The three Saracinesca men left the court together and drove away in a closed carriage. They decided that Orsino and Ippolito should return to Rome at once and quiet the family by their appearance, while San Giacinto went up to Camaldoli, to keep matters in order as far as he could. Orsino offered to go back alone, if San Giacinto would accompany his brother, but the big man preferred to take matters into his own hands, as he usually did when there was a crisis of any sort.
When the two brothers were alone in their compartment in the train that left Reggio that evening. Orsino drew a long breath. The sunset glow was over the hills, and the rushing breeze that blew in through the open window was sweet and clean to the taste after the foul air of filthy Messina and the almost more poisonous atmosphere of the court-room. Orsino looked out in silence for a few moments, too glad to speak to Ippolito. When he looked round at last, he saw that his brother was leaning back in the opposite corner, with closed eyes, one hand thrust into the bosom of his cassock, the other lying upon the seat behind him. Orsino watched him, expecting that presently he would open his eyes and begin to talk. But Ippolito had fallen asleep almost instantly in his corner, exhausted by the long strain of days and nights spent in terrible anxiety.
No one ever knew what he had suffered during that time. Though of a fibre different from his father and his brothers, he was strong and healthy, but in those few days he had become thin and white, so that he looked positively delicate now, as he leaned back in his corner.
His anxiety had not been all for himself. It was a fearful thing, indeed, to be accused of murder, and be led like a murderer through a yelling rabble, to be lodged in a prison, to be thrust forward to the bar of a crowded court-room to answer for a great crime. But it was worse to be accused by the real murderer and to be bound by one of the most solemn of all vows to keep that murderer’s secret and bear his accusation without giving one hint of the truth.
It was no wonder that at the first relief from such a tension, he should fall asleep at last, and Orsino was glad when he saw and partly understood. He had slept little himself since the night of Francesco’s death, but he could not have rested now, for he still had much anxiety and many things to disturb his peace. He was in profound ignorance of what had happened to Vittoria and her mother, though he had been almost hourly in communication with his own family.
Corona’s first impulse had been to leave Rome instantly and join her sons, and it had been with the greatest difficulty that Giovanni had persuaded her to await the result of the preliminary hearing. He himself was afraid to leave her, and he had perfect confidence in San Giacinto. He was in reality most preoccupied about his wife; for he, like everyone else, was struck from the first by the outrageous improbability of the accusation. He hardly ate or slept, himself, it was true, but he was all along perfectly certain that Ippolito must be at liberty in a few days, and that the whole truth must be known before long.
Corona said little after she had consented to remain at home, but she suffered intensely. The beautiful high features were like a white marble mask, and when she spoke at all, her words were brief, nervous, almost hard. Her eyes were like black steel, and her figure grew slighter, and seemed to grow taller, too. Giovanni thought that the little, soft, grey streaks in her intensely black hair were suddenly growing broad and silvery. He was almost more anxious for her than for Ippolito.
But she never broke down in any way. She showed herself to the world, in her carriage, as if nothing had happened, though she received no one during those days. She knew how to bear suffering, for she had borne much in early life, and Giovanni needed not to fear for her. He hardly left her. They so belonged to each other that it was easier to bear trouble together. Possibly, though he did not know it, he looked to her in his anxiety quite as much as she looked to him. It would have been hard to say; for where there is such sympathy, such trust, and such love, there is also a sort of community of courage and of strength and of endurance for a joint suffering.
When the news of the decision in Messina came, however, Giovanni considered the trouble to be at an end. Corona only smiled faintly as they read the telegram together.
‘At liberty on bail,’ she said slowly. ‘That is not an acquittal. He is still accused of the murder.’
‘Long before the trial we shall have discovered the truth,’ answered Giovanni, confidently.
‘Until we do, he is still accused of the murder,’ repeated Corona, with slow insistence.
She had not believed it possible that he could be held for trial. But the gladness of a near meeting with him stole upon her anxiety.
