Tebaldo's own affairs were by no means simple. He had made up his mind
to get Miss Lizzie Slayback for his wife, and her fortune for himself;
but he could not make up his mind to forget the beautiful Aliandra
Basili. The consequence was that he was in constant fear lest either
should hear of his devotion to the other, seeing that his brother
Francesco was quite as much in love with the singer as he was himself,
and but for native cowardice, as ready for any act of treachery which
could secure his own ends. By that weakness Tebaldo held him, for the
present, in actual bodily fear, which is more often an element even in
modern life than is generally supposed. But how long that might be
possible Tebaldo could not foresee. At any moment, by a turn of events,
Francesco might get out of his power.
Aliandra's season in Rome had been a great success, and her career
seemed secured, though she had not succeeded in obtaining an immediate
engagement for the London season, which had been the height of her
ambition. She had made her appearance too late for that, but the
possibility of such a piece of good fortune was quite within her reach
for the ensuing year. Being in reality a sensible and conscientious
artist, therefore, and having at the same time always before her the
rather vague hope of marrying one of the brothers, she had made up her
mind to stay in Rome until July to study certain new parts with an
excellent master she had found there. She therefore remained where she
was, after giving a few performances in the short season after Lent, and
she continued to live very quietly with her old aunt in the little
apartment they had hired. A certain number of singers and other
musicians, with whom she had been brought into more or less close
acquaintance in her profession, came to see her constantly, but she
absolutely refused to know any of the young men of society who had
admired her and sent her flowers during the opera season. With all her
beauty and youth and talent, she possessed a very fair share of her
father's profound common sense.
Of the two, she very much preferred Francesco, who was gentler, gayer,
and altogether a more pleasant companion; but she clearly saw the
advantage of marrying the elder brother, who had a very genuine old
title, for which she could provide a fortune by her voice. There were
two or three instances of such marriages which had turned out admirably,
though several others had been failures. She saw no reason why she
should not succeed as well as anyone.
Tebaldo, on his part, had never had the smallest intention of marrying
her, though he had hinted to her more than once, in moments of passion,
that he might do so. Aliandra was as obstinate as he, and, as has been
said, possessed the tenacious instinct of self-preservation and the keen
appreciation of danger which especially characterise the young girl of
the south. She was by no means a piece of perfection in all ways, and
was quite capable of setting aside most scruples in the accomplishment
of her end. But that desired end was marriage, and there was no
probability at all that she should ever lose her head and commit an
irrevocable mistake for either of the brothers.
She saw clearly that Tebaldo was in love with her, as he understood
love. She could see how his eyes lighted up and how the warm blood
mantled under his sallow brown skin when he was with her, and how his
hand moved nervously when it held hers. She could not have mistaken
those signs, even if her aunt, the excellent Signora Barbuzzi, had not
taken a lively interest in the prospects of her niece's marriage,
watching Tebaldo's face as an old sailor ashore watches the signs of the
weather and names the strength of the wind, from a studding-sail breeze
to a gale.
What most disturbed Aliandra's hopes was that Tebaldo was cautious even
in his passion, and seemed as well able to keep his head as she
herself. His brother often told her that Tebaldo sometimes, though
rarely, altogether lost control of himself for a moment, and became like
a dangerous wild animal. But she did not believe the younger man, who
was always doing his best to influence her against Tebaldo, and whom she
rightly guessed to be a far more dangerous person where a woman was
concerned.
Francesco had once frightened her, and she was really afraid to be alone
with him. There was sometimes an expression which she dreaded in his
satyr-like eyes and a smile on his red lips that chilled her. Once, and
she could never forget it, he had managed to find her alone in her room
at the theatre, and without warning he had seized her rudely and kissed
her so cruelly while she struggled in his arms that her lips had been
swollen and had hurt her all the next day. Her maid had opened the door
suddenly, and he had disappeared at once without another word. She had
never told Tebaldo of that.
