Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Her purity! She remembered how the word had looked in his bold handwriting; and though she was alone, the flush of shame rose and burned her cheek, so that she laid the back of her cold hand to the spot to cool it; for her own words were whispered again in her ears.

  That echo decided her. There was no time to be lost. It had all been a lie from the day when he had come to her pretty booth at the Kermess. Such dreams were inventions of the devil, and nothing but rank poison. She loved Castiglione more than ever, as woman loves man, fiercely, desperately, very sinfully, very shamefully. That was what her whisper had told him plainly enough. Her cold hands pressed her burning cheeks again, but there was no hesitation left. She was alone, the fire was burning, and surely no one would disturb her during the next five minutes.

  She thrust the small key into the lock and turned it. It stuck a little and she pushed it in and out, and turned it to the right and left with almost feverish haste, till she heard the click of the tiny bolt, and she lifted the folding board towards her on the table. Her fingers sought the little faded silk tag by which the second lid was to be lifted, but it must have been jammed in when she had last shut the case. She took the first thing that lay under her hand, a sharp steel letter-opener in the shape of a sword, and she forced the point a little way in between the lid and the edge of the ebony case, pressing hard on the little gold hilt. The lid flew up suddenly on its hinges and fell forwards towards her.

  Then her heart failed her. The desk was empty.

  She uttered a sort of faltering little cry, and she fell back in her chair with starting eyes and parted lips, her hands still grasping the open lid. In the wild confusion of her horror and the frantic effort of her memory to recall something that had never been, she was mad for a moment. Had she burnt everything and forgotten? Or had she put the papers in some safer place, and lost all recollection of what she had done?

  That was impossible. She never forgot what she did, and she had thought too often of the letters not to be sure that she had last seen them there. Some one had forced the desk and taken them. The key had not turned easily, as it had always turned, because somebody had tampered with the lock. The little silk tag of the inner lid had been jammed inside by a hand unfamiliar with it. The details flashed upon her quickly, and in half a minute she understood that she had forgotten nothing. She had left the letters in the desk, and they were no longer there. Some one had stolen them all, and her husband’s letter with them.

  She grew slowly cold with fear as she closed the empty desk and put it into the drawer again; and once more that hideous thought rose up and tormented her. Montalto had come back to be revenged upon her for his wrongs, slowly and surely; and that was not all, for he had come secretly to her room when she was out of the house and had stolen her letters, for a weapon against her if he needed one.

  Who else in the house would have dared to take them?

  CHAPTER XVI

  SUCH A THOUGHT could have no real hold upon Maria, and she put it away angrily, as unworthy and ungenerous, even in an extremity which might have excused her for suspecting some innocent person. It was much more likely, she soon told herself, that she had been robbed by some servant in the house, who would sooner or later attempt to blackmail her by threatening to show the letters to her husband. As for knowing even approximately when the theft had taken place, that was impossible. She had opened the writing-case for the last time in May, and nearly eight months had now elapsed. It was one of the objects she had formerly always locked up in a closet in Via San Martino when she left Rome for the summer. This year she had put it into the deep drawer of her new writing-table, which had an English patent lock, and she had taken the key with her to the country; but she knew that patent locks always had two keys when they were new, and it occurred to her now that she had never seen the second. Since she had been in Rome again she had not even locked the drawer, and had felt safe in carrying only the key of the desk itself. It was impossible to say when it had been opened, and she realised at once how useless it was to waste time and thought in trying to detect the thief.

  He would reveal himself when he wanted the money. She felt sure that money only had been his object in stealing the letters, for she could not imagine that any one should have done it for mere hatred of her.

  The question was whether the thief would demand his price from her or from Montalto. Most probably he would write first to her, for he would know that she had some independent fortune. She would give anything he asked, even if he asked for all she had.

  But, on the other hand, he might go directly to her husband. The thought appalled her; the catastrophe might happen at any moment; it had perhaps happened already, that very day, since she had seen Montalto, and she would see the change in his face when they met at dinner; afterwards, when they were alone, he would bring his accusation against her, and it would be a more bitter one than the first had been, long ago. Her shame would be greater, too, before the world when he left her the second time and for ever, and the final ruin of his life would be upon her soul.

  She wished she had told him everything when she had spoken of her meeting with Castiglione; but she had judged it wiser not to say more, for she had felt innocent of all evil then, and the knowledge that many letters had been exchanged would have sorely disturbed her husband’s peace. He would have answered her that she should have written him all the truth before he came home. If she had only done that, he might never have returned to claim her. Yet this thought was evil, too, now that she had said those words to Castiglione in the lift, and she must kill the memory of her lover in her heart if she had the least respect left for herself, or for her husband’s honour, or for God’s right.

