“That is so often the way,” he said. “A man marries a woman out of a sense of duty, and then makes her miserably unhappy, quite in spite of himself. Of course, in such a case as yours, you feel that you owe a woman amends — you cannot call it compensation, as if it were a matter of law! She has given everything, and you have given nothing. You owe her happiness, if you can bestow it upon her, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do!” assented Marcello.
“Yes. The question is, whether the way to make her happy is to marry her, when you have a reasonable doubt as to whether you can be a good husband to her. That is the real problem, it seems to me. Do you love her enough to give up the life to which you were born, and for which you were educated? You would have to do that, you know. Our friends — your dear mother’s friends, my boy — would never receive her, least of all after what has happened.”
“I know it.”
“You would have to wander about Europe, or live in San Domenico, for you could not bear to live in Rome, meeting women who would not bow to your wife. I know you. You could not possibly bear it.”
“I should think not!”
“No. Therefore, since you have the doubt, since you are not absolutely sure of yourself, I think the only thing to do is to find out what you really feel, before taking an irreparable step.”
“Yes,” said Marcello, who had fallen into the trap laid for him. “I know that. But how am I to make sure of myself?”
“There is only one way,” Folco answered. “I know it is not easy, and if I were not sure that you are perfectly sincere I should be afraid to propose it to you.”
“What is it? Tell me. You are the only friend I have in the world, Folco, and I want to do what is right. God knows, I am in earnest! There are moments when I cannot imagine living without Regina — it seemed hard to leave her this morning, even for these few hours, and I long to be back at Pontresina already! Yet you know how fond I am of you, and how I like to be with you, for we have always been more like brothers than anything else.”
“Indeed we have!” Folco assented fervently. “You were saying that there were moments — yes?”
“Sometimes she jars upon me dreadfully,” Marcello said in a low voice, as if he were ashamed of owning it. “Then I want to get away.”
“Exactly. You want to get away, not to leave her, but to be alone for a few hours, or a few days. That would be the very best thing you could do — to separate for a little while. You would very soon find out whether you could live without her or not; and believe me, if you feel that you can live without her, that means that you could not live with her for your whole life.”
“I should go back to her in twenty-four hours. I am sure I should.”
“Perhaps you would, if you went, say, from here to Paris alone, with nothing to distract your attention. But suppose that you and I should go together, to some place where we should meet our friends, all amusing themselves, where you could talk to other women, and meet men of your own age, and lead the life people expect you to lead, just for a few weeks. You know that society will be only too glad to see something of you, whenever you choose to go near it. You are what is called a good match, and all the mothers with marriageable daughters would run after you.”
“Disgusting!” exclaimed Marcello, with contempt.
“No doubt, but it would be a wholesome change and a good test. When a young girl is determined to be a nun, she is generally made to spend a year in society, in order to make acquaintance with what she intends to give up. I don’t see much difference between that and your case. Before you say good-bye for ever to your own world, find out what it is like. At the same time, you will settle for ever any doubts you have about really loving Regina.”
“Perhaps you are right. It would only be for a few days.”
“And besides,” Folco continued, “if you have not yet found it dull at Pontresina, you certainly will before long. There is no reason why you should lead the life of an invalid, for you are quite strong now.”
“Oh, quite. I always tell Regina so, but she insists that I am too thin, and it amuses her to take care of me.”
“Naturally. That is how you first made acquaintance. A woman who has once taken care of a man she loves wants him to be ever afterwards an invalid, for ever getting better! A man gets tired of that in time. It was a great pity you left Paris just when I came, for there are many things we could have enjoyed together there.”
“I daresay,” Marcello answered, not paying much attention to the other’s words.
“Take my advice, my dear boy,” said Folco. “Come away with me for a few days. I will wait here till you are quite ready, for of course you cannot be sure of getting off at once. You will have to prepare Regina for this.”
“Of course. I am not sure that it is possible at all.”
Folco laughed gaily.
“Anything is possible that you really wish to do,” he said.
“Regina may insist upon coming with me.”
“Nonsense. Women always submit in the end, and they never die of it. Assert yourself, Marcello! Be a man! You cannot be ordered about like a child by any woman, not even if she has saved your life, not even if she loves you to distraction. You have a right to a will of your own.”
“I know. And yet — oh, I wish I knew what I ought to do!”
“Think over all I have said, and you will see that I am right,” said Folco, rising from the table. “And if you take my advice, you will be doing what is fair and honest by Regina as well as by yourself. Your own conscience must tell you that.”
Poor Marcello was not very sure what had become of his own conscience during the past year, and Folco’s arguments swayed him as he groped for something definite to follow, and found nothing but what Corbario chose to thrust into his hand.
