Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘And so you are grateful to me for coming? Really?’

  ‘Yes. What did you expect?’

  ‘I would rather have less gratitude and more — what shall I say?’

  ‘Anything you like — within certain limits!’ Aliandra laughed softly.

  ‘I might say too much, and that might offend you. Or too little, and that would certainly bore you.’

  ‘Could you not say just enough? Sometimes you say it very well. You can be tactful when you like.’

  ‘If I say that I should like more love, you will think it too much. If I say affection, it is too little, and must seem ridiculous.’

  Aliandra looked away from him, and rested her head against the hard back of the sofa for a moment.

  ‘Why do you wish to marry me?’ she asked suddenly, without turning to him. ‘You could do much better, I am sure.’

  ‘A man cannot do better than marry the woman he loves,’ said Francesco, softly.

  ‘He can marry a woman who loves him,’ suggested Aliandra, laughing again.

  ‘You cannot be serious very long,’ he retorted. ‘That is one reason why I love you. I hate serious people.’

  ‘I know you do, and that makes me doubt whether you can ever possibly be serious yourself. Now, to marry a man who is not serious—’

  ‘Or a woman who is not,’ interrupted the young man.

  ‘Is folly,’ said Aliandra, completing her sentence.

  ‘Then neither you nor I should ever marry at all. That is the conclusion, evidently. But you began by asking me why I wish to marry you. I answered you. It is simple. I love you, and I have loved you almost since you were a child. You know something about my life in Rome, do you not? Have you ever heard that I cared for any other woman?’

  ‘How should I hear? I am not of your world, and though you know how I live, I know nothing of what you do when you are not with me. How should I? Have I allowed any of the men in society to make my acquaintance? You speak as though I had friends who might be friends of yours, yet you know that I have none. What you say may be quite true, but I have no means of knowing.’

  ‘There is Tebaldo,’ said Francesco. ‘He knows all about me, and would not be likely to attribute to me any virtue which I do not possess. Has he ever told you that I was making love to anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ answered Aliandra, thoughtfully. ‘That is true.’

  ‘And he hates me,’ observed Francesco. ‘He would not lose a chance of abusing me, I am sure.’

  Aliandra made no answer at first, for what he said was quite true, though she did not care to admit it.

  ‘You two are antipathetic to each other,’ she said at last, using the phrase because it was vague and implied no fault on either side. ‘You will never agree. I am sorry.’

  ‘Why should you care, whether we agree or not?’

  ‘Because I like you both. I should wish you to be good friends.’

  ‘I am glad you include us both in one category,’ said Francesco. ‘You say that you like us both.’

  ‘Well — what of that?’

  ‘There is a beautiful indifference about the expression. If Tebaldo is satisfied, I suppose that I should be. But I am not. I am made of different stuff. I cannot say, “I love you” in one breath, and “I will not marry you” in the next.’

  Aliandra started perceptibly and looked at him. He had a well-affected air of righteous contempt.

  ‘I am in earnest,’ he continued, as she said nothing. ‘I do not know whether I could do better for myself, as you say, or not. I suppose you mean that I might marry the daughter of some Roman prince, with a dowry and sixteen quarterings. Perhaps I might, for I have a good name of my own and an equal share of the property. I do not know and I do not care, and I shall certainly never try to make any such marriage, because I will either marry you or no one. I will not, I could not — nothing could induce me, neither fortune, nor position, nor anything else in the world.’

  He had a very convincing way of speaking when he chose, and for the first time, perhaps, Aliandra hesitated and thought that she might do worse than accept him for a husband. She thought him handsome as he sat beside her, leaning forward a little and speaking earnestly, and she mistook his masculine vitality for real manliness, which is a common mistake with young women of little experience. Besides, he made no reservations, and Tebaldo made many. Yet it was hard to give up her dream of being a real princess, the wife of the head of an old family, for she was very ambitious in more ways than one. Francesco had said very much the same things before now, it was true, so that there was no novelty in them for her. But his importunity was beginning to make an impression upon her, as contrasted with his brother’s determined avoidance of the question of marriage.

