Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘I am afraid my little boy is lost in the streets,’ Maria answered. ‘I am in great anxiety. I must go out and find him.’

  The young man understood the look in her face now.

  ‘I will stay here till the doctor comes,’ he said in a different tone. ‘Will you kindly send one of your servants to help me? It will be better to move the patient. His head is much too low.’

  ‘I can help you to do that,’ Maria answered. ‘I would rather help you myself. I am quite strong enough.’

  Between them they raised the unconscious man, and propped him with pillows and cushions till he was almost in a sitting posture.

  ‘That is all,’ said the doctor. ‘You can do nothing more. I will see to the rest.’

  She thanked him and went out quickly, and the servants made way for her with sorrowful respect, for they all loved her.

  ‘Go in and help,’ she said to old Agostino, and passed on.

  She hastened to her own room and put on a hat and a coat, the first she could find, and she took money and went through the endless rooms to the hall. It was deserted. Even the footman on duty was with the rest. But she went straight to the door. Her feet moved mechanically and swiftly, and she felt that she was guided by a mysterious power which would lead her to her child without fail by the shortest way.

  She ran down the first flight of stairs to the wide landing, and as she turned the corner of the great wall that divided the staircase she almost fell against Leone’s tutor, who was running up, two steps at a time.

  ‘Alone?’ she cried in utmost horror.

  ‘Leone is safe.’ He was almost breathless.

  ‘Safe? Where?’

  She did not believe him, and she saw that his right arm was in a sling made of coarse black cotton.

  ‘He is in the barracks of the Piedmont Lancers. I came as quickly as I could, for I thought you and the Count might have heard — —’

  ‘Yes, yes! But why there? What happened? Tell me quickly! Is he hurt?’

  ‘Not a hair of his head.’

  Maria breathed again, and leant against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again she looked at the sling and saw the end of a splint and a bit of white bandage.

  ‘But you are hurt?’

  ‘My arm is broken. I stopped at an ambulance-station and got it more or less set, because I could not run with it hanging down. The pain was too great. It took some time, I’m sorry to say.’

  Maria remembered that she had believed the tutor to be a coward.

  ‘I am very grateful to you,’ she said earnestly. ‘Only tell me what I am to do about getting Leone home. How did he get to the barracks? Are you in great pain?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ answered the tutor courageously, and he told his story in few words.

  On finding the school shut because riots were feared, he had thought it dangerous to bring Leone home through the city on foot, as they had come. The boy was now nine years old, and a good walker for his age, and the tutor had thought that by following the walls of the city from the station, round to the further side of the Palatine, they would be sure to keep out of any disturbances that might be going on. Leone had been delighted at the prospect, and they had started at once and encountered no rioters till they came to Porta Maggiore, when they suddenly found themselves caught between an angry crowd of labouring men, many of whom live in that quarter, and a band of citizens who came in sight just then, armed with their sticks. The rioters charged upon the latter as soon as they appeared. The tutor told Leone to run behind the citizens for safety, while he himself stood his ground to cover the boy’s retreat. Fortunately Leone obeyed, but the tutor soon found himself in the thick of the most serious fight that took place while the strike lasted. It was interrupted by the unexpected arrival on the scene of half a troop of the Piedmont Lancers, whose quarters were then in that region. The troopers charged upon the rioters, and belaboured them with the flat of their sabres till they took to flight. To the tutor’s surprise, the officer in command recognised Leone, and seemed much concerned that he should have been so near danger. He said he would take charge of him, and keep him at the barracks all day, as the city was not safe anywhere; he added that he knew the lad’s father and mother, and he gave his own name. The tutor did not remember to have heard it before except in history and hoped that he had done right.

  ‘Quite right,’ Maria answered. ‘I have known the Conte del Castiglione a long time.’

  She turned back and went up the stairs with the tutor and told him of what had happened. Then she went to her husband’s bedside again, calm and collected.

