THE RETURN TO REASON
"Where am I, Margharita?"
She leaned over him, and drew a long deep breath of relief. It was the
reward of many weary days and nights of constant watching and careful
nursing. His reason was saved.
"In your own room at the hotel," she whispered. "Don't you remember? You
were taken ill."
He looked at her, helpless and puzzled. Slowly the mists began to roll
away.
"Yes, you were with me," he murmured softly. "I remember now. I was
telling you the story of the past--my past. You are Margharita's child.
Yes, I remember. Was it this afternoon?"
She kissed his forehead, and then drew back suddenly, lest the warm tear
which was quivering on her eyelid should fall back upon his face.
"It was three weeks ago!"
"Three weeks ago!" He looked wonderingly around--at the little table at
his side, where a huge bowl of sweet-scented roses was surrounded by a
little army of empty medicine bottles, at Margharita's pale, wan face,
and at a couch drawn up to the bedside. "And you have been nursing me
all the time?" he whispered.
She smiled brightly through the tears which she could not hide.
"Of course I have. Who has a better right, I should like to know?"
He sighed and closed his eyes. In a few minutes he was asleep.
For a fortnight his life had hung upon a thread, and even when the
doctor had declared him out of danger, the question of his sanity or
insanity quivered upon the balance for another week. He would either
awake perfectly reasonable, in all respects his old self, or he would
open his eyes upon a world, the keynote to which he had lost forever. In
other words he would either awake a perfectly sane man, or hopelessly
and incurably insane. There would be no middle course. That was the
doctor's verdict.
And through all those long days and nights Margharita had watched over
him as though he had been her own father. All the passionate sympathy of
her warm southern nature had been kindled by the story of his wrongs.
Day by day the sight of his helpless suffering had increased her
indignation toward those whom she really believed to have bitterly
wronged him. Through those long quiet days and silent nights, she had
brooded upon them. She never for one moment repented of having allied
herself to that wild oath of vengeance, whose echoes often at dead of
night seemed still to ring in her ears. Her only fear was that he would
emerge from the fierce illness under which he was laboring, so weakened
and shaken, that the desire of his life should have passed from him. She
had grown to love this shrunken old man. In her girlhood she had heard
stories of him from her nurse, and many times the hot tears had stood in
her eyes as she conjured up to herself that pathetic figure, waiting and
waiting, year by year, for that liberty which was to come only with old
age. She had thought of him, sad-eyed and weary, pacing his lonely
prison cell, and ever watching through his barred window the little
segment of blue sky and sunlight which penetrated into the high-walled
court. How he must long for the scent of flowers, the fresh open air,
the rustle of leaves, and the hum of moving insects. How his heart must
ache for the sound of men's voices, the touch of their hands, some sense
of loving or friendly companionship to break the icy monotony of his
weary, stagnant existence. Her imagination had been touched, and she had
been all ready to welcome and to love him as a hero and a martyr, even
if he had appealed to her in no other way. But when she had seen him
stricken down and helpless, with that look of ineffable sadness in his
soft dark eyes, it was more than her sympathy which was aroused, more
than her imagination which was stirred. Her large pitying heart became
his absolutely. She was alone in the world, and she must needs love some
one. For good or for evil, fate had brought this strange old man to her,
and woven this tie between them.
That night she scarcely slept at all, and before daybreak she stole
softly over to the window and looked out. The roar of the great city was
hushed and silent. Below, the streets and squares were white and empty
in the gray light of the approaching dawn. The mists were rising from
the river, and the yellow light was dying out of the room. Away
eastward, there was a break in the sky, a long thin line of amber light
which widened even while she watched it. Below, the sky was red, a dull
brick red, as though the yellow fog had mingled with the fainter and
rosier coloring. Gradually the two came nearer together. In the distance
a cock crew, and a cab drove across the empty square at the end of the
street. A lamplighter came round the corner, whistling, and, one by one,
the row of gaslights beneath were extinguished. Even in that moment or
two a brighter shade had stolen into the eastern sky. That bank of dull
purple clouds was breaking away, and a few brilliant specks of cloudlets
were shot up toward St. Paul's. Then the sun showed a rim, and almost
its first pale beam quivered upon the great church dome, traveled across
a thousand slate roofs, and fell upon the girl's white, upturned face,
and across the white coverlet.
"Margharita!"
She turned round quickly. He was sitting up in bed, and the sunbeam was
traveling up toward him.
"Are you awake? Did I disturb you?" she asked tenderly.
He shook his head.
"I have been awake, thinking. I remember being taken ill. I remember
everything. Tell me. I must know. Did you--did you mean--everything you
said? You pitied me, and my story made you sad. I would not hold you to
your word."
She drew herself up; she was pale no longer; the color burned in her
cheeks.
"I am a Marioni!" she answered proudly. "Every word I said seems to me
now too weak. That is the only change."
He held out his hands; she grasped them fondly.
"Margharita, she came here!" he whispered.
"What, here? Here in this room?"
He nodded.
"It was two days before you came. I was sitting alone in the twilight.
The door opened. I thought I was dreaming. It was she, as beautiful as
ever, richly dressed, happy, comely. She came to pity, to sue for
pardon. I let her talk, and then, when I had gathered strength, I stood
up and cursed her. I thrust her away; I cursed her with the fiercest and
crudest words which my lips could utter. It drove the warm color from
her cheeks, and the light from her eyes. I cursed her till her heart
shook with fear. She staggered out of the room a stricken woman. I----"
"Tell me her name."
"It was Adrienne Cartuccio. It is now Lady Maurice."
"The Lady St. Maurice! She was my mother's friend then?"
"Yes."
Margharita's eyes were bright, and her voice trembled.
"Listen!" she cried. "When my mother was dying she gave me a letter. If
ever you need a friend or help," she whispered, "go to Lady St. Maurice.
This letter is to her. She will help you for my sake. Uncle, fate is on
our side. Just before I came to you I wrote to Lady St. Maurice. I told
her that I was unhappy in my life, and I wished for a situation as a
governess. I sent her my mother's letter."
"And she replied?"
"Yes. She offered me a home. If I wished I could teach her little girl."
Her voice was trembling, and her eyes, dry and brilliant, were fixed
upon his. He was sitting upright in bed, leaning a little forward toward
her, and the sunbeam which had stolen in through the parted curtains
fell upon his white corpse-like face. A strange look was in his eyes;
his fingers clutched the bedclothes nervously.
"You will--go?" he asked hoarsely. "You will go to Lady St. Maurice?"
An answering light shot back from her eyes. She was suddenly pale to the
lips. Her voice was hushed as though in fear, but it was firm.
"Yes, I shall go. To-night I shall accept her offer."