After some little time the doctor’s genial voice, slightly tremulous
from kindly emotion, roused me from my grief-stricken attitude.
“Monsieur, permit me to persuade you to come away. Poor little child!
she is free from pain now. Her fancy that you were her father was a
fortunate delusion for her. It made her last moments happy. Pray come
with me—I can see this has been a shock to your feelings.”
Reverently I laid the fragile corpse back on the yet warm pillows. With
a fond touch I stroked the flaxen head; I closed the dark, upturned,
and glazing eyes—I kissed the waxen cheeks and lips, and folded the
tiny hands in an attitude of prayer. There was a grave smile on the
young dead face—a smile of superior wisdom and sweetness, majestic in
its simplicity. Assunta rose from her knees and laid her crucifix on
the little breast—the tears were running down her worn and withered
countenance. As she strove to wipe them away with her apron, she said
tremblingly:—
“It must be told to _madama_.” A frown came on the doctor’s face. He
was evidently a true Britisher, decisive in his opinions, and frank
enough to declare them openly. “Yes,” he said, curtly, “_Madama_, as
you call her, should have been here.”
“The little angel did not once ask for her,” murmured Assunta.
“True!” he answered. And again there was silence. We stood round the
small bed, looking at the empty casket that had held the lost jewel—the
flawless pearl of innocent childhood that had gone, according to a
graceful superstition, to ornament the festal robes of the Madonna as
she walked in all her majesty through heaven. A profound grief was at
my heart—mingled with a sense of mysterious and awful satisfaction. I
felt, not as though I had lost my child, but had rather gained her to
be more entirely mine than ever. She seemed nearer to me dead than she
had been when living. Who could say what her future might have been?
She would have grown to womanhood—what then? What is the usual fate
that falls to even the best woman? Sorrow, pain, and petty worry,
unsatisfied longings, incompleted aims, the disappointment of an
imperfect and fettered life—for say what you will to the contrary,
woman’s inferiority to man, her physical weakness, her inability to
accomplish any great thing for the welfare of the world in which she
lives, will always make her more or less an object of pity. If good,
she needs all the tenderness, support, and chivalrous guidance of her
master, man—if bad, she merits what she receives, his pitiless disdain
and measureless contempt. From all dangers and griefs of the kind my
Stella had escaped—for her, sorrow no longer existed. I was glad of it,
I thought, as I watched Assunta shutting the blinds close, as a signal
to outsiders that death was in the house. At a sign from the doctor I
followed him out of the room—on the stairs he turned round abruptly,
and asked:
“Will _you_ tell the countess?”
“I would rather be excused,” I replied, decisively. “I am not at all in
the humor for a _scene_.”
“You think she will make a scene?” he said with an astonished uplifting
of his eyebrows. “I dare say you are right though! She is an excellent
actress.”
By this time we had reached the foot of the stairs.
“She is very beautiful,” I answered evasively.
“Oh, very! No doubt of that!” And here a strange frown contracted the
doctor’s brow. “For my own taste, I prefer an ugly woman to _such_
beauty.”
And with these words he left me, disappearing down the passage which
led to “_madama_’s” boudoir. Left alone, I paced up and down the
drawing-room, gazing abstractedly on its costly fittings, its many
luxurious knickknacks and elegancies—most of which I had given to my
wife during the first few months of our marriage. By and by I heard the
sound of violent hysterical sobbing, accompanied by the noise of
hurrying footsteps and the rapid whisking about of female garments. In
a few moments the doctor entered with an expression of sardonic
amusement on his face. “Yes!” he said in reply to my look of inquiry,
“hysterics, lace handkerchiefs, eau-de-Cologne, and attempts at
fainting. All very well done! I have assured the lady there is no fear
of contagion, as under my orders everything will be thoroughly
disinfected. I shall go now. Oh, by the way, the countess requests that
you will wait here a few minutes—she has a message for you—she will not
detain you long. I should recommend you to get back to your hotel as
soon as you can, and take some good wine. _A rivederci_! Anything I can
do for you pray command me!”
