Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XX

  ZENO LEFT HER when she was breathing quietly, after ordering the two little maids to watch her by turns, or at least to go to sleep very near her, in case she should wake and call. He himself was worn out with fatigue and hunger, for he had not tasted anything since he had supped with Zoë on the previous evening. He went down to his own rooms, where Vito had prepared him food and wine, which he had asked Gorlias to share with him. But the ex-astrologer was gone, and the master ate and drank alone that night, smiling now and then at the recollection of the dark hours in the dry cistern, and giving orders to Vito about the journey which was to be begun on the morrow, if possible. And Vito gave him a detailed account of what had happened in his absence.

  Now that Zoë was safe he was supremely happy. In his heart the fighting man had detested the peaceful merchant’s life he had chosen to lead for more than two years, and already, in imagination, his hands were on the helm, the salt spray was in his face, and his ship was going free on her course for the wonderful Isles of Adventure.

  But by the orders he gave while he ate his supper, Vito understood that he was not going alone. When had Carlo Zeno ever taken rich carpets, soft cushions, silver basins, and delicate provisions to sea with him, except as merchandise, packed in bales and stowed below? A camp-bed ashore, a hammock at sea, were enough for his comfort. Vito mentally noted each order, and when the time came he had forgotten nothing; but he asked no questions.

  Early in the morning, when Zeno had learned that Zoë was still asleep, he went down to the harbour and found that Sebastian Cornèr’s ship was to sail the next day at dawn, the same vessel that had brought the letter from Venice which had led him to buy Arethusa; the very galley by which she should have been carried to Marco Pesaro, if Zeno had not thought better of the matter before drawing the three hundred ducats.

  Now Sebastian Cornèr was a brave captain, as well as a man of business, and could be trusted; and when Zeno had shown him the deed which gave Tenedos to the Serene Republic he did not hesitate, but promised to help Carlo to take possession of the island within three days, before Johannes could change his mind. So that matter was settled, and Zeno departed, saying that he would send his baggage on board during the day.

  When he came home he found the secretary waiting with his tale of woe. Omobono looked and felt like an elderly sick lamb, very sorry for himself and terribly anxious not to be blamed for what had happened, while equally afraid of being scolded for talking too much. He had passed through the most awful ordeal of his peaceful life very bravely, he believed; and if Zeno had called him a cackling hen that morning the shock might have unsettled his brain, and would certainly have broken his heart.

  But Zeno had been informed by Vito of the events that had disturbed his household, and knew that Omobono had done his best, considering what his worst might have been, he being of a timid temperament.

  ‘You did very well,’ said the master. ‘In ancient days, Omobono, those who died for their faith were indeed venerated as martyrs, but those who suffered and lived were afterwards revered as confessors. That is your position.’

  This piece of information Zeno had acquired, with more of the same kind, when he had expected to be made a canon of Patras. Omobono’s heart glowed at the praise.

  ‘And the confessor, sir, has the advantage of being alive and can still be useful,’ he ventured to suggest, though with some diffidence.

  ‘Precisely,’ Zeno assented. ‘A live dog is better than a dead lion. I mean a watch-dog, of course, Omobono,’ he added rather hastily, ‘a faithful watch-dog.’

  Omobono’s appearance that morning did not suggest the guardian of the flock, the shepherd’s shaggy friend. Not in the least; but he was pleased, and when he was told that he was to pack his belongings and make ready to leave Constantinople for a trip to Venice his delight actually brought a little colour into his grey cheeks.

  ‘And may I enquire, sir,’ he began, ‘about the — —’ he paused and looked significantly at the ceiling, to indicate the upper story of the house,— ‘about the lady?’ he added, finishing his question at last.

  ‘She goes with us,’ answered Zeno briefly.

  ‘Yes, sir. But may I ask whether it will be part of my duty to be responsible for her?’

  ‘You?’ Zeno looked at the little man in undisguised astonishment.

  ‘I mean, sir, on Messer Marco Pesaro’s account. I had understood — —’

  ‘No,’ said Zeno, ‘you had not understood.’