  CHAPTER XXV

  NATURE WAS MERCIFUL to Montalto. Strong men have lived paralysed for years after a stroke of apoplexy, in full consciousness, yet unable to communicate their thoughts to others; but Montalto was not very strong, and he never awoke from the sleep in which his wife found him. On the fifth day the heart stopped beating, and that was the end.

  There was no pain, no lucid moment, no harrowing farewell. It was the woman who endured all that a woman can bear, during those five days, not knowing but that he might come back to drag out a long and miserable existence, not daring to pray that he might die, lest she should be praying for her own freedom, yet for his sake not daring to ask that he might live and suffer. It was not until all was over that the last chance of that went out with life itself.

  Maria had refused to see any one. Three times Giuliana came to the palace and asked if she could be of any use, but the answer was always the same: the Countess thanked her friend, but could not see her. Monsignor Saracinesca came twice, and he was admitted to the sickroom; but Maria would not be present, and Don Ippolito made no attempt to disturb her privacy. It was only at rare intervals that she left her husband’s side for a short time, until he was dead. Each day, with the thought of imposing a duty upon herself which he would expect, she bent down and kissed his forehead; when it was finished she kissed him once more, she knelt beside his body half an hour, and then went quietly out of the room.

  She had done what she could; so far as in her lay, the expiation was complete; she might have done a little more if life had lingered a little longer; yet, as she closed her eyes, she asked herself whether she had done enough, and afterwards she remembered fancying that a cool breath of peace fanned her burning forehead for a moment before she fell asleep on a little lounge in her dressing-room.

  She awoke in bed at night, and it seemed strange that there should be a soft light in the room, for she had always slept in the dark. Perhaps the light was only in her imagination, after all, for when she tried to turn her head on the pillow the glimmer seemed to go out and she fell asleep again. Once more she awoke, and it was still there, and a nursing sister with a nun’s wimple and a dark blue veil was leaning over her. She tried to speak, but she was so very weak that she heard no sound, but only a sort of lisping whisper. The nurse bent nearer to her lips, and she tried to speak again.

  ‘Have I been asleep long?’ She could just whisper that.

  ‘You have been very dangerously ill for a long time. You must not try to talk.’

  The soft dark eyes looked up to the gentle face in wonder, and the lips moved again.

  ‘Leone?’ Only that word as a question.

  ‘Quite, quite well, in Frascati with his tutor. We exchange news every day.’

  Sleep again, quick and soft, and after that waking and sleep by day and night, with gradual return to thought and life, till she knew what had happened to her, and was at last well enough to see Leone for a few minutes.

  He looked strangely tall in his new black clothes, and when she had kissed him and had held his face before her a moment between her beautiful thin hands, he gazed at her a long time very thoughtfully.

  ‘The doctors said you were going to die,’ he observed at last, ‘but the Captain said you wouldn’t. I believed the Captain.’

  ‘What captain, dear?’

  ‘Why, Captain Castiglione, of course. He�
��s my friend now.’

  A faint warmth rose in Maria’s wasted cheeks.

  ‘I thought you had been in Frascati,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. But the Captain has been out to see me three times a week. Didn’t they tell you? Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He said he thought you wouldn’t mind, because it was rather lonely for me out there with a man like my tutor, who can’t ride and had a broken arm. He’s given me a dog. We’re great friends. Papa was going to give me a dog, you know.’

  The last sentence was spoken in a lower tone, very seriously and with a sort of awe.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Maria answered gravely, for she did not know what to say.

  The handsome boy sat down and held her white hands affectionately in his brown ones, and his bright blue eyes gazed quietly at her.

  ‘I miss papa dreadfully,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘His death has made a very great change in my life,’ she answered.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it at first,’ said Leone. ‘When I did, I just couldn’t stand it. I went and shut myself up in my room all day and thought about him.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the best thing you could have done, dear.’

  ‘What did you do after he was dead, mother? I want to know.’

