Love is not the privilege of the virtuous, nor the exclusive right of
the weak man and woman. The earth brings forth the good thing and the
bad thing with equal strength to grow great and multiply side by side,
and it is not the privilege of the good thing to live forever because it
is good, nor is it the condemnation of the bad to die before its time,
perishing in its own evil.
A moment after Bosio had left the room, Matilde rose to her feet, very
pale and unsteady, and locked the door. Then, as though she were groping
her way in darkness, she got back to the sofa, and falling upon it,
buried her face in the cushions, and bit them, lest she should cry out.
She felt that it would have been easier, after all, to have killed
Veronica Serra, than it had been to part with the one thing she had
loved in her life.
She had not loved him better than herself, perhaps, since it was to save
herself that she had driven him away. But it had not been to save
herself from so small and insignificant a thing as death, though she was
vital and loved life for its own sake. She had not realized, either,
until it had been almost done, how necessary it was. Yesterday she had
been more cynical. Her own wickedness was teaching her the necessity of
some good, and she saw now clearly that Bosio was one degree less base
than herself. She believed that he would now be willing to marry
Veronica, but she understood that until now he would not have done
it--unless she had freed him from the galling remnant of his own
conscience, and had formally given him his liberty. To give him that, in
order that he might save her, she had torn out her heart by the roots.
The bitterest of all was this, that he had scarcely struggled against
her will, when she had left him to himself. He had said a few words,
indeed, but he could hardly have said less, if he had meant nothing. She
knew well enough that at almost any point she could have brought him
back, playing upon the fidelity of habit. At her voice, at her glance,
for one word of her pleading, he would have come back to her feet,
willing to remain. But there was no vital strength of passion in him to
keep him to her against her mere spoken will. Once or twice, in spite of
herself, her voice had softened; she had felt that her face betrayed
her, and had turned it away; she had known that her hands were icy cold
in his, and had hoped that he would not notice it and understand, and
feel, perhaps, that his accursed habit of fidelity would not let him
take the freedom she thrust upon him. He had not seen, he had not felt,
he had noticed nothing; and he was gone, glad to be free from her at
last, willing to marry another woman, ready to forget what had held him
by a thread which he respected, but not by a bond which he could not
break. She had long guessed how it was; she knew it now--she had known
the truth last night, when she had smoothed his soft hair with her hand
and had spoken softly to him, but had not got from him the promise that
meant salvation to her and her husband. Then she had known what she must
do. Once more she had tried to impose her strength upon his weakness,
and had failed. Then, almost without an outward sign, she had made up
her mind. And now--he was gone. That was all she knew, or remembered,
for an hour, as she lay there on the sofa, biting the cushions. It would
have been far easier to kill Veronica, than to let him go. It was not
her conscience that suffered, but her heart, and it could suffer still.
It would have been worse, had that been possible, if she had known what
Bosio felt at that moment. Happily for her, she never knew. For in the
midst of the life-and-death terror of the situation, he was conscious
that he rejoiced at being unexpectedly free at last from the slavery of
her power. It was perhaps the satisfaction of an aspiration, good in
itself, of a long-smouldering revolt against the life of deception she
had imposed upon him; but in respect of his manhood, it was mean. For
good is what men are, when they are doing good. It cannot be the good
itself, which, though it profit many, may be so done as to stab and
wound the secret enemy of the man's own heart. The good such a man does
the whole world is but the knife in his hand wherewith to hurt the one.
But Bosio hurt only himself, and little, at that, for he was almost past
hurting; and Matilde never knew what he felt. And though he suffered
most of all, perhaps, between the beginning and the end, there was no
one moment of all his suffering which was like the agony of the strong
and evil woman when she had driven him away, and was quite alone. She
knew, now, what it meant to be alone.
When she rose at last, her face was changed; there was a keen, famished
look in her eyes, and her movements were steady and direct. Her nature
was very unlike Bosio's, for she was able to drive her will into action,
as it were, and she could be sure that it would not turn and bend, and
disappoint her. But, for the present, she could do little more, and she
knew it. She could only hope that all things might go well, standing
ready at hand to throw her weight upon the scale-beam if fate alone
would not bear down the side that bore her safety. She had said all
that she could say to Veronica and to Bosio. Gregorio Macomer, her
husband, whom she hated and despised, but whom she was saving, or trying
to save, with herself, carried the effrontery of his sham-honest face
and cold manner through it all, unmoved, so far as she could see. Only
once or twice in the course of the day he had laughed suddenly and
nervously, with a contraction of the face and a raising of the flat
upper lip that showed his sharp yellow teeth. No one noticed it but
Matilde, and it frightened her. But hitherto he had said nothing more
since he had first confided to her, as to his only possible helper, the
nature of his danger.
She had not reproached him with what he had done. The danger itself was
too great for that, and perhaps she had suspected its approach too long
to be surprised at his confession. She had paid very little attention to
the words he used; for, considering his nature, it was natural that he
should, even in such extremity, attempt to throw a side-light of dignity
upon his misfortunes, and should call crimes by names which suggested
honest dealing to the ordinary hearer, such as 'transference of title,'
'reinvestment,' 'realization,' and the like; all of which, in plain
language, meant that he had taken what was not his, without the shadow
of authorization from any one, in the quite indefensible way which the
law calls 'stealing.'
