Although Orsino's character was developing quickly in the new
circumstances which he had created for himself, he was not of an age to
be continually on his guard against passing impressions; still less
could it be expected that he should be hardened against them by
experience, as many men are by nature. His conversation with Spicca, and
Spicca's own behaviour while it lasted, produced a decided effect upon
the current of his thoughts, and he was surprised to find himself
thinking more often and more seriously of Maria Consuelo than during the
months which had succeeded her departure from Rome. Spicca's words had
acted indirectly upon his mind. Much that the old man had said was
calculated to rouse Orsino's curiosity, but Orsino was not naturally
curious and though he felt that it would be very interesting to know
Maria Consuelo's story, the chief result of the Count's half
confidential utterances was to recall the lady herself very vividly to
his recollection.
At first his memory merely brought back the endless details of his
acquaintance with her, which had formed the central feature of the first
season he had spent without interruption in Rome and in society. He was
surprised at the extreme precision of the pictures evoked, and took
pleasure in calling them up when he was alone and unoccupied. The events
themselves had not, perhaps, been all agreeable, yet there was not one
which it did not give him some pleasant sensation to remember. There was
a little sadness in some of them, and more than once the sadness was
mingled with something of humiliation. Yet even this last was bearable.
Though he did not realise it, he was quite unable to think of Maria
Consuelo without feeling some passing touch of happiness at the thought,
for happiness can live with sadness when it is the greater of the two.
He had no desire to analyse these sensations. Indeed the idea did not
enter his mind that they were worth analysing. His intelligence was
better employed with his work, and his reflexions concerning Maria
Consuelo chiefly occupied his hours of rest.
The days passed quickly at first and then, as September came they seemed
longer, instead of shorter. He was beginning to wish that the winter
would come, that he might again see the woman of whom he was continually
thinking. More than once he thought of writing to her, for he had the
address which the maid had given him--an address in Paris which said
nothing, a mere number with the name of a street. He wondered whether
she would answer him, and when he had reached the self-satisfying
conviction that she would, he at last wrote a letter, such as any person
might write to another. He told her of the weather, of the dulness of
Rome, of his hope that she would return early in the season, and of his
own daily occupations. It was a simply expressed, natural and not at all
emotional epistle, not at all like that of a man in the least degree in
love with his correspondent, but Orsino felt an odd sensation of
pleasure in writing it and was surprised by a little thrill of happiness
as he posted it with his own hand.
He did not forget the letter when he had sent it, either, as one forgets
the uninteresting letters one is obliged to write out of civility. He
hoped for an answer. Even if she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might
not, and probably would not, reply by return of post. And it was not
probable that she would be in town at the beginning of September. Orsino
calculated the time necessary to forward the letter from Paris to the
most distant part of frequented Europe, allowed her three days for
answering and three days more for her letter to reach him. The interval
elapsed, but nothing came. Then he was irritated, and at last he became
anxious. Either something had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had
somehow unconsciously offended her by what he had written. He had no
copy of the letter and could not recall a single phrase which could have
displeased her, but he feared lest something might have crept into it
which she might misinterpret. But this idea was too absurd to be tenable
for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must be ill or in
some great trouble. He was amazed at his own anxiety.
Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet no word of reply
had reached him. Then he sought out Spicca and asked him boldly whether
anything had happened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written
to her and had got no answer. Spicca looked at him curiously for a
moment.
"Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware," he said, almost
immediately. "I saw her this morning."
"This morning?" Orsino was surprised almost out of words.
"Yes. She is here, looking for an apartment in which to spend the
winter."
"Where is she?"
Spicca named the hotel, adding that Orsino would probably find her at
home during the hot hours of the afternoon.
"Has she been here long?" asked the young man.
"Three days."
"I will go and see her at once. I may be useful to her in finding an
apartment."
"That would be very kind of you," observed Spicca, glancing at him
rather thoughtfully.
On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself at the hotel and
asked for Madame d'Aranjuez. She received him in a room not very
different from the one of which she had had made her sitting-room during
the winter. As always, one or two new books and the mysterious silver
paper cutter were the only objects of her own which were visible. Orsino
hardly noticed the fact, however, for she was already in the room when
he entered, and his eyes met hers at once.
He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, but the heat was
great and might easily account for her pallor. Her eyes were deeper, and
their tawny colour seemed darker. Her hand was cold.
She smiled faintly as she met Orsino, but said nothing and sat down at a
distance from the windows.