As they stood by the table, a servant brought a note on a little salver, holding it out to them as if he were not sure which of them was to receive it. Both glanced at the address; it was for Corbario, who took it quickly and put it into his pocket; but Marcello had recognised the handwriting — that rather cramped feminine hand of a woman who has seen better days, in which Settimia kept accounts for Regina. The latter insisted that an account should be kept of the money which Marcello gave her, and that he should see it from time to time. At the first moment, being absorbed with other matters, and inwardly much engaged in the pursuit of his own conscience, which eluded him at every turn like a figure in a dream, he paid no attention to what he had seen; but the writing had impressed itself on his memory.
They had been lunching in Folco’s sitting-room, and Corbario made an excuse to go into his bedroom for a moment, saying that he wanted certain cigars that his man had put away. Marcello stood at the window gazing down the broad valley. Scarcely a minute elapsed before Folco came back with a handful of Havanas which he dropped on a writing-table.
“By the bye,” he said carelessly, “there is another reason why you may not care to stay long in Pontresina. The Contessa and Aurora are there.”
“Are they?” Marcello turned sharply as he asked the question.
He was surprised, and at the same instant it flashed upon him that Folco had just received the information from Settimia in the note that had been brought.
“Yes,” Folco answered with a smile. “And Pontresina is such a small place that you can hardly help meeting them. I thought I might as well tell you.”
“Thank you. Yes, it would be awkward, and unpleasant for them.”
“Precisely. The Contessa wrote me that she and Aurora had come upon you two unexpectedly in leaving a theatre, and that she had felt very uncomfortable.”
“Oh! I suppose she suggested that I should mend my ways?”
“As a matter of fact, she did.” Corbario smiled. “You know what a very proper person she is!”
“She is quite right,” answered Marcello gravely.
“It certainly cannot have been pleasant for her, on account of Aurora.”
Folco looked at him thoughtfully, for his tone had suddenly changed.
“If you don’t mind,” Folco said, “I think I will drive up with you and call on them this afternoon. You can drop me at their hotel, and I shall find my way back alone.”
“Certainly.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Folco affected to speak anxiously.
“Why should I?”
“You see,” Folco said, without heeding the question, “they let me know that they were there, and as we are such old friends it would be strange if I did not go to see them.”
“Of course it would,” answered Marcello in an absent tone.
He already connected Folco’s knowledge of the Contessa’s arrival in Pontresina so closely with Settimia’s note that Folco’s last statement had taken him by surprise, and a multitude of confused questions presented themselves to his mind. If Settimia had not written about the Contessa, why had she written at all? How did she know where Corbario was stopping in Saint Moritz? Was she in the habit of writing to him? Corbario had found her for Regina; was Settimia helping Corbario to exercise a sort of paternal vigilance over him? Somehow Marcello did not like that idea at all. So far as he knew, Folco had always been singularly frank with him, and had never deceived him in the smallest thing, even “for his own good.” Marcello could only attribute good motives to him, but the mere idea of being watched was excessively disagreeable. He wondered whether Settimia had influenced Regina to get him away from Paris, acting under directions from Corbario. Was Regina deceiving him too, “for his own good”? If there is anything a man cannot bear from those he loves best, it is that they should take counsel together secretly to direct him “for his own good.”
Marcello tried to put the thought out of his mind; but it had dawned upon him for the first time that Folco could tell even a pious falsehood. Yet he had no proof whatever that he had guessed right; it was a sudden impression and nothing more. He was much more silent during the rest of the afternoon as he drove up to Pontresina with Folco, and it seemed to him that he had at last touched something definite; which was strange enough, considering that it was all a matter of guess-work and doubt.
And now fate awoke again and did one of those little things that decide men’s lives. If Folco and Marcello had stopped at the door of the Contessa’s hotel two minutes earlier, or thirty seconds later, than they did, they would not have chanced upon the Contessa and Aurora just coming in from a walk. But fate brought the four together precisely at that moment. As the carriage stopped, the two ladies had come from the opposite direction and were on the door-step.
“What a surprise!” exclaimed the Contessa, giving her hand graciously to Folco and then to Marcello.
The latter had got hold of a thread. Since the Contessa was surprised to see Folco, she could not possibly have already let him know that she was in Pontresina.
“I came as soon as I knew that you were here,” said Corbario quickly.
Marcello heard the words, though he was at that moment shaking hands with Aurora, and their eyes had met. She was perfectly calm and collected, none the worse for her adventure in the morning, and considerably the wiser.
“Will you come in?” asked the Contessa, leading the way, as if expecting both men to follow.
Corbario went at once. Marcello hesitated, and flushed a little, and Aurora seemed to be waiting for him.
“Shall I come, too?” he asked.
“Just as you please,” she answered. “My mother will think it strange if you don’t.”
Marcello bent his head, and the two followed the others towards the stairs at a little distance.
“Did your mother send word to Folco that you were here?” asked Marcello quickly, in a low tone.
“Not that I know. Why?”
“It is no matter. I wanted to be sure. Thank you.”
They went upstairs side by side, not even glancing at each other, much more anxious to seem perfectly indifferent than to realise what they felt now that they had met at last.
