Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  There were the cheap little earrings she had worn ever since she had been a child, till Marcello had made her take them out and wear none at all. There was a miserable little brooch of tarnished silver which she had bought with her own money at a country fair, and which had once seemed very fine to her. She had not the slightest sentiment about such trifles, for Italian peasants are altogether the least sentimental people in the world; the things were not even good enough to give to Settimia, and yet it seemed wrong to throw them away, so she had always kept them, with a vague idea of giving them to some poor little girl, to whom they would represent happiness. With them lay the long pin she used to stick through her hair on Sundays when she went to church.

  It had been her mother’s, and it was the only thing she possessed which had belonged to the murdered woman who had given her birth. It was rather a fine specimen of the pins worn by the hill peasant women, and was made like a little cross-hilted sword, with a blade of fire-gilt steel about eight inches long. A little gilt ball was screwed upon the point, intended to keep the pin from coming out after it was thrust through the hair. Regina took the ball off and felt the point, which was as sharp as that of a pen-knife; and she tried the blade with her hands and found that it did not bend easily. It was strong enough for what she wanted of it. She stuck it through the heavy knot of her hair, rather low down at the back of her neck, where she could easily reach it with her right hand; but she did not screw on the ball. It was not likely that the pin would fall out. She was very deliberate in all she did; she even put up her hand two or three times, without looking at herself in the mirror, to be quite sure where to find the hilt of the pin if she should need it. Marcello had told her to get the information he wanted “at any cost.”

  Then she went back, with her candle, through the cheerful sitting-room, and out through a small vestibule that was now dark, and up the narrow staircase to find Settimia.

  She knocked, and the woman opened, and Regina was a little surprised to see that she was still dressed. She was pale, and looked very anxious as she faced her mistress in the doorway.

  “What is the matter?” she asked, rather nervously.

  “Nothing,” Regina answered in a reassuring tone. “I had forgotten to tell you about a little change I want in the trimming of that hat, and as I heard you moving about, I came up before going to bed.”

  Settimia had taken off her shoes more than half an hour earlier in order to make no noise, and her suspicions and her fears were instantly aroused. She drew her lids together a little and looked over Regina’s shoulder through the open door towards the dark staircase. She was not a tall woman, and was slightly made, but she was energetic and could be quick when she chose, as Regina knew. Regina quietly shut the door behind her and came forward into the room, carrying her candle-stick, which she set down upon the table near the lamp.

  “Where is that hat?” she asked, so naturally that the woman began to think nothing was wrong after all.

  Settimia turned to cross the room, in order to get the hat in question from a pasteboard bandbox that stood on the floor. Regina followed her, and stood beside her as she bent down.

  Then without the slightest warning Regina caught her arms from behind and threw her to her knees, so that she was forced to crouch down, her head almost touching the floor. She was no more than a child in the peasant woman’s hands as soon as she was fairly caught. But she did not scream, and she seemed to be keeping her senses about her.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked, speaking with difficulty.

  Policemen know that ninety-nine out of a hundred criminals ask that question when they are taken.

  “I want to know several things,” Regina answered.

  “Let me go, and I will tell you what I can.”

  “No, you won’t,” Regina replied, looking about her for something with which to tie the woman’s hands, for she had forgotten that this might be necessary. “I shall not let you go until I know everything.”

  She felt that Settimia’s thin hands were cautiously trying the strength of her own and turning a very little in her grasp. She threw her weight upon the woman’s shoulders to keep her down, grasped both wrists in one hand, and with the other tore off the long silk cord that tied her own dressing-gown at the waist. It was new and strong.

  “You had better not struggle,” she said, as she got the first turn round Settimia’s wrists and began to pull it tight. “You are in my power now. It is of no use to scream either, for nobody will hear you.”

  “I know it,” the woman replied. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I shall ask questions. If you answer them, I shall not hurt you. If you do not, I shall hurt you until you do, or until you die. Now I am going to tie your wrists to your heels, so that you cannot move. Then I will put a pillow under your head, so that you can be pretty comfortable while we talk a little.”

  She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, which terrified Settimia much more than any dramatic display of anger or hatred could have done. In a few moments the woman was bound hand and foot. Regina turned her upon her side, and arranged a pillow under her head as she had promised to do. Then she sat down upon the floor beside the pillow and looked at her calmly.

  “In this way we can talk,” she said.

  Settimia’s rather stony eyes were wide with fear now, as she lay on her side, watching Regina’s face.

  “I have always served you faithfully,” she said. “I cannot understand why you treat me so cruelly.”

  “Yes,” Regina answered, unmoved, “you have been an excellent maid, and I am sorry that I am obliged to tie you up like the calves that are taken to the city on carts. Now tell me, where is Signor Corbario?”

  “How should I know?” whined Settimia, evidently more frightened. “I know nothing about Signor Corbario. I swear that I have hardly ever seen him. How can I possibly know where he is? He is probably at his house, at this hour.”

  “No. You know very well that he has left the villa. It will not serve to tell lies, nor to say that you know nothing about him, for I am sure you do. Now listen. I wish to persuade you with good words. You and Signor Corbario were in South America together.”

