Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

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Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 33

by Marie Corelli


  “I will accompany you,” I said, eagerly. “One would not let a dog die unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless.”

  The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together.

  “You are not residing in Naples?” he asked.

  I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position of my villa.

  “Up on that height we enjoy perfect health,” I added. “I cannot understand the panic that prevails in the city. The plague is fostered by such cowardice.”

  “Of course!” he answered, calmly. “But what will you? The people here love pleasure. Their hearts are set solely on this life. When death, common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark shadow. Religion itself” — here he sighed deeply— “has no hold upon them.”

  “But you, my father,” I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a sharp throbbing pain in my temples.

  “I,” he answered, gravely, “am the servant of Christ. As such, the plague has no terrors for me. Unworthy as I am, for my Master’s sake I am ready — nay, willing — to face all deaths.”

  He spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. I looked at him in a certain admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame me, and I caught at his arm to save myself from falling. The street rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in circles of blue fire. The feeling slowly passed, and I heard the monk’s voice, as though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously what was the matter. I forced a smile.

  “It is the heat, I think,” I said, in feeble tones like those of a very aged man. “I am faint — giddy. You had best leave me here — see to the boy. Oh, my God!”

  This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. My limbs refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the pavement in a kind of convulsion. The tall and sinewy monk, without a moment’s hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes. Here he placed me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known. Though suffering acutely I was conscious, and could hear and see everything that passed.

  “Attend to him well, Pietro — it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour.”

  “The Count Romani! Santissima Madonna! He has caught the plague!”

  “Thou fool!” exclaimed the monk, fiercely. “How canst thou tell? A stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by St. Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!”

  The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head. The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.

  “Rest here, my son,” he said, addressing me in soothing tones. “These people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for whom you sought assistance — in less than an hour I will be with you again.”

  I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

  “Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst. Is this the plague?”

  “I hope not!” he replied, compassionately. “But what if it be? You are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.”

  “I have no fear,” I said. “But, father, promise me one thing — send no word of my illness to my wife — swear it! Even if I am unconscious — dead — swear that I shall not be taken to the villa. Swear it! I cannot rest till I have your word.”

  “I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly. “By all I hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.”

  I was infinitely relieved — the safety of those I loved was assured — and I thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. Let me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of the common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper — he polishes his glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry away. I observe all this — I know where I am — yet I am also climbing the steep passes of an Alpine gorge — the cold snow is at my feet — I hear the rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A crimson cloud floats above the summit of a white glacier — it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright center a face smiles forth! “Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!” I cry aloud. I stretch out my arms — I clasp her! — bah! it is this good rogue of an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle with him fiercely — pantingly.

  “Fool!” I shriek in his ear. “Let me go to her — her lips pout for kisses — let me go!”

  Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back on the pillows — they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle. Pietro and his assistant look down upon me.

  “E morto!” they whisper one to the other.

  I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams through the open door of the inn — the thirsty flies buzz with persistent loudness — some voices are singing “La Fata di Amalfi” — I can distinguish the words —

  “Chiagnaro la mia sventura

  Si non tuorne chiu, Rosella!

  Tu d’ Amalfi la chiu bella,

  Tu na Fata si pe me!

  Viene, vie, regina mie,

  Viene curre a chisto core,

  Ca non c’e non c’e sciore,

  Non c’e Stella comm’a te!”

  [Footnote: A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.]

  That is a true song, Nina mia! “Non c’e Stella comm’ a te!” What did Guido say? “Purer than the flawless diamond — unapproachable as the furthest star!” That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I see him — his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open — their small eyes glitter greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water — in it I behold the erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he approaches. Brave fellow! — he means to attack single-handed the cruel creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to land — I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the alligators — he seems not to be aware of their presence — he comes with swift, unhesitating step to me — it is I whom he seeks — it is in my heart that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping with blood! Once — twice — thrice! — and yet I cannot die! I writhe — I moan in bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring sun — something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice speaks:

  “Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!”

  It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.

  “May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead.”

