Orsino was not in an enviable frame of mind when he left the hotel. It
is easier to bear suffering when one clearly understands all its causes,
and distinguishes just how great a part of it is inevitable and how
great a part may be avoided or mitigated. In the present case there was
much in the situation which it passed his power to analyse or
comprehend. He still possessed the taste for discovering motives in the
actions of others as well as in his own, but many months of a busy life
had dulled the edge of the artificial logic in which he had formerly
delighted, while greatly sharpening his practical wit. Artificial
analysis supplies from the imagination the details lacking in facts, but
common sense needs something more tangible upon which to work. Orsino
felt that the chief circumstance which had determined Maria Consuelo's
conduct had escaped him, and he sought in vain to detect it.
He rejected the supposition that she was acting upon a caprice, that she
had yesterday believed it possible to marry him, while a change of
humour made marriage seem out of the question to-day. She was as
capricious as most women, perhaps, but not enough so for that. Besides,
she had been really consistent. Not even yesterday had she been shaken
for a moment in her resolution not to be Orsino's wife. To-day had
confirmed yesterday therefore. However Orsino might have still doubted
her intention when he had gone to her side for the last time, her
behaviour then and her final words had been unmistakable. She meant to
leave Rome at once.
Yet the reasons she had given him for her conduct were not sufficient in
his eyes. The difference of age was so small that it could safely be
disregarded. Her promise to the dying Aranjuez was an engagement, he
thought, by which no person of sense should expect her to abide. As for
the question of her birth, he relied on that speech of Spicca's which he
so well remembered. Spicca might have spoken the words thoughtlessly, it
was true, and believing that Orsino would never, under any circumstances
whatever, think seriously of marrying Maria Consuelo. But Spicca was not
a man who often spoke carelessly, and what he said generally meant at
least as much as it appeared to mean.
It was doubtless true that Maria Consuelo was ignorant of her mother's
name. Nevertheless, it was quite possible that her mother had been
Spicca's wife. Spicca's life was said to be full of strange events not
generally known. But though his daughter might, and doubtless did
believe herself a nameless child, and, as such, no match for the heir
of the Saracinesca, Orsino could not see why she should have insisted
upon a parting so sudden, so painful and so premature. She knew as much
yesterday and had known it all along. Why, if she possessed such
strength of character, had she allowed matters to go so far when she
could easily have interrupted the course of events at an earlier period?
He did not admit that she perhaps loved him so much as to have been
carried away by her passion until she found herself on the point of
doing him an injury by marrying him, and that her love was strong enough
to induce her to sacrifice herself at the critical moment. Though he
loved her much he did not believe her to be heroic in any way. On the
contrary, he said to himself that if she were sincere, and if her love
were at all like his own, she would let no obstacle stand in the way of
it. To him, the test of love must be its utter recklessness. He could
not believe that a still better test may be, and is, the constant
forethought for the object of love, and the determination to protect
that object from all danger in the present and from all suffering in the
future, no matter at what cost.
Perhaps it is not easy to believe that recklessness is a manifestation
of the second degree of passion, while the highest shows itself in
painful sacrifice. Yet the most daring act of chivalry never called for
half the bravery shown by many a martyr at the stake, and if courage be
a measure of true passion, the passion which will face life-long
suffering to save its object from unhappiness or degradation is greater
than the passion which, for the sake of possessing its object, drags it
into danger and the risk of ruin. It may be that all this is untrue, and
that the action of these two imaginary individuals, the one sacrificing
himself, the other endangering the loved one, is dependent upon the
balance of the animal, intellectual and moral elements in each. We do
not know much about the causes of what we feel, in spite of modern
analysis; but the heart rarely deceives us, when we can see the truth
for ourselves, into bestowing the more praise upon the less brave of two
deeds. But we do not often see the truth as it is. We know little of the
lives of others, but we are apt to think that other people understand
our own very well, including our good deeds if we have done any, and we
expect full measure of credit for these, and the utmost allowance of
charity for our sins. In other words we desire our neighbour to combine
a power of forgiveness almost divine with a capacity for flattery more
than parasitic. That is why we are not easily satisfied with our
acquaintances and that is why our friends do not always turn out to be
truthful persons. We ask too much for the low price we offer, and if we
insist we get the imitation.