As soon as the first greetings were over, he went with her to her own sitting-room, and they remained alone together. For a long time she held his hands and looked into his eyes, while he spoke to her.
‘Do not ask me any questions, mother dear,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You know that I did not kill the poor man, and no one believes that I did. Do not let them torment me with all sorts of questions. If I could answer them, I should have answered them at once. I cannot.’
Still she did not speak, for Orsino had written and telegraphed every detail, and had again and again spoken of Ippolito’s inexplicable silence.
‘Mother, trust me, and do not ask me questions,’ said the young priest, earnestly.
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I trust you, and I always have. I was not hesitating, my dear, and I shall never ask you anything about it, nor allow anyone else to do so, if I can prevent it. But it has dawned on me — the truth I wanted. I believe I understand.’
A startled look came into Ippolito’s eyes, and his hands closed suddenly upon hers. He opened his lips to speak, but could not find wise words, for he believed that she had guessed the truth, by some extraordinary and supernormal process of intuition.
‘No,’ she said reassuringly, ‘do not be afraid. I shall not even tell you what I think, and I shall certainly not tell anyone else. But—’ She stopped suddenly.
‘But what?’ he asked, in the utmost anxiety, searching her eyes.
‘Nothing that I need say, my dear boy,’ she answered quietly. ‘It is better to say nothing about such things when one is not sure. Sit down beside me, and let us be together as we used to be before all this happened.’
He sat down, and they remained long together.
There was but one opinion in Rome. Everyone said that Tebaldo Pagliuca knew more about his brother’s death than he chose to tell, and had managed to cast the burden of evidence against Ippolito. Hundreds of people called at the Palazzo Saracinesca, and Ippolito had scores of notes from friends, congratulating him on having regained his liberty.
Old Donna Francesca Campodonico came to see Corona, a saintly, shadowy woman, who lived alone in a beautiful old palace near the Tiber.
‘A Corleone, my dear!’ she said. ‘What do you expect? We are told to love our enemies, it is true, but we are at liberty to love them as enemies, and not as friends. In order to do that it is necessary to distinguish them, and the more clearly we draw the line, the better.’
‘It is refreshing to hear you speak of anyone as an enemy,’ answered Corona, with a smile.
‘My dear,’ said Donna Francesca, ‘I am very human, I assure you. Never have anything to do with a Corleone or a Braccio. There is very little to choose between us. We are hereditary sinners!’
She was a Braccio herself, and Corona laughed, though she knew there was truth in the saying. The Braccio people had many friends, but so far as the Corleone were concerned, all Rome agreed with Donna Francesca, and congratulated the Saracinesca, quite regardless of the fact that Ippolito was not really acquitted.
But Corona was not as she had been before, and her eyes followed Ippolito about, when he was within sight, with a sort of wondering, anxious expression that showed how perpetually her thoughts were occupied with him.
CHAPTER XXXII
ORSINO MADE AN attempt to see Vittoria on the day after his return. The liveried porter put his ear to the
speaking-tube as of old, and then, shaking his head, told Orsino that the ladies could see no one. He volunteered the information that Donna Maria Carolina was very ill, and that her servants believed her to be out of her mind, since the death of her second son. The young lady did not go out every day, he said. When she did, he always heard her tell the coachman to drive to the Hotel Bristol. There were two sisters of the French order of the Bon Secours who took turns as nurses, with her mother. The doctor came twice daily, and sometimes three times. The porter had asked the doctor about Donna Maria Carolina, and he had answered that she was in no danger of her life. That was all.
The porter, as has been said, volunteered the information; but if he did so, it was because he knew Orsino and had read in the newspaper a full account of Francesco’s death, and of the hearing at Messina. Being a good Roman, he felt personally outraged at the idea that any member of a great old Roman house should be accused of killing a Sicilian gentleman. He might kill him, if he chose, the porter thought, but it was an abominable insult to accuse him of it. The man had never liked Francesco, who had been stingy and self-indulgent, spending money on himself, but never giving a present to a servant if he could help it, and generally ready to find fault with everything. Tebaldo was not mean. Orsino, when he gave at all, gave lavishly, and he gave whenever he happened to think of it, as he did to-day. The porter bowed low, as much to the bank-note as to the heir of all the Saracinesca, and Orsino went away.