And with a cordial shake of the hand he left me, and I heard the street
door close behind him. Again I paced wearily up and down, wrapped in
sorrowful musings. I did not hear a stealthy tread on the carpet behind
me, so that when I turned round abruptly, I was startled to find myself
face to face with old Giacomo, who held out a note to me on a silver
salver, and who meanwhile peered at me with his eager eyes in so
inquisitive a manner that I felt almost uneasy.
“And so the little angel is dead!” he murmured in a thin, quavering
voice. “Dead! Ay, that is a pity, a pity! But _my_ master is not
dead—no, no! I am not such an old fool as to believe that.”
I paid no heed to his rambling talk, but read the message Nina had sent
to me through him.
“I am _broken-hearted_!” so ran the delicately penciled lines. “Will
you kindly telegraph my _dreadful_ loss to _Signor_ Ferrari? I shall be
much obliged to you.” I looked up from the perfumed missive and down at
the old butler’s wrinkled visage; he was a short man and much bent, and
something in the downward glance I gave him evidently caught and
riveted his attention, for he clasped his hands together and muttered
something I could not hear.
“Tell your mistress,” I said, speaking slowly and harshly, “that I will
do as she wishes. That I am entirely at her service. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, yes! I understand!” faltered Giacomo, nervously, “My master never
thought me foolish—I could always understand him—”
“Do you know, my friend,” I observed, in a purposely cold and cutting
tone, “that I have heard somewhat too much about your master? The
subject is tiresome to me! Were your master alive, he would say you
were in your dotage! Take my message to the countess at once.”
The old man’s face paled and his lips quivered—he made an attempt to
draw up his shrunken figure with a sort of dignity as he answered
“_Eccellenza_, my master would never speak to me so—never, never!” Then
his countenance fell, and he muttered, softly—“Though it is just—I am a
fool—I am mistaken—quite mistaken—there is no resemblance!” After a
little pause he added, humbly, “I will take your message,
_eccellenza_.” And stooping more than ever, he shambled out of the
room. My heart smote me as he disappeared; I had spoken very harshly to
the poor old fellow—but I instinctively felt that it was necessary to
do so. His close and ceaseless examination of me—his timidity when he
approached me—the strange tremors he experienced when I addressed him,
were so many warnings to me to be on my guard with this devoted
domestic. Were he, by some unforeseen chance, to recognize me, my plans
would all be spoiled. I took my hat and left the house. As I crossed
the upper terrace, I saw a small round object lying in the grass—it was
Stella’s ball that she used to throw for Wyvis to catch and bring to
her. I picked up the poor plaything tenderly and put it in my
pocket—and glancing up once more at the darkened nursery windows, I
waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last
sleep. Then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions
that threatened to overwhelm me, I hurried away. On my road to the
hotel I stopped at the telegraph-office and dispatched the news of
Stella’s death to Guido Ferrari in Rome. He would be surprised, I
thought, but certainly not grieved—the poor child had always been in
his way. Would he come back to Naples to console the now childless
widow? Not he!—he would know well that she stood in very small need of
consolation—and that she took Stella’s death as she had taken mine—as a
blessing, and not a bereavement. On reaching my own rooms, I gave
orders to Vincenzo that I was not at home to any one who might call—and
I passed the rest of the day in absolute solitude. I had much to think
of. The last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped
asunder—the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood
and deception, no longer existed. Was I glad or sorry for this? I asked
myself the question a hundred times, and I admitted the truth, though I
trembled to realize it. I was _glad_—yes—_glad_! Glad that my own child
was dead! You call this inhuman perhaps? Why? She was bound to have
been miserable; she was now happy!
