Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Nor in the slightest degree had her affection for Gianluca diminished, nor did it change in itself, as days followed days to full weeks, and week choked week, cramming whole months back into time’s sack, for time to bear away and cast into the abyss of the useless and irrevocable past.

  Still he was her friend, still she would give her life to save him, and would have given it again if it had been to give. Still she could talk with him, and listen to him, and answer smile and word and gesture. She could sit beside him through quiet hours, and drive with him in the vast, still sunshine of that golden autumn, calling him by gentler names than friend and touching his hand softly in the long silence. All this she could do, and if there were ever any effort in it, that was surely not an effort to be kind, but one of those little doubting, uncertain, spontaneous efforts which we make whenever we unconsciously begin to feel that it will not be enough to do right, but that we must also seem to do right in other eyes, lest our right be thought half hearted.

  The days were monotonous, but it was not their monotony which she felt, so much as that irrevocable quality of them all which made a grey background in her soul, against which something was moving, undefined, strong as the unseen wind, yet mistily visible sometimes, having more life than shape — a terrible thing which drew her to it against her will, and yet a thing which had in it much besides terror.

  She turned from it when she knew that it was there, and fixed her sight upon Gianluca’s face. Sometimes she found comfort in that, and she did all that was required of her, and more also, and was glad to do it.

  But the wrong done to nature was deeper and more real than all the good she could do to hide it, and it cried out against her continually by the voice of the woman’s instinct. It was not Gianluca who became intolerable to her, but she herself, and it was to escape from herself that she clung to him closely, as well as out of affection for him; for when she was by herself she was no longer alone. That other unshaped something kept her company.

  She was bound hand and foot, soul, body, and intelligence, for life. She, the very strong, was tied to the helpless; she, the energetic, was bound to apathy; she, the active, was nailed to the passive; she, the free, the erect, was bowed under a burden which she must carry to her life’s end, never to be free again.

  She could bear the burden, and she said none of these things to herself. But the wrong was upon nature, and the mother of all turned against the one child that would be unlike all the rest.

  The man who was a man, soul and body, heart, hand, and spirit, stood beside the other, who was a shadow, and beside her, who was a woman — and the tragedy began in the prologue of contrast. Strength to weakness, motion to immobility, the grace and carriage of manly youth to the sad restfulness of helpless, hopeless limbs that never again could feel and bear weight; that was the contrast from which there was no escaping. On the steps of love’s temple, at the very threshold, the one lay half dead, never to rise again; and beside him stood the other, in the pride and glory of the morning of life.

  It would have been hard, even if the contrast had been less strong to the eye, and the distance of the two souls greater one from the other — even if Taquisara had not been what he was. But as the one, in his being, was alive from head to heel, so the other was dead save in the thoughts in which he still had a shadowy life. And for the rest — flesh, blood, and life apart — they were equals. Was Gianluca true? Taquisara was as honest and loyal as the brave daylight. Was the one brave? So was the other, in thought and deed. Was Gianluca enduring? So was Taquisara, and he had the more to endure, the more to fight, the more to keep down in him.

  She knew that he loved her. How it was that she knew it she could not tell, but sometimes the music of the truth rang in her ears till the flame shot up in her face and she shut her eyes to hide her soul — a loud, triumphant music, stately and grand as might herald the marching of archangels — till her inward cry of terror pierced it, and all was as still as the grave. Then, for a space, the vision of sin stood dark in the way, and she turned and fled from it back to Gianluca’s side, back to the care of him, back to his helpless love for her, back to his pathetic, stricken restfulness, back to the maiden dreams of a life-long friendship, unbroken as the calm of the summer ocean, perfect as the cloudless sky of those golden autumn days.

  For a time, the dark wraith of sin faded, and there was no music in the air, and her cheek was cool, while she looked all the world in the face with the fearless eyes of a child-empress. Again the monotonous, good day rolled in the same grooves, noiselessly, and surely, as all the days to come were to roll along, to the end of ends. She worked for her people, talked with Don Teodoro, talked, smiled, laughed with Gianluca, and bore the old Duchessa’s ramblings with patience and kindness.

  But all of a sudden, for a nothing, at the sight of a fencing foil, at the smell of Gianluca’s cigarette, at the sound of a footfall she knew, there came the mad wish to be alone; and she resisted it, for it did not seem good to her, and even as she struggled the blood rose in her throat and was in her cheeks in a moment, so that if just then by chance Taquisara came upon her suddenly, the room swam and for an instant her brain reeled as she turned her face from him in mortal shame.

  She knew so well that he loved her, and that he was suffering, too. It was love’s hands that had chiselled the bronze of his face to leaner lines, and that threw a new darkness into his dark eyes. It was for her that there was that other note in his voice that had never been there before. It was for love of her that once or twice, when she took his hand in greeting, it was icy cold — not like Gianluca’s, half dead, and dull, and chilly, and very thin — but cold from the heart, as it were, and more wildly living than if it had burned like fire; trembling, and not in weakness, with something that caught her own fingers and ran like lightning to the very core and quick of her soul, hurting it overmuch with its bolt of joy and fear. It was for her that, at the first, he had been cold and silent, because he was afraid of himself, and of love, and of the least, faintest breath that might tarnish the bright shield of his spotless loyalty to Gianluca.