He wondered why Vittoria went to the Hotel Bristol whenever she went out. He remembered having once or twice left cards there on foreigners, but he could not remember their names. He might recognise them, however, if he saw them, and he drove to the hotel at once. Looking down the list of the guests, he immediately came upon the names of Mrs. and Miss Slayback, and he remembered how it had been said of late that the young American girl was to marry Tebaldo Pagliuca. It was tolerably clear that these were the people whom Vittoria visited when she went out at all. Orsino remembered that he had been introduced to them at some party. Without the smallest hesitation he sent up his card to Mrs. Slayback, and in a very short time was requested to go upstairs.
Mrs. Slayback received him with cool interest, and showed no surprise at his visit.
‘I have been in Sicily most of the time since I had the pleasure of being introduced, or I should have done myself the honour of calling sooner,’ said Orsino, rather formally.
‘Of course,’ answered Mrs. Slayback. ‘I quite understood.’
She was silent, as though expecting him to open the conversation. That, at least, was what he thought.
‘You are staying in Rome very late,’ he began. ‘Of course it is cool here compared with Sicily, and June is really one of our best months, but, as a rule, foreigners are afraid of the heat.’
But she had not wanted that sort of conversation, and had only been making up her mind how she should speak, being taken at short notice by his visit. He was a good deal surprised at what she said.
‘Please do not talk about the weather, Don Orsino,’ she began. ‘I am very glad that you have come to see me, for I am in great perplexity. I know that you will tell me the truth, and you may help me. Will you?’
‘Certainly,’ answered Orsino, becoming grave at once. ‘Anything that I could do—’ He waited.
‘My niece is engaged to be married to Don Tebaldo Pagliuca. She is an orphan, a niece of my husband’s, and is — well — rich, to say the least of it. She has fallen in love with this young Sicilian and insists upon marrying him. The Romans say that it is a family of brigands. You shot one of them in self-defence not long ago, and now the papers say that your brother has killed Don Francesco, whom we knew. It is rather an awful double tragedy for civilised modern life, you know. Such things happen with us in the West, though not so often as formerly, but they do not happen to people who live in New York, for instance.’
‘I hope not,’ said Orsino, gravely. ‘Sicily is a good deal less civilised than your West, I fancy. But I assure you that my brother did not kill Francesco Pagliuca, though I believe he knows who did kill him. He only tells me that he did not, and I am willing to give my word for him, on the strength of his.’
‘But Don Tebaldo gave evidence on oath that he saw your brother do it,’ objected Mrs. Slayback.
‘And Don Tebaldo is engaged to marry your niece,’ answered Orsino. ‘You will allow me to say that the fact silences me.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Slayback, ‘for I do not wish my niece to marry him. I come to you for an argument against the marriage. I do not wish to silence you, as you call it.’
‘You know Don Tebaldo very well,’ replied Orsino. ‘You have probably formed an opinion about his character. I am in a very difficult position with regard to him, myself.’
He wondered whether Vittoria, growing intimate with the American girl, had spoken of him.
‘Your position cannot be half so hard as mine.’
Mrs. Slayback spoke with a conviction which reassured him, and he merely bent his head a little, as though assenting to what she said.
‘It is clear,’ she continued, ‘that since you know that Don Tebaldo has sworn to this evidence, while you yourself, on your brother’s word, are willing to swear to the contrary, you believe that Don Tebaldo is deliberately perjuring himself. That is perfectly clear, is it not?’
Orsino said nothing, but he could hardly keep from smiling a little at her directness.