Orsino loved Maria Consuelo with all his heart, as much as a young man
of little more than one and twenty can love the first woman to whom he
is seriously attached. There was nothing heroic in the passion, perhaps,
nothing which could ultimately lead to great results. But it was a
strong love, nevertheless, with much, of devotion in it and some latent
violence. If he did not marry Maria Consuelo, it was not likely that he
would ever love again in exactly the same way. His next love would be
either far better or far worse, far nobler or far baser--perhaps a
little less human in either case.
He walked slowly away from the hotel, unconscious of the people in the
street and not thinking of the direction he took. His brain was in a
whirl and his thoughts seemed to revolve round some central point upon
which they could not concentrate themselves even for a second. The only
thing of which he was sure was that Maria Consuelo had taken herself
from him suddenly and altogether, leaving him with a sense of loneliness
which he had not known before. He had gone to her in considerable
distress about his affairs, with the certainty of finding sympathy and
perhaps advice. He came away, as some men have returned from a grave
accident, apparently unscathed it may be, but temporarily deprived of
some one sense, of sight, or hearing, or touch. He was not sure that he
was awake, and his troubled reflexions came back by the same unvarying
round to the point he had reached the first time--if Maria Consuelo
really loved him, she would not let such obstacles as she spoke of
hinder her union with him.
For a time Orsino was not conscious of any impulse to act. Gradually,
however, his real nature asserted itself, and he remembered how he had
told her not long ago that if she went away he would follow her, and how
he had said that the world was small and that he would soon find her
again. It would undoubtedly be a simple matter to accompany her, if she
left Rome. He could easily ascertain the hour of her intended departure
and that alone would tell him the direction she had chosen. When she
found that she had not escaped him she would very probably give up the
attempt and come back, her humour would change and his own eloquence
would do the rest.
He stopped in his walk, looked at his watch and glanced about him. He
was at some distance from the hotel and it was growing dusk, for the
days were already short. If Maria Consuelo really meant to leave Rome
precipitately, she might go by the evening train to Paris and in that
case the people of the hotel would have been informed of her intended
departure.
Orsino only admitted the possibility of her actually going away while
believing in his heart that she would remain. He slowly retraced his
steps, and it was seven o'clock before he asked the hotel porter by what
train Madame d'Aranjuez was leaving. The porter did not know whether the
lady was going north or south, but he called another man, who went in
search of a third, who disappeared for some time.
"Is it sure that Madame d'Aranjuez goes to-night?" asked Orsino trying
to look indifferent.
"Quite sure. Her rooms will be free to-morrow."
Orsino turned away and slowly paced up and down the marble pavement
between the tall plants, waiting for the messenger to come back.
"Madame d'Aranjuez leaves at nine forty-five," said the man, suddenly
reappearing.
Orsino hesitated a moment, and then made up his mind.
"Ask Madame if she will receive me for a moment," he said, producing a
card.
The servant went away and again Orsino walked backwards and forwards,
pale now and very nervous. She was really going, and was going
north--probably to Paris.
"Madame regrets infinitely that she is not able to receive the Signor
Prince," said the man in black at Orsino's elbow. "She is making her
preparations for the journey."
"Show me where I can write a note," said Orsino, who had expected the
answer.
He was shown into the reading-room and writing materials were set before
him. He hurriedly wrote a few words to Maria Consuelo, without form of
address and without signature.
"I will not let you go without me. If you will not see me, I will be in
the train, and I will not leave you, wherever you go. I am in earnest."