Since then she had been very careful. Yet in reality she liked him
better, for he could be very gentle and sympathetic, and he understood
her moods and wishes as Tebaldo never did, for he was a woman's man,
while Tebaldo was eminently what is called a man's man.
Aliandra was, as yet, in ignorance of Miss Slayback's existence, but she
saw well enough that Tebaldo was concealing something from her. A
woman's faculty for finding out that a man has a secret of some sort is
generally far beyond her capacity for discovering what that secret is.
He appeared to have engagements at unusual times, and there was a slight
shade of preoccupation in his face when she least expected it. On the
other hand, he seemed even more anxious to please her than formerly,
when he was with her, and she even fancied that his manner expressed a
sort of relief when he knew that he could spend an hour in her company
uninterrupted.
When she questioned him, he said that he was in some anxiety about his
affairs, and his engagements, according to his own account, were with
men of business. But he never told what he was really doing. He had not
even thought it necessary to inform her of the sale of Camaldoli.
Though she was a native of the country, he told her precisely what he
told everyone in regard to Ferdinando Pagliuca's death.
'Eh--you say so,' she answered. 'But as for me, I do not believe you.
There never was but one Ferdinando Pagliuca, he was your brother, and he
was a friend of all the brigands in Sicily. You may tell these Romans
about the Pagliuca di Bauso, but I know better. Do you take me for a
Roman? We of Randazzo know what a brigand is!'
'You should, at all events,' answered Tebaldo, laughing, 'for you are
all related. It is one family. If you knew how many brigands have been
called Basili, like you!'
'Then you and I are also related!' she laughed, too, though she watched
his face. 'But as for your brother, may the Lord have him in peace! He
is dead, and Saracinesca killed him.'
Tebaldo shrugged his shoulders, but showed no annoyance.
'As much as you please,' he answered. 'But my brother Ferdinando is
alive and well in Palermo.'
'So much the better, my dear friend. You need not wear mourning for him,
as so many people are doing at Santa Vittoria.'
'What do you mean?' asked Tebaldo, uneasily.
'Did you ever hear of Concetta, the beautiful daughter of Don Atanasio,
the apothecary?' asked Aliandra, quietly smiling.
Tebaldo affected surprise and ignorance.
'It is strange,' continued the singer, 'for you admire beauty, and she
is called everywhere the Fata del' Etna--the Fairy of Etna--and she is
one of the most beautiful girls in the whole world. My father knows her
father a little--of course, he is only an apothecary--' she shrugged her
shoulders apologetically--'but in the country one knows everybody. So I
have seen her sometimes, as at the fair of Randazzo, when she and her
father have had a biscuit and a glass of wine at our house. But we could
not ask them to dinner, because the mayor and his wife were coming, and
the lieutenant of carabineers--an apothecary! You understand?'
'I understand nothing beyond what you say,' said Tebaldo. 'You did not
consider the apothecary of Santa Vittoria good enough to be asked to
meet the mayor of Randazzo. How does that affect me?'
'Oh, not at all!' laughed Aliandra. 'But everything is known, sooner or
later. Ferdinando, your brother, was at the fair, too--I remember what a
beautiful black horse he had, as he rode by our house. But he did not
come in, for he did not know us. Now, when Don Atanasio and Concetta
went out, he was waiting a little way down the street, standing and
holding his horse's bridle. I saw, for I looked through the chinks of
the blinds to see which way Concetta and her father would go. And your
brother bowed to the ground when they came near him. Fancy! To an
apothecary's daughter! Just as I have seen you bow to the Princess of
Sant' Ilario in the Villa Borghese. She is Saracinesca's mother, is she
not? Very well. I tell you the truth when I tell you that Don Ferdinando
took the two to dine with him in the best room at the inn. They say he
thought nothing good enough for the apothecary's daughter, though he was
of the blood of princes! But now Concetta wears mourning. Perhaps it is
not for him? Eh?'
