Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

For he felt the want of companionship. Those who have lost what is most worth having, whether by death or by their own fault, or by the other’s, miss the companionship of love more than anything else, when the pain of the first wrench is dulled and the heart’s blood is staunched, and the dreadful bodily loneliness comes only in dreams. Then the longing for the old sweet intercourse of thought and word makes itself felt and is very hard to bear, though it is not sharp like the first wound; and it comes again and again for years, and perhaps for ever.

  But where there is no true companionship while love lasts, there is something lacking, and such love cannot live long. Men seem to want it more than women do; and women, seeing that men want something, often fancy they want flattery, and natter the men they love till they disgust them; and then the end comes suddenly, much to the astonishment of those women.

  Regina was too womanly not to feel that Marcello was in real need of something which she had not, and could never have. She had known it from the first, and had almost told him so. She gave what was hers to give, as long as he wanted it; when he wanted it no more, she meant to leave him, and it would make no difference what became of her afterwards.

  When she had finished speaking, Marcello was very miserable, because he could find no answer to what she had said, and he felt that she had no right to say it at all. His head ached now, from excitement and want of sleep, and he almost wished that he had put off speaking to Regina about her marriage. He rested his head in his hand as he sat thinking, and she came and stood beside him as she had done in the morning in the little house in Trastevere. But it was not the same now. She hoped that he would put up his other hand to find hers, without looking at her, as he often did, but it gripped his knee as if he did not mean to move it, and he did not raise his head.

  She looked up from his bent figure to the window and saw that the light was reddening with the first tinge of sunset. It would soon be night, Marcello would go away, and she would be dreadfully lonely. It was not like being in the little house, knowing that he was near her, in the great villa on top of the hill, hidden from her only by trees. She was in a strange place now, and he would be far away, across the Tiber, and the great dark city would be between her and him.

  For an instant her lip quivered, and she thought she was going to cry, though she had never cried in her life, except for rage and when she had been a little girl. She shook her handsome head impatiently at the mere sensation, and held it higher than ever. Then Marcello looked up at last.

  As their eyes met they heard the tinkle of the little bell. Regina at once left his side to go and open the door. It was not till she had left the room that Marcello rose, asking himself suddenly why it had not occurred to him to go himself. He realised that he had always allowed her to wait on him without question. Yet if she were his wife, he would not think of letting her do what she was doing now. He would even open the door of the room for her to go out.

  He knew why he had never treated her in that way. She was a peasant girl, she had been a servant in an inn; it was natural that she should serve him too. She often brought him his shoes when he was going out, and she would have put them on for him and laced them if he would have let her do it. It seemed natural that she should answer the bell and open the door, as it seemed unnatural that she should ever be his wife. The thought stung him, and again, he was ashamed.

  While these things were passing in his mind, he heard a familiar voice in the dark entry.

  “Signora, you will excuse me,” Ercole was saying. “I asked the Professor and he told me. I beg the favour of a few words.”

  “Come in,” Regina answered, and a moment later they both entered the sitting-room.

  Ercole stood still when he saw Marcello, and began to turn his hat in his hands, as if it were a rosary, which he generally did when he was embarrassed. Marcello wondered what the man wanted.

  “Were you looking for me?” he asked. “Come in! What is it? Has anything happened?”

  “No, sir, nothing new has happened,” answered Ercole.

  “What is it, then? Why did you come here?”

  Ercole had dressed himself for the occasion in his best clothes. He had on a snowy shirt and a new keeper’s jacket, and his boots were blacked. Furthermore, he had just been shaved, and his shaggy hair had been cut rather close. He did not carry his gun about with him in the streets of Rome, though he felt that it was slightly derogatory to his dignity to be seen without it, and Nino was not with him, having been temporarily chained to the wall in the court of the stables at the villa.

  He stood still, and looked from Marcello to Regina, and back to Marcello again.

  “It cannot be done,” he said suddenly. “It is useless. It cannot be done.”

  Without another word he turned abruptly and was going to leave the room, when Marcello stopped him authoritatively.

  “Come here, Ercole!” he cried, as the man was disappearing into the entry.

  “Did you speak to me, sir?” Ercole inquired, stopping in the doorway.

  “Yes. Shut the door and come here.” Ercole obeyed with evident reluctance. “Now, then,” Marcello continued, “come here and tell me what you want, and what it is that cannot be done.”

  “I desire a few words with this lady, and I did not know that you were here, sir. Therefore I said, it cannot be done. I mean that while you are here, sir, I cannot speak alone with this lady.”

  “That is clear,” Marcello answered. “You cannot be alone with this lady while I am in the room. That certainly cannot be done. Why do you wish to be alone with her? You can speak before me.”

  “It will not be so easy, sir. I will come at another time.”

  “No,” Marcello answered, not liking his manner. “You will say what you have to say now, or you will say nothing, for you will not come at another time. The lady will not let you in, if you come again. Now speak.”

  “It will be a little difficult, sir. I would rather speak to the lady alone.”

  Regina had stood listening in silence, and looking intently at Ercole’s face.

  “Let me speak to him,” she said to Marcello. “What is your full name?” she asked, turning to Ercole again.