He looked at the sheet of note-paper and wondered that he should find
nothing more to say. But he had said all he meant, and sealing the
little note he sent it up to Maria Consuelo with a request for an
immediate answer. Just then the dinner bell of the hotel was rung. The
reading-room was deserted. He waited five minutes, then ten, nervously
turning over the newspapers and reviews on the long table, but quite
unable to read even the printed titles. He rang and asked if there had
been no answer to his note. The man was the same whom he had sent
before. He said the note had been received at the door by the maid who
had said that Madame d'Aranjuez would ring when her answer was ready.
Orsino dismissed the servant and waited again. It crossed his mind that
the maid might have pocketed the note and said nothing about it, for
reasons of her own. He had almost determined to go upstairs and boldly
enter the sitting-room, when the door opposite to him opened and Maria
Consuelo herself appeared.
She was dressed in a dark close-fitting travelling costume, but she wore
no hat. Her face was quite colourless and looked if possible even more
unnaturally pale by contrast with her bright auburn hair. She shut the
door behind her and stood still, facing Orsino in the glare of the
electric lights.
"I did not mean to see you again," she said, slowly. "You have forced me
to it."
Orsino made a step forward and tried to take her hand, but she drew
back. The slight uncertainty often visible in the direction of her
glance had altogether disappeared and her eyes met Orsino's directly and
fearlessly.
"Yes," he answered. "I have forced you to it. I know it, and you cannot
reproach me if I have. I will not leave you. I am going with you
wherever you go."
He spoke calmly, considering the great emotion he felt, and there was a
quiet determination in his words and tone which told how much he was in
earnest. Maria Consuelo half believed that she could dominate him by
sheer force of will, and she would not give up the idea, even now.
"You will not go with me, you will not even attempt it," she said.
It would have been difficult to guess from her face at that moment that
she loved him. Her face was pale and the expression was almost hard. She
held her head high as though she were looking down at him, though he
towered above her from his shoulders.
"You do not understand me," he answered, quietly. "When I say that I
will go with you, I mean that I will go."
"Is this a trial of strength?" she asked after a moment's pause.
"If it is, I am not conscious of it. It costs me no effort to go--it
would cost me much to stay behind--too much."
He stood quite still before her, looking steadily into her eyes. There
was a short silence, and then she suddenly looked down, moved and turned
away, beginning to walk slowly about. The room was large, and he paced
the floor beside her, looking down at her bent head.
"Will you stay if I ask you to?"
The question came in a lower and softer tone than she had used before.
"I will go with you," answered Orsino as firmly as ever.
"Will you do nothing for my asking?"
"I will do anything but that."
"But that is all I ask."
"You are asking the impossible."
"There are many reasons why you should not come with me. Have you
thought of them all?"
"No."
"You should. You ought to know, without being told by me, that you would
be doing me a great injustice and a great injury in following me. You
ought to know what the world will say of it. Remember that I am alone."
"I will marry you."
"I have told you that it is impossible--no, do not answer me! I will not
go over all that again. I am going away to-night. That is the principal
thing--the only thing that concerns you. Of course, if you choose, you
can get into the same train and pursue me to the end of the world. I
cannot prevent you. I thought I could, but I was mistaken. I am alone.
Remember that, Orsino. You know as well as I what will be said--and the
fact is sure to be known."
"People will say that I am following you--"
"They will say that we are gone together, for every one will have reason
to say it. Do you suppose that nobody is aware of our--our intimacy
during the last month?"
"Why not say our love?"
"Because I hope no one knows of that--well, if they do--Orsino, be kind!
Let me go alone--as a man of honour, do not injure me by leaving Rome
with me, nor by following me when I am gone!"
She stopped and looked up into his face with an imploring glance. To
tell the truth, Orsino had not foreseen that she might appeal to his
honour, alleging the danger to her reputation. He bit his lip and
avoided her eyes. It was hard to yield, and to yield so quickly, as it
seemed to him.
"How long will you stay away?" he asked in a constrained voice.
"I shall not come back at all."
He wondered at the firmness of her tone and manner. Whatever the real
ground of her resolution might be, the resolution itself had gained
strength since they had parted little more than an hour earlier. The
belief suddenly grew upon him again that she did not love him.