  Settimia’s face expressed abject terror.

  “Never!” she cried, rocking her bound body sideways in an instinctive attempt to emphasise her words by a gesture. “I swear before heaven, and the saints, and the holy—”

  “It is useless,” Regina interrupted. “You have not forgotten what you and he did in Salta ten years ago. You remember how suddenly Padilla died, when ‘Doctor’ Corbario was attending him, and you were his nurse, don’t you?”

  She fixed her eyes sternly on Settimia’s, and the woman turned livid, and ground her teeth.

  “You are the devil!” she said hoarsely. “But it is all a lie!” she cried, suddenly trying denial again. “I was never in South America, never, never, never!”

  “This is a lie,” observed Regina, with perfect calm. “If you do not tell me where Signor Corbario is to-night, I shall go to the police to-morrow and tell all I know about you.”

  “You know nothing. What is all this that you are inventing? You are a wicked woman!”

  “Take care! Perhaps I am a wicked woman. Who knows! I am not a saint, but you are not my confessor. It is the contrary, perhaps; and perhaps you will have to confess to me this night, before going to the other world, if you confess at all. Where is Signor Corbario?”

  As she asked the question, she quietly took the long pin from her hair and began to play with the point.

  “Are you going to murder me?” groaned the wretched woman, watching the terrible little weapon.

  “I should not call it murder to kill you. This point is sharp. Should you like to feel it? You shall. In this way you will perhaps be persuaded to speak.”

  She gently pressed the point against Settimia’s cheek.

  “Don’t move, or you will scratch yourself,” she said, as the woman tried to draw back her face
. “Now, will you tell me where Signor Corbario is? I want to know.”

  Settimia must have feared Corbario more than she feared Regina and the sharp pin at that moment, for she shook her head and set her teeth. Perhaps she believed that Regina was only threatening her, and did not mean to do her any real bodily hurt; but in this she was misled by Regina’s very quiet manner.

  “I shall wait a little while,” said Regina, almost indifferently, “and then, if you do not tell me, I shall begin to kill you. It may take a long time, and you will scream a good deal, but nobody will hear you. Now think a little, and decide what you will do.”

  Regina laid the pin upon the floor beside her, drew up her knees, and clasped her hands together over them, as the hill women often sit for hours when they are waiting for anything.

  Her face hardened slowly until it had an expression which Marcello had never seen. It was not a look of cruelty, nor of fierce anticipated satisfaction in what she meant to do; it was simply cold and relentless, and Settimia gazed with terror on the splendid marble profile, so fearfully distinct against the dark wall in the bright light of the lamp. The strength of the woman, quietly waiting to kill, seemed to fill the room; her figure seemed to grow gigantic in the terrified eyes of her prisoner; the slow, regular heave of her bosom as she breathed was telling the seconds and minutes of fate, that would never reach an hour.

  It is bad to see death very near when one is tied hand and foot and cannot fight for life. Most people cannot bear the sight quietly for a quarter of an hour; they break down altogether, or struggle furiously, like animals, though they know it is perfectly useless and that they have no chance. Anything is easier than to lie still, watching the knife and wondering when and where it is going to enter into the flesh.

  Regina sat thinking and ready. She wished that she had Corbario himself in her power, but it was something to have the woman who had helped him. She was very glad that she had insisted on keeping Settimia in spite of Marcello’s remonstrances. It had made it possible to obtain the information he wanted, and which, she felt sure, was to lead to Corbario’s destruction. She was to find out “at any cost”; those had been Marcello’s words, and she supposed he knew that she would obey him to the letter. For she said to herself that he was the master, and that if she did not obey him in such a matter, when he seemed so much in earnest, he would be disappointed, and angry, and would then grow quickly tired of her, and so the end would come. “At any cost,” as he had said it in his haste, meant to Regina at the cost of blood, and life, and limb, if need were. Corbario was the enemy of the man she loved; it was her lover’s pleasure to find out his enemy and to be revenged at last; what sort of woman must she be if she did not help him? what was her love worth if she did not obey him? He had been always kind to her, and more than kind; but it would have been quite the same if he had treated her worse than a dog, provided he did not send her away from him. She belonged to him, and he was the master, to do as he pleased. If he sent her away, she would go; but if not, he might have beaten her and she would never have complained. Now that he had given a simple command, she was not going to disobey him. She had pride, but it was not for him, and in her veins the blood of sixty generations of slaves and serfs had come down to her through two thousand years, the blood of men who had killed when they were bidden to kill by their masters, whose masters had killed them like sheep in war and often in peace, of women who had been reckoned as goods and as chattels with the land on which their mothers had borne them — of men and women too often familiar with murder and sudden death from their cradles to their graves.

  The minutes passed and Settimia’s terror grew till the room swam with her, and she lost hold upon herself, and did not know whether she screamed or was silent, as her parched lips opened wide upon her parted teeth. But she had made no sound, and Regina did not even look at her. Death had not come yet; there was a respite of seconds, perhaps of minutes.