  “Spalletta Ercole, to serve you,” was the prompt answer.

  “Spalletta?” Marcello asked in surprise, for strange as it may seem to any but Italians, it was quite natural that he should never have known Ercole’s family name. “Spalletta? That is your own name, Regina! What a strange coincidence!”

  “Yes,” Ercole said. “I know that the young lady’s name is Spalletta. It is for this reason that I desire the favour of a few words with her alone.”

  “There is no need,” Regina answered. “Since we have the same name, there is no doubt. I remember your face now, though until last night I had not seen you since I was a little child. Yes. I know what you have come to say, and it is quite true.”

  “What?” asked Marcello with some anxiety.

  “This man is my father,” Regina said, very quietly.

  “Your father!” Marcello made half a step backwards in his surprise.

  “Yes. I have told you what he did.” She turned to Ercole. “What do you want of me? Is it money that you want, perhaps?”

  Ercole stiffened himself and seemed to grow taller. His black eyes flashed dangerously, and his heavy eyebrows were suddenly stern and level, as Regina’s were.

  “You are your mother’s daughter,” he said slowly. “Did I take money from her? I took blood, and when I was tried for it, I was set free. I was told that it was my right under our law. I do not want money. I have brought you money. There it is. It will buy you some bread when your lover turns you into the street!”

  He took out his old sheepskin purse with a quick movement, and laughed harshly as he tossed it at her. Marcello sprang forward and caught him by the collar, to thrust him out of the room; but Ercole was tough and wiry, and resisted.

  “Will you hinder me from giving money to my daughter?” he asked fiercely. �
�It was yours, for you paid it to me; but when I knew, I saved my wages to give them back, for I will not take your money, sir! Take your hands from me, sir! I have a right to be here and to speak. Let me go, I tell you! I am not in your service any longer. I do not eat your cursed bread. I am this woman’s father, and I shall say what I will.”

  Marcello withdrew his hands and pointed to the door.

  “Go!” he said, in a voice of command.

  Ercole backed away a little, and then stood still again.

  “I have to tell you that I have spent five francs of that money,” he said, speaking to Regina. “But it was spent for you. I found a good monk, and I gave him the five francs to say three masses for your soul. The masses were said in August, and now it is November, and you are still alive!”

  “Go!” cried Marcello, understanding, and advancing upon him once more.

  “I go,” answered Ercole hoarsely. “Let her live, till you are tired of her, and she dies in a ditch! I told the monk to say the masses for a female. They will do for the woman who was killed last night. One female is worth another, and evil befall them all, as many as they are! Why did the Eternal Father ever create them?”

  He had turned before he spoke the last words, and he went out deliberately, shutting the door behind him. They heard him go out upon the landing, and they were alone again. Regina leaned back against the mantelpiece, but Marcello began to walk up and down the room.

  “You have seen,” she said, in a rather unsteady voice. “Now you know of what blood I am, and that what I said was true. The son of your mother cannot marry the daughter of that man.”

  “What have you to do with him?” Marcello asked sharply, stopping in his walk.

  But Regina only shook her head, and turned away. She knew that she was right, and that he knew it too, or would know it soon.

  “You will never see him again,” he said. “Forget that you have seen him at all!”

  Again she shook her head, not looking at him.

  “You will not forget,” she answered, “and I shall always remember. He should have killed me, as he meant to do. It would have been the end. It would have been better, and quicker.”

  “God forbid!”

  “Why? Would it not have been better?”

  She came close to him and laid one hand upon his shoulder and gazed into his eyes. They were full of trouble and pain, and they did not lighten for her; his brow did not relax and his lips did not part. After a little while she turned again and went back to the fireplace.

  “It would have been better,” she said in a low voice. “I knew it this morning.”

  There was silence in the room for a while. Marcello stood beside her, holding her hand in his, and trying to see her face. He was very tender with her, but there was no thrill in his touch. Something was gone that would never come back.

  “When all this trouble is over,” he said at last, “you shall go back to the little house in Trastevere, and it will be just as it was before.”

  She raised her head rather proudly, as she answered.

  “If that could be, it would be now. You would have taken me in your arms when he was gone, and you would have kissed my eyes and my hair, and we should have been happy, just as it was before. But instead, you want to comfort me, you want to be kind to me, you want to be just to me, instead of loving me!”

  “Regina! I do love you! I do indeed!”

  He would have put his arms round her to draw her closer to him, in the sudden longing to make her think that there was no change in his love, but she quietly resisted him.

  “You have been very good to me, dear,” she said, “and I know you will always be that, whatever comes. And I am always yours, dear, and you are the master, whenever you choose to come and see me. For I care for nothing that God has made, except you. But it will never be just as it used to be.”

  “It shall!” Marcello tried to put conviction into the words. “It shall! It shall!”

  “It cannot, my heart,” she answered. “I used to say that when this came, I would go away. But I will not do that, unless you bid me to, for I think you would be sorry, and I should be giving you more pain, and you have enough. Only leave me a little while alone, dear, for I am very tired, and it is growing late.”

