined the life of an innocent woman.”

  “If social position is the object of existence, you are right,” he replied. “I have nothing to say.”

  “I am not speaking of social position,” said Donna Francesca, continuing to make stitches.

  “Then I am afraid that I do not understand you.”

  “Can you conceive of nothing more important to the welfare of men and women than social position?”

  “It is precisely because I do, that I care so little what society thinks. I do not understand you.”

  “I have known you some time,” said Francesca. “I had not supposed that you were a man without a sense of right and wrong. That is the question which is concerned now.”

  “It is a question which may be answered from more than one point of view. You look at it in one way, and I in another. With your permission, we will differ about it, since we can never agree.”

  “There is no such thing as differing about right and wrong,” answered Donna Francesca, with a little impatience. “Right is right, and wrong is wrong. You cannot possibly believe that you have done right. Therefore you know that you have done wrong.”

  “That sort of logic assumes God at the expense of man,” said Griggs, calmly.

  Francesca looked up with a startled expression in her eyes, for she was shocked, though she did not understand him.

  “God is good, and man is sinful,” she answered, in the words of her simple faith.

  “Why?” asked Griggs, gravely.

  He waited for her answer to the most tremendous question which man can ask, and he knew that she could not answer him, though she might satisfy herself.

  “I have never talked about religion with an atheist,” she said at last, slowly pushing her needle through the heavy satin.

  “I am not an atheist, Princess.”

  “A Protestant, then—”

  “I am not a Protestant. I am a Catholic, as you are.”

  She looked up suddenly and faced him with earnest eyes.

  “Then you are not a good Catholic,” she said. “No good Catholic could speak as you do.”

  “Even the Apostles had doubts,” answered Griggs. “But I do not pretend to be good. Since I am a man, I have a right to be a man, and to be treated as a man. If the right is not given me freely, I will take it. You cannot expect a body to behave as though it were a spirit. A man cannot imitate an invisible essence, any more than a sculptor can imitate sound with a shape of clay. When we are spirits, we shall act as spirits. Meanwhile we are men and women. As a man, I have not done wrong. You have no right to judge me as an angel. Is that clear?”

  “Terribly clear!” Francesca slowly shook her head. “And terribly mistaken,” she added.

  “You see,” answered the young man. “It is impossible to argue the point. We do not speak the same language. You, by your nature, believe that you can imitate a spirit. You are spiritual by intuition and good by instinct, according to the spiritual standard of good. I am, on the contrary, a normal man, and destined to act as men act. I cannot understand you and you, if you will allow me to say so, cannot possibly understand me. That is why I propose that we should agree to differ.”

  “And do you think you can sweep away all right and wrong, belief and unbelief, salvation and perdition, with such a statement as that?”

  “Not at all,” replied Griggs. “You tell me that I am wicked. That only means that I am not doing what you consider right. You deny my right of judgment, in favour of your own. You make witnesses of spirits against the doings of men. You judge my body and condemn my soul. And there is no possible appeal from your tribunal, because it is an imaginary one. But if you will return to the facts of the case, you will find it hard to prove that I have ruined the life of an innocent woman, as you told me that I had.”

  “You have! There is no denying it.”

  “Socially, and it is the fault of society. But society is nothing to me. I would be an outcast from society for a much less object than the love of a woman, provided that I had not to do anything dishonourable.”

  “Ah, that is it! You forget that a man’s honour is his reputation at the club, while the honour of a woman is founded in religion, and maintained upon a single one of God’s commandments — as you men demand that it shall be.”

  Griggs was silent for a moment. He had never heard a woman state the case so plainly and forcibly, and he was struck by what she said. He could have answered her quickly enough. But the answer would not have been satisfactory to himself.

  “You see, you have nothing to say,” she said. “But in one way you are right. We cannot argue this question. I did not ask you to come in order to discuss it. I sent for you to beg you to do what is right, as far as you can. And you could do much.”

  “What should you think right?” asked Griggs, curious to know what she thought.

  “You should take Gloria to her father, as you are his friend. Since she has left her husband, she should live with her father.”

  “That is a very simple idea!” exclaimed the young man, with something almost like a laugh.

  “Right is always simple,” answered Francesca, quietly. “There is never any doubt about it.”

  She looked at him once, and then continued to work at her embroidery. His eyes rested on the pure outline of her maidenlike face, and he was silent for a moment. Somehow, he felt that her simplicity of goodness rebuked the simplicity of his sin.

  “You forget one thing,” said Griggs at last. “You make a spiritual engine of mankind, and you forget the mainspring of the world. You leave love out of the question.”

