Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  THE MOSCIO SLUNG saddle-bags over his saddle, as though he were travelling some distance, and led his horse down from the huts by bypaths in the woods till he came to a place where the trees descended almost to the road, so that he could reach the latter without crossing any open country. Before emerging from cover he looked long and carefully up and down the valley to be sure that no carabineers were in sight, who might be surprised at seeing a well-dressed man come out of the forest. A few peasants were visible, straggling along the road, and far away a light waggon was ascending the hill. The Moscio led his horse carefully across the ditch, and then mounted in leisurely fashion and rode slowly away towards Santa Vittoria. The outlaw, who may at any moment need his horse’s greatest powers, spares him whenever he can, and when not obliged to escape some danger will hardly ever put him to a canter.

  It was a full hour before the village was in sight. Once on the highway, the Moscio felt perfectly at his ease, and barely took the trouble to glance behind him at a turn of the road. He had excellent papers of various descriptions about him, including a United States passport of recent date, in which he appeared as an American citizen, and a proper discharge as corporal from the military service, together with a highly commendatory letter from the captain of the troop in which the unlucky individual to whom the paper had belonged had served his time in Milan. He also possessed a gun-license in the same man’s name, and the description of him which accompanied it suited him very well. Some of the papers he had bought at a good price, and some he had taken without much ceremony, because they suited him. To-day he did not even carry a gun and was, in reality, altogether unarmed, though he would naturally have been supposed to have a pistol or a knife about him, like other people in Sicily. If anyone had asked his name, he would have said that he was Angelo Laria of Caltanissetta, a small farmer. The name corresponded with the papers of the soldier, and as he was unarmed it would have been hard to find any excuse for arresting him on a mere suspicion.

  If a man carries so-called forbidden weapons, on the other hand, the carabineers can arrest him for that offence alone, if they find it out, and can hold him till he can prove his identity. A knife, such as one can stab with, is forbidden, and the special license, which is required to carry a pistol, is not often granted except to very well known persons, though a vast number of people really carry revolvers without any license at all.

  The Moscio dismounted at the gate, walked up the street with his horse, enquired for the sacristan, and brought him back to the little church with the keys.

  ‘Have the goodness to hold my horse’ he said to the fat man. ‘I only wish to look at the church for curiosity, and I will go in alone.’

  The sacristan did not know him by sight, but with a true Sicilian’s instinct recognised the ‘maffeuso’ in his manner. He proposed, however, to tether the horse to an old stake that was driven into the ground near the door, in order to go in with the stranger and explain how the priest had murdered Francesco. He had got the account off very glibly by this time.

  ‘My friend’ said the Moscio, ‘in those saddle-bags I have important papers and a quantity of valuable things, the property of an aunt of mine who is dead, and may the Lord preserve her in glory! I am taking these things myself; for greater safety, to my cousin, her son, who lives in Taormina. Now the reason why I begged you to hold my horse is not that I fear for him, though he is a good animal, but because some evilly-disposed person might steal the property of my poor aunt. You understand, and you will have the goodness to hold the horse while I go in.’

  The sacristan looked at him and smiled. The Moscio smiled very sweetly in answer, pushed the door open and went in, closing it behind him and leaving the keys on the outside. But when he was in the church, he took from his pocket a small wedge of soft pine wood, gently slipped it in under the door and jammed it noiselessly. It would have been rather difficult to open the door from the outside after that. Then he walked leisurely up the church, his spurs ringing loudly so that the sacristan might hear through the door that he was in no hurry.

  He went up the altar steps, and smiled as he noticed a few round, dark spots on the marble, and one irregular stain. That was the very place where it had happened. He knelt down and tried to put his arm through the grating, but the space was too narrow. With the same leisurely certainty he slipped off his velvet jacket and laid it on the altar, rolled up his sleeves, and tried again, with his bare arm. No one, seeing him in his coat, and glancing at his small hands, would have suspected the solid muscles above. Even now the grating was too close. It was of light iron, however, and twisted in a decorative design. He easily forced a scroll in one direction, a winding stem in another, and got his hand down to the bottom of the depression in which the glass casket was placed.

  He withdrew the knife, and slipped it into the pocket of his riding-breeches; then he readjusted the iron ornaments, buttoned his shirt-sleeve, and put on his jacket. As he walked down the church again he took the weapon out. The broad blade was stuck in its black leathern sheath, and it required all his strength to loosen it. When he got it out, he saw that the steel was covered with dark rust.

  It was a pity, he thought, as he dropped it into his pocket again, for it had evidently been a good knife. He would clean it with sand and a brick, and sharpen it on a stone, during the evenings, not because he could not have got a better one easily enough, but because it was an agreeable and interesting remembrance. He drew the wedge from under the door without making any noise and went out into the open air. The fat sacristan had lit a clay pipe with a wild cherrywood stem, and was slowly walking the horse up and down in the shade. The Moscio took a small note from a neat pocketbook. Even when notes are scarce, in the wild finances of modern Italy, the outlaws manage to have them because they are easily carried.