  He took her hands and kissed them one after the other, and looked into her face. His own was very weary.

  “Promise me that I shall find you here to-morrow,” he said.

  “You shall find me,” she answered softly.

  They parted so, and he left her alone, in the dark, for the glow of the sunset had faded and the early November evening was closing in.

  Old Teresa came and brought a lamp, and drew the curtains, and gave her a message from Kalmon. If she needed anything she was to send for him, and he would come at once. She thanked Teresa. It was very kind of the Professor, but she needed nothing. Not even a fire; no, she hardly ever felt cold. Teresa brought something to eat, and set the little table for her. She was not hungry, and she was glad when the good soul was gone.

  She could open the windows when she was alone, and look out into the silent street. There was moonlight now, and it fell across the walls and trees of the Villa Aurora upon her face. It was a young moon, that would set before midnight, but it was very clear and bright, and the sky was infinitely deep and very clear behind it. Regina fancied that if there were really angels in heaven, she should be able to see them on such a night.

  If she had been in Trastevere she would have gone out to walk up and down the old paved paths of the little garden, for she could not sleep, though she was so tired. The lamp disturbed her and she put it out, and sat down by the window again.

  It was very quiet now, for it was past nine o’clock. She heard a step, and it almost surprised her. A man with a big dog was walking in the shadow on the other side of the street, and when he was opposite the house he stood still and looked up at her window. He did not move for some time, but the dog came out into the moonlight in a leisurely way, and lay down on the paving stones. All dogs think it is warmer in the light than in the shadow.

  Regina rose, got a long black cloak and a dark veil without lighting a candle, and put them on. Then she went out.

  CHAPTER XXI

  ERCOLE WALKED ON when he saw some one come out of No. 16, for he did not recognise Regina. She followed him at a distance. Even if he should pass where there might be many people, she would not lose sight of him easily because he had his dog with him. She noticed that his canvas bag was hung over one shoulder and that it seemed to be full, and his gun was slung over the other. He meant to leave Rome that night on foot. He walked fast through the new streets in the upper quarter, turned to the right when he reached the Via Venti Settembre, and went straight on, past the top of the hill, and along the Quirinal Palace; then down and on, down and on, through moonlight and shadow, winding streets and straight, till the Colosseum was in sight. He was going towards the Porta San Sebastiano to take the road to Ardea.

  The air was very clear, and the moonlight made the broad space as bright as if there were daylight. Regina walked fast, and began to overtake her father, and the dog turned his head and growled at the tall woman in black. She came up with Ercole by the ruin of the ancient fountain, and the dog snarled at her. Ercole stopped and looked at her sharply, and she raised her veil.

  “I have followed you,” she said. “We are alone here. We can talk in peace.”

  “And what am I to say to you?” Ercole asked, in a low and surly voice.

  “What you will, little or much, as you please. You shall speak, and I will listen. But we can walk on under the trees there. Then nobody can see us.”

  Ercole began to go on, and Regina walked on his left side. The dog sniffed at the hem of her long black cloak. They came under the shade of the trees, and Ercole stopped again, and turned, facing the reflection of the moonlight on the vast curve of the Colosseum.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked. “Why do you follow me in the ni
ght?”

  “When you saw that the Signore was with me to-day, you said, ‘It cannot be done.’ He is not here now.”

  She stood quite still, looking at him.

  “I understand nothing,” he said, in the same surly tone as before.

  “You wished to kill me to-day,” she answered. “I am here. This is a good place.”

  Ercole looked about him instinctively, peering into the shadows under the trees.

  “There is no one,” Regina said. “This is a good place.”

  She had not lifted her veil, but she threw back the collar of her cloak, and with quick fingers undid the fastenings of her dress, opening it wide. Rays of moonlight fell through the trees upon her bosom, and it gleamed like fine ivory newly cut.

  “I wait,” she said.

  She stood motionless before him, expecting the knife, but her father’s hands did not move. His eyes were fixed on hers, though he could not see them through the veil.

  “So he has left you?” he said slowly.

  “No. I am waiting.”

  Not a fold of her cloak stirred as she stood there to die. It seemed a long time, but his hands did not move. Then he heard the sound of her voice, very low and sweet, repeating a little prayer, but he only heard the last words distinctly.

  “ — now, and in the hour of our death!”

  His right hand moved slowly and found something in his pocket, and then there was the sharp click of a strong spring, and a ray of moonlight fell upon steel, and her voice was heard again.

  “ — in the hour of our death. Amen!”

  An unearthly sound rent the stillness. The huge dog sat upright on his haunches, his head thrown up and back, his terrible lower jaw trembling as he howled, and howled again, waking great echoes where the roar of wild lions had rung long ago.

  Regina started, though she did not move a step; but an unreasoning fear fell upon Ercole. He could not see her face, as the dark veil hung down. She was so motionless and fearless; only the dead could be as fearless of death and as still as she. Her breast was so white; her hands were like marble hands, parting a black shroud upon it. She was something risen from the grave to haunt him in that lonely place and drive him mad; and the appalling howl of the great dog robe deafeningly on the silence and trembled and died away, and began again.