  ‘But then, sir — —’

  ‘Omobono, I have often warned you against your curiosity.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I pray every day for strength to withstand it. Nevertheless, though I know it is a sin it sometimes leads me to learn things which are of use. I do not think that if you knew what I know, sir, you would contemplate the possibility of disposing of — —’

  ‘You talk too much,’ said Zeno. ‘If you have anything to say, then say it. If you have nothing to say, then say nothing. But do not talk. What have you found out?’

  Thus deprived of the pleasure of telling a long story, Omobono conscientiously tried to impart his information in the fewest possible words.

  ‘The lady is not called Arethusa, sir. Before she sold herself to Rustan to save her people from starvation she was called Zoë Rhangabé, the daughter of the Protosparthos who was executed by Andronicus — —’

  ‘Rhangabé?’ repeated Zeno, not believing him; for it was a great name, and is still.

  ‘Yes, sir. But that was not her name, either, for he and his wife had adopted her because they had no children, but afterwards two boys were born to them — —’

  ‘Confound their boys!’ interrupted Zeno. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her real name is Bianca Giustiniani; she is a Venetian by birth, and her father and mother died of the plague here soon after she was born. You see, sir, under the circumstances, and although the lady called herself a slave, such a commission as Messer Marco Pesaro’s — —’

  ‘Omobono,’ said Zeno, interrupting him again, ‘get a priest here at once. I am going to be married.’

  ‘Married, sir?’ The little secretary was aghast.

  ‘Send Vito for the priest!’

  And before Omobono could say more, Zeno had left the room.

  He found Zoë standing by the open window, and the morning sun was still streaming in. Her hair was not taken up yet, but lay like silk all over her shoulders, still damp from the bath. She was a little pale, as a flower that has blossomed in a dark room, and the rough white silk of the robe she drew closely round her showed by contrast the delicate tint and texture of her skin, and the sweet freshness of the tender and spiritual mouth.

  ‘Am I not your bought slave?’ she asked. ‘I must obey.’

  He took her hand and looked at her earnestly before he spoke. Only a night, a day and a night, had passed since he had understood what had hidden itself in his heart for weeks. That same truth had stolen into hers, too, but she had known what it meant.

  ‘You kept your secret well,’ he said— ‘too well!’

  She shook her head, thinking he spoke of her love.

  ‘You knew it long ago,’ she answered. ‘And what you did not know, you guessed. You kept yours better far.’

  ‘I kept that one from myself, as best I could,’ said he, understanding what she meant. ‘I could not keep it for ever! But since we know that we love, our life begins here, and together. Together, because you saved mine — I know everything, for they have told me; and so my life is yours, and yours is mine, because we were born to mate, as falcons mate with falcons, doves with doves, and song-birds with song-birds.’

  ‘Say falcons!’ laughed Zoë. ‘I like the brave bird better!’

  ‘I do, too, — and so my little falcon, Arethusa, we must wing it together to a safer nest before Tocktamish or some other barbarian stirs up a counter-revolution. Will you come with me?’

  She smiled and laid her hand in his.

 
‘Am I not your bought slave?’ she asked. ‘I must obey.’

  ‘That is not enough. We are Christian man and maid. You shall go with me in honour to my own people.’

  ‘A gentleman of Venice cannot marry a slave,’ she objected, though she smiled.

  He laughed, happily, and drew back from her a little.

  ‘A gentleman of Venice may do what seems good in his own eyes, if it be not treason,’ he said. ‘I publish the banns of marriage between Messer Carlo Zeno, of Venice, bachelor, and Arethusa — —’

  ‘Of Rustan Karaboghazji’s slave market, spinster!’ suggested Zoë, laughing with him. ‘It is a noble alliance for the great Doge’s house, sir!’

  ‘Oh! You talk of Doges? Then I will put it in another way, as the priest will say it presently, for I think he is waiting downstairs by this time, and Omobono is teaching him his lesson.’