"Why are you going at all?" he asked abruptly. "If you loved me at all,
you would stay."
She drew a sharp breath and clasped her hands nervously together.
"I should stay if I loved you less. But I have told you--I will not go
over it all again. This must end--this saying good-bye! It is easier to
end it at once."
"Easier for you--"
"You do not know what you are saying. You will know some day. If you can
bear this, I cannot."
"Then stay--if you love me, as you say you do."
"As I say I do!"
Her eyes grew very grave and sad as she stopped and looked at him again.
Then she held out both her hands.
"I am going, now. Good-bye."
The blood came back to Orsino's face. It seemed to him that he had
reached the crisis of his life and his instinct was to struggle hard
against his fate. With a quick movement he caught her in his arms,
lifting her from her feet and pressing her close to him.
"You shall not go!"
He kissed her passionately again and again, while she fought to be free,
straining at his arms with her small white hands and trying to turn her
face from him.
"Why do you struggle? It is of no use." He spoke in very soft deep
tones, close to her ear.
She shook her head desperately and still did her best to slip from him,
though she might as well have tried to break iron clamps with her
fingers.
"It is of no use," he repeated, pressing her still more closely to him.
"Let me go!" she cried, making a violent effort, as fruitless as the
last.
"No!"
Then she was quite still, realising that she had no chance with him.
"Is it manly to be brutal because you are strong?" she asked. "You hurt
me."
Orsino's arms relaxed, and he let her go. She drew a long breath and
moved a step backward and towards the door.
"Good-bye," she said again. But this time she did not hold out her hand,
though she looked long and fixedly into his face.
Orsino made a movement as though he would have caught her again. She
started and put out her hand behind her towards the latch. But he did
not touch her. She softly opened the door, looked at him once more and
went out.
When he realised that she was gone he sprang after her, calling her by
name.
"Consuelo!"
There were a few people walking in the broad passage. They stared at
Orsino, but he did not heed them as he passed by. Maria Consuelo was not
there, and he understood in a moment that it would be useless to seek
her further. He stood still a moment, entered the reading-room again,
got his hat and left the hotel without looking behind him.
All sorts of wild ideas and schemes flashed through his brain, each more
absurd and impracticable than the last. He thought of going back and
finding Maria Consuelo's maid--he might bribe her to prevent her
mistress's departure. He thought of offering the driver of the train an
enormous sum to do some injury to his engine before reaching the first
station out of Rome. He thought of stopping Maria Consuelo's carriage on
her way to the tram and taking her by main force to his father's house.
If she were compromised in such a way, she would be almost obliged to
marry him. He afterwards wondered at the stupidity of his own inventions
on that evening, but at the time nothing looked impossible.
He bethought him of Spicca. Perhaps the old man possessed some power
over his daughter after all and could prevent her flight if he chose.
There were yet nearly two hours left before the train started. If worst
came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the last minute
and leave Rome with her.
He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca's lodgings. The count was at
home, writing a letter by the light of a small lamp. He looked up in
surprise as Orsino entered, then rose and offered him a chair.
"What has happened, my friend?" he asked, glancing curiously at the
young man's face.
"Everything," answered Orsino. "I love Madame d'Aranjuez, she loves me,
she absolutely refuses to marry me and she is going to Paris at a
quarter to ten. I know she is your daughter and I want you to prevent
her from leaving. That is all, I believe."
Spicca's cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow eyes grew bright
and fixed their glance on an imaginary point at an immense distance, and
the thin hand that lay on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the
projecting wood. For a few moments he said nothing, but when he spoke he
seemed quite calm.
"If she has told you that she is my daughter," he said, "I presume that
she has told you the rest. Is that true?"
Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate action, but he
understood that the count had a right to ask the question.
"She has told me that she does not know her mother's name, and that you
killed her husband."
"Both these statements are perfectly true at all events. Is that all you
know?"
"All? Yes--all of importance. But there is no time to be lost. No one
but you can prevent her from leaving Rome to-night. You must help me
quickly."