  At last Regina unclasped her hands and took up the pin again. The miserable woman fancied that she already felt the little blade creeping through her flesh and blood on its way to her heart. For Regina had said she would take a long time to kill her. It must have been a strong reason that could keep her silent still, if she knew the answer to the question.

  Regina turned her head very slowly and looked coldly down at the agonised face.

  “I am tired,” she said. “I cannot wait any longer.”

  Settimia’s eyes seemed to be starting from her head, and her dry lips were stretched till they cracked, and she thought she had screamed again; but she had not, for her throat was paralysed with fear. Regina rose upon her knees beside the pillow, with the pin in her right hand.

  “Where is Corbario?” she asked, looking down. “If you will not tell I shall hurt you.”

  Settimia’s lips moved, as if she were trying to speak, but no words came from them. Regina got up from the floor, went to the washstand and poured some water into the glass, for she thought it possible that the woman was really unable to utter a sound because her throat was parched with fear. But she could speak a little as soon as Regina left her side, and the last peril seemed a few seconds less near.

  “For the love of God, don’t kill me yet,” she moaned. “Let me speak first!”

  Regina came back, knelt down, and set the glass on the floor, beside the pin.

  “That is all I want,” she said quietly, “that you should speak.”

  “Water,” moaned Settimia, turning her eyes to the glass.

  Regina held up her head a little and set the tumbler to her lips, and she drank eagerly. The fear of death is more parching than wound-fever or passion.

  “Now you can surely talk a little,” Regina said.

  “Why do you wish to know where he is?” Settimia asked in a weak voice. “Are the police looking for him? What has he done? Why do you want me to betray him?”

  “These are too many questions,” Regina answered. “I have been told to make you tell where he is, and I will. That is enough.”

  “I do not know where he is.”

  In an instant the point of the sharp little blade was pressing against the woman’s throat, harder and harder; one second more and it would pierce the skin and draw blood.

  “Stop,” she screamed, with a convulsion of her whole body. “He is in the house!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  WITH A SINGLE movement Regina was on her feet, for she had been taken by surprise, and her first instinct was to be ready for some new and unsuspected danger. In a flash it seemed to her that since Corbario was in the house, he might very possibly enter suddenly and take Settimia’s defence. Regina was not afraid of him, but she was only a woman after all, and Corbario was not a man to stop at trifles. He was very likely armed, and would perhaps shoot her, in order to make good his escape with Settimia, unless, as was quite probable, he killed his old accomplice too, before leaving the room.

  Regina stood still a moment, reflecting on the dangerous situation. It certainly would not be safe to release Settimia yet; for if Corbario were really in the house, the two together could easily overpower one woman, though she was strong.

  “I am sorry that I cannot untie you yet,” Regina said, and with a glance at the prostrate figure she took up her candle-stick, stuck her pin through her hair before the mirror, and went to the door.

  She took the key from the lock, put it back on the outside, and turned it, and put it into her pocket when she had shut the door after her. Then she slowly descended the stairs, stopping now and then to listen. and shading her candle with her hand so that she could see over it, for she expected to be attacked at any moment. At the slightest sound she would have snatched her pin from her hair again, but she heard nothing, and went cautiously down till she reached the vestibule outside the sitting-room. She entered the latter and sat down to think.

  Should she boldly search the house? Settimia could hardly have had any object in lying. If she had meant to frighten Regina, she would have spoken very differe
ntly. She would have made out that Corbario was almost within hearing, waiting in a dark corner with a loaded revolver. But her words had been the cry of truth, uttered to save her life at the moment when death was actually upon her. She would have screamed out the truth just as certainly if Corbario had already left Rome, or if he were in some hotel for the night — or even if she had really known nothing. In the last case Regina would have believed her, and would have let her go. There is no mistaking the accent of mortal terror, whether one has ever heard it or not.

  Corbario was somewhere in the house, Marcello’s enemy, and the man she herself had long hated. A wild longing came over her to have him in her power, bound hand and foot like Settimia, and then to torment him at her pleasure until he died. She felt the strength of half a dozen men in her, and the courage of an army, as she rose to her feet once more. She had seen him. He was not a big man. If she could catch him from behind, as she had caught the woman, she might perhaps overpower him. With the thought of near revenge the last ray of caution disappeared, and from being fearless Regina became suddenly reckless.

  But as she rose, she heard a sound overhead, and it was the unmistakable sound of footsteps. She started in surprise. It was simply impossible that Settimia should have loosed the cord that bound her. Regina had been brought up in the low hill country and in the Campagna, and she could tie some of the knots used by Roman muleteers and carters, which hold as well as those men learn at sea. She had tied Settimia very firmly, and short of a miracle the woman could not have freed herself. Yet the footsteps had been distinctly audible for a moment. Since Settimia was not walking about, Corbario must have got into the room. Yet Regina had locked the door, and had the key in her pocket. It was perfectly incomprehensible. She left the sitting-room again, carrying her candle as before; but at the door she turned back, and set the candle-stick upon the table. She would be safer in the dark, and would have a better chance of taking Corbario by surprise.