  ‘How shall you put it?’

  ‘Bianca Giustiniani, wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband?’

  She was taken by surprise, and for a moment the words would not come.

  ‘Wilt thou take this man?’ he asked again, but more softly now, and nearer to her lips, though he did not see them; for he thought he saw her soul in her brave brown eyes, and as for her answer, he knew it.

  Now the rest of Zeno’s life, with much of what the story-teller has told here, is extant in very bad Latin, written by one of his grandsons, the good bishop Jacopo Zeno of Belluno: how he sailed down the Dardanelles, and made good the Emperor John’s gift of Tenedos to the Republic; and how the Genoese tried hard to take it from him; and how he fought like the hero he was, with a handful of men against a host, and drove them off and saved the island; and also how he lived to save Venice herself from them when all seemed lost, and broke their power for ever afterwards; and how he did many other glorious and great things, all after he had taken Bianca Giustiniani to wife.

  The Little City of Hope

  CONTENTS

  I. HOW JOHN HENRY OVERHOLT SAT ON PANDORA’S BOX

  II. HOW A MAN AND A BOY FOUNDED THE LITTLE CITY OF HOPE

  III. HOW THEY MADE BRICKS WITHOUT STRAW

  IV. HOW THERE WAS A FAMINE IN THE CITY

  V. HOW THE CITY WAS BESIEGED AND THE LID OF PANDORA’S BOX CAME OFF

  VI. HOW A SMALL BOY DID A BIG THING AND NAILED DOWN THE LID OF THE BOX

  VII. HOW A LITTLE WOMAN DID A GREAT DEED TO SAVE THE CITY

  VIII. HOW THE WHEELS WENT ROUND AT LAST

  IX. HOW THE KING OF HEARTS MADE A FEAST IN THE CITY OF HOPE

  I. HOW JOHN HENRY OVERHOLT SAT ON PANDORA’S BOX

  “HOPE IS VERY cheap. There’s always plenty of it about.”

  “Fortunately for poor men. Good morning.”

  With this mild retort and civil salutation John Henry Overholt rose and went towards the door, quite forgetting to shake hands with Mr. Burnside, though the latter made a motion to do so. Mr. Burnside always gave his hand in a friendly way, even when he had flatly refused to do what people had asked of him. It was cheap; so he gave it.

  But he was not pleased when they did not take it, for whatever he chose to give seemed of some value to him as soon as it was offered; even his hand. Therefore, when his visitor forgot to take it, out of pure absence of mind, he was offended, and spoke to him sharply before he had time to leave the private office.

  “You need not go away like that, Mr. Overholt, without shaking hands.”

  The visitor stopped and turned back at once. He was thin and rather shabbily dressed. I know many poor men who are fat, and some who dress very well; but this was not that kind of poor man.

  “Excuse me,” he said mildly. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I quite forgot.”

  He came back, and Mr. Burnside shook hands with becoming coldness, as having just given a lesson in manners. He was not a bad man, nor a miser, nor a Scrooge, but he was a great stickler for manners, especially with people who had nothing to give him. Besides, he had already lent Overholt money; or, to put it nicely, he had invested a little in his invention, and he did not see any reason why he should invest any more until it succeeded. Overholt called it selling shares, but Mr. Burnside called it borrowing money. Overholt was sure that if he could raise more funds, not much more, he could make a success of the “Air-Motor”; Mr. Burnside was equally sure that nothing would ever come of it. They had been explaining their respective points of view to each other, and in sheer absence of mind Overholt had forgotten to shake hands.

  Mr. Burnside had no head for mechanics, but Overholt had already made an invention which was considered very successful, though he had got little or nothing for it. The mechanic who had helped him in its construction had stolen his principal idea before the device was patented, and had taken out a patent for a cheap little article which every one at once used, and which made a fortune for him. Overholt’s instrument took its place in every laboratory in the world; but the mechanic’s labour-saving utensil took its place in every house. It was on the strength of the valuable tool of science that Mr. Burnside had invested two thousand dollars in the Air-Motor without really having the smallest idea whether it was to be a machine that would move the air, or was to be moved by it. A number of business men had done the same thing.