  All the little changes in his speech and manner were clear to her now, and each had its meaning, and all meant the same. His words, spoken from time to time, came back to her, and she understood them, and saw how, for his friend’s sake, he had held his peace for himself, and had ever urged her to marry Gianluca, in spite of everything.

  If he had not loved her, or if she had thought that he did not, she would have had the pride to tear her heart clean from love’s terrible hands, whole or broken, as might be, and to toss it, with the dead dull weeks into old time’s sack of irrevocably lost and useless things, and so to live her life out, loveless, in the still haven of Gianluca’s friendship. But, having his love, she had not such pride; and the loyalty she truly had was matched alone against all human nature since the world began.

  Do what she would, she yielded sometimes to that great wish to go suddenly to her own room and be alone. Then, standing at her window when the mist whitened in the valley under the broad moon, she listened, and instantly the air was full of music again as love lifted up its voice, and sweetly chanted the melody of life. With parted lips she listened, till the moonlight filled her eyes, and her heart fluttered softly, and her throat was warm.

  And sometimes, too, while she was there, the man who loved her so silently and so well was by his friend’s side, tending as his own the life that stood between him and the hope of happiness; loving both him and her, but honour best. But sometimes he, too, was alone in his own room, and even at his window, facing the same broad moon, the same white mist in the sleeping valley, the same dark, crested hills, but not hearing the music that the woman heard. He could be calm for a while as he looked out; but presently, without warning, he swallowed hard, and again, as on the fatal day, he held her little hand in his, under the priest’s great sign of the cross, and his own blood shrieked in his ears. In cruel anger against himself, he turned from the window then and
paced the room with short, braced steps, till at last he threw himself into a deep chair and sullenly took the first book at hand, to read himself back to the monotony of all he had to bear.

  And so those two fearless ones went through the days and weeks in twofold terror of themselves and each of the other, and the slow, wordless tragedy was acted before eyes that saw but did not understand. Still Gianluca refused to go away, and still Veronica refused to send for the syndic. She would not yield to the Duchessa, who found herself opposed both by her son and her son’s wife.

  No one knew how much Veronica herself still hoped, when the bright autumn days were broken at last by the first winter storm that rose out of the dark south in monstrous wrath against such perpetual calm. She herself did not know whether she still hoped for any improvement, or whether, in her inmost thoughts, she had given up hope and had accepted the certainty that Gianluca was never to be better than he was now. There is something of habit in all hope that has been with us long, and the habits we notice the least are sometimes the hardest of all to break.

  When Veronica said that Gianluca would yet stand up and walk, no one contradicted her, except the doctors, and she had no faith in them. They came and went. The great professor came three times from Naples and saw the patient, ate his dinner, slept soundly, and went away assuring Veronica that it was useless to send for him unless some great change took place. To please her, he recommended a little electricity, baths, light treatment such as could give little trouble, and he carefully instructed the young doctor of Muro in all he was to do. When he had finished, and the young man had promised to do everything regularly, they looked at each other, smiled sadly, but professionally, and parted with mutual good will and understanding, both knowing that the case was now perfectly hopeless. Their coming and going made little intervals in the tragic play of life, but never broke its continuity.

  The old Duca appeared again, and slipped quietly into his place, as before. But at the end of a week there was an unexpected flaring-up of energy, as it were, in his docile and affectionate being. When he and his wife and Veronica were with Gianluca, he suddenly declared that the situation must end, and that they must all go down to Naples. Veronica should send for the syndic, and have the legal marriage at once, and then they would all go down together. It was quite clear in his mind, as simple as daylight, as easy of performance as breathing, as satisfactory as satisfaction itself. The Duchessa was with him, and supported all he said with approving nods and futile gestures and incoherent phrases thrown in, as one throws straws upon a stream to see the current carry them away.

  Gianluca said nothing, and Veronica stood alone against them all, for she knew that he was on his father’s side. She guessed, perhaps, that Gianluca had made up his mind never to leave her roof except as her lawful husband, clinging to her, as he had tried to cling to her skirt on that most eventful day when she had gone to the window for a moment; and she understood why, having spoken once, he would not speak again. He was too proud to repeat such a request, but his love was far too obstinate to be satisfied with less than its fulfilment. But his own hope for his recovery was more alive than hers.

  Instinctively, as she opposed them all, Veronica looked round for Taquisara. It was not often that she needed help, and she knew that he could have helped her, had he been there. But she had to speak for herself. She said what she could; but in that self-examination which self-defence forces upon those who have never dissected their own hearts, a new and fearful truth sprang up, clear of all others, bright, keen, and terrible.

  It was no longer for her people’s sake that she was waiting in the hope of Gianluca’s recovery. It was no longer for her own, nor for his. It was out of her deadly love for Taquisara that all her nature rose against that final bond of the law, and the world, and society. So long as that was not yet welded and made fast upon her, there was the fleeting shadow of a desperate hope that she might still be free.