Matilde had been amazed, however, at the impunity he had hitherto
enjoyed. The mere fact that the estate had never been handed over by the
guardians, of whom she was one and Cardinal Campodonico the third, was
probably in itself actionable, had Veronica chosen to protest; and it
was an indubitable fact that Gregorio Macomer had taken large sums after
the guardianship had legally expired. There had been none to hinder him
and Lamberto Squarci from doing as they pleased. The cardinal was deeply
engaged in other matters, and was, moreover, not at all a man of
business. He believed Gregorio to be honest, and now and then, when he
talked with Veronica, he applauded her wisdom in leaving the management
of her affairs in such experienced hands.
Matilde unlocked her door when she felt that she was once more mistress
of herself and able to face the world. A woman does not lead the life
she had led for years without at least knowing herself well and
understanding exactly how far she can rely upon her face and voice. She
knew when she rose from the sofa that she could go through the remainder
of the day well enough; and though her eyes gleamed hungrily, there was
a cynical smile on her lips as she turned over the red cushion, on which
there were marks where she had bitten it, and softly unlocked the door.
She went into her dressing-room, beyond, for a moment, to smooth her
hair. That was all, for there had been no tears in her eyes.
When she returned, she was surprised to see her husband standing before
the window, with his back to the broad sunshine, peacefully smoking a
cigarette. The smoke curled lazily about his grey head, in the quiet
air, as he allowed it to issue from his parted lips almost without the
help of his breath. His face was like stone, but as he opened his mouth
to let out the wreathing smoke, his lips smiled in an unnatural way.
Matilde half unconsciously compared him to one of those grimacing
Chinese monsters of grey porcelain, made for burning incense and
perfumes, from whose stony jaws the thick smoke comes out on the right
and left in slowly curling strings. His expression did not change when
he saw her, and as he stood with his back to the light, his small eyes
were quite invisible in his face.
"What news?" he asked calmly, as he closed the door and came forward
into the room. "Is all going well?"
His breath, as he spoke, blew the clouds of smoke from his face in thin
puffs.
"If you wish things to go well," answered Matilde, "leave everything to
me. Do not interfere. You have an unlucky hand."
She sat down in the corner of the sofa, taking a book from the table,
but not yet opening it. He smoked in silence for a moment.
"Yes," he said, presently. "I have been unfortunate. But I have great
confidence in you, Matilde--great confidence."
"That is fortunate," replied his wife, coldly. "It would be hard, if
there were no confidence on either side."
"Yes. Of course, you have none in me?"
He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like the
unexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room. Matilde's lips quivered
and her brow contracted spasmodically. She hated his voice at all times,
as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but during
the past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which set
her teeth on edge every time she heard it.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked impatiently. "Why do you laugh
in that way?"
"Did I laugh?" he inquired, by way of answer. "It was unconscious. But
my voice was never musical. However, in the present state of our family
affairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts. Have you seen
Bosio to-day? Why did he not come to luncheon? I hope he is not ill,
just at this moment."
Matilda 'placed' her voice carefully, as a singer would do, before she
answered.
"He is not ill," she said. "He was here an hour ago. I did not ask him
why he did not come to luncheon, because it did not concern me."
"Well? And the rest?"
"The rest? How anxious you are!" she exclaimed scornfully. "The rest is
as well as ill can be. I think he will marry Veronica."
"I should suppose so, if she will marry him," observed Macomer. "It
would be as sensible to doubt that a starving man would take bread, as
to question whether a poor man will accept a fortune, especially in such
an agreeable shape. It is quite another matter, whether the fortune will
give itself to the poor man. What does Veronica say? Is she pleased with
the idea?"
"Moderately. She has not refused. She wishes to think about it."
"I hope that she will not think too long. To-day is the tenth of
December. There are just three weeks. By the bye, Matilde, I hope you
have put the will in a safe place. Where is it?"
Matilde paused two seconds before she answered. Though she could not
imagine in what way Gregorio could improve his desperate position by
getting the will out of her hands, nor by tampering with it, of which
she knew him to be quite capable, yet, on general principles, she
distrusted him so wholly and profoundly that she determined to deceive
him as to the place in which she kept it. Being clever at concealing
things, she began by showing it to him. She rose, took a key from behind
a photograph on the mantelpiece, and unlocked the drawer of her
writing-table. The will lay there, folded in a big envelope.
"Here it is," she said. "Do you wish to look over it again?"
She drew it half out of the cover and held it up before him. He
recognized the document and seemed satisfied.
"Oh! no," he answered. "I know it by heart. I only wished to know where
it was."
"Very well; it is here," said Matilde, putting it back and locking the
drawer again. "I generally carry the key about with me," she added
carelessly, "but I have no pocket in this gown, so I laid it behind that
photograph. It is not a very good place for it, is it?"