  ‘Do you wish me to change it for you?’ enquired the sacristan, holding the flimsy bit of paper between his thumb and finger.

  ‘Keep it for yourself, my friend, with a thousand thanks,’ replied the Moscio.

  But the sacristan refused, and held the note out to him, returning it.

  ‘We are not of that kind,’ he said, with dignity. ‘We do not wish to be paid for courtesy.’

  ‘There are doubtless many poor persons in the village,’ answered the Moscio, smiling, and beginning to mount. ‘You will do me a favour by giving the money to those who need it, requesting them to pray for the soul of my poor aunt.’

  ‘In that case it is different,’ replied the fat man, gravely. ‘I thank you in the name of our poor people. As for me, I am always here to serve you and your friends.’

  The Moscio glanced at the man’s face as the last words were spoken. Tebaldo had told him who the sacristan was, and had described him accurately.

  ‘A greeting to your brother, Don Taddeo the grocer,’ said the outlaw, settling himself in the saddle.

  The sacristan looked up sharply. Being cross-eyed, it was almost impossible to know with which eye he was looking at one. But the expression did not change as he answered.

  ‘Thank you. You shall be obeyed. Our service to your friends.’

  They understood each other perfectly well, and the Moscio rode slowly away into the brilliant light, leaving the fat man to lock up the church and go home. The outlaw had made a friend of him, but had not thought fit to ask him any questions about the state of the village or the movements of the Saracinesca. It was of no use to go any further than necessary at a first meeting, and the band had plenty of good sources of information.

  Tebaldo spent the morning in a sort of feverish anxiety against which he struggled in vain. He went out for a stroll and passed twice before Basili’s house. The weather was beginning to be hot, and the blinds were as tightly closed as though the house were not inhabited. As he passed for the second time he fancied he heard Aliandra’s voice singing softly in the distance. He could hardly have been mistaken, for it had the quality and carrying power, even when least loud, which
distinguish the great voices of the world, the half a dozen in a century that leave undying echoes behind them when they are still. His blood rushed up in his throat at the sound and almost choked him, so that he pulled at his collar with his finger, as if it were too tight.

  He had not intended to try to see her again, but the fascination of the light and distant song was more than he could resist He knocked and waited on the little steps outside the door. He was sure that he heard someone moving upstairs and approaching a window, and he guessed that he could be seen through the slats of the blinds. A long time passed and he heard no sound. Then, as usual, the stable-man came to the door, with his faithful, stolid face. He began to give the customary answer.

  ‘The Signorina Aliandra has gone to the country with—’

  ‘Let me come in,’ said Tebaldo, interrupting the man roughly.

  He was active, strong, and in a bad temper, and before the man could hinder him, Tebaldo had pushed himself into the house and was shutting the door behind him.

  ‘And the notary is asleep,’ said the man, concluding the formula, in a tone of surprise and protest, but attempting no further resistance.

  ‘Wake him, then!’ cried Tebaldo, his naturally smooth voice rising to a high and almost brassy tone. ‘And the devil take you, your mother, and both your souls!’ he added, relapsing into dialect in his anger.

  He must have been heard to the top of the house, and by Gesualda in her kitchen. Immediately there came a sound of footsteps from above. But Tebaldo was already mounting the stairs. Aliandra was coming down to meet him, her face flushed with annoyance and her eyes sparkling.

  ‘What is this, Don Tebaldo?’ she asked, as soon as she caught sight of him. ‘By what right do you—’

  He interrupted her.

  ‘Because I mean to see you,’ he answered. ‘When you are in the country with Gesualda visiting your friends, one ought not to hear you singing in Randazzo as one passes your house.’

  Aliandra was not really very angry that he should have got in, for she was beginning to find her father’s company a little dull. But she made a movement of annoyance as though displeased at having betrayed herself by her singing.

  ‘Well — go down to the sitting-room,’ she said. ‘I cannot turn you out, since you have got in.’

  They descended, and she sent away the stable-man, and made Tebaldo go into the front room, leaving the door open, however, as she followed him. His anger disappeared when her manner changed. He took her hand and tried to make her sit down, but she smiled and shook her head.

  ‘I cannot stay,’ she said. ‘But as for your having been kept out, that is really my father’s doing. I suppose he is right, but I am glad to see you for a moment. I was afraid you had gone back to Rome.’

  ‘Not without seeing you. But what absurd idea possesses your father—’

  ‘Hush! Not so loud! The doors are open upstairs, too, and one hears everything.’

  ‘Then I will shut the door—’

  ‘No, no! Please do not! He would scold, for he would certainly know. Besides, you must go.’

  ‘I do not understand you at all,’ said Tebaldo, lowering his voice. ‘The last time I saw you, you were just like yourself again, and now — I do not understand. You are quite changed.’

  ‘No. I am always the same, Tebaldo.’ Her voice was suddenly kind. ‘I told you the whole truth in Rome, once for all. Why must I say it over again? Is it of any use?’