‘Very well,’ she went on; ‘should you allow your niece, or your sister, or anyone belonging to you, to marry a man who has deliberately perjured himself?’
‘You are perfectly logical,’ said Orsino.
‘Oh, perfectly! I always was thought so, in my family. And now that you have helped me so far, for which I am really very grateful, can you tell me whether Don Tebaldo is coming back to Rome at once?’
‘I am sorry, but I know nothing of his movements. I believe you know his sister, Donna Vittoria, very well, do you not? I should think she might be able to tell you. His mother is very ill, poor lady.’
He had taken the first possible opportunity of introducing Vittoria’s name.
‘Vittoria comes to see Lizzie whenever she can get out for an hour,’ answered Mrs. Slayback. ‘But yesterday, when she was here, she did not know anything about her brother. I think she does not like to talk of him, for some reason or other. Have you seen her lately?’
She asked the question very naturally and easily.
‘No,’ said Orsino. ‘Her mother is ill, and she has no one else with her. She could not receive me, of course.’
‘I suppose not. She could in America. She is sure to Come to-morrow afternoon about five o’clock, I should think, unless her mother is much worse. We shall be very glad to see you if you like to come in for a cup of tea.’
‘You are very kind — very kind, indeed, and I will come with pleasure,’ Orsino answered, surprised and delighted by the unexpected invitation.
‘That is,’ said Mrs. Slayback, as though correcting herself, and not heeding his answer, ‘that is, you know, if you have no objection to meeting Donna Vittoria after all this dreadful business. If you have, come in the next day, and we shall be alone, I daresay.’
Again Orsino found it hard not to smile, though he was very far indeed from anything like mirth.
‘It would be more likely that Donna Vittoria might object to seeing me,’ he said.
‘Oh no!’ replied Mrs. Slayback, with alacrity. ‘I think she likes you, by the way she sometimes speaks of you, and she does not believe her brother any more than you or I do, I can see, though she does not quite say so. Indeed, I hardly understand her. She wears black, of course, and they see no one since that poor man’s death, but she comes here just the same. As for being sad, she was always sad, ever since I knew her.’
‘She has had enough to sadden her,’ said Orsino, gravely. ‘None of us who have been concerned in this dreadful affair can be anything but sad just now.’
W
hen he went away he could not make up his mind as to whether Mrs. Slayback knew anything of his love for Vittoria or not. Foreigners, and especially Americans, were unlike other people, he thought. It never would have occurred to any Roman lady, a mere acquaintance, to ask him to come for a cup of tea and meet two young girls. An intimate friend might have done it, in order to do him a service, but not a mere acquaintance. But foreigners were different, as he knew.
He pondered the question all night, and the next day seemed very long until it was time to go up to the Hotel Bristol at five o’clock. He thought the correct Swiss porter’s face relaxed a little when he saw the card Orsino gave, as if he had been told to expect him. This was the more apparent when Orsino was ushered upstairs at once.
He heard an exclamation in Vittoria’s voice as he entered the drawing-room, and then for a moment he seemed to himself to lose consciousness, as he advanced. He had not known what it would be to be brought face to face with her after all that had happened.
Neither she nor Miss Slayback saw anything unusual in his face as he came forward, and the latter certainly had no idea how disturbed he was, as she smilingly held out her hand to him. Vittoria had uttered the one little cry of surprise, and then she felt very cold and frightened for a moment, after which she apparently regained her composure.
‘My aunt is lying down in the next room, so it is perfectly proper,’ said Miss Slayback, in the very words she had used to Tebaldo.
Her voice brought Orsino back to lively consciousness at once, and as he sat down nearly opposite to the two young girls, he glanced from the one to the other quickly, before looking long at Vittoria. Miss Lizzie seemed worn and harassed, he thought, and much less pretty than when he had last seen her. There was a nervous restlessness about her, and she was unable to sit still for a moment without moving her hands, or her head, or her shoulders, to look round, when there was nothing to look at.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 911
