Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The priest, having paid his little score, carefully folded his newspaper and put it into the wide pocket of his cassock. Then he gathered up the collar of his big cloak behind him, as he sat, and began to edge his way out from behind the little marble table. But the long folds had fallen far on each side — so far that Bosio had unawares sat down upon the cloth, and as the priest tried to get out, he felt the cloak being dragged from under him. The priest stopped and turned, just as Bosio rose with an apology on his lips, which became an exclamation of surprise, as he began to speak.

  “Don Teodoro!” he cried. “You were next to me, and I did not see you!”

  The priest’s eyelids contracted to help his imperfect sight, and he smiled as he moved nearer to Bosio.

  “Bosio!” he exclaimed, when he had recognized him. “I am almost blind, but I was sure I knew your voice.”

  “You are in Naples, and you have not let me know it?” said Bosio, reproachfully and interrogatively.

  “I have not been in Naples two hours, and have just left my bag at my usual quarters with Don Matteo. Then I came here to get a cup of coffee, and now I was going to you. Besides, it is the tenth of December. You know that I always come on the tenth every year, and stay until the twentieth, in order to be back in Muro four days before Christmas. But I am glad I have met you here, for I should have missed you at the Palazzo.”

  “Yes,” said Bosio, “I am glad that we have met. Sit with me, now, while I drink a cup of chocolate. Then we will do whatever you wish.” He sat down again. “I am glad you have come, Don Teodoro,” he added thoughtfully. “I am very glad you have come.”

  Don Teodoro produced a pair of silver spectacles as he reseated himself, and proceeded to settle them very carefully on his enormous nose. Then he turned to Bosio, and looked at him.

  “Have you been ill?” he asked, after a careful scrutiny of the pallid, nervous face.

  “No.” Bosio looked out of the window, avoiding the other’s gaze. “I am nervous to-day. I slept badly; and I have been walking, and have not breakfasted. Oh! no — I am not ill. I am never ill. I have excellent health. And you?” He turned to his companion again. “How are you? Always the same?”

  “Always the same,” answered the priest. “I grow old, that is the only change. After all, it is not a bad one, since we must change in some way. It is better than growing young — better than growing young again,” he repeated, shaking his head sadly. “Since the payment must be made, it is better that the day of reckoning should come nearer, year by year.”

  “For me it has come,” said Bosio, in a low voice, and his chin sank upon his breast, as he leaned back, clasping his hands before him on the edge of the marble table. The priest looked at him anxiously and in silence. The two would certainly have met later in the day, or on the morrow, and the accident of their meeting at the café had only brought them together a few hours earlier. For the hard-working country parish priest came yearly to Naples for a few days before Christmas, as he had said, and the first visit he made, after depositing his slender luggage at the house of the ecclesiastic with whom he always stopped, was to Bosio Macomer, his old pupil.

  In his loneliness, that morning, Bosio had thought of Don Teodoro and had wished to see him. It had occurred vaguely to him that the priest generally made a visit to the city about that time of the year, but he had never realized that Don Teodoro always arrived on the same day, the tenth of December, and had done so unfailingly for many years past.

  Before he had been curate of the distant village of Muro, which belonged to the Serra family, Don Teodoro had been tutor to Bosio Macomer. He had lived in Naples as a priest at large, a student, and in those days, to some extent, a man of the world. When Bosio was grown up, his tutor had remained his friend — the only really intimate friend he had in the world, and a true and devoted one. It was perhaps because he was too much attached to Bosio that Matilde Macomer had induced him at last to accept the parish in the mountains with the chaplaincy of the ancestral castle of the Serra, — an office which was a total sinecure, as the family had rarely gone thither to spend a few weeks, even in the days of the late prince. Matilde hated the place for its appalling gloominess and wild scenery, and Veronica, to whom it now belonged, had never seen it at all. It had the reputation of being haunted by all manner of ghosts and goblins, and during the first ten years following the Italian annexation of Naples, the surrounding mountains had been infested by outlaws and brigands. But Don Teodoro, as curate and chaplain, received a considerable stipend which enabled him to procure for himself books at his pleasure, when he could bring himself to curtail the daily and yearly charities in which he spent almost all he received.