  Still she said nothing, but her face betrayed her hesitation. He bent nearer to her, and spoke still more earnestly. There was no affectation in his speech now, for though his passions were evanescent, they had all the heat of his vital temperament as long as they lasted. The fact that he had carefully weighed the advantage to be got by marrying an artist who had youth, beauty, honesty, a small but solid inheritance to expect, and very possibly fame and fortune in the near future, did not make him cold nor calculating when he was close beside that beauty and youth which had at first attracted him. Her eyes softened dreamily from time to time as he spoke, and she made no attempt to withdraw the hand of which he had taken possession.

  He spoke quickly, warmly, eloquently, and without reserve, for he had nothing to conceal, and nothing to fear but her refusal. The words were not carefully chosen, nor the phrases very carefully turned, but they had the accent of sincerity, for his whole being was moved as he spoke. They had also the merit of not being too few nor too short; for that is often a merit in women’s eyes. A woman loves to hear the whole tale of love, from the beginning to the end, and feels herself somehow cheated by the short and broken sentences which are often all that a strong man can command, though his hand trembles and his lips are white with emotion which the weak never feel.

  In the tender shadow of the half-darkened room, his eyes filled hers till she could not look away, and his speech grew softer and was broken by little silences. Aliandra was falling under the spell of his voice, of the hour, of her own warm youth, and of his abundant vitality.

  The blinds, hooked together against the bars, shook a little, perhaps with the sultry afternoon breeze, and all at once there was less light in the room. Aliandra moved a little, realising that she was falling under the man’s influence.

  ‘But Tebaldo!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tebaldo!’ she repeated, still clinging to her long-cherished hope, as though she owed it a sort of allegiance for its own sake.

  Francesco laughed softly, and pressed the hand he held.

  ‘Tebaldo is going to marry the American girl with the great fortune,’ he said quietly. ‘You need not think of Tebaldo any more.’

  Again the blind creaked a little on its hinges. But Aliandra started at what Francesco said, and did not hear the window. She sat upright on the sofa.

  ‘What American girl?’ she asked. ‘I never heard of her. Has this been going on a long time?’

  ‘About two months—’ The blind creaked a third time as he spoke.

  ‘There is someone under the window!’ cried Aliandra, lowering her voice and looking round.

  ‘It is the wind,’ said Francesco, indifferently. ‘The south-east wind blows up the street and shakes the blinds.’

  Aliandra leaned back again, and he took her hand once more.

  ‘It is quite well known in Rome,’ he continued. ‘The engagement is not actually announced, but it will be very soon. They say she has many millions, and she is very pretty — insignificant, fair with blue eyes, but pretty. He has done very well for himself.’

  Aliandra was silent. The news meant the absolute destruction of a project she had long hoped to realise, and with which she had grown familiar. But she knew, as it fell to pieces before her eyes, that she had never firmly
believed in its success, and there was a sort of relief in feeling that she was freed from the task set her by her own ambition, while at the same time she was hurt by the disappointment of failure, and a sudden keen resentment against Tebaldo prompted her to yield to Francesco’s entreaties on his own behalf. He held her hand and waited for her to speak.

  The silence lasted long, for the notary’s daughter was afraid of herself and of making up her mind hastily. The blind creaked again, more loudly than before, and she turned her head nervously.

  ‘I am sure there is someone under the window!’ she said. ‘I wish you would look!’

  ‘I assure you it is only the wind,’ answered Francesco, as before.

  ‘I know, but please look. I am nervous. The scirocco always makes me nervous.’

  ‘It is not the weather, Aliandra,’ he said softly, and smiling, with his eyes in hers. ‘You are not nervous, either. It is — it is—’ he bent nearer to her face. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  Though he was so near, forcing her with his eyes, he had no power over her now. She could not help looking anxiously over his shoulder at the hooked blinds. She was not listening to him.