  ‘I fell ill at once,’ Maria answered. ‘I thought I was only falling asleep, and I knew nothing for more than a fortnight.’

  ‘Yes. But before that, did you cry much?’

  ‘No, dear. I was quite worn out, for I had scarcely left him since he had fallen ill. When he did not breathe any more, I kissed him and prayed, and then came to my own room. After that I remember nothing.’

  Leone looked at her thoughtfully and rather sadly.

  ‘I wanted to know,’ he said after a while.

  Maria’s maid came to the door and said the tutor was waiting to take his Excellency for his afternoon walk. The nurse had sent her, thinking that Maria would be tired.

  ‘Why do they call me “Excellency” every minute?’ Leone asked. ‘They hardly ever used to. Of course, I’m growing up — but still — —’

  ‘Though you are only a boy, they look upon you as the master now, because there is no one else.’

  ‘Am I really the master of Montalto, as papa said I should be?’

  ‘I suppose so, dear.’ Maria spoke a little wearily. ‘You must go out for your walk now, and to-morrow you shall come again and stay longer.’

  ‘Yes, much longer! Do you think it would cheer you up to see my dog to-morrow? You must be dreadfully lonely all day. I’ll lend him to you, if you like.’

  Maria smiled.

  ‘Bring him with you to-morrow, if he is a cheerful little dog,’ she answered, and she nearly laughed for the first time in many weeks.

  Leone looked at her with satisfaction.

  ‘You’re going to get well very soon,’ he said in a tone of patronising conviction. ‘Good-bye.’

  She watched him as he crossed the room to the door. He was thinner and taller, but he looked square and tough. He already had the figure of a little man, and at the back of his neck, above the broad turned-down collar, the short and thick brown hair seemed trying to curl more vigorously than ever. Maria saw it and shut her eyes.

  She was still very weak, for it sometimes takes a long time to recover from brain fever, but she gained daily. Giuliana Parenzo came and spent long hours in the room, for she was a healthy, soothing woman, who made no noise and told Maria just how she wanted to know, asking no questions about how she felt.

  At last they began to drive out together, near the end of February, when the almond-trees were in blossom and there was a breath of spring in the air.

  One day they were in the Campagna and almost in sight of Acqua Santa, on the New Appian, and neither had spoken for some time. Giuliana broke the silence.

  ‘I have a great admiration for you, Maria,’ she said. ‘I mean, quite apart from our friendship. I did you a great injustice in my thoughts at the beginning of the winter, and I want to tell you how sorry I am. You have been very brave and good all through this.’

  ‘Thank you, Giuliana,’ Maria touched her friend’s hand affectionately.

  ‘I’m not the only one of your friends who thinks so, either. Shall I repeat something that Ippolito Saracinesca told me the other day?’

  ‘If it is kind, tell me. I am not quite strong yet.’

  ‘It may make a difference to you to know it. It ought to please you. Do you remember that Ippolito and I dined with you the night before your husband fell ill?’

  ‘Indeed I do!’

  ‘And they argued, as usual, but afterwards they talked in a low voice.’

  ‘I remember that too.’

  ‘Poor Diego was talking about you. He said that whatever trouble there had ever been between you was forgotten and forgiven. He said that you had made him absolutely and unspeakably happy ever since he had come back to you, and that he wished he could have made your life such a heaven as you had made his; that his unfortunate temper must have often irritated you and hurt you, but that he believed you had always forgiven him.’

  Maria’s eyes filled with tears, as they sometimes did.

  ‘Thank you for telling me that,’ she said. ‘It does make a difference.’

  ‘Ippolito never saw him conscious again. Those must have been almost the last words he ever spoke.’

  ‘Almost,’ echoed Maria, remembering that night.

  ‘But there is something else,’ Giuliana said. ‘Shall I tell you? There is just one thing more.’

  ‘Does Don Ippolito wish me to know it? He was Diego’s best friend.’