"I only heard last night that you were in Rome," he said.
"And you came at once to see me. Thanks. How did you find it out?"
"Spicca told me. I had asked him for news of you."
"Why him?" inquired Maria Consuelo with some curiosity.
"Because I fancied he might know," answered Orsino passing lightly over
the question. He did not wish even Maria Consuelo to guess that Spicca
had spoken of her to him. "The reason why I was anxious about you was
that I had written you a letter. I wrote some weeks ago to your address
in Paris and got no answer."
"You wrote?" Maria Consuelo seemed surprised. "I have not been in Paris.
Who gave you the address? What was it?"
Orsino named the street and the number.
"I once lived there a short time, two years ago. Who gave you the
address? Not Count Spicca?"
"No."
Orsino hesitated to say more. He did not like to admit that he had
received the address from Maria Consuelo's maid, and it might seem
incredible that the woman should have given the information unasked. At
the same time the fact that the address was to all intents and purposes
a false one tallied with the maid's spontaneous statement in regard to
her mistress's mental alienation.
"Why will you not tell me?" asked Maria Consuelo.
"The answer involves a question which does not concern me. The address
was evidently intended to deceive me. The person who gave it attempted
to deceive me about a far graver matter, too. Let us say no more about
it. Of course you never got the letter?"
"Of course not."
A short silence followed which Orsino felt to be rather awkward. Maria
Consuelo looked at him suddenly.
"Did my maid tell you?" she asked.
"Yes--since you ask me. She met me in the corridor after my last visit
and thrust the address upon me."
"I thought so," said Maria Consuelo.
"You have suspected her before?"
"What was the other deception?"
"That is a more serious matter. The woman is your trusted servant. At
least you must have trusted her when you took her--"
"That does not follow. What did she try to make you believe?"
"It is hard to tell you. For all I know, she may have been
instructed--you may have instructed her yourself. One stumbles upon odd
things in life, sometimes."
"You called yourself my friend once, Don Orsino."
"If you will let me, I will call myself so still."
"Then, in the name of friendship, tell me what the woman said!" Maria
Consuelo spoke with sudden energy, touching his arm quickly with an
unconscious gesture.
"Will you believe me?"
"Are you accustomed to being doubted, that you ask?"
"No. But this thing is very strange."
"Do not keep me waiting--it hurts me!"
"The woman stopped me as I was going away. I had never spoken to her.
She knew my name. She told me that you were--how shall I say?--mentally
deranged."
Maria Consuelo started and turned very pale.
"She told you that I was mad?" Her voice sank to a whisper.
"That is what she said."
Orsino watched her narrowly. She evidently believed him. Then she sank
back in her chair with a stifled cry of horror, covering her eyes with
her hands.
"And you might have believed it!" she exclaimed. "You might really have
believed it--you!"
The cry came from her heart and would have shown Orsino what weight she
still attached to his opinion had he not himself been too suddenly and
deeply interested in the principal question to pay attention to details.
"She made the statement very clearly," he said. "What could have been
her object in the lie?"
"What object? Ah--if I knew that--"
Maria Consuelo rose and paced the room, her head bent and her hands
nervously clasping and unclasping. Orsino stood by the empty fireplace,
watching her.
"You will send the woman away of course?" he said, in a questioning
tone.
But she shook her head and her anxiety seemed to increase.
"Is it possible that you will submit to such a thing from a servant?" he
asked in astonishment.
"I have submitted to much," she answered in a low voice.
"The inevitable, of course. But to keep a maid whom you can turn away at
any moment--"
"Yes--but can I?" She stopped and looked at him. "Oh, if I only
could--if you knew how I hate the woman--"
"But then--"
"Yes?"
"Do you mean to tell me that you are in some way in her power, so that
you are bound to keep her always?"
Maria Consuelo hesitated a moment.
"Are you in her power?" asked Orsino a second time. He did not like the
idea and his black brows bent themselves rather angrily.
"No--not directly. She is imposed upon me."
"By circumstances?"
"No, again. By a person who has the power to impose much upon me--but
this! Oh this is almost too much! To be called mad!"
"Then do not submit to it."
Orsino spoke decisively, with a kind of authority which surprised
himself. He was amazed and righteously angry at the situation so
suddenly revealed to him, undefined as it was. He saw that he was
touching a great trouble and his natural energy bid him lay violent
hands on it and root it out if possible.