  ‘It is love,’ he said, and his red lips gave the word a sensuous sound, as they came nearer to her face.

  She did not hear him. The rich colour in her face faded all at once, and then with a sharp cry she stood upright, pushing him away from her.

  ‘I saw a hand on the window sill!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is gone again.’

  Francesco rose also. He was annoyed at the untoward interruption, for he fancied that the hand must have belonged to some boy in the street, playing outside and climbing up a little way to jump down again, as boys do.

  ‘It is ridiculous!’ he said in a tone of irritation, and going to the window.

  He looked down between the blinds that were ajar, expecting to see a peasant boy. Instead, there was Tebaldo Pagliuca’s face, yellow in the sun, as though he had a fever, and Tebaldo’s bloodshot eyes looking up to his, and the thin, twisted lips smiling dangerously.

  ‘Come outside,’ said Tebaldo, in an odd voice. ‘I want to speak with you.’

  But Francesco only heard the first words. His abject terror of his brother overcame him in an instant, and he almost ran into Aliandra’s arms as he sprang back.

  ‘It is Tebaldo!’ he whispered. ‘Let him in. Keep him here, while I go away through the stable-yard!’

  And before she could answer or realise exactly what he meant, he had left her standing alone in the middle of the room. In ten seconds he had made sure that the gate of the stable-yard was fast inside, and he was saddling his horse. It was done in less than a minute somehow. Then he listened, coming close to the gate. He heard Aliandra speaking with Tebaldo at the open window, a moment later he heard the street door open and close, and he knew that Tebaldo was in the house.

  Very softly and quickly he unbolted the yard gate. He swung it wide, reckless of the noise it made, and in an instant he was in the saddle and galloping for his life up the deserted street. It was well that he had known the house thoroughly, and that Aliandra had obeyed him and admitted Tebaldo at once.

  She was braver than Francesco, by many degrees, though she was no heroine; but she was scared by the look in the man’s face, as he entered without a word, and looked round the room slowly for his brother.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  Before Aliandra could find any answer, the loud noise of clattering hoofs filled the room. Tebaldo was at the window almost before the sound had passed, and the thrust of his open hand smashed the fastenings so that the blinds flew wide open. He looked out and saw his brother galloping away.

  He knew the house too, for he had been in it many times, and he knew also that Basili’s brown mare was a good beast, for the notary was a heavy man and often had to ride far. Without even glancing at Aliandra he turned to the door. But she was there before him, and held it closed, though she was frightened now.

  ‘You shall not go,’ she tried to say.

  ‘Shall not?’ he laughed harshly, as his hands caught her.

  He did not hurt her, for he loved her in his way, but a moment later she found herself turned round like a leaf in a storm, and the door had closed behind him. It seemed to her but a second more, and she had not been able to think what she should do, when the sound of flying hoofs passed the window again. She ran to look out, and she saw the brown mare already far up the street. Tebaldo could ride, and he had not wasted time in saddling. Bareback he rode the mare with her halter for a bridle, as he had found her. Aliandra realised that he had no rifle. At all events he would have to overtake his brother in order to kill him, and Francesco had the start of him by several minutes.

  He knew it, but he guessed what Tebaldo would do, and he kept his horse at full speed as the road began to wind upward to the black lands. He glanced behind him just before each turning, expecting to see his pursuer. But a clear start of four minutes meant a mile, at the pace he had ridden out of the town. He kept the horse to it, for he was riding for the wager of his life. But the animal had been put to it too suddenly after his feed, without as much as a preliminary walk or trot to the foot of the hill, and even in his terror Francesco saw that it would be impossible to keep the pace much longer. But he could save distance, if he must slacken speed, if he followed the footpath by which the peasants had made short cuts between each bend of the road and the next. They were hard and safe in the heat, and his horse could trot along them fairly well, and even canter here and there. And then, when he was forced to take the high-road for a few hundred yards, he could break once more into a stretching gallop. If he could but reach that turn, just beyond the high hill, where Ferdinando’s friend had once waited for San Giacinto, he believed that he could elude Tebaldo in the black lands.

