Entering the fiacre, I drove in it a very little way toward the city. I
bade the driver stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the
Villa Romani, and there I alighted. I ordered Vincenzo to go on to the
hotel and send from thence my own carriage and horses up to the villa
gates, where I would wait for it. I also bade him pack my portmanteau
in readiness for my departure that evening, as I proposed going to
Avellino, among the mountains, for a few days. He heard my commands in
silence and evident embarrassment. Finally he said:
“Do I also travel with the _eccellenza_?”
“Why, no!” I answered with a forced sad smile. “Do you not see,
_amico_, that I am heavy-hearted, and melancholy men are best left to
themselves. Besides—remember the carnival—I told you you were free to
indulge in its merriment, and shall I not deprive you of your pleasure?
No, Vincenzo; stay and enjoy yourself, and take no concern for me.”
Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features
wore an expression of obstinacy.
“The _eccellenza_ must pardon me,” he said, “but I have just looked at
death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again—the _eccellenza_ is
sad—it is necessary that I should accompany him to Avellino.”
I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument.
“As you will,” I answered, wearily, “only believe me, you make a
foolish decision. But do what you like; only arrange all so that we
leave to-night. And now get back quickly—give no explanation at the
hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage.
I will wait alone at the Villa Romani till it comes.”
The vehicle rumbled off, bearing Vincenzo seated on the box beside the
driver. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led
me to my own dishonored home. The place looked silent and deserted—not
a soul was stirring. The silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all
closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it
was as if some one lay dead within. A vague wonderment arose in my
mind. _Who_ was dead? Surely it must be I—I the master of the
household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! This
terrible white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the
walls was not me—it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak
punishment on the guilty. _I_ was dead—_I_ could never have killed the
man who had once been my friend. And he also was dead—the same
murderess had slain us both—and _she_ lived! Ha! that was wrong—she
must now die—but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and
shrivel under it into a devil’s flame for the furnace of hell!
With my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through
the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here had Guido stood, poor
wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent
fury. There on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old
servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. On this very
spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the
curse of a dying man. I was glad he had uttered it—such maledictions
cling! There was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he
was dead. He had been duped and wronged even as I; and I felt that his
spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with mine and aid in
her punishment.
I paced round the silent house till I came to the private wicket that
led into the avenue; I opened it and entered the familiar path. I had
not been there since the fatal night on which I had learned my own
betrayal. How intensely still were those solemn pines—how gaunt and
dark and grim! Not a branch quivered—not a leaf stirred. A cold dew
that was scarcely a frost glittered on the moss at my feet, No bird’s
voice broke the impressive hush of the wood-lands morning dream. No
bright-hued flower unbuttoned its fairy cloak to the breeze; yet there
was a subtle perfume everywhere—the fragrance of unseen violets whose
purple eyes were still closed in slumber.
I gazed on the scene as a man may behold in a vision the spot where he
once was happy. I walked a few paces, then paused with a strange
beating at my heart. A shadow fell across my path—it flitted before me,
it stopped—it lay still. I saw it resolve itself into the figure of a
man stretched out in rigid silence, with the light beating full on its
smiling, dead face, and also on a deep wound just above his heart, from
which the blood oozed redly, staining the grass on which he lay.
Mastering the sick horror which seized me at this sight, I sprung
forward—the shadow vanished instantly—it was a mere optical delusion,
the result of my overwrought and excited condition. I shuddered
involuntarily at the image my own heated fancy had conjured up; should
I always see Guido thus, I thought, even in my dreams?
Suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst joyously on the
silence—the slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark
branches quivered, and the grasses lifted up their green lilliputian
sword-blades. Bells!—and _such_ bells!—tongues of melody that stormed
the air with sweetest eloquence—round, rainbow bubbles of music that
burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes.
“Peace on earth, good will to men! Peace—on—earth—good—will—to—men!”
they seemed to say over and over again, till my ears ached with the
repetition. Peace! What had I to do with peace or good-will? The Christ
Mass could teach me nothing. I was as one apart from human life—an
alien from its customs and affections—for me no love, no brotherhood
remained. The swinging song of the chimes jarred my nerves. Why, I
thought, should the wild erring world, with all its wicked men and
women, presume to rejoice at the birth of the Saviour?—they, who were
not worthy to be saved! I turned swiftly away; I strode fiercely past
the kingly pines that, now thoroughly awakened, seemed to note me with
a stern disdain as though they said among themselves: “What manner of
small creature is this that torments himself with passions unknown to
_us_ in our calm converse with the stars?”