  He was, indeed, a man torn between two inclinations which almost amounted to passions, — charity and the love of learning, — and their action was so evenly balanced that it was a real pain to him either to deny himself the book he coveted, or to forfeit the pleasure of giving the money it would cost to the poor. He had sometimes kept the last note he had left at the end of the month for many days, quite unable to decide whether he should send it to Naples for a new volume, or buy clothes with it for some half-clad child. So sincere was he in both longings, that after he had disposed of the money in one way or the other, he almost invariably had an acute fit of self-reproach. His common sense alone told him that when he had given away nine-tenths of all he received, he had the right to spend the other tenth upon such food for his mind as was almost more indispensable to him than bread. But, besides this, he had been engaged for twenty years upon a history of the Church, in compiling which he believed he was doing a work of the highest importance to mankind; so that it appeared to him a duty to expend, from time to time, a certain amount of money in order to procure such books, old and new, as were necessary for his studies. As a matter of fact, the seasons themselves decided his conduct in these difficulties; for in cold weather, or times of scarcity, his charity outran his desire for books; whereas, in the warm weather, and when there was plenty, and no pitiful starved faces gathered about his door, he bought books, instead of searching for the few who were still in need.

  In his youth, Don Teodoro had travelled much. He had accompanied a mission to Africa at the beginning of his life, and had afterwards wandered about Europe, being at that time, as yet, more studious than charitable, and possessed of a small independence left him by his father, who had been an officer in the Neapolitan army in the old days. He had seen many things and known many men of many nations, before he had at last settled in Muro, in the little priest’s house, under the shadow of the dismal castle, and close to the church. There he lived now, all the year round, excepting the ten days which he annually spent in Naples. The little house was full of books, and there was a big, old shaky press, containing his manuscripts, the work of his whole life. He had neither friends nor companions of his own class, but he was beloved by all the people. Playing on his name, Teodoro, in their dialect, they called him, O prevete d’oro’— ‘the priest of gold.’ And many said that he had performed miracles, when he had fasted in Lent.

  This was practically Bosio Macomer’s only intimate friend. For although the intimacy had been interrupted for years, by circumstances, it had never been checked by any action or word of either. It is true that neither was, as a rule, in need of friendship, nor desirous of cultivating it. Learning and charity absorbed the priest’s whole life. Bosio’s existence, of which Don Teodoro knew in reality nothing, had moved in the vicious circle of a single passion, which he could never acknowledge, and which excluded, for common caution’s sake, anything like intimacy with other men. But Bosio had not ceased to look upon the priest as the best man he had ever known, and in spite of his own errings, he was still quite able to appreciate goodness in others; and Don Teodoro had always remembered his pupil as one of the few men to whom he had been accustomed to speak freely of his hopes, and sympathies, and aspirations, feeling sure of appreciation from a nature at once refined and reticent, though itself hard to
understand. For Don Teodoro was, strange to say, painfully sensitive to ridicule, though in all other respects a singularly brave man, morally and physically. As a child or as a boy, he had been laughed at by his companions for his extraordinary nose and his short sight; and he had never recovered from the childish suffering thus inflicted upon him by thoughtless children. The fear of being ridiculous had largely influenced him through life, and had really contributed much towards deciding him to accept the cure of the wild mountain town.

  Bosio’s almost solemn words, as his chin fell upon his breast, and he clasped his hands before him, suddenly recalled to the priest the years they had spent together, the confidence there had been between them, the interest he had once felt in Bosio’s fortune, — as an object once daily familiar, and fresh once and not without beauty, then long hidden for years, and coming suddenly to sight again, moth-eaten, dusty, and all but destroyed, is oddly painful to him who used it long ago, and then sees it when it is fit only to be thrown away.

