Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She thought she was in the study of the master of the house and that some one would come for her at once, and she stood still in the middle of the room; setting down her bag on a chair, she pushed the hood back from her head carefully, as nuns do, in order not to discompose the rather complicated arrangement of the veil and head-band.

  She had scarcely done this when, as she expected, a door at the end of the room was opened. But it was not a stranger that entered; to her unspeakable amazement, it was Giovanni Severi. In a flash she understood that by some trick she had been brought to his brother’s dwelling. She was alone with him and the door was locked on the outside.

  She laid one hand on the back of the nearest chair, to steady herself, wondering whether she were not really lying ill in her bed and dreaming in the delirium of a fever. But it was no dream; he was standing before her, looking into her face, and his own was stern and dark as an Arab’s. When he spoke at last, his voice was low and determined.

  ‘Yes. You are in my house.’

  Her tongue was loosed, with a cry of indignation.

  ‘If you are not a madman, let me go!’

  ‘I am not mad.’

  His eyes terrified her, and she backed away from him towards the locked door. She almost shrieked for fear.

  ‘If you have a spark of human feeling, let me out!’

  ‘I am human,’ he answered grimly, but he did not move to follow her.

  ‘By whatever you hold sacred, let me go!’ She was wrenching at the lock in despair with both hands, but sideways, while she kept her eyes on his.

  ‘I hold you sacred — nothing else.’

  ‘Sacred!’ Her anger began to outbrave her terror now. ‘Sacred, and you have trapped me by a vile trick!’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I admit that.’

  He had not moved again and there was a window near her. She sprang to it and thrust the curtains aside, hoping to open the frame before he could stop her. But though she moved the fastenings easily, she could do no more, with all her strength, and Giovanni still stood motionless, watching her.

  ‘You cannot open that window,’ he said quietly. ‘If you scream, no one will hear you. Do you think I would have brought you to a place where you could get help merely by crying out for it? The risk was too great. I have made sure of being alone with you as long as I choose.’

  The nun drew herself up against the red curtains.

  ‘I did not know that you were a coward,’ she said.

  ‘I am what you have made me, brave, cowardly, desperate — anything you choose to call it! But such as I am, you must hear me to the end this time, for you have no choice.’

  Sister Giovanna understood that there was no escape and she stood quite still; but he saw that her lips moved a little.

  ‘God is not here,’ he said, in a hard voice, for he knew that she was praying.

  ‘God is here,’ she answered, crossing her hands on her breast.

  He came a step nearer and leaned on the back of a chair; he was evidently controlling himself, for his movements were studiedly deliberate, though his voice was beginning to shake ominously.

  ‘If God is with you, Angela, then He shall hear that I love you and that you are mine, not His! He shall listen while I tell you that I will not give you up to be murdered by priests for His glory! Do what He will, He shall not have you. I defy Him!’

  The nun shrank against the curtain, not from the man, but at the words.

  ‘At least, do not blaspheme!’

  ‘I must, if it is blasphemy to love you.’

  ‘Yours is not love. Would to heaven it were, as I thought it was to-day. Love is gentle, generous, tender — —’

  ‘Then be all three to me; for you love me, in spite of everything!’

  ‘You have taught me to forget that I ever did,’ she answered.

  ‘Learn to remember that you did, to realise that you do, and forget only that I have used a trick to bring you here — a harmless trick, one carriage for another, my brother’s orderly for a servant. I found out from Madame Bernard where you were going and I sent for you before the hour. You are as safe here as if you were praying in your chapel; in a few minutes the carriage will take you back, you will say you got into the wrong one by mistake, which is quite true, and the right one will take you where you are to go; you will be scarcely half-an-hour late and no one will ever know anything more about it.’

  Sister Giovanna had listened patiently to his explanation, and believed what he said. He had always been impulsive to rashness, but now that her first surprise had subsided she was less afraid. He had evidently yielded to a strong temptation with the idea of forcing her to listen to him, and in reality, if she had understood herself, she was not able to believe that he would hurt her or bring any disgrace upon her.

  ‘If you are in earnest,’ she said, when he had finished, ‘then let me go at once.’

  ‘Presently,’ he answered. ‘This afternoon you made me promise to hear quietly what you had to say, and I did my best. I could not help your being frightened just now, I suppose — after all, I have carried you off from the door of your Convent, and I meant you to understand that you were helpless, and must listen. I ought to have put it differently, but I am not clever at such things. All I ask is that you will hear me. After all, that is what you asked of me to-day.’

  He had begun to walk up and down before her, while he was speaking; but he did not come near her, for the chair stood between her and the line along which he was pacing backwards and forwards. Something in his way of speaking reassured her, as he jerked out the rather disconnected sentences. Women often make the mistake of thinking that when we men begin to stumble away from the straight chalk-line of that logic in which we are supposed by them to take such pride, our purpose is wavering, whereas the opposite is often the case. Men capable of sudden, direct, and strong action are often poor talkers, particularly when they are just going to spring or strike. A little hesitation is more often the sign of a near outbreak than of any inward weakening. But Sister Giovanna was deceived.