Spicca looked gravely at Orsino and shook his head. The light that had
shone in his eyes for a moment was gone, and he was again his habitual,
melancholy, indifferent self.
"I cannot stop her," he said, almost listlessly.
"But you can--you will, you must!" cried Orsino laying a hand on the old
man's thin arm. "She must not go--"
"Better that she should, after all. Of what use is it for her to stay?
She is quite right. You cannot marry her."
"Cannot marry her? Why not? It is not long since you told me very
plainly that you wished I would marry her. You have changed your mind
very suddenly, it seems to me, and I would like to know why. Do you
remember all you said to me?"
"Yes, and I was in earnest, as I am now. And I was wrong in telling you
what I thought at the time."
"At the time! How can matters have changed so suddenly?"
"I do not say that matters have changed. I have. That is the important
thing. I remember the occasion of our conversation very well. Madame
d'Aranjuez had been rather abrupt with, me, and you and I went away
together. I forgave her easily enough, for I saw that she was
unhappy--then I thought how different her life might be if she were
married to you. I also wished to convey to you a warning, and it did not
strike me that you would ever seriously contemplate such a marriage."
"I think you are in a certain way responsible for the present
situation," answered Orsino. "That is the reason why I come to you for
help."
Spicca turned upon the young man rather suddenly.
"There you go too far," he said. "Do you mean to tell me that you have
asked that lady to marry you because I suggested it?"
"No, but--"
"Then I am not responsible at all. Besides, you might have consulted me
again, if you had chosen. I have not been out of town. I sincerely wish
that it were possible--yes, that is quite another matter. But it is not.
If Madame d'Aranjuez thinks it is not, from her point of view there are
a thousand reasons why I should consider it far more completely out of
the question. As for preventing her from leaving Rome I could not do
that even were I willing to try."
"Then I will go with her," said Orsino, angrily.
Spicca looked at him in silence for a few moments. Orsino rose to his
feet and prepared to go.
"You leave me no choice," he said, as though Spicca had protested.
"Because I cannot and will not stop her? Is that any reason why you
should compromise her reputation as you propose to do?"
"It is the best of reasons. She will marry me then, out of necessity."
Spicca rose also, with more alacrity than generally characterised his
movements. He stood before the empty fireplace, watching the young man
narrowly.
"It is not a good reason," he said, presently, in quiet tones. "You are
not the man to do that sort of thing. You are too honourable."
"I do not see anything dishonourable in following the woman I love."
"That depends on the way in which you follow her. If you go quietly home
to-night and write to your father that you have decided to go to Paris
for a few days and will leave to-morrow, if you make your arrangements
like a sensible being and go away like a sane man, I have nothing to say
in the matter--"
"I presume not--" interrupted Orsino, facing the old man somewhat
fiercely.
"Very well. We will not quarrel yet. We will reserve that pleasure for
the moment when you cease to understand me. That way of following her
would be bad enough, but no one would have any right to stop you."
"No one has any right to stop me, as it is."
"I beg your pardon. The present circumstances are different. In the
first instance the world would say that you were in love with Madame
d'Aranjuez and were pursuing her to press your suit--of whatever nature
that might be. In the second case the world will assert that you and
she, not meaning to be married, have adopted the simple plan of going
away together. That implies her consent, and you have no right to let
any one imply that. I say, it is not honourable to let people think that
a lady is risking her reputation for you and perhaps sacrificing it
altogether, when she is in reality trying to escape from you. Am I
right, or not?"
"You are ingenious, at all events. You talk as though the whole world
were to know in half an hour that I have gone to Paris in the same train
with Madame d'Aranjuez. That is absurd!"
"Is it? I think not. Half an hour is little, perhaps, but half a day is
enough. You are not an insignificant son of an unknown Roman citizen,
nor is Madame d'Aranjuez a person who passes unnoticed. Reporters watch
people like you for items of news, and you are perfectly well known by
sight. Apart from that, do you think that your servants will not tell
your friends' servants of your sudden departure, or that Madame
d'Aranjuez' going will not be observed? You ought to know Rome better
than that. I ask you again, am I right or wrong?"