Marcello stayed ten minutes in the small sitting-room, talking as well as he could. He had no wish to be alone with Aurora or her mother, and since the visit had been pressed upon him he was glad that Folco was present. But he got away as soon as he could, leaving Corbario to his own devices. The Contessa gave him her hand quietly, as if she had not expected him to stay, and she did not ask him to come again. Aurora merely nodded to him, and he saw that just as he went out she left the room by another door, after glancing at him once more with apparent coldness.
He walked quickly through the village until he came near to his own hotel, and then his pace slackened by degrees. He knew that he had felt a strong emotion in seeing Aurora again, and he was already wishing that he had not come away so soon. The room had been small, and it had been uncomfortable to be there, feeling himself judged and condemned by the Contessa and distrusted by Aurora; but he had been in an atmosphere that recalled all his youth, with people whose mere presence together brought back the memory of his dead mother as nothing else had done since his illness. He was just in that state of mind in which he would have broken away and freed himself within the hour, at any cost, if he had been involved in a common intrigue.
At the same time he had become convinced that Folco had deceived him, for some reason or other which he could not guess, and the knowledge was the first serious disillusionment of his life. The deception had been small, and perhaps intended in some mysterious way to be “for his own good”; but it had been a distinct deception and no better than a lie. He was sure of that.
He went upstairs slowly and Regina met him at the door of their rooms, and took his hat and stick without a word, for she saw that something had happened, and she felt suddenly cold. He was quite unlike himself. The careless look was gone from his face, his young lips were tightly closed, and he looked straight before him, quite unconscious that his manner was hurting her desperately.
“Has Settimia been out to-day?” he asked, looking at her quickly.
“I don’t know,” she answered, surprised. “I went for a long walk this morning. She probably went out into the village. I cannot tell. Why do you ask?”
“I wish to know whether she sent a note to Saint Moritz by a messenger. Can you find out, without asking her a direct question? I am very anxious to know.”
“I will try, but it will not be easy,” said Regina, watching him.
She had made up her mind that the blow was coming, and that Marcello was only putting off the moment when she must be told that he meant to leave her. She was very quiet, and waited for him to speak again, for she was too proud to ask him questions. His inquiry about Settimia was in some way connected with what was to come. He sat down by the table, and drummed upon it absently with his fingers for a moment. Then he looked up suddenly and met her eyes; his look of troubled preoccupation faded all at once, and he smiled and held out one hand to draw her nearer.
“Forgive me,” he said. “All sorts of things have happened to-day. I have been annoyed.”
She came and bent over him, turning his face up to hers with her hands, very gently. His eyes lightened slowly, and his lips parted a little.
“You are not tired of Regina yet,” she said.
“No!” he laughed. “But you were right,” he added, almost immediately.
“I knew I was,” she answered, but not as she had expected to say the words when she had seen him come in.
She dared not hope to keep him always, but she had not lost him yet, and that was enough for the moment. The weight had fallen from her heart, and the pain was gone.
“Was it what I thought?” she asked softly. “Does your stepfather wish to separate us?”
“For a little while,” Marcello answered. “He says we ought to part for a few weeks, so that I may find out whether I love you enough to marry you!”
“And he almost persuaded you that he was right,” said Regina. “Is that what happened?”
“That — and something el
se.”
“Will you tell me, heart of my heart?”
In the falling twilight he told her all that had passed through his mind, from the moment when he had seen Settimia’s handwriting on the note. Then Regina’s lips moved.
“He shall pay!” she was saying under her breath. “He shall pay!”
“What are you saying?” Marcello asked.
“An Ave Maria,” she answered. “It is almost dark.”
CHAPTER XIV
THE LITTLE HOUSE in Trastevere was shut up, but the gardener had the keys, and came twice a week to air the rooms and sweep the paths and water the shrubs. He was to be informed by Settimia of Regina’s return in time to have everything ready, but he did not expect any news before the end of September; and if he came regularly, on Tuesday and Saturday, and did his work, it was because he was a conscientious person in his way, elderly, neat, and systematic, a good sort of Roman of the old breed. But if he came on other days, as he often did, not to air the rooms, but to water and tend certain plants, and to do the many incomprehensible things which gardeners do with flower-pots, earth, and seeds, that was his own affair, and would bring a little money in the autumn when the small florists opened their shops and stands again, and the tide of foreigners set once more towards Rome. Also, if he had made friends with the gardeners at the beautiful villa on the Janiculum, that was not Corbario’s business; and they gave him cuttings, and odds and ends, such as can be spared from a great garden where money is spent generously, but which mean a great deal to a poor man who is anxious to turn an honest penny by hard work.
The immediate result of this little traffic was that the gardeners at the villa knew all about the little house in Trastevere; and what the gardeners knew was known also by the porter, and by the other servants, and through them by the servants of other people, and the confidential valet told his master, and the maid told her mistress; and so everybody had learned where “Consalvi’s Regina” lived, and it was likely that everybody would know when she came back to Rome, and whether Marcello came with her or not.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1091
