Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he had told Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra. And now, almost on the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serra that he would do his best to make her happy.

  “I am sure you will,” she answered.

  “I should deserve evil things if I did not,” he said, passing his hand over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.

  Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be passionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting heart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, and heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man’s eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he must say something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant, how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours — and the rest. As he thought what he should say, love’s phrase-book turned to a grim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears. But she expected it, of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below which there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had not loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken the truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weakness of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for Matilde’s sake he spoke such words as he could find — lies against himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not clothe — lies against love, against manhood, against God.

  “I have loved you long, Veronica,” he began. “I had not hoped to see this day.”

  The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to deceive all living things to sin.

  He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the shelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the first sound of his words, wondering and thrilled.

  “Is it long? I do not know,” he continued. “It is more than a year, since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in my life — little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, for all I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica, all of it — the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and die for you, in trust and faith, and love of you. You wonder? Beloved — if you knew yourself, you would not wonder that I love you so! There is no man who could save himself, if he lived by your side, as I have lived. You smile at that? Well — you are too young to know yourself, but I am not — I know — I know — I thought I knew too well, and must pay dear for knowing how one might love you and live. But it is not too well, now. It is life, not death. It is hope, not despair — it is all that life and joy can mean, in the highest.”

  He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying on the shelf. Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light in her face, for she believed. And he, in his suffering within, was moved; as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truth and splendid passion on a stage, and the contrast that is between being and seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will, born of certain despair.

  “I am glad,” said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her hand still lingered in his, and he went on.

  “It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the world in his grasp — in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives. But you are making me believe it now — all that I did not dare to think of as even most dimly possible in my lonely life — that is why I thank you, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as I can never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that a man may love a woman. That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if God willed that I might!”

  The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth. His hand burned hers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in the terrible play of acted earnestness. Even his eyes brightened and filled themselves, determined to lie with all of him that lied to her.

  Had he hated her, had it been a vengeance to make her love him in payment of a past debt of wrong, it would have seemed less foully base in his own eyes. But he liked her. She had always trusted him and liked him too, and there had been only kindness between them always. That made it worse, and he knew it. But he could do the worst now, he thought, for he had altogether given over his soul, to leave it in hell, without hope.

  “I pray God that I may be worthy of your love,” said Veronica, gently and earnestly.

  He drew her towards him by her little hand, and himself came softly nearer to her, till his other hand was on her shoulder, drawing her still. She yielded, not knowing what she should do. Quite close she was, and he held her, unresisting, and kissed her. She had known, but she had not realized. The scarlet blood leapt up in maiden shame, and she started back a little. But she thought that he had the right to do it.

  “Good night,” she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she could not stay to look at him.

  “Good night, love,” he whispered.

  He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing in his place. The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the depth of its meaning.

  He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not have done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders, palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to the end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He had even kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.

  He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter of an hour or more; but though he watched the clock’s face, his eyes saw no movement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room was dark.

  Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing lest Veronica might have come back — or her ghost, for he felt as though he had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. She glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.

  “Well?” she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing, pale as death under her rouge.

  He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.

  “It is all over” he said slowly.

  She started forward, not understanding him.

  “Over? Broken off?” she cried, in horror.

  “Oh no!” he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. “It is done. It is agreed. She accepts me.”

  Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for one moment — she, who was so strong.

  “You almost killed me!” she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught the words.

  Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face, blending with the tinge of the paint. He did not move, and she came and stood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning to him.

  “You have saved me,” she said. “I thank you.”

  Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spoke simply, as she looked at him. She had been almost terrible to look at a few moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks. No one could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, as she stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands while her deep eyes melted in his.

  He knew the difference between her and Veronica, and he straightened himself, till he looked rigid, and an unnatural smile just wreathed his lips, half hidden in his silky b
eard. He told himself that he had fallen the last fall, to the very depths; yet he knew that there was a depth below them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge in the thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do.

  “I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon,” she said gently. “I meant it, you know — I meant it all.”

  “I trust to Heaven you did!” answered Bosio.

  “Yes, dear, I meant it,” she said in a voice of gold and velvet. “I will try to mean it still. But — Bosio — look at me!”

  He turned his eyes, but not his face.

  “Yes?” His voice was not above his breath.

  “Yes — but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?”

  “Yes, we must.” He spoke louder, with an effort.

  She drew nearer to him, strong and soft.

  “Yes? Well — but say goodbye — not as yesterday — not as though it were good bye — one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss — one, dear — one—”

  And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and she had her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then he trembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant later he was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as he left her and went to the door without turning.