"What difference will it make, if we are married immediately?"
"She will never marry you. I am convinced of that."
"How can you know? Has she spoken to you about it?"
"I am the last person to whom she would come."
"Her own father--"
"With limitations. Besides, I had the misfortune to deprive her of the
chosen companion of her life, and at a critical moment. She has not
forgotten that."
"No she has not," answered Orsino gloomily. The memory of Aranjuez was a
sore point. "Why did you kill him?" he asked, suddenly.
"Because he was an adventurer, a liar and a thief--three excellent
reasons for killing any man, if one can. Moreover he struck her
once--with that silver paper cutter which she insists on using--and I
saw it from a distance. Then I killed him. Unluckily I was very angry
and made a little mistake, so that he lived twelve hours, and she had
time to get a priest and marry him. She always pretends that he struck
her in play, by accident, as he was showing her something about fencing.
I was in the next room and the door was open--it did not look like play.
And she still thinks that he was the paragon of all virtues. He was a
handsome devil--something like you, but shorter, with a bad eye. I am
glad I killed him."
Spicca had looked steadily at Orsino while speaking. When he ceased, he
began to walk about the small room with something of his old energy.
Orsino roused himself. He had almost begun to forget his own position in
the interest of listening to the count's short story.
"So much for Aranjuez," said Spicca. "Let us hear no more of him. As for
this mad plan of yours, you are convinced, I suppose, and you will give
it up. Go home and decide in the morning. For my part, I tell you it is
useless. She will not marry you. Therefore leave her alone and do
nothing which can injure her."
"I am not convinced," answered Orsino doggedly.
"Then you are not your father's son. No Saracinesca that I ever knew
would do what you mean to do--would wantonly tarnish the good name of a
woman--of a woman who loves him too--and whose only fault is that she
cannot marry him."
"That she will not."
"That she cannot."
"Do you give me your word that she cannot?"
"She is legally free to marry whom she pleases, with or without my
consent."
"That is all I want to know. The rest is nothing to me--"
"The rest is a great deal. I beg you to consider all I have said, and I
am sure that you will, quite sure. There are very good reasons for not
telling you or any one else all the details I know in this story--so
good that I would rather go to the length of a quarrel with you than
give them all. I am an old man, Orsino, and what is left of life does
not mean much to me. I will sacrifice it to prevent your opening this
door unless you tell me that you give up the idea of leaving Rome
to-night."
As he spoke he placed himself before the closed door and faced the young
man. He was old, emaciated, physically broken down, and his hands were
empty. Orsino was in his first youth, tall, lean, active and very
strong, and no coward. He was moreover in an ugly humour and inclined to
be violent on much smaller provocation than he had received. But Spicca
imposed upon him, nevertheless, for he saw that he was in earnest.
Orsino was never afterwards able to recall exactly what passed through
his mind at that moment. He was physically able to thrust Spicca aside
and to open the door, without so much as hurting him. He did not
believe that, even in that case, the old man would have insisted upon
the satisfaction of arms, nor would he have been afraid to meet him if a
duel had been required. He knew that what withheld him from an act of
violence was neither fear nor respect for his adversary's weakness and
age. Yet he was quite unable to define the influence which at last broke
down his resolution. It was in all probability only the resultant of the
argument Spicca had brought to bear and which Maria Consuelo had herself
used in the first instance, and of Spicca's calm, undaunted personality.
The crisis did not last long. The two men faced each other for ten
seconds and then Orsino turned away with an impatient movement of the
shoulders.
"Very well," he said. "I will not go with her."
"It is best so," answered Spicca, leaving the door and returning to his
seat.
"I suppose that she will let you know where she is, will she not?" asked
Orsino.
"Yes. She will write to me."
"Good-night, then."
"Good-night."
Without shaking hands, and almost without a glance at the old man,
Orsino left the room.