  It was a terrible half-hour, and he gasped and sweated with fear, as he urged his horse up that last long stretch of the road which could not be avoided. His heart beat with the hoof-falls, and the sweat ran down upon his velvet coat, while he felt his hands so cold that it was an effort not to drop the reins. But the beast had got his wind at last, and galloped steadily up the hill.

  It was growing suddenly dark, and there was a feverish yellow light in the hot air. A vast thunderstorm was rolling over Etna, and another had risen to meet it from the west, hiding the lowering sun. Only overhead the air was calm and clear. The first clap of the thunder broke in the distance, and went rolling and echoing away from the volcano to the inland mountains. As he reached the top of the hill, Francesco felt the big drops of rain in his face like a refreshment, though they were warm. The thunder pealed out again from the mountain’s side with a deafening explosion. He turned in his saddle and looked back.

  The road was straight and long, and he could see far. Tebaldo was in sight at last, almost lying on the mare’s bare back as she breasted the hills, his hand along her neck, his voice near her ear while she stretched her long brown body out at every stride.

  Francesco’s teeth chattered as he spurred his horse for another wild effort. He could break from the road now, just before the wide curve it made to the left, and he knew the bridle-paths and all the short cuts and byways through the black lands, as few men knew them except that one man, his brother, who was behind him. In his haste to escape he had left his rifle in Basili’s hall. It was so much the less weight for his horse to carry, but it left him defenceless, and he knew that Tebaldo must be armed.

  The storm broke and the rain came down in torrents. His horse almost slipped in jumping the ditch to get off the main road, but recovered himself cleverly, and long before Tebaldo had reached the top of the hill Francesco was out of sight. He might have felt safe then, from almost any other pursuer. But he knew Tebaldo, and now and then his teeth chattered. He told himself that he was chilled by the drenching rain, but in his heart he knew it was fear. Death was behind him, gaining on him, overtaking him, and he felt a terrible weakness in all his bones, as though they were so
ftened and limp like a skeleton made of ropes.

  It was hard to think, and yet he had to ease his mind. Tebaldo was lighter than he, and he rode without saddle or bridle. To take the shortest way through the black lands was to be surely overtaken in the long run. It might be best to take the longest, and perhaps Tebaldo might get before him, and give him a chance to turn back to Randazzo.

  But as he looked down at the path his heart sank. The heavy rain had already softened the ground in places and his horse’s hoofs made fresh tracks. There was no mistaking them. There was only one way, then, and it must be a race, for only speed could save him. Whichever way he might turn in and out of the fissures and little hollows, he must leave a trail in the wet, black ashes, which anyone could follow.

  Don Taddeo’s best horse was one of the best horses in that part of the country, as Francesco knew, and more than a match for the notary’s brown mare, had other things been alike. But there was the difference of weight against him, and, moreover, Tebaldo was the better rider.

  There was less than three-quarters of a mile between them now, but if he could keep the pace, that would do. He followed the shortest path, which was also the best, because it was naturally the one most used by travellers. The rain fell in torrents, and the air was dusky and lurid. Again and again the great forked lightnings flashed down the side of the mountain, and almost at the instant the terrible thunder crashed through the hissing rain. Francesco felt as though each peal struck him bodily in the back, between the shoulders, and his knees shook with terror as he tried to press them to the saddle, and he bent down as if to avoid a shot or a blow, while his ears strained unnaturally for the dreaded sound of hoofs behind. Yet he scarcely dared to turn and look back, lest while he looked his horse might hesitate, or turn aside to another path through the black wilderness. Under the lurid light the yellow spurge had a horribly vivid glow, growing everywhere in big bunches among the black stones and out of the blacker soil. It almost dazzled him, as he rode on, always watching the path lest he should make a mistake and be lost.