  “You are suffering,” said Don Teodoro, leaning forward upon the marble table and peering through his silver-rimmed spectacles into Bosio’s pale face, and gentle, exhausted eyes.

  The priest’s nervous, emaciated hand softly pressed the sleeve of the younger man’s coat, and the fantastic features grew wonderfully gentle and kind. It was the transformation that came over them whenever any one was visibly poor, or starving, or sorrowing, or hurt, — the change which a beautiful passion brings to the ugliest face in the world.

  Bosio smiled faintly as he saw it, and a little hope was breathed into his heart, as though somewhere, at some immeasurable distance, there might be a possibility of salvation from the ruin and wreck of his horrible life.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am suffering. It is a great suffering. I do not think that I can live much longer.”

  “Can I do nothing?” asked Don Teodoro.

  Bosio still smiled, as a man smiles in torture when one speaks to him of peace.

  “If I believed that anything could be done,” he said, “I should not suffer as I do. I have lived a bad life, and the time has come when I must pay the score. But it is not my fault if things are as they are — it is not all my fault.”

  The priest sighed, and looked away after a moment.

  “We have all done some one great wrong thing in our lives,” he said gently. “The price may perhaps be paid to God in good, as well as to man in pain.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  BOSIO SHOOK HIS head, and a long silence followed. Once or twice he roused himself, stirred the cup of chocolate which the waiter had set before him, and sipped a teaspoonful of it absently. The corner where the two men sat together was quiet, but from the front of the café came the continual clatter of plates and glasses, the echo of feet, and the ring of voices; for it was just midday, and the place was full of its habitual frequenters.

  “If we were in church,” said Bosio at last, “and if you were in a confessional—”

  He stopped, and glanced at his companion without completing the sentence.

  “You would make a confession? There are churches near,” said Don

  Teodoro. “I am ready. Will you come?”

  Bosio hesitated.

  “No,” he said at last. “I could tell you nothing without betraying others.”

  “Betraying! Is it a crime that you have on your conscience?” The priest’s voice was low and troubled.

  “Many crimes,” answered Bosio. “The crimes that must come, and that I cannot prevent by living, nor hinder by dying.”

  Again there was silence during several minutes.

  “You may trust me as a friend, even if, as a priest, you could not confess all the circumstances to me,” said Don Teodoro, after the long pause. “I do not wish you to make confidences to me, unless you are impelled to do so. But you are in that frame of mind, my dear Bosio, in which a man will sooner or later unburden himself to some one. You might do worse than choose me. I am your friend, I am old, and I know that I am discreet. I am extraordinarily discreet. It may seem strange that I should say so myself, but my own life has taught me that I am to be trusted with secrets.”

  “Yes,” replied Bosio. “You must have heard strange things sometimes under the seal of confession.”

  “I have known of strange things.” Don Teodoro’s face grew sad and thoughtful, and Bosio, seeing it, suddenly made up his mind.

  He leaned far back against the painted wall for a moment, with half-closed eyes. Then he drew nearer to his friend, so that he spoke close to the latter’s ear, though he looked down at the table before him. His nervous fingers played with the teaspoon in the saucer of his cup.

  It was a strange confession, there in the corner of the crowded café at midday, and those who glanced idly at the two men from a distance would hardly have guessed that an act in a mysterious life was before their eyes — an act which was itself but a verbal recapitulation of many actions past, but which to the speaker had an enormous importance of its own, and an influence on the future of all concerned.

  Not much had been needed to break through the barrier of Bosio’s reticence. Walking through the streets that morning he had for a moment even thought of telling some of his story to Taquisara. It was far easier to tell it to the only true friend he had in the world, to one in whom he had confided as a boy and had trusted as a young man. He told almost all. He confessed that his love of many years had been his brother’s wife, and though he spoke no word of her love for him, the old priest knew the evil truth from the man’s tone and look. For the rest he spared neither Matilde nor any one else, but told Don Teodoro all the truth, and all his anxious fears for Veronica’s safety, if he should not marry her, with all his horror of his own shame if he should yield to the pressure brought upon him.