For some minutes Maria Consuelo did not speak, but continued to pace the
room, evidently in great anxiety. Then she stopped before him.
"It is easy for you to say, 'do not submit,' when you do not
understand," she said. "If you knew what my life is, you would look at
this in another way. I must submit--I cannot do otherwise."
"If you would tell me something more, I might help you," answered
Orsino.
"You?" She paused. "I believe you would, if you could," she added,
thoughtfully.
"You know that I would. Perhaps I can, as it is, in ignorance, if you
will direct me."
A sudden light gleamed in Maria Consuelo's eyes and then died away as
quickly as it had come.
"After all, what could you do?" she asked with a change of tone, as
though she were somehow disappointed. "What could you do that others
would not do as well, if they could, and with a better right?"
"Unless you will tell me, how can I know?"
"Yes--if I could tell you."
She went and sat down in her former seat and Orsino took a chair beside
her. He had expected to renew the acquaintance in a very different way,
and that he should spend half an hour with Maria Consuelo in talking
about apartments, about the heat and about the places she had visited.
Instead, circumstances had made the conversation an intimate one full of
an absorbing interest to both. Orsino found that he had forgotten much
which pleased him strangely now that it was again brought before him. He
had forgotten most of all, it seemed, that an unexplained sympathy
attracted him to her, and her to him. He wondered at the strength of it,
and found it hard to understand that last meeting with her in the
spring.
"Is there any way of helping you, without knowing your secret?" he asked
in a low voice.
"No. But I thank you for the wish."
"Are you sure there is no way? Quite sure?"
"Quite sure."
"May I say something that strikes me?"
"Say anything you choose."
"There is a plot against you. You seem to know it. Have you never
thought of plotting on your side?"
"I have no one to help me."
"You have me, if you will take my help. And you have Spicca. You might
do better, but you might do worse. Between us we might accomplish
something."
Maria Consuelo had started at Spicca's name. She seemed very nervous
that day.
"Do you know what you are saying?" she asked after a moment's thought.
"Nothing that should offend you, at least."
"No. But you are proposing that I should ally myself with the man of all
others whom I have reason to hate."
"You hate Spicca?" Orsino was passing from one surprise to another.
"Whether I hate him or not, is another matter. I ought to."
"At all events he does not hate you."
"I know he does not. That makes it no easier for me. I could not accept
his help."
"All this is so mysterious that I do not know what to say," said Orsino,
thoughtfully. "The fact remains, and it is bad enough. You need help
urgently. You are in the power of a servant who tells your friends that
you are insane and thrusts false addresses upon them, for purposes which
I cannot explain."
"Nor I either, though I may guess."
"It is worse and worse. You cannot even be sure of the motives of this
woman, though you know the person or persons by whom she is forced upon
you. You cannot get rid of her yourself and you will not let any one
else help you."
"Not Count Spicca."
"And yet I am sure that he would do much for you. Can you not even tell
me why you hate him, or ought to hate him?"
Maria Consuelo hesitated and looked into Orsino's eyes for a moment.
"Can I trust you?" she asked.
"Implicitly."
"He killed my husband."
Orsino uttered a low exclamation of horror. In the deep silence which
followed he heard Maria Consuelo draw her breath once or twice sharply
through her closed teeth, as though she were in great pain.
"I do not wish it known," she said presently, in a changed voice. "I do
not know why I told you."
"You can trust me."
"I must--since I have spoken."
In the surprise caused by the startling confidence, Orsino suddenly felt
that his capacity for sympathy had grown to great dimensions. If he had
been a woman, the tears would have stood in his eyes. Being what he was,
he felt them in his heart. It was clear that she had loved the dead man
very dearly. In the light of this evident fact, it was hard to explain
her conduct towards Orsino during the winter and especially at their
last meeting.
For a long time neither spoke again. Orsino, indeed, had nothing to say
at first, for nothing he could say could reasonably be supposed to be of
any use. He had learned the existence of something like a tragedy in
Maria Consuelo's life, and he seemed to be learning the first lesson of
friendship, which teaches sympathy. It was not an occasion for making
insignificant phrases expressing his regret at her loss, and the
language he needed in order to say what he meant was unfamiliar to his
lips. He was silent, therefore, but his young face was grave and
thoughtful, and his eyes sought hers from time to time as though trying
to discover and forestall her wishes. At last she glanced at him
quickly, then looked down, and at last spoke to him.
"You will not make me regret having told you this--will you?" she asked.