  Then, at a political dinner in a club, three of the investors had dined at the same small table, and in an interval between the dull speeches, one of the three told the others that he had looked into the invention and that there was nothing in Overholt’s motor after all. Overholt was crazy.

  “It’s like this,” he had said. “You know how a low-pressure engine acts; the steam does a part of the work and the weight of the atmosphere does the rest. Now this man Overholt thinks he can make the atmosphere do both parts of the work with no steam at all, and as that’s absurd, of course, he won’t get any more of my money. It’s like getting into a basket and trying to lift yourself up by the handles.”

  Each of the two hearers repeated this simple demonstration to at least a dozen acquaintances, who repeated it to dozens of others; and after that John Henry Overholt could not raise another dollar to complete the Air-Motor.

  Mr. Burnside’s refusal had been definite and final, and he had been the last to whom the investor had applied, merely because he was undoubtedly the most close-fisted man of business of all who had invested in the invention.

  Overholt saw failure before him at the very moment of success, with the not quite indifferent accompaniment of starvation. Many a man as good as he has been in the same straits, even more than once in life, and has succeeded after all, and Overholt knew this quite well, and therefore did not break down, nor despair, nor even show distinct outward signs of mental distress.

  Metaphorically, he took Pandora’s box to the Park, put it in a sunny corner, and sat upon it, to keep the lid down, with Hope inside, while he thought over the situation.

  It was not at all a pleasant one. It is one thing to have no money to spare, but it is quite another to have none at all, and he was not far from that. He had some small possessions, but those with which he was willing to part were worth nothing, and those which would bring a little money were the expensive tools and valuable materials with which he was working. For he worked alone, profiting by his experience with the mechanic who had robbed him of one of his most profitable patents. When the idea of the Air-Motor had occurred to him he had gone into a machine-shop and had spent nearly two years in learning the use of fine tools. Then he had bought what he needed out of the money invested in his idea, and had gone to work himself, sending models of such castings as he required to different parts of the United States, that the pieces might be made independently.

  He was not an accomplished workman, and he made slow progress with only his little son to help him when the boy was not at school. Often, through lack of skill, he wasted good material, and more than once he spoiled an expensive casting, and was obliged to wait till it could be made again and sent to him. Besides, he and the boy had to live, and living is de
ar nowadays, even in a cottage in an out-of-the-way corner of Connecticut; and he needed fire and light in abundance for his work, besides something to eat and decent clothes to wear and somebody to cook the dinner; and when he took out his diary note-book and examined the figures on the page near the end, headed “Cash Account, November,” he made out that he had three hundred and eighteen dollars and twelve cents to his credit, and nothing to come after that, and he knew that the men who had believed in him had invested, amongst them, ten thousand dollars in shares, and had paid him the money in cash in the course of the past three years, but would invest no more; and it was all gone.

  One thousand more, clear of living expenses, would do it. He was positively sure that it would be enough, and he and the boy could live on his little cash balance, by great economy, for four months, at the end of which time the Air-Motor would be perfected. But without the thousand the end of the four months would be the end of everything that was worth while in life. After that he would have to go back to teaching in order to live, and the invention would be lost, for the work needed all his time and thought.

  He was a mathematician, and a very good one, besides being otherwise a man of cultivated mind and wide reading. Unfortunately for himself, or the contrary, if the invention ever succeeded, he had given himself up to higher mathematics when a young man, instead of turning his talent to account in an architect’s office, a shipbuilding yard, or a locomotive shop. He could find the strain at any part of an iron frame building by the differential and integral calculus to the millionth of an ounce, but the everyday technical routine work with volumes of ready-made tables was unfamiliar and uncongenial to him; he would rather have calculated the tables themselves. The true science of mathematics is the most imaginative and creative of all sciences, but the mere application of mathematics to figures for the construction of engines, ships, or buildings is the dullest sort of drudgery.