  ‘It never was of any use to say it at all,’ answered Tebaldo. You do not believe that I love you—’

  ‘You are wrong. I do believe it — as much as you do yourself!’ She laughed rather irrelevantly.

  ‘Why do you laugh?’ he asked.

  ‘Such love is a laughing matter, my dear Tebaldo. I am not a child. It is better that love should end in laughter than in tears.’

  ‘Why should it end at all?’

  ‘Because you are engaged to marry another woman, dear friend. A very good reason — for me.’ She laughed again.

  ‘You have only a dead man’s word for it,’ said Tebaldo, grimly. ‘Unfortunately he is where he cannot take it back. But I can for him. It is not true.’

  He set his eyes, as it were, while he looked at her, in order to make her believe that he was telling the truth. But she knew him well, for she had known him long, and she doubted him still. She shook her head.

  ‘It may not be literally true,’ she said. ‘But practically it is the fact. You mean to marry the American. That is why neither my father nor I wish you to come to the house. You injure my reputation here, in my own town, as you do in Rome. If you loved me, you would not wish to do that. I have held my head high at the beginning, and that is the hardest. I did not mean to say it over again, but you force me to. Do you want me? Marry me. If you were a rich man, I suppose I should be ashamed to speak as I do. But we are both poor, you for a nobleman and I for an artist. So there is no question of interest, is there? I have not seen your American heiress. She may be handsomer than I, for I am not the most beautiful woman in the world. She is rich. That is her advantage. She may be a good girl, but she is no better than I, the singer, the notary’s daughter, who have nothing in my whole life to blush for. Look at me, now, as I am. You know me. Choose between us, and let this end. I am willing to marry you if you want me, but I am not willing to sacrifice my good name to you, nor to any man in Europe, king, prince, or gentleman. Here I stand, and you may look at me for the last time, compare me with your foreign young lady, and make up your mind definitely. If it is to be marriage, I will marry you at once. If not, I will not see you again, if I can possibly help it, either here or in Rome.’

  As she finished her long speech she crossed her arms behind her and faced him rather proudly, drawing herself up to her full height, smiling a little, but with an earnest look in her eyes. She had never looked so handsome. The few days of country life had completely rested her young face.

  ‘You are frank, at all events,’ said Tebaldo, half mechanically, for he was thinking more of her than of her words.

  ‘And it is time that you should be frank, too,’ she answered. ‘You must make your choice, and abide by it Aliandra Basili or the American girl.’

  He was silent, for he was in a dilemma and was, besides, too nervous from all he had been through to like being driven to a sudden decision. On the other hand, her beauty stirred him now, as it had not done before, and the idea of giving her up was unbearable. She looked at him steadily for several seconds. More than once his lips parted, as though he were going to speak, but no words came. Gradually her mouth grew scornful and her eyes hard.

  All at once she laughed a little harshly and turned towards the door.

  ‘You have chosen,’ she said. ‘Good-bye.’

  But the passionate longing that had assailed him outside, in the street, at the sound of her voice, had doubled and trebled now. As she turned, the folds of her gown followed her figure in a way that drove him mad.

  ‘Aliandra!’ he cried, overtaking her in an instant, and catching her in his arms.

  She struggled a little as he forced her head backwards upon his shoulder.

  ‘You!’ He kissed the word upon her lips again and again. ‘You! You!’ he repeated. ‘I cannot live without you, and you know it! Yes — I will marry you — before God, I will—’

  And many passionate, broken words and solemn vows mingled with his kisses as he stood there pressing her to him. It was not a noble love, but it was genuine and fierce, as all the man’s passions were, whether for love, or hatred, or revenge. It was when he had let them drive him to reckless deeds that his other nature asserted itself, calm and treacherous and self-contained.

  As for Aliandra herself; she had saved her self-respect, though few people might respect her for what she had done. She was not a very romantic or sentimental young woman, but according to her lights she was a good girl. She had been taught to consider that all men were originally and derivatively bad, and that every woman had a g
enuine right to make the most advantageous marriage she could. She did not in the least expect that Tebaldo would be faithful to her, but she firmly intended to be an honest wife, on general principles. What she most wanted was his name, for which she meant to earn a fortune by her art. She had never been in love and, therefore, did not believe that love had any real existence, a view not uncommon with very young people who have no particular sentimentality in their composition. And so rigid were her ideas in one direction that she resented the demonstrative way in which Tebaldo expressed his decision.

  He was almost beside himself, for his nerves had been already unstrung, and her beauty completely dominated him for the time being, so that he forgot even Miss Slayback’s millions, his own evil deeds, and his meeting with the outlaw. There was nothing which he was not ready to do. Basili should draw up the marriage-contract at once, and on the following morning they would be formally betrothed. Only the fact that he could not with propriety be married within less than three months of his brother’s death recalled him to himself.

  The afternoon was already advancing when he left the house and went back to the inn, half dazed and almost forgetful alike of past and future, as he walked up the street. Before he had gone a hundred yards, however, he had regained enough composure to think of what he had to do, and when he reached the inn, no one would have supposed that anything unusual had happened to him.