  I am dreamily astonished at this. Dead — so soon! I cannot understand it; and I drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. As I look back now to that time, I find I have no specially distinct recollection of what afterward happened to me. I know I suffered intense, intolerable pain — that I was literally tortured on a rack of excruciating anguish — and that through all the delirium of my senses I heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. I have an idea that I also heard the tinkle of the bell that accompanies the Host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each moment, and I cannot be certain of this. I remembe
r shrieking out after what seemed an eternity of pain, “Not to the villa! no, no, not there! You shall not take me — my curse on him who disobeys me!”

  I remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep whirlpool, from whence I stretched up appealing hands and eyes to the monk who stood above me — I caught a drowning glimpse of a silver crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry for help, I sunk — down — down! into an abyss of black night and nothingness!

  CHAPTER III.

  There followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. I seemed to have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and obscurity. Dream-like images still flitted before my fancy — these were at first undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain shapes. Strange fluttering creatures hovered about me — lonely eyes stared at me from a visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers grasping at nothing made signs to me of warning or menace. Then — very gradually, there dawned upon my sense of vision a cloudy red mist like a stormy sunset, and from the middle of the blood-like haze a huge black hand descended toward me. It pounced upon my chest — it grasped my throat in its monstrous clutch, and held me down with a weight of iron. I struggled violently — I strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me all power of utterance. I twisted myself to right and left in an endeavor to escape — but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on all sides. Yet I continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force that strove to overwhelm me — little by little — inch by inch — so! At last! One more struggle — victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I? In what horrible atmosphere — in what dense darkness? Slowly, as my senses returned to me, I remembered my recent illness. The monk — the man Pietro — where were they? What had they done to me? By degrees, I realized that I was lying straight down upon my back — the couch was surely very hard? Why had they taken the pillows from under my head? A pricking sensation darted through my veins — I felt my own hands curiously — they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully. But what was this that hindered my breathing? Air — air! I must have air! I put up my hands — horror! They struck against a hard opposing substance above me. Quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! I had been buried — buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift possession of me — with hands and nails I tore and scratched at the accursed boards — with all the force of my shoulders and arms I toiled to wrench open the closed lid! My efforts were fruitless! I grew more ferociously mad with rage and terror. How easy were all deaths compared to one like this! I was suffocating — I felt my eyes start from their sockets — blood sprung from my mouth and nostrils — and icy drops of sweat trickled from my forehead. I paused, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly nerving myself for one more wild effort, I hurled my limbs with all the force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison. It cracked — it split asunder! — and then — a new and horrid fear beset me, and I crouched back, panting heavily. If — if I were buried in the ground — so ran my ghastly thoughts — of what use to break open the coffin and let in the mold — the damp wormy mold, rich with the bones of the dead — the penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth and eyes, and seal me into silence forever! My mind quailed at this idea — my brain tottered on the verge of madness! I laughed — think of it! — and my laugh sounded in my ears like the last rattle in the throat of a dying man. But I could breathe more easily — even in the stupefaction of my fears — I was conscious of air. Yes! — the blessed air had rushed in somehow. Revived and encouraged as I recognized this fact, I felt with both hands till I found the crevice I had made, and then with frantic haste and strength I pulled and dragged at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the coffin gave way, and I was able to force up the lid. I stretched out my arms — no weight of earth impeded their movements — I felt nothing but air — empty air. Yielding to my first strong impulse, I leaped out of the hateful box, and fell — fell some little distance, bruising my hands and knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. Something weighty fell also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. The darkness was impenetrable. But there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was cool and refreshing. With some pain and difficulty I raised myself to a sitting position where I had fallen. My limbs were stiff and cramped as well as wounded, and I shivered as with strong ague. But my senses were clear — the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts became even and connected — my previous mad excitement gradually calmed, and I began to consider my condition. I had certainly been buried alive — there was no doubt of that. Intense pain had, I suppose, resolved itself into a long trance of unconsciousness — the people of the inn where I had been taken ill had at once believed me to be dead of cholera, and with the panic-stricken, indecent haste common in all Italy, especially at a time of plague, had thrust me into one of those flimsy coffins which were then being manufactured by scores in Naples — mere shells of thin deal, nailed