  ‘I shall be forced to listen, if you insist,’ she said, moving half a step forward from the curtain, ‘but how can I trust you, while I am your prisoner?’

  ‘You can trust me, if you will be generous,’ Giovanni answered.

  ‘I do not know what you mean by the word,’ replied the nun cautiously. ‘If I am not generous, as you mean it, what then?’

  Severi stopped in his walk; his face began to darken again, and his voice was rough and hard.

  ‘What then? Why then, remember what I am and where you are!’

  Sister Giovanna drew back again.

  ‘I would rather trust in God than trust you when you speak in that tone,’ she said.

  He had used the very words she had spoken in the cloister when he had tried to take her by the arm, but they had a very different meaning now; his dangerous temper was rising again and he was threatening her. Yet her answer produced an effect she was far from expecting. He turned to the writing-table near him, opened one of the drawers and took out an army revolver. Sister Giovanna watched him. If he was only going to kill her she was not afraid.

  ‘I will force you to trust me,’ he said, quickly examining the charge as he came towards her.

  ‘By threatening me with that thing?’ she asked with contempt. ‘You are mistaken!’

  He was close to her, but he offered her the butt-end of the weapon.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am not mistaken. It is I who fear death, as long as you are alive, and here it is, in your hand.’ But she would not take the revolver from him. ‘You will not take it? Well, there it is.’ He laid it on the chair, which he placed beside her. ‘If I come too near you, or try to touch even your sleeve, you can use it. The law will acquit you, and even praise you for defending yourself in need.’

  ‘There must be no need,’ she answered, looking at him fixedly. ‘Say quickly what you have to say.’

  ‘Will you not sit down, then?’ />
  ‘No, thank you. I would rather not.’

  It would have seemed like consenting to be where she was; and besides, the revolver lay on the nearest available chair and she would not touch it, much less hold it in her hand, if she sat down to listen. Giovanni leaned back against the heavy table at some distance from her, resting his hands on the edge, on each side of him.

  ‘After I left you to-day,’ he began, ‘I had a long talk with Monsignor Saracinesca in the street. I asked him questions about obtaining a dispensation for you. He made it look impossible, of course — that was to be expected! But I got one point from him, which is important. He made it quite clear to me that the request to be released from your vows must come from you, if it is to be considered at all. You understand that, do you not?’

  ‘Is it possible that you yourself do not yet understand?’ Sister Giovanna asked, as quietly as she could. ‘Did I not tell you to-day that no power could loose me from my vows?’

  ‘You were mistaken. There is a power that can, and that rests with the Pope, and he shall exercise it.’

  ‘I will not ask for a dispensation. I have told you that it is an impossibility — —’

  ‘There is no such thing as impossibility for men and women who love,’ Giovanni answered. ‘Have you forgotten the last words you said to me before I sailed for Africa?’ He spoke gently now, and Sister Giovanna turned her face from him. ‘You said, “I will wait for you for ever.” Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘Did you “wait for ever,” Angela?’

  She looked at him again, and then came forward a little, drawn by an impulse she could not resist.

  ‘Did I love another man, that you reproach me?’ she asked. ‘Such as my life has been, have I lived it as a woman lives who has forgotten? I know I have not. Yes, Giovanni, I have waited, but as one waits who hopes to meet in heaven the dear one who is dead on earth. Do you still find fault with me? Would you rather have had me go back to the world and to society after mourning you as long as a girl of nineteen could mourn for a man to whom she had not been openly engaged? Was I wrong? If you had really been dead and could have seen me, would you have wished that I were living differently?’

  For a moment he was moved and held out one hand towards her, hoping that she would come nearer.

  ‘No,’ he answered— ‘no, dear — —’

  ‘But that was the only question,’ she said earnestly, ‘and you have answered it!’

  She would not take his hand and Giovanni dropped his own with a gesture of disappointment.

  ‘No,’ he replied, in a colder tone, ‘it is not the question, for you have not told me all the truth. If I had not been gone five years, if I had come back the day before you took the last vows, would you have taken them?’

  ‘No, indeed!’

  ‘If I had come the very next day after, would you not have done your best to be set free?’

  There was an instant’s pause before she spoke; then the answer came, clear and distinct.

  ‘No.’

  Severi turned from her with an impatient movement of his compact head, and tapped the carpeted floor with his heel. His answer broke from his lips harshly.

  ‘You never loved me!’

  She would have done wisely if she had been silent then; but she could not, for his words denied the truth that had ruled her life.

  ‘Better than I knew,’ she said. ‘Better than I knew, even then.’

  ‘Even then?’ The words had hope in them. ‘And now?’ He was suddenly breathless.

  ‘Yes, even now!’ The tide of truth lifted her from her feet and swept her onward, helpless. ‘Giovanni! Giovanni! Do you think it costs me nothing to keep my word with God?’

  But he had been disappointed too often now, and he could not believe at once.

  ‘It costs you less than it would to keep your faith with me,’ he answered.

  ‘It is not true! Indeed, it is not true!’

  ‘Then let the truth win, dear! All the rest is fable!’