  Don Teodoro’s expression changed more than once while he listened, but he never turned his head nor moved in his seat.

  “You see what I am,” said Bosio, at last. “You see what my people are. Indeed, I need a confessor, if one could save my soul; but I need a friend even more, for through me that poor girl is in danger of her life. That is her choice — to die or to be my wife. Mine is, to see her murdered or to do an unutterably shameful thing — or to see the woman I love driven out of the world with infamy for the crimes she has not committed, and the fear of that disgrace is making her mad. It is for her, and for Veronica! What do I care about myself? What have I left to care for? What I have done, I have done. I am not good, I am not religious, I am perhaps a worse sinner than most men, and a poorer believer than many. But I will not be the instrument of these deeds — and yet, if I refuse — there is death, or shame, or both, to those I love! At least I have spoken, and you will not betray me. It has been a relief, a moment’s respite from torture. I thank you for it, my friend, and I wish I could repay you. You cannot give me advice, for I have twisted and turned it all in fifty ways, and there is no escape. You cannot help me, for no one can. But you have done me some little momentary good, just by sitting there and hearing my story. Beyond that there is nothing to be done.”

  The wretched man closed his eyes, and again leaned back against the bright red wall, which threw his white face and dark-ringed eyes into strong and painful relief. Don Teodoro was silent, bending his mind upon the hideous problem. Bosio misunderstood him and spoke again without moving.

  “I know,” he said. “You need not speak. I know by heart all the reproaches I deserve, and I know that no human being, much less a holy man like yourself, could possibly feel anything but horror at all this—”

  “I am very far from being a holy man,” interrupted the priest. “If I feel horror, it is for what has been, and may be, but not for you. Bosio—” he hesitated a moment. “Will you come with me to Muro, and leave all this?” he asked suddenly. “Will you come out of the world for a while? No — I am not proposing to you to make a religious retreat. I wish I could. I know the world, and you, and your people, for I lived long among you, and I know that one cann
ot change one’s soul, as one changes one’s coat — nor enter upon a retreat as one springs into the sea for a bath in hot weather. What you have made yourself, you are. Heaven itself would need time to unmake you. I speak just as one man to another. Come with me to the mountains for a week, a month — as long as you will. It is dreary and cold, and you will have to eat what you can get; but you will have peace, for nobody will come up there to disturb you. Meanwhile, something may happen. You are overwrought by all you have seen and heard and felt. Whatever the countess may have said, Donna Veronica is quite safe. My dear Bosio, people in your rank of life do not murder one another for money nowadays. It is laughable, the mere idea of it—”

  “Laughable!” Bosio turned and looked at him. “If you had seen her eyes, you would find it hard to laugh, I think. Such things happen rarely, perhaps, but they happen sometimes.”

  Don Teodoro was not persuaded. He thought that Bosio, in his excited state, very much overestimated the danger.

  “At all events,” he said, “nothing will happen, so long as there is the possibility that you may marry her. If you come with me, you will at least have time to think before acting. But here, you may be forced to act before you have been able to think.”

  But Bosio shook his head slowly.

  “There are difficulties which can be helped by putting them off,” he answered. “This is not one. You forget that in just three weeks my brother will be ruined — absolutely ruined — if he cannot pay. If I stayed that time with you, I should come back to find him a beggar — or obliged to throw himself upon Veronica’s mercy and charity for his daily bread and for a roof to cover him.”

  “There is one other way,” said the priest, thoughtfully. “There is one thing left for you to do, if you have courage to do it. And you know better than I what chance there would be of success. It is what I should do myself. It is a heroic remedy, but it may save everything yet.”