I was glad when I stood again on the high-road, and infinitely relieved
when I heard the rapid trot of horses, rumbling of wheels, and saw my
closed brougham, drawn by its prancing black Arabians, approaching. I
walked to meet it; the coachman seeing me drew up instantly, I bade him
take me to the _Convento dell’Annunziata_, and entering the carriage, I
was driven rapidly away.
The convent was situated, I knew, somewhere between Naples and
Sorrento. I guessed it to be near Castellamare, but it was fully three
miles beyond that, and was a somewhat long drive of more than two
hours. It lay a good distance out of the direct route, and was only
attained by a by-road, which from its rough and broken condition was
evidently not much frequented. The building stood apart from all other
habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone
wall spiked at the top. Roses climbed thickly among the spikes, and
almost hid their sharp points from view, and from a perfect nest of
green foliage, the slender spire of the convent chapel rose into the
sky like a white finger pointing to heaven. My coachman drew up before
the heavily barred gates. I alighted, and bade him take the carriage to
the principal hostelry at Castellamare, and wait for me there. As soon
as he had driven off, I rang the convent bell. A little wicket fixed in
the gate opened immediately, and the wrinkled visage of a very old and
ugly nun looked out. She demanded in low tones what I sought. I handed
her my card, and stated my desire to see the Countess Romani, if
agreeable to the superioress. While I spoke she looked at me
curiously—my spectacles, I suppose, excited her wonder—for I had
replaced these disguising glasses immediately on leaving the scene of
the duel—I needed them yet a little while longer. After peering at me a
minute or two with her bleared and aged eyes, she shut the wicket in my
face with a smart click and disappeared. While I awaited her return I
heard the sound of children’s laughter and light footsteps running
trippingly on the stone passage within.
“Fi donc, Rosie!” said the girl’s voice in French; “_la bonne Mère
Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi_.”
“_Tais-toi, petite sainte_!” cried another voice more piercing and
silvery in tone. “_Je veux voir qui est la_! _C’est un homme je sais
bien—parceque la vieille Mère Laura a rougi_!” and both young voices
broke into a chorus of renewed laughter.
Then came the shuffling noise of the old nun’s footsteps returning; she
evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard her
expostulating, scolding and apostrophizing the saints all in a breath,
as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little Jesus to
forgive their naughtiness. A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of
the huge gate were undone slowly—it opened, and I was admitted. I
raised my hat as I entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold
corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but
told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into
the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and
statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose
windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. Here she motioned me to
take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said:
“Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, _signor_.”
I bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that I did not
even hear the door close behind her. Left alone in what I rightly
concluded was the reception-room for visitors, I looked about me with
some faint interest and curiosity. I had never before seen the interior
of what is known as an educational convent. There were many photographs
on the walls and mantelpiece—portraits of girls, some plain of face and
form, others beautiful—no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as
souvenirs of former pupils. Rising from my chair I examined a few of
them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of Murillo’s
Virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame
surmounted with my own crest and coronet. In it was the portrait of my
wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me. I
took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. This was
she—this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the
marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like
face—this was the _thing_ for which two men’s lives had been
sacrificed! With a movement of disgust I replaced the frame in its
former position; I had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly
and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun’s band
and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me. I saluted her with a
deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her
head. Her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she
spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never
stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on
her quiet breast. Her voice, though low, was singularly clear and
penetrating.
“I address the Count Oliva?” she inquired.
I bowed in the affirmative. She looked at me keenly: she had dark,
brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered
passion still gleamed.
“You would see the Countess Romani, who is in retreat here?”
“If not inconvenient or out of rule—” I began.
The shadow of a smile flitted across the nun’s pale, intellectual face;
it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
“Not at all,” she replied, in the same even monotone. “The Countess
Nina is, by her own desire, following a strict regime, but to-day being
a universal feast-day all rules are somewhat relaxed. The reverend
mother desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass—she
has herself already entered the chapel. If you will share in our
devotions, the countess shall afterward be informed of your presence
here.”
I could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it
was unwelcome to me. I was in no humor for either prayers or praise; I
thought moodily how startled even this impassive nun might have been,
could she have known what manner of man it was that she thus invited to
kneel in the sanctuary. However, I said no word of objection, and she
bade me follow her. As we left the room I asked:
“Is the countess well?”
“She seems so,” returned _Mère_ Marguerite; “she follows her religious
duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue.”
We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry.
“She was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?”
The nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild
surprise and reproof.
“I have no favorites,” she answered, coldly. “All the children educated
here share my attention and regard equally.”
I murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile:
“You must pardon my apparent inquisitiveness, but as the future husband
of the lady who was brought up under your care, I am naturally
interested in all that concerns her.”
Again the searching eyes of the _religieuse_ surveyed me; she sighed
slightly.