"No. I promise you that."
So far as Orsino could understand the words meant very little. He was
not very communicative, as a rule, and would certainly not tell what he
had heard, so that the promise was easily given and easy to keep. If he
did not break it, he did not see that she could have any further cause
for regretting her confidence in him. Nevertheless, by way of reassuring
her, he thought it best to repeat what he had said in different words.
"You may be quite sure that whatever you choose to tell me is in safe
keeping," he said. "And you may be sure, too, that if it is in my power
to do you a service of any kind, you will find me ready, and more than
ready, to help you."
"Thank you," she answered, looking earnestly at him.
"Whether the matter be small or great," he added, meeting her eyes.
Perhaps she expected to find more curiosity on his part, and fancied
that he would ask some further question. He did not understand the
meaning of her look.
"I believe you," she said at last. "I am too much in need of a friend to
doubt you."
"You have found one."
"I do not know. I am not sure. There are other things--" she stopped
suddenly and looked away.
"What other things?"
But Maria Consuelo did not answer. Orsino knew that she was thinking of
all that had once passed between them. He wondered whether, if he led
the way, she would press him as she had done at their last meeting. If
she did, he wondered what he should say. He had been very cold then, far
colder than he was now. He now felt drawn to her, as in the first days
of their acquaintance. He felt always that he was on the point of
understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for something which
should help him to pass that point.
"What other things?" he asked, repeating his question. "Do you mean that
there are reasons which may prevent me from being a good friend of
yours?"
"I am afraid there are. I do not know."
"I think you are mistaken, Madame. Will you name some of those
reasons--or even one?"
Maria Consuelo did not answer at once. She glanced at him, looked down,
and then her eyes met his again.
"Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman chooses for her
friend?" she asked at length, with a faint smile.
"I have not thought of the matter--"
"But you should--before offering your friendship."
"Why? If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, if I am--" he
hesitated, weighing his words--"if I am personally attached to you, why
can I not help you? I am honest, and in earnest. May I say as much as
that of myself?"
"I believe you are."
"Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom a woman might take
for a friend when a better is not at hand."
"And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?" asked Maria Consuelo
quietly.
"I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve anything
nowadays," answered Orsino.
"True--and the word 'friend' has such a pretty sound!" She laughed, for
the first time since he had entered the room.
"Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame. Is not that a sign that
you need no friend at all, and that your questions are not seriously
meant?"
"Perhaps. Who knows?"
"Do you know, yourself?"
"No." Again she laughed a little, and then grew suddenly grave.
"I never knew a woman who needed a friend more urgently than you do,"
said Orsino. "I do not in the least understand your position. The little
you have told me makes it clear enough that there have been and still
are unusual circumstances in your life. One thing I see. That woman whom
you call your maid is forced upon you against your will, to watch you,
and is privileged to tell lies about you which may do you a great
injury. I do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, but I
see that you must, and I guess that you hate it. Would it be an act of
friendship to free you from her or not?"
"At present it would not be an act of friendship," answered Maria
Consuelo, thoughtfully.
"That is very strange. Do you mean to say that you submit voluntarily--"
"The woman is a condition imposed upon me. I cannot tell you more."
"And no friend, no friendly help can change the condition, I suppose."
"I did not say that. But such help is beyond your power, Don Orsino,"
she added turning towards him rather suddenly. "Let us not talk of this
any more. Believe me, nothing can be done. You have sometimes acted
strangely with me, but I really think you would help me if you could.
Let that be the state of our acquaintance. You are willing, and I
believe that you are. Nothing more. Let that be our compact. But you can
perhaps help me in another way--a smaller way. I want a habitation of
some kind for the winter, for I am tired of camping out in hotels. You
who know your own city so well can name some person who will undertake
the matter."
"I know the very man," said Orsino promptly.
"Will you write out the address for me?"
"It is not necessary. I mean myself."
"I could not let you take so much trouble," protested Maria Consuelo.
But she accepted, nevertheless, after a little hesitation. For some time
they discussed the relative advantages of the various habitable quarters
of the city, both glad, perhaps, to find an almost indifferent subject
of conversation, and both relatively happy merely in being together. The
talk made one of those restful interludes which are so necessary, and
often so hard to produce, between two people whose thoughts run upon a
strong common interest, and who find it difficult to exchange half a
dozen words without being led back to the absorbing topic.