  ‘Yes. He thinks it will be easier — I mean, it will seem more natural — if it comes through me. Ippolito will never feel that he knows you very well. You understand, don’t you, dear?’

  ‘Certainly. Go on, please.’ Maria prepared herself for a shock.

  ‘Last Christmas Eve Diego went to see him, and placed in his hands a letter, to be given to you in case of his death. We have not thought you were well enough to have it until now. Your husband told Ippolito what is in the letter in case it were ever lost, and Ippolito thought best to tell me, so that you may know beforehand what it is about. You are strong enough now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maria said, but she turned a shade whiter. ‘I can bear anything now!’

  ‘It ought to relieve you rather than pain you,’ answered Giuliana. ‘The letter is meant to give you his full consent to marry again, in case he died. But he added — —’

  Telemaco suddenly checked his horses to a walk at the steep hill, and it was impossible for Giuliana to go on talking in the low phaeton without being heard, unless she spoke in a foreign language. Maria grew whiter.

  ‘A little faster,’ said Giuliana to the coachman. ‘You can stop at the top of the hill.’

  The New Appian Road is paved throughout, and the horses’ hoofs began to clatter on the stones again. Maria waited to hear the rest.

  ‘He added that if you married again he thought it would be your duty to marry Baldassare — your duty before God and your duty to society. Yes, dear, what did you say?’

  Maria had uttered a little exclamation and had turned her face quite away.

  For the first time since her friend had known her the tears overflowed, and Giuliana, leaning forwards a little, could just see two glistening drops on her pale cheek. When Maria turned again she shook her head slowly.

  ‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is too much, it is too generous. I must never marry him. I must never think of him again. I promised Diego that I would tear the memory from my heart, and I must. God help me, for I must.’

  Giuliana opened her little bag, a marvel of workmanship fresh from Paris.

  ‘Here is the letter, Maria,’ she said. ‘You must have it now, for it freely gives you back the promise you made. Read it when you are alone.’

  Maria took the letter in silence; and under her black fur-lined cloak, heavy with crape, she loosened her dres
s and laid the sealed envelope upon her bare neck, a little to the left, where she had laid the letter the monk had given her from Castiglione, some two months ago, that seemed like ages of ages now.

  Just then the horses stopped at the top of the hill, where a lane turns to the right, leading to Acqua Santa and the golf links. A large closed carriage with black horses and plain black liveries was coming rapidly from the opposite direction.

  As it passed the phaeton Giuliana and Maria bowed far forwards, for there was a cardinal inside whom they both knew, an old man and a good one. In answer to their salutation he smiled, and Maria saw the aged hand, white and ungloved, lifted at the open window to give a blessing that might have seemed prophetic just then.

  Months have passed since that afternoon and many things have happened. Casalmaggiore never got the Andalusian mare, for only Leone rides her, and he would not part with her for anything. Monsieur de Maurienne never came back from Paris, but managed to be sent to Vienna instead, and Donna Teresa is still an unprotected widow. The Countess of Montalto is herself again, and still in half-mourning for her husband.

  During these hot August days she is living quietly at Montalto with Leone and his tutor; for she felt that if she did not come to the place now it would be harder to come back later and face its associations; and besides, Leone is to be the master when he is grown up, and he must begin to learn what that means.

  He comes in at tea-time, a straight, square boy in well-worn riding clothes, his fox-terrier at his heels.

  ‘I wish the Captain were here, mama,’ he says suddenly. ‘It would be such fun to ride together. I don’t see why you shouldn’t ask him for a few days.’

  ‘Not now, little man,’ says Maria, pouring out the boy’s tea. ‘But perhaps he may come another year and stay a long time.’

  She rises and sets the cup on a little table beside him with a good slice of bread and butter, and she stands over him as if to make him eat and drink. But when he bends his handsome head she stoops and kisses the back of his sturdy neck where the short brown hair is always doing its very best to curl.