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TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT
The Great Awakening
by
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "The Mischief-Maker" "Berenice" "Havoc"
"The Lost Leader" "The Malefactor"
VOLUME THREE
P F Collier & Son Company
Publishers New York
Copyright 1910
By C. H. Doscher & C
Copyright 1912
By P. F. Collier & Son
[Illustration: ADRIENNE CARTUCCIO]
CONTENTS
I. THE MEETING
II. "SHE IS A SINGER"
III. "BETTER THOU WERT DEAD BEFORE ME"
IV. "DOWN INTO HELL TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT"
V. TREACHERY
VI. "THE BITTER SPRINGS OF ANGER AND FEAR"
VII. COMFORT! COMFORT SCORNED OF DEVILS
VIII. "DEATH IN THE FACE, AND MURDER IN THE HEART"
IX. 'AH! WHY SHOULD LOVE,' ETC.
X. A MARIONI'S OATH
XI. A MEETING OF THE ORDER
XII. "A FIGURE FROM A WORLD GONE BY"
XIII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
XIV. AN EVERLASTING HATE
XV. THE COUNT'S SECOND VISITOR
XVI. A NEW MEMBER FOR THE ORDER
XVII. THE RETURN TO REASON
XVIII. "I HAVE A FEAR--A FOOLISH FEAR"
XIX. THE NEW GOVERNESS
XX. LORD LUMLEY AND MARGHARITA
XXI. A LAND THAT IS LONELIER THAN RUIN
XXII. LORD LUMLEY'S CONFESSION
XXIII. MARGHARITA'S DIARY--A CORRESPONDENCE
XXIV. "WHITE HYACINTHS"
XXV. AMONG THE PINE TREES
XXVI. STORMS
XXVII. A LIFE IN THE BALANCE
XXVIII. ONE DAY'S RESPITE
XXIX. THERE IS DEATH BEFORE US
XXX. THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE
XXXI. AN OLD MAN'S HATE
XXXII. THE KEEPING OF THE OATH
TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT
CHAPTER I
THE MEETING
The soft mantle of a southern twilight had fallen upon land and sea, and
the heart of the Palermitans was glad. Out they trooped into the scented
darkness, strolling along the promenade in little groups, listening to
the band, drinking in the cool night breeze from the sea, singling out
friends, laughing, talking, flirting, and passing on. A long line of
carriages was drawn up along the Marina, and many of the old Sicilian
aristocracy were mingling with the crowd.
Palermo is like a night blossom which opens only with the first breath
of evening. By day, it is parched and sleepy and stupid; by night, it is
alive and joyous--the place itself becomes an _al fresco_ paradise. It
is night which draws the sweetness from the flowers. The air is heavy
with the faint perfume of hyacinths and wild violets, and a breeze
stirring among the orange groves wafts a delicious aromatic odor across
the bay. Long rays of light from the little semi-circle of white-fronted
villas flash across the slumbering waters of the harbor. Out of door
restaurants are crowded; all is light and life and bustle; every one is
glad to have seen the last of the broiling sun; every one is happy and
light-hearted. The inborn gaiety of the south asserts itself. Women in
graceful toilettes pass backward and forward along the broad parade,
making the air sweeter still with the perfume of their floating
draperies, and the light revelry of their musical laughter.
'Tis a motley throng, and there is no respecting of persons.
Townspeople, a sprinkling of the old nobility, and a few curious
visitors follow in each other's footsteps. By day, those who can, sleep;
by night, they awake and don their daintiest clothing, and Palermo is
gay.
The terrace of the Hotel de l'Europe extends to the very verge of the
promenade, and, night by night, is crowded with men of all conditions
and nations, who sit before little marble tables facing the sea, smoking
and drinking coffee and liqueurs. At one of these, so close to the
promenade that the dresses of the passers-by almost touched them, two
men were seated.
One was of an order and race easily to be distinguished in any quarter
of the globe--an English country gentleman. There was no possibility of
any mistake about him. Saxon was written in his face, in the cut of his
clothes; even his attitude betrayed it. He was tall and handsome, and
young enough not to have outlived enthusiasm, for he was looking out
upon the gay scene with keen interest. His features were well cut, his
eyes were blue, and his bronze face was smooth, save for a slight,
well-formed moustache. He wore a brown tweed coat and waistcoat, flannel
trousers, a straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he was smoking a briar
pipe, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet resting upon the stone
work.
His companion was of a different type. He was of medium height only, and
thin; his complexion was sallow, and his eyes and hair were black. His
features, though not altogether pleasing, were regular, and almost
classical in outline. His clothes displayed him to the worst possible
advantage. He wore black trousers and a dark frock coat, tightly
fitting, which accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. The only
relief to the sombreness of his attire consisted in a white flower
carefully fastened in his button-hole. He, too, had been smoking, but
his cigarette had gone out, and he was watching the stream of people
pass and repass, with a fixed, searching gaze. Though young, his face
was worn and troubled. He had none of the _sang froid_ or the
pleasure-seeking carelessness of the Englishman who sat by his side. His
whole appearance was that of a man with a steadfast definite purpose in
life--of a man who had tasted early the sweets and bitters of existence,
joy and sorrow, passion and grief.
They were only acquaintances, these two men; chance had brought them
together for some evil purpose of her own. When the Englishman, who,
unlike most of his compatriots, was a young man of a sociable turn of
mind, and detested solitude, had come across him a few minutes ago in
the long, low dining-room of the hotel, and had proposed their sharing a
table and their coffee outside, the other would have refused if he could
have done so with courtesy. As that had been impossible, he had yielded,
however, and they had become for a while companions, albeit silent ones.
The Englishman was in far too good a humor with himself, the place, and
his surroundings, to hold his peace for long. He exchanged his pipe for
a Havana, and commenced to talk.