  It rose and smote her between the eyes, and clutched at her heart; and when she knew its face, she stopped in the midst of her speech, and turned white, even to her lips and her throat.

  “I do not know. I will think about it,” she said faintly.

  As her power to oppose gave way, the Duca’s astonishment at his victory swelled his weakness to violence; and he raved of duties and obligations, of paternal authority, of the obedience of children and children-in-law, in all the boundless, self-assured incoherence of feebleness suddenly let loose against smitten strength.

  Veronica seemed to hear nothing. She had resumed her seat beside Gianluca, and was stroking his white hand, — less thin than it had been, but somehow even more lifeless, — and she looked down at it very thoughtfully, while he watched her face. He was happier than he had been for a long time, for he knew that she was going to make a concession, and that he had not asked for it.

  There was silence, and Veronica raised her head. The old Duca’s face was red with the exertion of much speaking. He was a good man and meant well, but in that moment Veronica hated him as she had never hated any one, not even Matilde Macomer. And yet she knew that his intention was all for the best, and that it was natural that he should press his point and exult when she gave up the fight. She opened her lips to speak.

  At that moment the door turned on its hinges opposite her eyes, and Taquisara stood before her. He came in quietly and not knowing that anything extraordinary was occurring. But his eyes met hers for one moment, and instantly her cheek reddened in the evening light.

  “I will give you a promise,” she said slowly. “This is the first week in December. If Gianluca is not much better by the first of January, I will do as you ask. The civil marriage shall take place here, and if he wishes to go down to Naples, we will all go together.”

  The Duca began to speak again, sure that he could press her further. But she interrupted him. Taquisara had gone to the window and was turning his back on them all.

  “No,” said Veronica. “That is what I will do, and I will do it — I have promised — that, and nothing else.”

  She had risen, and as she pronounced the last words, she left Gianluca’s side and, with her eyes fixed before her, went straight to the door, pale and erect. She felt that she had given her life a second time. Taquisara heard her footsteps, left the window, and opened the door for her to pass, standing aside while she went by. He saw her head move a little, as though she would turn and look at him, and he saw how resolutely she resisted and looked before her. He understood that she would not trust herself to see his eyes again, and he quietly closed the door behind her. She knew what he must have felt when she had spoken, and he felt a lofty pride that she should trust him to bear the knife without warning, sure that he would utter no cry.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  THE TENTH OF December was at hand, on which day Don Teodoro had been in the habit of going to Naples to pay his annual visit to his friend Don Matteo. When Taquisara told him of what had taken place, the priest knew that he need not disturb Veronica for permission to leave Muro, merely for the sake of gaining a day or two. One day was all he needed, and there would be three weeks from the tenth of December to the first of January. He made his preparations for the little journey with much care, and went away with more luggage than usual. He also set all his manuscripts and books in order. When he was going away he gave the key of his little house to Taquisara.

  “I do not expect to come back,” he said. “But you will hear from me. It will be kind of you to have my books and manuscripts sent to an address which I will give you in my letter. I do not think that we shall meet again. Good-bye. If I were not what I am, I would bless you. Good-bye.”

  Taquisara held his hand for a moment.

  “We shall all bless you,” he answered, “if you can end this trouble.”

  “I can,” said the priest. “And your blessing is worth having.”

  He went away quickly, as though not trusting himself to speak any more. He had taken leave of Veronica and the rest as hasti
ly as he could without giving offence to any one. It was not until he looked back at the poor people who waved their hands at him as he went out of the village that the hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

  He was twenty-four hours in reaching Naples, as usual, and his friend greeted him with open arms as he always did. He thought that Don Teodoro looked ill and tired, and as it was a fine day they walked the short distance from Don Matteo’s house to the café where the priest had sat with Bosio, and they each drank a cup of chocolate.

  Don Matteo observed that the tenth of December had been a fine day in the preceding year, too, and Don Teodoro tried to remember in what year it had last rained on that date. They ate little puffed bits of pastry with their chocolate, and they sat a long time over it, while Don Matteo told Don Teodoro of an interesting document of the fourteenth century which he had discovered in a private library. Don Teodoro spoke rarely, but not at random, for the thinking habit of the scholarly mind does not easily break down, even under a great strain.

  Then they went back to Don Matteo’s house, and sat down together in the study. Don Matteo wondered why his friend did not unpack and arrange his belongings, especially as he had brought more luggage than usual with him, but he saw that he was tired, and said nothing. Don Teodoro took off his spectacles, and rubbed them bright with the corner of his mantle. He looked at them and took a long time over polishing them, for he was thinking of all the things he had seen through the old silver-rimmed glasses, some of which he should never see again.

  “My friend,” he said at last, “I wish to tell you a secret.”

  Don Matteo turned slowly in his seat, uncrossed his knees, and looked at him.

  “You may trust me,” he answered.

  “I know that,” said Don Teodoro. “But there are reasons, as you will see, why you cannot receive this as an ordinary secret. I wish to tell it to you as a confession. You will then have to consult the archbishop, before giving me absolution — and advice.”