  He was at her side now. She had tried to resist, but not long, and her hand was in his, though her face was turned away.

  ‘No — no — —’ she faltered, but he would not let her speak.

  ‘All a fable of sorrow and a dream of parting, sweetheart! And now we have waked to meet again, your hand in my hand, my heart to your heart — your lips to mine — —’

  She almost shrieked aloud in terror then and threw herself back bodily, as from the edge of a precipice. She might have fallen if he had not still held her hand, and as she recovered herself she tried to withdraw it. In her distress, words came that she regretted afterwards.

  ‘Do you think that only you are human, of us two?’ she cried, in passionate protest against passion itself, against him, against life, but still twisting her wrist in his grip and trying to wrench it away. ‘For the love of heaven, Giovanni — —’

  ‘No — for love of me — —’

  She broke from him, for when he felt that he was hurting her his fingers relaxed. But she could not stay her own words.

  ‘Yes, I love you,’ she cried almost fiercely, as she stepped backwards. ‘Right or wrong, I cannot unmake myself, and as for lying to you, I will not! God is my witness that I mean to love you living as I have loved you dead, without one thought of earth or one regret for what might have been! But, oh, may God forgive me, too, if I wish that we were side by side in one grave, at peace for ever!’

  ‘Dead? Why? With life before us — —’

  ‘No!’ She interrupted him with rising energy. ‘No, Giovanni, no! I was weak for a moment, but I am strong again. I can wait for you, and you will find strength to wait for me. You are so brave, Giovanni, you can be so generous, when you will! You will wait, too!’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the end that will be the beginning, for God’s great To-morrow, when you will come to be with me for ever and ever, beyond the world, and all parting and all pain!’

  There was a deep appeal to higher things in her words and in her voice, too, but it did not touch him; he only knew that at the very moment when she had seemed to be near yielding, the terrible conviction of her soul had come once more between him and her.

  ‘There is no beyond,’ he answered, chilled and sullen again. ‘You live in a lying legend; your life is a fable and your sacrifice is a crime.’

  The cruel words struck her tormented heart, as icy hailstones bruise the half-clad body of a starving child, out in the storm.

  ‘You hurt me very much,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Forgive me!’ he cried quickly. ‘I did not mean to. I forget that you believe your dreams, for I cannot live in visions as you do. I only see a blind force, striking in the dark, a great injustice done to us both — a wrong I will undo, come what may!’

  ‘You know my answer to that. You can undo nothing.’

  ‘I am not answered yet. You say you love me — prove it!’

  ‘Only my life can,’ said the nun; ‘only our two lives can prove our love, for we can live for each other still, perhaps we shall be allowed to die for each other, and in each other we shall find strength to resist — —’

  ‘Not to resist love itself, Angela.’

  ‘No, not to resist all that is good and true in love.’

  ‘I cannot see what you see,’ he answered. ‘Nothing human is beyond my comprehension, good or bad, but you cannot make a monk of me, still less a saint — a Saint Louis of Gonzaga, who was too modest to look his own mother in the face!’

  He laughed roughly, but checked himself at once, fearing to hurt her again.

  She turned to him with a look of gentle authority.

  ‘In spite of what you have done to-night,’ she said, ‘you are such a manly man, that you can be the man you will. Listen! If another woman tried to get your love, could you resist her? Would you, for love of me?’

  ‘She would have small chance, you know that well enough.’

  �
��There is another woman in me, Giovanni. Resist her!’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘You must try! There is another woman in me, or what is left of her, and she is quite different from my real self. Resist her for my sake, as I am fighting her with all my strength. It was she who tempted you to bring me here by a trick you are ashamed of already; it was she that made me weak, just now; but she is not the woman you love, she is not Angela, she is not worthy of you; and as for me, I hate her, with all my soul!’

  Severi had said truly that he could not understand, and instead of responding to her appeal, he turned impatient again.

  ‘You choose your words well enough,’ he answered, ‘but women’s fine speeches persuade women, not men. No man was ever really moved to change his mind by a woman’s eloquence, though we will risk our lives for a look of yours, for a touch — for a kiss!’

  Sister Giovanna sighed and turned from him. The razor-edge of extremest peril was passed, for the words that left him cold and unbelieving had brought back conviction to her soul. She could live for him, pray for him, die for him, but she would not sin for him nor lift a hand to loose the vows that bound her to the religious life. Yet she did not see that she was slowly driving him to a state of temper in which he might break all barriers. Very good women rarely understand men well until it is too late, because men very rarely make any appeal to what is good in woman, whereas they lie in wait for all her weaknesses. It is almost a proverbial truth that men of the most lawless nature, if not actually of the worst character, are often loved by saintly women, perhaps because the true saint sees some good in every one and believes that those who have least of it are the ones who need help most. Sister Giovanna was not a saint yet, but she was winning her way as she gained ground in the struggle that had been forced upon her that night, so cruelly against her will, and having got the better of a temptation, her charity made her think that Giovanni Severi was farther from it than he was. Outward danger was near at hand, just when inward peril was passed.