Aliandra had learned Italian very well when a child, and was even taking
lessons in French, in order to be able to sing in Paris. But as she
talked with Tebaldo she fell back into her natural dialect, which was as
familiar to him as to herself. He loved the sound of it, though he took
the greatest pains to overcome his own Sicilian accent in order not to
seem provincial in Rome. But it was pleasant to hear it now and then in
the midst of a life of which the restraints were all disagreeable to
him, while many of them were almost intolerably irksome.
'How much better our language is than this stilted Roman!' he exclaimed,
by way of suddenly turning the conversation. 'I often wish you could
sing your operas in Sicilian.'
'I often sing you Sicilian songs,' she answered. 'But it is strange that
Concetta should wear mourning, is it not?'
'Leave Concetta alone, and talk to me about yourself. I have never seen
her--'
'Do not say such things!' laughed Aliandra. 'I do not believe much that
you say, but you will soon not let me believe anything at all. Everyone
has seen Concetta. They sing songs about her even in Palermo--La Fata
del' Etna--'
'Oh, I have heard of her, of course, by that name, but I never remember
seeing her. At all events, you are ten times more beautiful than she--'
'I wish I were!' exclaimed the artist, simply. 'But if you think so,
that is much.'
'It would be just the same if you were ugly,' said Tebaldo,
magnanimously. 'I should love you just as I do--to distraction.'
'To distraction?' she laughed again.
'You know it,' he answered, with an air of conviction. 'I love you, and
everything that belongs to you--your lovely face, your angelic voice,
your words, your silence--too much.'
'Why too much?'
'Because I suffer.'
'There is a remedy for that, my dear Tebaldo.'
'Tell me!'
'Marry me. It is simple enough! Why should you suffer?'
Her laughter was musical and sunny, but there was a little irony in its
readiness to follow the words.
'You know that we have often spoken of that,' he answered, being taken
unawares. 'There are difficulties.'
'So you always say. But then it would be wiser of you not to love me any
more, but to marry where you do not find those difficulties. Surely it
should be easy!'
She spoke now with a little scorn, while watching him; and as she saw
the vulture-like droop of his eyelids she knew that she had touched him,
though she could not quite tell how. She had never spoken so frankly to
him before.
'Not so easy as you think,' he replied, with a rather artificial laugh.
'Then you have tried?' she asked. 'I had thought so! And you have
failed? My condolences!'
'I? Tried to marry?' he cried, realising how far she was leading him.
'What are you making me say?'
'I am trying to make you tell the truth,' she answered, with a change
of tone. 'But it is not easy, for you are clever at deceiving me, and I
wonder that you cannot deceive the woman you wish to marry.'
'I do not wish to marry anyone,' he protested.
'No--not even me. Me, least of all, because I am not good enough to
marry you, though you are good enough to pursue me with what you call
your love. I am only an artist, and you must have a princess, of course.
I have only my voice, and you want a solid fortune. I have only my
honour, but you want honours through your wife for yourself, and you
would tear mine to rags if I yielded a hair's-breadth. You make a
mistake, Don Tebaldo Pagliuca. I am a Sicilian girl and I came of honest
people. You may suffer as much as you please, but unless you will marry
me, you may go on suffering, for you shall not ruin me.'
She spoke strongly, with a strange mixture of theatrical and commonplace
expressions; but she was in earnest, and he knew it, and in her
momentary anger she was particularly fascinating to him. Yet her speech
made no real impression upon his mind. He tried to take her hand, but
she drew it away sharply.
'No,' she said. 'I have had enough of this love-making, this
hand-taking, and this faith-breaking. You sometimes speak of marrying
me, and then you bring up those terrible, unknown difficulties, which
you never define. Yes, you are a prince--but there are hundreds of them
in our Italy. Yes, I am only an artist, but some people say that I am a
great artist--and there are very few in Italy, or anywhere else. If it
is beneath your dignity to marry a singer, Signor Principe di Corleone,
then go and take a wife of your own class. If you love me, Tebaldo
Pagliuca, as an honest man loves an honest woman--and God knows I am
that--then marry me, and I, with my voice, will make you a fortune and
buy back your estates, besides being a faithful wife to you. But if you
will not do that, go. You shall not harm my good name by being
perpetually about me, and you shall not touch the tips of my fingers
with your lips until you are my lawful husband. There, I have spoken.
