Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Maria laughed a little. Her husband smiled kindly and shook his head.

  ‘My dear little man,’ he said, ‘when you are the master of Montalto and have a boy of your own, you may keep a racing stable if you like and let your son ride races for you. But I am not going to encourage you to break your neck! Do you remember that poor lad who was killed at the Capannelle?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leone answered, growing suddenly grave, for he had been taken to the races for the first time on that day, and had seen the fatal accident. ‘But I shall never be the master, papa, you know.’

  Maria’s face changed, and she looked down at her plate.

  ‘Why not?’ asked her husband, smiling again.

  ‘Because I couldn’t be, unless you were dead. And that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘We shall see, my boy, we shall see,’ answered Montalto. ‘At all events we need not talk about dying yet. You are quite right about that.’

  The words made a deep impression on Maria, who knew that he was making a new will. He could only mean that Leone was to have Montalto, which it would have been in his power to leave to another branch of his family, or indeed to any one he pleased; and Montalto meant everything. She could not doubt that he knew perfectly well what he was doing; he had added one more generous deed to the many he had done in the course of that large forgiveness that had brought him back to her.

  He could do such things as this, and yet he could not lift his hand to hinder a disaster that might wreck the honour of his name, with her own, and Leone’s. He went out after luncheon, saying that he had an appointment, and she did not see him till dinner-time, when Leone always had his supper with them, unless some one came to dine. And later he was in the loving mood she dreaded most. The second of the eight days had passed and nothing had been done yet. After two or three more like these, the situation would become absolutely desperate.

  Maria made up her mind that night that if her husband came to no decision in twenty-four hours, she would go to the National Bank and buy the cheques. After all it was better to disobey Montalto’s express injunction, if obedience was to mean ruin.

  She longed intensely for help, but there was none in sight. She could not tell Giuliana all that had passed between her husband and herself to bring about the present situation; still less could she appeal to Monsignor Saracinesca, who knew very little of the truth.

  On the next day Montalto talked again about a circular notice to the press, saying there was plenty of time, because the blackmailer’s letter did not say that the letters would be published in eight days, but that if the money had not been received by that time a second demand would be sent to Maria, on the supposition that the first draft might have been lost, which would mean a lapse of several days more.

  ‘Let us go together to the Chief of Police,’ entreated Maria. ‘We need only say that it concerns certain old letters, in your possession, which might compromise me.’

  ‘That is quite impossible, my dear, without very mature reflection,’ answered Montalto, with exasperating calm.

  ‘But surely we have been reflecting these three days! If you do not go to the police, how can you ever get a circular sent to the press?’

  ‘But, my dear child, there is really no such hurry!’

  He did not often call her his ‘dear child’; it was one of his small ways of showing that he was impatient, and she understood at once that it was of no use to insist.

  ‘Diego,’ she said, ‘unless you can find some better way, I shall send the money to-morrow, although you forbade me to do so, and I promised to obey you.’

  ‘My dear Maria,’ he cried, almost angrily, ‘how you take up every word I say! I certainly apologised to you for using such an expression as “forbid,” so, for heaven’s sake, let us say no more about it! I only beg you not to submit to this outrageous extortion. I entreat you not to send the money. That is all I mean to say.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Maria answered; ‘but unless some better way can be found, I shall have to pay.’

  ‘It is madness,’ said Montalto; ‘pure madness!’

  And, to her great surprise, he got up abruptly and left the room without another word, evidently much displeased.

  For the third time she saw Castiglione’s resolute face before her, as distinctly as if he had been in the room, and the vision came so unexpectedly that she felt her heart leap, and drew a sharp breath. It was so sudden that a few seconds passed before she made that honest effort of will that was necessary to drive away the thought of him. When it was gone she felt more desperate than before. She went and stood at a window that looked over the square; it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, the day was rainy, and the square was almost empty. Three cabs were on the stand, and the huge umbrellas concealed the dozing cabmen. The horses in their shiny waterproofs hung their heads far down, as if they were contemplating their more or less broken knees, a melancholy sight indeed.

  Here and there a stray pedestrian came in sight for a few moments, hurrying along by the wall and presently disappearing into a side street; a poor woman with a torn green shawl over her head dripping with water, a student with an umbrella and some books under his arm, a policeman in an indiarubber hood and cloak, a priest in a long black overcoat and shoes with silver buckles. He had no umbrella, and he made straight for one of the three cabs, diving in under the hood and apron with more agility than dignity. Maria watched the dismal scene with a sort of depressed interest. Nothing made any difference, till she could see clearly what was right, for she was sure that the question of right and wrong was involved. Would it be wrong to pay no attention to her husband’s entreaty that the money should not be sent? Or would it be right? Or would it be neither, and yet be a mistake? She groped for some answer and could find none. She wanted some strong and energetic friend to help her, some one with decision and character, even if not very wise, some man who would fight for her or tell her how to defend herself.