together with clumsy hurry and fear. But how I blessed their wretched construction! Had I been laid in a stronger casket, who knows if even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have proved unavailing! I shuddered at the thought. Yet the question remained — Where was I? I reviewed my case from all points, and for some time could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. Stay, though! I remembered that I had told the monk my name; he knew that I was the only descendant of the rich Romani family. What followed? Why, naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon him to do. He had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors — the great Romani vault that had never been opened since my father’s body was carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and magnificence of a wealthy nobleman’s funeral obsequies. The more I thought of this the more probable it seemed. The Romani vault! Its forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when I followed my father’s coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and I had turned my eyes away in shuddering pain when I was told to look at the heavy oaken casket hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished silver, which contained all that was left of my mother, who died young. I had felt sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered myself when I stood out again in the free air with the blue dome of heaven high above me. And now I was shut in the same vault — a prisoner — with what hope of escape? I reflected. The entrance to the vault, I remembered, was barred by a heavy door of closely twisted iron — from thence a flight of steep steps led downward — downward to where in all probability I now was. Suppose I could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to that door — of what avail? It was locked — nay, barred — and as it was situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days — perhaps not for weeks. Then must I starve? Or die of thirst? Tortured by these imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect. My feet were bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the marrow. It was fortunate for me, I thought, that they had buried me as a cholera corpse — they had left me half-clothed for fear of infection. That is, I had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking trousers. Something there was, too, round my neck; I felt it, and as I did so a flood of sweet and sorrowful memories rushed over me. It was a slight gold chain, and on it hung a locket containing the portraits of my wife and child. I drew it out in the darkness; I covered it with passionate kisses and tears — the first I had shed since my death — like trance-tears scalding and bitter welled into my eyes. Life was worth living while Nina’s smile lightened the world! I resolved to fight for existence, no matter what dire horrors should be yet in store for me. Nina — my love — my beautiful one! Her face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of the charnel-house; her eyes beckoned me — her young faithful eyes that were now, I felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. I seemed to see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty silence of the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between herself and me; h
er lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and haggard with the bitterness of grief! Baby Stella, too, no doubt she would wonder, poor innocent! why I did not come to swing her as usual under the orange boughs. And Guido — brave and true friend! I thought of him with tenderness. I felt I knew how deep and lasting would be his honest regret for my loss. Oh, I would leave no means of escape untried; I would find some way out of this grim vault! How overjoyed they would all be to see me again — to know that I was not dead after all! What a welcome I should receive! How Nina would nestle into my arms; how my little child would cling to me; how Guido would clasp me by the hand! I smiled as I pictured the scene of rejoicing at the dear old villa — the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and faithful love!

  A deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me — one! two! three! I counted the strokes up to twelve. It was some church bell tolling the hour. My pleasing fancies dispersed — I again faced the drear reality of my position. Twelve o’clock! Midday or midnight? I could not tell. I began to calculate. It was early morning when I had been taken ill — not much past eight when I had met the monk and sought his assistance for the poor little fruit-seller who had after all perished alone in his sufferings. Now supposing my illness had lasted some hours, I might have fallen into a trance — died — as those around me had thought, somewhere about noon. In that case they would certainly have buried me with as little delay as possible — before sunset at all events. Thinking these points over one by one, I came to the conclusion that the bell I had just heard must have struck midnight — the midnight of the very day of my burial. I shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over me. I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious — what Neapolitan is not? it runs in the southern blood. And there was something unutterably fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of his ancestors close within reach of his hand! I tried to conquer my feelings — to summon up my fortitude. I endeavored to reason out the best method of escape. I resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps of the vault, and with this idea in my mind I put out my hands and began to move along slowly and with the utmost care. What was that? I stopped; I listened; the blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry, piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches of my tomb. A cold perspiration broke out all over my body — my heart beat so loudly that I could hear it thumping against my ribs. Again — again — that weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. I breathed again.

 

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