You shall know that a Sicilian girl is as good as a Roman lady--better,
perhaps.'
Tebaldo looked at her in some surprise, and his mind worked rapidly,
remembering all she had said during the preceding quarter of an hour.
She spoke with a good deal of natural dignity and force, and he was
ready to admit that she was altogether in earnest. But his quick senses
missed a certain note which should have been in her tones if this had
been a perfectly spontaneous outburst. It was clear, as it always had
been, that she wished to marry him. It was not at all clear that she
loved him in the least. It struck him instantly that she must have heard
something of his attention to the foreign heiress, and that she had
planned this scene in order to bring matters to a crisis. He was too
sensible not to understand that he himself was absurdly in love with
her, in his own way, and that she knew it, as women generally do, and
could exasperate him, perhaps, into some folly of which he might repent,
by simply treating him coldly, as she threatened.
During the silence which followed, she sat with folded arms and
half-closed eyes, looking at him defiantly from under her lids.
'You do me a great injustice,' he said.
'I am sorry,' she answered. 'I have no choice. I value my good name as a
woman, besides my reputation as an artist. You do not justify yourself
in the only way in your power by explaining clearly what the insuperable
difficulties are in the way of our marriage.'
The notary's daughter did not lack logic.
'I never said that they were insuperable--'
'Then overcome them, if you want me,' answered Aliandra implacably.
'I said that there were difficulties, and there are great ones. You
speak of making a fortune by your voice, my dear Aliandra,' he
continued, his tones sweetening. 'But you must understand that a man who
is a gentleman does not like to be dependent on his wife's profession
for his support.'
'I do not see that it is more dignified to depend on his wife's money
because she had not earned it by hard work,' retorted the singer
scornfully. 'It is honestly earned.'
'The honour is entirely yours,' said Tebaldo. 'The world would grant me
no share in it. Then there are my mother's objections, which are strong
ones,' he went on quickly. 'She has, of course, a right to be consulted,
and she does not even know you.'
'It is in your power to introduce me to your mother whenever you
please.'
'She is too ill to see anyone--'
'She has not always been ill. You have either been afraid to bring an
artist to your mother's house, which is not flattering to me, or else
you never had the slightest intention of marrying me, in spite of much
that you have said. Though I have heard you call your brother Francesco
a coward, I think he is braver than you, for he would marry me
to-morrow, if I would have him.'
'And live on what you earn,' retorted Tebaldo, with ready scorn.
'He has as much as you have,' observed Aliandra. 'Your uncle left no
will, and you all shared the property equally--'
'You are not a notary's daughter for nothing,' laughed Tebaldo. 'That is
true. But there was very little to share. Do you know what was left when
the debts were paid? A bit of land here in Rome--that was all, besides
Camaldoli. Both have been sold advantageously, and we have just enough
to live decently all together. We should be paupers if we tried to
separate.'
'You are nothing if not plausible. But you will forgive me if I say that
this difficulty has the air of being really insuperable. You absolutely
refuse to share what I earn, and you are absolutely incapable of earning
anything yourself. That being the case, the sooner you go away the
better, for you can never marry me, on your own showing, and you are
injuring my reputation in the meantime.'
'I am engaged in speculations, in which I hope to make money,' said
Tebaldo. 'I often tell you that I have appointments with men of
business--'
'Yes, you often tell me so,' interrupted Aliandra, incredulously.
'You are cold, and you are calculating,' retorted Tebaldo, with a sudden
change of manner, as though taking offence at last.
'It is fortunate for me that I am not hot-headed and foolish,' replied
Aliandra, coolly.
They parted on these terms. She believed that her coldness would bring
him to her feet if anything could; but he was persuaded that his brother
had betrayed him and had told her about the American heiress.