“I am aware of the connection between you,” she said, in rather a
pained tone. “Nina Romani belongs to the world, and follows the ways of
the world. Of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young
girls’ destinies, there are comparatively few who are called out of the
ranks to serve Christ. Therefore, when Nina married the estimable Count
Romani, of whom report spoke ever favorably, we rejoiced greatly,
feeling that her future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise
protector. May his soul rest in peace! But a second marriage for her is
what I did not expect, and what I cannot in my conscience approve. You
see I speak frankly.”
“I am honored that you do so, madame!” I said, earnestly, feeling a
certain respect for this sternly composed yet patient-featured woman;
“yet, though in general you may find many reasonable objections to it,
a second marriage is I think, in the Countess Romani’s case almost
necessary. She is utterly without a protector—she is very young and how
beautiful!”
The nun’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful.
“Such beauty is a curse,” she answered, with emphasis; “a fatal—a
fearful curse! As a child it made her wayward. As a woman it keeps her
wayward still. Enough of this, _signor_!” and she bowed her head;
“excuse my plain speaking. Rest assured that I wish you both
happiness.”
We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the
sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody.
_Mère_ Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing
herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church
as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself, and
looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene
before me. There was the sparkle of twinkling lights—the bloom and
fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and
white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these a little
cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely
hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. Behind these again, one
woman’s slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was
black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of
golden hair—that was my wife, I knew. Pious angel! how devout she
looked! I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh
in the name of the man I had killed. And above all, surrounded with the
luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone
serenely like the gleam of the morning star. The stately service went
on—the organ music swept through and through the church as though it
were a strong wind striving to set itself free—but amid it all I sat as
one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing—inflexible and
cold as marble. The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the
choir, singing the _Agnus Dei_, moved me to a chill sort of wonder.
“_Qui tollis peccata mundi_—Who takest away the sin of the world.” No,
no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away—the sins of faithless
women, the “_little_” sins as they are called nowadays—for we have
grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. We will
imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets,
but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name
and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free;
she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor—not she! A pity
it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be
done with such women—not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures
whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray—they who
would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive
their last confessions—they who would even act out a sham repentance on
their deathbeds in order to look well. What can be done with devils
such as these? Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on
women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? We,
the stronger sex, are weak in this—we are too chivalrous. When a woman
flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. Tortures will
not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying
her. I know not what it can be—perhaps it is the memory of our mothers.
Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be
disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. But a time is at hand
when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. _On changera tout
cela_! When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the
novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim
on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. We are slow
to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon
manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for
the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to
bring us to. We shall meet them on that low platform of the “equality”
they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and
regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite!
Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched
me, and looking up I saw _Mère_ Marguerite, who whispered:
“Follow me, if you please.”
I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said:
“Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to
see the nuns and boarders passing out.”
I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I
asked:
“Have you many boarders at this holiday season?”
“Only fourteen,” she replied, “and they are children whose parents live
far away. Poor little ones!” and the set lines of the nun’s stern face
softened into tenderness as she spoke. “We do our best to make them
happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty
young girls here, besides the day scholars.”
“A great responsibility,” I remarked.
“Very great indeed!” and she sighed; “almost terrible. So much of a
woman’s after life depends on the early training she receives. We do
all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil
creeps in, we know not how—some unsuspected fault spoils a character
that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our
most promising pupils. Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish
in this world.”
Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room,
lined with books and softly carpeted.
“This is one of our libraries,” she explained. “The countess will
receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the
drawing-room. Pardon me,” and her steady gaze had something of
compassion in it, “but you do not look well. Can I send you some wine?”
I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured
her I was perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously:
“I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina Romani’s
marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?”
“Not so, madame,” I answered, with all the earnestness I felt. “Nothing
is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. I have been
so accustomed to deception—” Here I broke off and added hastily, “Pray
do not think me capable of judging you wrongly.”
She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers,
she said:
“No doubt you are impatient, _signor_; Nina shall come to you
directly,” and with a slight salutation she left me.
Surely she was a good woman, I thought, and vaguely wondered about her
past history—that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of
prayers. What had she been like when young—before she had shut herself
within the convent walls—before she had set the crucifix like a seal on
her heart? Had she ever trapped a man’s soul and strangled it with
lies? I fancied not—her look was too pure and candid; yet who could
tell? Were not Nina’s eyes trained to appear as though they held the
very soul of truth? A few minutes passed. I heard the fresh voices of
children singing in the next room:
“D’ou vient le petit Gesù?
Ce joli bouton de rose
Qui fleurit, enfant cheri
Sur le cœur de notre mère Marie.”
Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my
wife entered.