  Even now it would be better to throw herself upon Montalto’s mercy and confess the truth before the thief wrote to him. She would rather tell it all, against herself, than let him learn it suddenly, brutally, from the vile letter in which the blackmailer would make his demand. It would be easier for Montalto too. At least he would be warned; at least, if he chose to cast her off again, she would have given him the weapon, the right, and the opportunity. Yes, it would be better so.

  The brave thought took possession of her quickly. She believed she saw the right course before her, in the clear light of a good inspiration. Perhaps Montalto had come home already, though it was only six o’clock and he rarely came in before seven. She now recollected that Giuliana Parenzo and Monsignor Saracinesca were coming to dinner. When her husband told her that he had asked Don Ippolito to dine, she generally telephoned to Giuliana to come if she could. The two men often engaged in endless discussions about the relations of Church and State, during the evening; the layman believed in the dream of restoring the temporal power of the Pope, the churchman did not, and had a patriotic affection for his country and a belief in its future, which made Montalto tremble for his salvation. At first Maria had derived some amusement from this anomalous situation, but when she had occasionally ventured to put in a word for the new order of things, Montalto had been visibly displeased. After that she had resorted to the device of asking Giuliana, with whom she could talk quietly at one end of the drawing-room while her husband and his friend carried on their unending argument at the other. Incidentally, she often wondered how such a broad-minded man as Don Ippolito could be so sincerely attached to such a prejudiced one as Montalto.

  To-night she would have to wait till the Canon and the Marchesa were gone before she could speak to her husband. It would be very unwise to tell him her story before dinner, though she felt an intense desire to unburden herself of it at once. She wondered how she should get through the evening, from eight o’clock till half-past ten or eleven, without betraying her distress; but to her own surprise she found herself growing calmer and cooler than she could have thought it possible for her to be. She was in something more than trouble; she was in danger from an unknown and dastardly hand, and she was naturally brave enough to be calmer at such a moment than under the strain of any purely mental
suffering.

  She was conscious of impatience more than of fear or want of strength, for she was going to do the only thing that was brave and right and truthful, and after that such consequences might come as must.

  She put the empty desk away in the drawer, and after a moment’s hesitation she unlocked the door of the passage that led to the chapel, opening it with one hand as she moved the key to turn up the electric light; she entered, shut the door after her, and went forwards, absorbed in her thoughts.

  Before she was half-way down the long straight part of the passage, after the corner, the lights went out. She stood still in momentary surprise and then turned back. The electric light had been put in by a German company, and the keys were little flat levers that were kept in place by a spring. Maria thought she had perhaps not pushed the one at the boudoir door quite far enough to set it, and that it had sprung back of itself and cut off the current. She retraced her steps, following the smooth varnished wall with her hand till she reached the familiar corner, and then her own door. She pushed the lever both ways but no light came, so she concluded that an accident had happened to the wires just when she was half-way through the passage.

  There were no candles in the room, but she lit a wax taper she used for sealing notes. It was a long and thick one, rolled on itself and fitted into an old silver stand with a handle like a candlestick, and it gave a very fair light. She threw the match into the fire, entered the passage again, and made her way towards the chapel. She went in and set the taper-stand on the marble floor beside her as she knelt down in the place which was always hers.

  Three small silver lamps, fed with pure olive oil and hanging from the arch over the altar, shed a feeble light which was considerably strengthened by that from the taper. The ugly barocco angels and stucco work cast queer shadows above the altar and the walls, but Maria did not even glance at them and bent her head down over her clasped hands. The chapel had often been her refuge and her place of peace, since she had first come there long before dawn in the night that followed her husband’s return.

  As she knelt there now in the silence and gloom she was thinking, rather than trying to say any prayer; she was going over in her mind the things she must say to be quite truthful. She was recalling the words she had once said to Castiglione, the two innocent kisses she had received from him, the promises both had given and both had kept until to-day; and in the presence of the mortal danger that was hanging over her now, she felt that the whispered words of love she had spoken that afternoon were perhaps but a small matter compared with it; a sin that concerned her own soul only, to be confessed, repented of, and forgiven in time, whereas the main great matters were her husband’s honour and the happiness she had tried so hard to give him in all ways.

  If only she could make him see the truth as she had seen it, he would understand and still forgive; and her fortune could buy back the evidence of what had been no real betrayal of his honour. If only she could tell her true story as she knew it, that would be the result.

  She started as she knelt, and looked round in the dimness, with the sudden conviction that she was not alone. Her hearing and sight were very keen, but she was not aware of having heard any sound or seen any moving shadow in the chapel. The certainty had come upon her all at once, instinctively, she knew not how.

  There was nothing to be seen, but she listened intently with bent head. A moment later she looked up again, for she had heard something. Some one was breathing not far from her, and it was that soft and regular sound that had warned her before she was aware that she heard it.