She hesitated, holding the key in her hand, and looking about the room
while he watched her. The woman's enormous power of deception showed
itself in the spontaneous facility with which she went through a
complicated little scene, quite improvised, in order to mislead her
husband. She knew that he himself would suggest some place for the key
to lie in.
"Put it under the edge of the carpet in the corner near the door," he
suggested. "You can easily turn the carpet up a little between the
rings."
"That is a good idea," she said. "It is as well that you should know
where it is, in case anything were to happen to me."
She was already in the corner, and she thrust the key under the doubled
edge of the crimson carpet.
"You are ingenious," she observed drily, as she rose to her feet. "I
should not have thought of that. It is a pity that you have not been
able to apply your ingenuity better in other ways, too. It has been
wasted."
"I am not sure," answered Macomer, thoughtfully. "If Bosio marries
Veronica, our position will be a very good one, considering the
misfortunes through which we have passed. If he should not, and if
Veronica should die, it will be much better. I am not sure but that, if
I had no affection for the girl, I might prefer that she should die."
Matilde glanced at him sideways, uneasily.
"We will not speak of that," she said, as though it were a disagreeable
subject.
"No."
Then, without warning, his jarring, crashing laughter filled the room
again for a moment, and she started as she heard it, and looked round
nervously.
"I really wish you would not laugh in that way," she said, with a frown.
"There is nothing to laugh at, I assure you."
"I did not know that I laughed," said Macomer, indifferently. "That is
the second time in a quarter of an hour. How odd it would be if I were
to laugh unconsciously in that way when--" He seemed to check the words
that were coming.
"When, for instance?" asked Matilde, not guessing what was passing in
his mind.
"At the funeral," he answered shortly. Matilde started again, and looked
at him anxiously. She had resumed her seat after she had hidden the key,
but she now rose and went to him. He was still standing before the
window, though he had finished his cigarette and had thrown away the end
of it. She stood before him a moment before she spoke, fixing her eyes
severely on his face.
"Control yourself!" she said sternly. "I understand that you are nervous
and over-strained. That is no reason for behaving like a fool."
He also paused an instant before speaking. Then, all at once, his
features assumed an expression of docility, not at all natural to him.
"Yes," he answered, "I will try. I think you are quite right. I really
am very much over-strained in these days."
Matilde was surprised by his change of manner, but was glad to find that
she could control him so easily.
"It will pass," she said more gently. "You will be better in a day or
two, when everything is settled."
"Yes--when everything is settled. But meanwhile, my dear, perhaps it
would be better, if you should notice anything strange in my behaviour,
like my laughing in this absurd way, for instance, just to look at me
without saying anything--you understand--it will recall me to myself. I
am convinced that it is only absence of mind, brought on by great
anxiety. But people are spiteful, you know, and somebody might think
that I was losing my mind."
"Yes," she answered gravely. "If you laugh in that way, without any
reason, somebody might think so. I will try and call your attention to
it, if I can."
"Thank you," said Macomer, with his unpleasant smile. "I think I will go
and lie down now, for I feel tired."
He turned from her, and made a few steps towards the door. He did not
walk like a man tired, for he held himself as erect as ever, with his
head thrown back, and his narrow shoulders high and square.
Nevertheless, Matilde was anxious.
"You do not feel ill, do you?" she asked, before he had reached the
door.
He stopped, half turning back.
"No--oh, no! I do not feel ill. Pray do not be anxious, my dear. I will
take a little aconite for my heart, and then I will lie down for an hour
or two."
"I did not know that you had been converted to homoeopathy," said
Matilde, indifferently. "But, of course, if it does you good, take the
aconite, by all means."
"I do not take it in homoeopathic doses," answered Gregorio. "It is the
tincture, and I sometimes take as much as thirty or forty drops of it in
water. Of course, that would be too much for a person not used to taking
it. But it is a very good medicine. Indeed, I should advise you to take
it, too, if you ever have any trouble with your heart."
"How does it affect one?" asked Matilde, turning her face from him, and
speaking indifferently.
"It lowers the action of the heart. Of course, one has to be careful. I
suppose that one or two hundred drops would stop the heart altogether,
but a little of it is excellent for palpitations. Do you suffer from
them? Should you like some? I have a large supply, for I always use it.
I can give you a small bottle, if you like."
"No," answered Matilde, still looking away from him, towards the
photographs on the mantelpiece. "I am afraid of those things. They get
into the system, as arsenic does, and mercury, and such things."
"Not at all," said Macomer. "You are quite mistaken. That is the
peculiarity of those vegetable--those strong vegetable medicines. They
are quite untraceable in the system, and altogether defy chemistry."
Matilde was silent a moment.
"Well," she answered, with an air of indifference, "I have a tendency to
a little palpitation of the heart, and if you will give me a bottle of
your medicine, I will try it once. It can do no harm, I suppose."
"Not in small quantities. I will bring it to you by and by."
"Very well."
He went out, and a moment later she heard his dreadful laugh outside. In
an instant she reached the door, opened it, and called after him:--
"Gregorio! Do not laugh!"
But he was gone, and there was no one in the passage.