  She crossed the room and came back aimlessly, and looked out once more. Her husband would have told her that even if she could not be seen from below, a Roman lady must never look out of a window in town. She could hear him say it! But when she looked this time, another of the cabs was gone. Her old travelling clock on the writing-table struck eleven and chimed the quarter; she turned and looked at it, and her mind was made up. There was still one cab left on the stand, and there was still time. Three minutes later she was downstairs and under the dripping hood, with the leathern apron hooked up as high as her chin.

  ‘What address, Excellency?’ inquired the porter, respectfully.

  ‘The Capuchins, in Piazza Barberini.’

  The porter repeated the words to the cabman in his sternest tones, as if he were ordering that her Excellency should be taken directly to prison, and the cab rumbled out from under the deep archway.

  She was not going for the sake of confession, for she was not conscious of having anything on her conscience, but it would be just as well to go through what would be little more than a form, in order to ask what her duty was. That seemed to be the point. At a very critical juncture in her life she turned neither to Giuliana Parenzo, her intimate friend, nor to Don Ippolito Saracinesca; he was Montalto’s friend, and she could not put him in the position of advising her to do what was precisely contrary to her husband’s wishes; and, moreover, courageous as he was, she did not feel that he was a fighting man. She went to the grim, uncompromising old monk; according to his lights he would tell her what he thought, without the slightest regard for her feelings.

  Maria would not have admitted that Montalto’s hesitation filled her with contempt. How could she despise the husband who overwhelmed her with undeserved kindness and almost fantastic generosity?

  I once knew a most refined and cultivated epicure who sometimes felt an irresistible craving for a piece of coarse dry bread and a raw onion, and would go out secretly and buy those things, and eat them greedily in the privacy of his own dressing-room, after locking the door lest hi
s own servant should catch him. I have also heard of women who would rather be beaten black and blue by their husbands than be treated with indifference.

  At that juncture Maria’s conscience and heart craved stronger and rougher stuff than was to be found in her husband’s nervous and hesitating character. She wanted some one to direct her authoritatively, even rudely, and she went to the Capuchin because she recognised in him the born fighting man as well as the uncompromising ascetic. If he thought she ought to defend herself energetically, he would tell her that she must fight, or be guilty of the mortal sin of sloth; if he believed that mortification of the flesh was necessary to the salvation of her soul she was sure that he would order her to walk barefoot from Rome to Naples, and would be very much surprised if she objected to such a penance. He had not outlived the thirteenth century, in which his Order had been founded. What had been good for sinners then was excellent for them now. If civilisation was to extend to morality and change the soul’s requirements, then the Church must change too, and as this was manifestly impossible, the hypothesis was contrary to sense. His reasoning was sound, though his application of the truth he demonstrated was sometimes severe to the point of being quite impracticable. He shook his head, for instance, when he was told that various bacilli flourished on the pavement of his church, and that it was not hygienic for penitents to kiss the stones twenty-five times between the door and the altar rail. He said there had been no bacilli when he was young, and that the floor was swept every day.

  Maria asked for Padre Bonaventura. The lay brother did not know whether he was in the monastery at that hour. Would he kindly go and ask? Certainly, but would the lady kindly give her name? Maria hesitated.

  ‘Please say that a Roman lady is here who confessed to him ten days ago, and also last May.

  The lay brother hastened away, slapping the damp marble pavement with his wet sandals, and the Countess did not wait long. The monk appeared almost immediately, and went before her to a confessional box, just bending his head a little as he passed her, but not even glancing at her unveiled face. Her message had explained enough, and he had no wish to discover her identity. He probably thought she had already failed in her good resolution and had come to tell him so.

  But he was mistaken; though he asked her several searching questions, she answered them all without hesitation, and then told him the story of the letters and spoke of her husband’s hesitations and of her own fears; and at last she put the case directly: Would it be wrong to act contrary to his expressed wish or not? That was what she had come to ask.

  The monk was silent for a few moments, and then asked her a question in his harsh, unforgiving tone.

  ‘What is the character of the man who wrote those letters? Is he what is called a man of honour?’

  Maria, on the other side of the perforated brass plate, straightened herself unconsciously as if she had been offended in the street.

  ‘He is brave and honourable,’ she answered proudly, after an instant.

  ‘Very well. I suppose he is a gentleman at large, a noble without occupation in life, is he not?’

  ‘On the contrary, he is an officer in active service.’

  ‘Very good. So much the better.’

  She thought the old monk’s voice softened a little. She was quite sure it was less harsh. He had pronounced the words ‘a noble without occupation’ with an accent of profound contempt, and Maria did not see how the fact of being an officer in the Italian Army could be a recommendation in the eyes of a bare-footed friar whose political opinions might reasonably be thought to be those of Gregory Seventh or Pope Alexander Third. But Maria said nothing, and waited for another question. It came, in a kindly tone.

  ‘If you thought I could help you in your trouble, should you have any objection to telling me the officer’s name?’

  Maria was so much surprised that she did not answer at once. In all her experience of confessors — and her life had brought her to many — none had ever inquired the name of any person she spoke of.