  He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his face was livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but one thought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, and out upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in, till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stopping then, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, and hand and weapon.

  Before the woman’s kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, Bosio Macomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remote room.

  Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of Almighty God. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he would not do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it, and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he cast himself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave.

  CHAPTER XI.

  IT WAS STILL early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count Bosio Macomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morning newspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few ventured to guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that Count Bosio’s servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about nine o’clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master’s room locked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had found the count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his own revolver lying beside him.

  That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It contained no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.

  That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. In the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind, but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the morning.

  To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might think, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For she understood, and she only, in all the household.

  Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all, the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her consciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things she felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow had struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing but the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until the morning.

  It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great candlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched his still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had been in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for she could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. After she had sat down, she did not move.

  Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as grey as a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said nothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat. When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and she heard that he trod softly. In two hours he came back, knelt again, and again repeated Latin words. She knew that he was doing it for a show of sorrow, and she wished to kill him. Then, when he was softly gone again, she wondered how soon she herself was to die. There were two servants in the room, behind her, keeping watch. They were relieved by two others, changing through the night. She heard them come and go, but did not turn her head.

  When the dawn forelightened, like the ghost of a buried day risen from the grave to see its past deeds, she was not yet dead. She had once read how the murderers of Vittoria Accoramboni had been torn with red-hot pincers and otherwise grievously tortured, and how knives had been thrust deep into their breasts just where the heart was not, but near it, and how they had died hard, for they had lived more than half an hour with the knives in them, and at the last had been quartered alive. She had not believed what she had read, but now she knew that it was true. She envied them the searing, the tearing, and the knives which had at last killed them, though they had died so hard.

  The wan dawn turned the dead man’s face from waxen yellow to stone grey. The servants saw it, whispered, and closed the inner shutters, and the yellow candle-light shone again in the room. Any light is better than daylight on a dead face.

  Matilde sat still, bowed and covered. Fixed in the world of grief, the hours of sorrow passed her by. There was neither night nor day in the dead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily.

  Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling, ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden. In that city, one may not lie in his home more than one day after he is dead. They set down what they bore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioning faces and heard them whispering. Then one of them, with some reverence and gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyes bade another lift the feet. But Matilde rose then and came between them and the dead. They thought that she would look at him once more, and they drew back, while she looked, for she bent over his face. But the shawl about her head fell about her, and they could not see that she kissed him. They waited.

  The great woman put her hands about him, and bowed herself, and lifted him from the couch, and the men could not believe it when they saw her turn with him and lay him down in his coffin, alone, with no one to help her.

  For she was very strong. She stood and looked down at him a long time, and once she stopped and moved one of his crossed hands, which touched the edge. And then she drew from her neck, from beneath the shawl, a piece of fine black lace, and laid it gently over and about his head.

  “Cover it,” she said to the men, and she stood waiting, lest they should touch him with their hands.

  She had seen his face for the last time, and when they had covered him, they laid the coffin in another of lead which they had brought, and she stood quite still, watching the gleaming melted stuff that ran along the edges of the grey lead, like quicksilver, under the hot tool of copper. When that was done, with main strength they laid him in the third, which
was covered with black velvet. And there were screws.

  At last they went away, and Matilde set the tall candlesticks on each side of the velvet thing, and looked at it again. Then she, too, with still covered head, went towards the door. But between the coffin and the door, she stood still, swaying a little, till she fell to her full length backwards and straight, as a cypress tree falls when it is cut down. But she was not dead, for she was too strong to die then. The servants carried her away to her own room, calling others to help them, for she was heavy, and they had to take her down the stairs. It was afternoon then, and when she came to herself and opened her eyes, she bitterly cursed the day, for it would have been good to die. But she never went again to the room where she had watched.

  She lay still a long time, alone in silence. Then, from a room beyond hers, came the wild crash of her husband’s laughter. She sat up. Her face was grim and terrible, ghastly and stained with rouge, as the shawl fell back upon her shoulders. She sat up and listened, and her smooth lips twisted themselves angrily, one against the other, as a tiger’s sometimes do, when there is blood in the air. She knew now that she was really alive, for she thought of Veronica.

  Veronica had not known in the night. Her rooms were at the farther end of the apartment in a quiet part of the house, and when she had left Bosio she had gone to bed immediately and had dismissed her maid. Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproar and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio’s death. Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one should disturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pass to go to the girl’s room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, as she hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolish women of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, two together, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. But Elettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning when Veronica rang for her.