"I say, this is an awfully jolly place! No idea it was anything like it.
I'm glad I came!"
His _vis-a-vis_ bowed in a courteous but abstracted manner. He had no
wish to encourage the conversation, so he made no reply. But the
Englishman, having made up his mind to talk, was not easily repulsed.
"You don't live here, do you?" he asked.
The Sicilian shook his head.
"No! It happens that I was born here, but my home was on the other side
of the island. It is many years since I visited it."
He had made a longer speech than he had intended, and he paid the
penalty for it. The Englishman drew his chair a little nearer, and
continued with an air of increasing familiarity.
"It's very stupid of me, but, do you know, I've quite forgotten your
name for the moment. I remember my cousin, Cis Davenport, introducing us
at Rome, and I knew you again directly I saw you. But I'm hanged if I
can think of your name! I always had a precious bad memory."
The Sicilian looked none too well pleased at the implied request. He
glanced uneasily around, and then bent forward, leaning his elbow upon
the table so that the heads of the two men almost touched. When they had
come into the place, he had carefully chosen a position as far away from
the flaming lights as possible, but they were still within hearing of
many of the chattering groups around.
"I do not object to telling you my name," he said in a low tone, sunk
almost to a whisper, "but you will pardon me if I make a request which
may appear somewhat singular to you. I do not wish you to address me by
it here, or to mention it. To be frank, there are reasons for wishing my
presence in this neighborhood not to be known. You are a gentleman, and
you will understand."
"Oh, perfectly," the Englishman answered him, in a tone of blank
bewilderment.
What did it all mean? Had he run off with some one else's wife, or was
he in debt? One of the two seemed to be the natural conclusion. Anyhow,
he did not want to know the fellow's name. He had only asked out of
politeness, and if he were in any sort of scrape, perhaps it would be
better not to know it.
"I tell you what," the Englishman explained, in the midst of the other's
hesitating pause, "don't tell it me! I can call you anything you like
for this evening. I daresay we I sha'n't meet afterwards, and if you
want to keep it dark about your being here, why, then, I sha'n't be able
to give you away--by accident, of course. Come, I'll call you anything
you like. Choose your name for the night!"
The Sicilian shook his head slowly.
"You have been told my name when I had the honor of being presented to
you at Rome," he said, "and at any chance mention you might recall it. I
prefer to tell it to you, and rely upon your honor."
"As you like."
"My name is Leonardo di Marioni!"
"By Jove! of course it is!" the Englishman exclaimed. "I should have
thought of it in a moment. I remember Davenport made me laugh when he
introduced us. His pronunciation's so queer, you know, and he's only
been at Rome about a month, so he hasn't had time to pick it up. Good
old Cis! he was always a dunce! I suppose his uncle got him in at the
Embassy."
"No doubt," the Sicilian answered politely. "I have only had the
pleasure of meeting your cousin once or twice, and I know him but
slightly. You will not forget my request, and if you have occasion to
address me, perhaps you will be so good as to do so by the name of
'Cortegi.' It is the name by which I am known here, and to which I have
some right."
The Englishman nodded.
"All right. I'll remember. By the bye," he went on, "I had the pleasure
of meeting your sister in Naples, I believe. She is engaged to marry
Martin Briscoe, isn't she?"
The Sicilian's face darkened into a scowl; the thin lips were tightly
compressed, and his eyes flashed with angry light.
"I was not aware of it," he answered haughtily.
The other raised his eyebrows.
"Fact, I assure you," he continued suavely, not noticing the Sicilian's
change of countenance. "Martin told me about it himself. I should have
thought that you would have known all about it. Briscoe isn't half a bad
fellow," he went on meditatively. "Of course, it isn't altogether
pleasant to have a father who makes pickles, and who won't leave off,
although he must have made a fine pot of money. But Martin stands it
very well. He isn't half a bad fellow."
The Sicilian rose from his chair with a sudden impetuous movement. The
moonlight fell upon his white, furious face and black eyes, ablaze with
passion. He was in a towering rage.
"I repeat, sir, that I know of no such engagement!" he exclaimed, in a
voice necessarily subdued, but none the less fierce and angry. "I do not
understand your nation, which admits into the society of nobles such
men. It is infamous! In Sicily we do not do these things. For such a man
to think of an alliance with a Marioni is more than presumption--it is
blasphemy!"
"That's all very well, but I only know what I was told," the Englishman
answered bluntly.
"It's no affair of mine. I'm sorry I mentioned it."
The Sicilian stood quite still for a moment; a shade of sadness stole
into his marble face, and his tone, when he spoke again, was more
mournful than angry.
"It may be as you say, Signor. I have been traveling, and for many
months I have seen nothing of my sister. I have heard such rumors as you
allude to, but I have not heeded them. The affair is between us two. I
will say no more. Only this. While I am alive, that marriage will not
take place!"
He resumed his seat, and conversation languished between the two men.
The Englishman sat with knitted eyebrows, watching the people pass
backward and forward, with an absent, puzzled look in his blue eyes. He
had an indistinct recollection of having been told something interesting
about this man at the time of their introduction. He was notorious for
something. What was it? His memory seemed utterly to fail him. He could
only remember that, for some reason or other, Leonardo di Marioni had
been considered a very interesting figure in Roman society during his
brief stay at the capital, and that he had vanished from it quite
suddenly.
The Sicilian, too, was watching the people pass to and fro, but more
with the intent gaze of one who awaits an expected arrival than with the
idle regard of his companion. Once the latter caught his anxious,
expectant look, and at the same time noticed that the slim fingers which
held his cigarette were trembling nervously.
"Evidently looking out for some one," he thought. "Seems a queer fish
anyhow. Is it a man or a woman, I wonder?"
Soon he knew.