The tragedy of her parents’ lives could be enacted without imbittering
and darkening her young days, she was out of it all, and I rejoiced to
know it. For I was absolutely relentless; had my little Stella lived,
not even for her sake would I have relaxed in one detail of my
vengeance—nothing seemed to me so paramount as the necessity for
restoring my own self-respect and damaged honor. In England I know
these things are managed by the Divorce Court. Lawyers are paid
exorbitant fees, and the names of the guilty and innocent are dragged
through the revolting slums of the low London press. It may be an
excellent method—but it does not tend to elevate a man in his own eyes,
and it certainly does not do much to restore his lost dignity. It has
one advantage—it enables the criminal parties to have their way without
further interference—the wronged husband is set free—left out in the
cold—and laughed at by those who wronged him. An admirable arrangement
no doubt—but one that would not suit me. _Chacun a son gout_! It would
be curious to know in matters of this kind whether divorced persons are
really satisfied when they have got their divorce—whether the amount of
red tape and parchment expended in their interest has done them good
and really relieved their feelings. Whether, for instance, the betrayed
husband is glad to have got rid of his unfaithful wife by throwing her
(with the full authority and permission of the law) into his rival’s
arms? I almost doubt it! I heard of a strange case in England once. A
man, moving in good society, having more than suspicions of his wife’s
fidelity, divorced her—the law pronounced her guilty. Some years
afterward, he being free, met her again, fell in love with her for the
second time and remarried her. She was (naturally!) delighted at his
making such a fool of himself—for henceforth, whatever she chose to do,
he could not reasonably complain without running the risk of being
laughed at. So now the number and variety of her lovers is notorious in
the particular social circle where she moves—while he, poor wretch, is
perforce tongue-tied, and dare not consider himself wronged. There is
no more pitiable object in the world than such a man—secretly derided
and jeered at by his fellows, he occupies an almost worse position than
that of a galley slave, while in his own esteem he has sunk so low that
he dare not, even in secret, try to fathom the depth to which he has
fallen. Some may assert that to be divorced is a social stigma. It used
to be so perhaps, but society has grown very lenient nowadays. Divorced
women hold their own in the best and most brilliant circles, and what
is strange is that they are very generally petted and pitied.
“Poor thing!” says society, putting up its eyeglass to scan admiringly
the beautiful heroine of the latest aristocratic scandal—“she had such
a brute of a husband! No wonder she liked that _dear_ Lord So-and-So!
Very wrong of her, of course, but she is so young! She was married at
sixteen—quite a child!—could not have known her own mind!”
The husband alluded to might have been the best and most chivalrous of
men—anything but a “brute”—yet he always figures as such somehow, and
gets no sympathy. And, by the way, it is rather a notable fact that all
the beautiful, famous, or notorious women were “married at sixteen.”
How is this managed? I can account for it in southern climates, where
girls are full-grown at sixteen and old at thirty—but I cannot
understand its being the case in England, where a “miss” of sixteen is
a most objectionable and awkward ingenue, without any of the “charms
wherewith to charm,” and whose conversation is always vapid and silly
to the point of absolute exhaustion on the part of those who are forced
to listen to it. These sixteen-year-old marriages are, however, the
only explanation frisky English matrons can give for having such
alarmingly prolific families of tall sons and daughters, and it is a
happy and convenient excuse—one that provides a satisfactory reason for
the excessive painting of their faces and dyeing of their hair. Being
young (as they so nobly assert), they wish to look even younger. _A la
bonne heure_! If men cannot see through the delicate fiction, they have
only themselves to blame. As for me, I believe in the old, old,
apparently foolish legend of Adam and Eve’s sin and the curse which
followed it—the curse on man is inevitably carried out to this day. God
said:
“_Because_” (mark that _because_!) “thou hast hearkened unto the voice
of thy wife” (or thy _woman_, whoever she be), “and hast eaten of the
tree of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it” (the
tree or fruit being the evil suggested _first_ to man by woman),
“cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all
the days of thy life!”
True enough! The curse is upon all who trust woman too far—the sorrow
upon all who are beguiled by her witching flatteries. Of what avail her
poor excuse in the ancient story—“The serpent beguiled me and I did
eat!” Had she never listened she could not have been beguiled. The
weakness, the treachery, was in herself, and is there still. Through
everything the bitterness of it runs. The woman tempts—the man
yields—and the gate of Eden—the Eden of a clear conscience and an
untrammeled soul, is shut upon them. Forever and ever the Divine
denunciation re-echoes like muttering thunder through the clouds of
passing generations; forever and ever we unconsciously carry it out in
our own lives to its full extent till the heart grows sick and the
brain weary, and we long for the end of it all, which is death—death,
that mysterious silence and darkness at which we sometimes shudder,
wondering vaguely—Can it be worse than life?