  ‘Not yours,’ the monk added, before she spoke. ‘I do not know who you are, and I never shall try to find out. But if you will tell me the name of the officer, I think I can help you, provided you will trust me. I cannot advise you to send money to the thief, any more than I can suggest any other plan of action for you. I can only offer my own help.’

  ‘But what can you do?’ Maria asked in a puzzled tone.

  ‘Have you finished your confession?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say the Act of Contrition.’

  Maria obeyed, and immediately the monk pronounced the words of absolution. When all was finished, and after a short pause, he spoke again.

  ‘This matter on which you have consulted me has nothing to do with the confessional,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to go and sit down quietly for a few minutes and think it over. I will wait in the chapel, by the door of the sacristy. If you decide to trust me, come back and tell me the officer’s name and give me some address where I may find him, for I must see him alone. If you decide not to do this, you need only leave the church without coming back to me. I shall understand.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I will go and collect my thoughts.’

  She rose, went to a little distance, and sat down on a straw chair. It was all very strange, but the stern old Capuchin inspired her with respect and confidence. She could trust him at least not to lead her into doing anything wrong, and if it were not wrong that he should go from her to the man she loved, she could allow herself to believe that a sort of link was made which was better than utter estrangement. Even that did not seem to be quite without danger, but the monk was there between them, austere and unforgiving. She left her chair very soon and went back to the chapel, where he was kneeling on the step of the altar. As she came near he rose slowly to his feet, and she looked at his face attentively for the first time. He had a rough-hewn head, with great gaunt features that made her think of an old eagle. She came to him, and looked up trustfully as she spoke.

  ‘His name is Baldassare del Castiglione, and he is a captain in the Piedmont Lancers. I do not know where he lives.’

  ‘I can get his address from the barracks. Will you come here to-morrow evening, towards twenty-three o’clock or half-past?’

  ‘Yes, I will be here. Thank you.’

  She had a very vague idea as to what time twenty-three o’clock might be, for she belonged to the younger generation, and she was going to ask him to tell her, but he left her without waiting for her to speak again, and disappeared into the sacristy.

  As she went out of the church she heard the midday gun, and all the bells began to ring. It was still raining, and she trod daintily and packed herself into the dripping cab and went home, wondering whether any woman she knew had lived a life so strange as hers, or had ever accepted help from such an unlikely quarter.

  After all, it was but to wait one day more, and that would be the fourth, and the draft could still reach Palermo in time.

  CHAPTER XIX

  ON THE FOLLOWING morning Castiglione’s orderly had a severe shock. The Captain had been in the saddle early, and hard at work, and as it had rained heavily on the previous day and night, he and his charger had come in looking as if they had taken a mud-bath together. If Castiglione had known Greek, he might have thought of Hector declining Hecuba’s invitation to go up and pray at the temple of Zeus, on the ground that he was not fit to be seen. The orderly was doing what he could for boots and breeches when the bell rang. He opened the door and beheld an old Capuchin monk whose gaunt head towered far above his own. But this was not what surprised him, for mendicant brothers and nuns of various charitable Orders came at intervals to ask for alms at every landing of the apartment house. When Castiglione was in, he gave them a few pennies; his chum rarely gave anything. To-day Castiglione was at home and his friend was out; this meant pennies.

  ‘I will ask the Captain,’ said the trooper civilly, leaving the door open and turning to go
into the sitting-room.

  Then came the shock.

  ‘Excuse me, but I wish to see the Conte del Castiglione on private business,’ said the monk. ‘Be good enough to give him my card.’

  Now the trooper was a young man who came of decent people in Umbria, and had been brought up in the fear of God, and went to hear a mass now and then on a Sunday when he had time. But the idea that a bare-footed friar could ever, under any conceivable circumstances, have private business with an officer of the Piedmont Lancers had never presented itself to him. He stood staring at the card like an idiot.

  ‘That is my name,’ the monk said impatiently. ‘Padre Bonaventura of the Capuchins.’

  ‘I can read,’ answered the orderly, offended.

  ‘But apparently,’ retorted the monk, ‘you cannot walk. Now take my card to the Captain, and say that I must see him on private business of the utmost importance to him, and at once. Right about face, march!’

  The order was delivered in such a commanding tone, and with such a military air, that the trooper obeyed mechanically, swung round on his heels, and tramped into the sitting-room with the card and the message, shutting the door behind him. When he reappeared a moment later, he left it open, stood at attention while the monk went in, and then shut it after him. He returned to his master’s boots fully resolved to play at the public lottery with the numbers corresponding to ‘Capuchin,’ ‘officer,’ and ‘surprise’ in the Book of Dreams, which contains the correct numbers for everything under the sun except winning.

  The sunshine was streaming into the sitting-room when Padre Bonaventura entered, and Castiglione stood near the door to receive him, in slippers and a brown dressing-gown of nearly the same colour as his visitor’s frock.

  ‘As your business is urgent, Father, you will excuse my appearance,’ he said politely, but with distinct coldness, for he was almost as much surprised as his orderly had been. ‘May I ask what brings you to see me?’