  “Perhaps — as you understand love. But you will not pretend to tell me that love is necessarily right, whatever it involves.”

  “Yes,” answered the young man. “That is what I mean. Unless your God is a malignant and maleficent demon, the overwhelming passions which take hold of men, and against which no man can fight beyond a certain point, are right, because they exist and are irresistible. As for what you propose that I should do, I cannot do it.”

  “You could, if you would,” said Francesca. “There is nothing to hinder you, if you will.”

  “There is love, and I cannot.”

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  PAUL GRIGGS LEFT Francesca with the certainty in his own mind that she had produced no impression whatever upon him, but he was conscious that his opinion of her had undergone a change. He was suddenly convinced that she was the best woman he had ever known, and that Gloria’s accusations were altogether unjust and unfounded. Recalling her face, her manner, and her words, he knew that whatever influence she might have had upon Reanda, there could be no ground for Gloria’s jealousy. She certainly disturbed him strangely, for Gloria was perfect in his eyes, and he accepted all she said almost blindly. The fact that Reanda had struck her now stood in his mind as the sole reason for the separation of husband and wife.

  Gloria was far from realizing what influence she had over the man she loved. It seemed to her, on the contrary, that she was completely dominated by him, and she was glad to feel his strength at every tu
rn. Her enormous vanity was flattered by his care of her, and by his uncompromising admiration of her beauty as well as of her character, and she yielded to him purposely in small things that she might the better feel his strength, as she supposed. The truth, had she known it, was that he hardly asserted himself at all, and was ready to make any and every sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. He had sacrificed his pride to borrow money from a friend to meet the first necessities of their life together. He would have given his life as readily.

  They led a strangely lonely existence in the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. The world had very soon heard of what had happened, and had behaved according to its lights. Walking alone one morning while Griggs was at work, Gloria had met Donna Tullia Meyer, whom she had known in society, and thoughtlessly enough had bowed as though nothing had happened. Donna Tullia had stared at her coldly, and then turned away. After that, Gloria had realized what she had already understood, and had either not gone out without Griggs, or, when she did, had kept to the more secluded streets, where she would not easily meet acquaintances.

  Griggs worked perpetually, and she watched him, delighting at first in the difference between his way of working and that of Angelo Reanda; delighted, too, to be alone with him, and to feel that he was writing for her. She could sit almost in silence for hours, half busy with some bit of needlework, and yet busy with him in her thoughts. It seemed to her that she understood him — she told him so, and he believed her, for he felt that he could not be hard to understand.

  He was as singularly methodical as Reanda was exceptionally intuitive. She felt that his work was second to her in his estimation of it, but that, since they both depended upon it for their livelihood, they had agreed together to put it first. With Reanda, art was above everything and beyond all other interests, and he had made her feel that he worked for art’s sake rather than for hers. There was a vast difference in the value placed upon her by the two men, in relation to their two occupations.

  “I have no genius,” said Griggs to her one day. “I have no intuitions of underlying truth. But I have good brains, and few men are able to work as hard as I. By and bye, I shall succeed and make money, and it will be less dull for you.”

  “It is never dull for me when I can be with you,” she answered.

  As he looked, the sunshine caught her red auburn hair, and the love-lights played with the sunshine in her eyes. Griggs knew that life had no more dulness for him while she lived, and as for her, he believed what she said.

  Without letting him know what she was doing, she wrote to her father. It was not an easy letter to write, and she thought that she knew the savage old Scotchman’s temper. She told him everything. At such a distance, it was easy to throw herself upon his mercy, and it was safer to write him all while he was far away, so that there might be nothing left to rouse his anger if he returned. She had no lack of words with which to describe Reanda’s treatment of her; but she was also willing to take all the blame of the mistake she had made in marrying him. She had ruined her life before it had begun, she said. She had taken the law into her own hands, to mend it as best she could. Her father knew that Paul Griggs was not like other men — that he was able to protect her against all comers, and that he could make the world fear him if he could not make it respect her. Her father must do as he thought right. He would be justified, from the world’s point of view, in casting her off and never remembering her existence again, but she begged him to forgive her, and to think kindly of her. Meanwhile, she and Griggs were wretchedly poor, and she begged her father to continue her allowance.