What had been said had produced a decided effect upon Orsino. He had
come expecting to take up the acquaintance on a new footing, but ten
minutes had not elapsed before he had found himself as much interested
as ever in Maria Consuelo's personality, and far more interested in her
life than he had ever been before. While talking with more or less
indifference about the chances of securing a suitable apartment for the
winter, Orsino listened with an odd sensation of pleasure to every tone
of his companion's voice and watched every changing expression of the
striking face. He wondered whether he were not perhaps destined to love
her sincerely as he had already loved her in a boyish, capricious
fashion which would no longer be natural to him now. But for the present
he was sure that he did not love her, and that he desired nothing but
her sympathy for himself, and to feel sympathy for her. Those were the
words he used, and he did not explain them to his own intelligence in
any very definite way. He was conscious, indeed, that they meant more
than formerly, but the same was true of almost everything that came into
his life, and he did not therefore attach any especial importance to the
fact. He was altogether much more in earnest than when he had first met
Maria Consuelo; he was capable of deeper feeling, of stronger
determination and of more decided action in all matters, and though he
did not say so to himself he was none the less aware of the change.
"Shall we make an appointment for to-morrow?" he asked, after they had
been talking some time.
"Yes--but there is one thing I wanted to ask you--"
"What is that?" inquired Orsino, seeing that she hesitated.
The faint colour rose in her cheeks, but she looked straight into his
eyes, with a kind of fearless expression, as though she were facing a
danger.
"Tell me," she said, "in Rome, where everything is known and every one
talks so much, will it not be thought strange that you and I should be
driving about together, looking for a house for me? Tell me the truth."
"What can people say?" asked Orsino.
"Many things. Will they say them?"
"If they do, I can make them stop talking."
"That means that they will talk, does it not? Would you like that?"
There was a sudden change in her face, with a look of doubt and anxious
perplexity. Orsino saw it and felt that she was putting him upon his
honour, and that whatever the doubt might be it had nothing to do with
her trust in him. Six months earlier he would not have hesitated to
demonstrate that her fears were empty--but he felt that six months
earlier she might not have yielded to his reasoning. It was instinctive,
but his instinct was not mistaken.
"I think you are right," he said slowly. "We should not do it. I will
send my architect with you."
There was enough regret in the tone to show that he was making a
considerable sacrifice. A little delicacy means more when it comes from
a strong man, than when it is the natural expression of an over-refined
and somewhat effeminate character. And Orsino was rapidly developing a
strength of which other people were conscious. Maria Consuelo was
pleased, though she, too, was perhaps sorry to give up the projected
plan.
"After all," she said, thoughtlessly, "you can come and see me here,
if--"
She stopped and blushed again, more deeply this time; but she turned her
face away and in the half light the change of colour was hardly
noticeable.
"You were going to say 'if you care to see me,'" said Orsino. "I am glad
you did not say it. It would not have been kind."
"Yes--I was going to say that," she answered quietly. "But I will not."
"Thank you."
"Why do you thank me?"
"For not hurting me."
"Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any way?"
"I would rather not think so. You did once."
The words slipped from his lips almost before he had time to realise
what they meant. He was thinking of the night when she had drawn up the
carriage window, leaving him standing on the pavement, and of her
repeated refusals to see him afterwards. It seemed long ago, and the
hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied that it must have
been, judging from what he now felt. She looked at him quickly as though
wondering what he would say next.
"I never meant to be unkind," she said. "I have often asked myself
whether you could say as much."
It was Orsino's turn to change colour. He was young enough for that,
and the blood rose slowly in his dark cheeks. He thought again of their
last meeting, and of what he had heard as he shut the door after him on
that day. Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo was sorry for
what she had said, and a little ashamed of her weakness, as indeed she
had some cause to be, and she immediately turned back to a former point
of the conversation, not too far removed from what had last been said.
"You see," said she, "I was right to ask you whether people would talk.
And I am grateful to you for telling me the truth. It is a first proof
of friendship--of something better than our old relations. Will you send
me your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer his
help?"
After arranging for the hour of meeting Orsino rose to take his leave.
"May I come to-morrow?" he asked. "People will not talk about that," he
added with a smile.
"You can ask for me. I may be out. If I am at home, I shall be glad to
see you."
She spoke coldly, and Orsino saw that she was looking over his shoulder.
He turned instinctively and saw that the door was open and Spicca was
standing just outside, looking in and apparently waiting for a word from
Maria Consuelo before entering.