  Her first impulse was to rise and search the chapel with her taper, but it occurred to her that Montalto might have come there to say his prayers, and might be kneeling somewhere out of sight, behind one of the pillars that supported the arch. He had perhaps heard her enter, and had not wished to disturb her by betraying his presence. In his slow way he was very thoughtful for her. She would go away now, and not let him know that she had heard him breathing.

  But perhaps, again, if he were really present, there could be no better time or place for telling him her story and appealing to his kindness. Her impatience to do that turned the scale.

  ‘Diego, are you here?’ she asked softly.

  There was no answer, but the breathing ceased for a moment and then the unseen person drew a longer breath. Maria felt a little thrill that was not fear; it was more like resentment. She took the taper from the floor and rose to her feet.

  ‘Who is here?’ she asked in a louder tone.

  Still there was no answer. Perhaps, after all, it was only a cat that had slipped in when the chapel was being swept, and had gone to sleep. Maria moved towards the altar, shading the light from her eyes with her hand and peering over it into the gloom. She spoke as she walked.

  ‘I hear you breathing. Show yourself, whoever you are! Come forward at once!’

  She spoke authoritatively and coolly, though at that very moment something told her that the intruder might be a thief who had come to steal the famous relic of the Cross that was preserved under the altar. She looked first to the right and then to the left, and there, flattened against the wall in the shadow of the pilaster, she saw the figure of a man. Without hesitating a moment she went straight towards him. When he understood that he was caught he came forward at last, and the light of the taper showed her the face of Orlando Schmidt, the steward.

  Maria stopped two paces from him.

  ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ she asked sternly.

  She had never before seen him pale; he was white round the lips now.

  ‘I beg your Excellency’s pardon,’ he said with a glibness that did not at all agree with his looks, ‘I came to see about some work that is to be done, and when you entered I hid myself in order not to disturb your Excellency’s devotions.’

  The Countess held the small light higher and scrutinised his face thoughtfully.

  ‘You are not telling the truth,’ she said with great calmness. ‘What were you doing here?’

  ‘What I have told you, Signora Contessa,’ he answered stubbornly.

  ‘There is no work to be done here,’ returned Maria, her tone growing hard and clear. ‘The Count and I have talked of the chapel recently. If you do not at once tell me what brings you here, with no light at this hour, I shall go to the door and call.’

  The chapel opened into the ante-chamber, of which the door was generally open to the outer hall, where a footman was always stationed.

  ‘Your Excellency is quite welcome,’ said Schmidt, and his coolness almost convinced Maria that he had told the truth.

  Yet his face was very white and his eyes showed his inward fear.

  ‘Take care,’ Maria said. ‘The Count has told me how he forgave you once. I do not wish to ruin you, but unless you tell the truth I shall call some one. You have either taken the relic from under the altar or you came here to take it.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Signora Contessa,’ the man answered obstinately; ‘the relic is in its place. You may see for yourself.’

  ‘Then give me the keys, for you have them in your pocket.’

  ‘I have not, Excellency,’

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  Maria held the light so that she could see him while she moved quickly towards the large door.

  ‘I am going to call the servants,’ she said, ‘and they shall search your pockets.’

  Schmidt attempted to smile.

  ‘Your Excellency cannot be in earnest,’ he managed to say, but his teeth were chattering and he was perfectly livid.

  The Countess laid her hand on the lock. It could be opened from within by a handle, but required a latch-key to open it from the other side. She watched Schmidt steadily and began to turn the knob. He looked round in a scared way, as if hoping to see some means of escape, and her fingers slowly turned the handle of the door. At the last second he broke down.

  ‘For God’s sake, Excellency!’ he cried, in utmost fear. ‘I
have taken nothing! I swear it on the altar, on the Sacrament — —’

  ‘Do not blaspheme,’ said the Countess quietly, and she let the latch spring softly back into its place. ‘If you had not something about you which you have stolen, you would not be so frightened at the idea of being searched.’

  ‘It is the disgrace before the servants — —’

  ‘That is absurd. If nothing is found on you, the blame will fall on me. You must make up your mind instantly whether you will throw yourself on my mercy and show me what you have taken, or whether the men shall search you.’

  Her hand moved to the lock again, and Schmidt read in her face that her patience was exhausted. A southern Italian would have become dramatic at this point, and would probably have fallen on his knees, tearing his hair and shedding real tears. But Schmidt was from the north, and practically an Austrian. He was a thief, he saw that he was caught, and he made the best of the situation at once.

  ‘Then I appeal to your Excellency’s generosity,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not touched the relic, and what I took some time ago I had come to restore when you found me here.’

  He produced from his pocket a square package, done up in a clean sheet of white paper, without string. He handed it to her.

  ‘You will find here seven letters from the Conte del Castiglione,’ he said, ‘and one from his Excellency. I took them from your writing-case three weeks ago, and I was going to put them back this evening while you were at dinner. I heard you coming and I could not go out by the ante-chamber without being seen. So I cut the wire of the light and hid myself.’