  If Paul Griggs had seen this letter, he would have been startled out of some of his belief in Gloria’s perfection. There was a total absence of any moral sense of right or wrong in what she wrote, which would have made a more cynical man than Griggs was look grave. The request for the continuation of the allowance would have shocked him and perhaps disgusted him. The whole tone was too calm and business-like. It was too much as though she were fulfilling a duty and seeking to gain an object rather than appealing to Dalrymple to forgive her for yielding to the overwhelming mastery of a great passion. It was cold, it was calculating, and it was, in a measure, unwomanly.

  When she had sent the letter, she told Griggs what she had done, but her account of its contents satisfied him with one of those brilliant false impressions which she knew so well how to convey. She told him rather what she should have said than what she had really written, and, as usual, he found that she had done right.

  It was not that she would not have written a better letter if she had been able to compose one. She had done the best that she could. But the truth lay there, or the letter was composed as an expression of what she knew that she ought to feel, and was not the actual outpouring of an overfull heart. She could not be blamed for not feeling more deeply, nor for her inability to express what she did not feel. But when she spoke of it to the man she loved, she roused herself to emotion easily enough, and her words sounded well in her own ears and in his. To the last, he never understood that she loved such emotion for its own sake, and that he helped her to produce it in herself. In the comparatively simple view of human nature which he took in those days, it seemed to him that if a woman were willing to sacrifice everything, including social respectability itself, for any man, she must love him with all her heart. He could not have understood that any woman should give up everything, practically, in the attempt to feel something of which she was not capable.

  In reply to her letter, Dalrymple sent a draft for a considerable sum of money, through his banker. The fact that it was addressed to her at Via della Frezza was the only indication that he had received her letter. In due time, Gloria wrote to thank him, but he took no notice of the communication.

  “He never loved me,” she said to Griggs as the days went by and brought her nothing from her father. “I used to think so, when I was a mere child, but I am sure of it now. You are the only human being that ever loved me.”

  She was pale that day, and her white hand sought his as she spoke, with a quiver of the lip.

  “I am glad of it,” he answered. “I shall not divide you with any one.”

  So their life went on, somewhat monotonously after the first few weeks. Griggs worked hard and earned more money than formerly, but he discovered very soon that it would be all he could do to support Gloria in bare comfort. He would not allow her to use her own money for anything which was to be in common, or in which he had any share whatever.

  “You must spend it on yourself,” he said. “I will not touch it. I will not accept anything you buy with it — not so much as a box of cigarettes. You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels.”

  “You are unkind,” she answered. “You know how much pleasure it would give me to help you.”

  “Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you must try. Men never do that sort of thing.”

  And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped the subject, inwardly pleased with him, and knowing that he was right.

  His strength fascinated her, and she admired his manliness of heart and feeling as she had never admired any qualities in any one during her life. But he did not amuse her, even as much as she had been amused by Reanda. He was melancholic, earnest, hard working, not inclined to repeat lightly the words of love once spoken in moments of passion. He meant, perhaps, to show her how he loved her by what he would do for her sake, rather than tell her of it over and over again. And he worked as he had never worked before, hour after hour, day after day, sitting at his writing-table almost from morning till night. Besides his correspondence, he was now writing a book, from which he hoped great things — for her. It was a novel, and he read her day by day the pages he wrote. She talked over with him what he had written, and her imagination and dramatic intelligence, forever grasping at situations of emotion for herself and others, suggested many variations upon his plan.

  “It is my book,” she often said, when they had been talking all the even
ing.

  It was her book, and it was a failure, because it was hers and not his. Her imagination was disorderly, to borrow a foreign phrase, and she was altogether without any sense of proportion in what she imagined. He did not, indeed, look upon her as intellectually perfect, though for him she was otherwise unapproachably superior to every other woman in the world. But he loved her so wholly and unselfishly that he could not bear to disappoint her by not making use of her suggestions. When she was telling him of some scene she had imagined, her voice and manner, too, were so thoroughly dramatic that he was persuaded of the real value of the matter. Divested of her individuality and transferred in his rather mechanically over-correct language to the black and white of pen and ink, the result was disappointing, even when he read it to her. He knew that it was, and wasted time in trying to improve what was bad from the beginning. She saw that he failed, and she felt that he was not a man of genius. Her vanity suffered because her ideas did not look well on his paper.

  Before he had finished the manuscript, she had lost her interest in it. Feeling that she had, and seeing it in her face, he exerted his strength of will in the attempt to bring back the expression of surprise and delight which the earlier readings had called up, but he felt that he was working uphill and against heavy odds. Nevertheless he completed the work, and spent much time in fancied improvement of its details. At a later period in his life he wrote three successful books in the time he had bestowed upon his first failure, but he wrote them alone.