Before attempting to chronicle the events which were the ultimate
consequences of those already described, it will be necessary to explain
how it was that very little worth recording occurred during nearly three
years after the day on which Pietro Ghisleri said good-bye to the
Contessa dell' Armi, when she was going to make her customary visit to
her father.
In the natural course of things, every one returned in the following
autumn, in more or less lively expectation of the season to come. Laura
Arden expected nothing of it, in the way of amusement, nor did she look
forward to anything of the sort in her life as possible for many seasons
to come.
Maddalena dell' Armi, on the other hand, expected much, and was, on the
whole, disappointed. Ghisleri had grown indifferent to such a degree as
to be almost unrecognizable to his friends. He went out very little, and
was said to be busy with some speculation in which he was ruining
himself, but of which, as a matter of fact, he had never even heard.
Adele Savelli went everywhere, thin, nervous, and careworn, and
apparently driven to death by the necessity for excitement. There were
people who said she was going mad, and others who said she lived on
morphia and that it must ultimately kill her. The division of opinions
concerning the nature of her malady still existed, and the wildest
stories were sent adrift at a venture down the dangerous rapids of
conversation. Donna Adele had quarrelled about Laura with her father,
who had disinherited her as far as he was able, and she led a life of
daily torment in Casa Savelli in consequence. That was one of the tales.
Then it was stated that Francesco's passion for Laura Arden had suddenly
developed to heroic proportions, and that his wife was eating her heart
out. Thirdly, there was a party which asserted confidently that Adele
herself was in love with Pietro Ghisleri, who did not even take the
trouble to go and see her more than once or twice a month. The only
point upon which opinion was unanimous was Laura Arden's personal and
undivided responsibility for all the evil that happened to Adele
Savelli. In the first year, so long as Laura never went into the world,
the reputation society had given her harmed her very little, and but for
the extremely thoughtful kindness of one or two communicative friends,
she might have remained in ignorance of it altogether. As it was, she
was indifferent, except when she was amused by the still current
accusation of possessing the evil eye.
That Laura was an undoubted and dangerous jettatrice was now commonly
accepted as a matter of fact. Since Ghisleri and Campodonico had fought,
the men had been circumspect in their remarks, but there were few who
did not make the sign when they saw her go by. If anything had been
needed to prove the fact, there was the issue of the duel. The man who
had taken Laura's side had nearly lost his life, though he had fought
several times previously without ever receiving any serious hurt. That
was proof positive. Adele's illness, too, dated almost from the day of
her reconciliation with Laura, and seemed likely to end fatally. Then,
almost at the same time, the Contessa had broken with Ghisleri in the
most heartless way, as the world said. For the world knew something
about that, too, and could have told the whole story most exactly as it
had never happened, and detailed several conversations accurately which
had never taken place. Poor Ghisleri! The world pitied him sincerely,
and hated Laura Arden for being the evil-eyed cause of all his
misfortunes. How could he still go to see her, knowing, as he must, how
dangerous it was? Had she not almost killed him and Adele, as well as
quite killing her husband? People who touched Laura Arden's hand would
do well to shut themselves up and lie safe at home for four and twenty
hours, until the power of the jettatura was past. Those black eyes of
hers meant no good to any one, in spite of her inspired, nun-like looks.
All these things were said, repeated, affirmed, denied, discussed, and
said again in the perpetual vicious circle of gossip, while the persons
most concerned lived their own lives almost altogether undisturbed by
the reports affecting them. No one refused to bow to Laura Arden in the
street, although she was supposed to have the power of bringing murder,
pestilence, and sudden death on those who went too near her. Nobody
ventured to condole with Adele Savelli upon her husband's flighty
conduct, still less upon the supposed loss to her of half the Gerano
estate. Nor did any one express to Ghisleri anything like sympathy for
having been so abominably treated by the Contessa. Such frankness would
have been reprehensible and tactless in the extreme.
Adele Savelli's existence was in reality far more wretched than any one
could have supposed at that time, and it was destined to be made yet
more miserable before a second year had elapsed.
In the spring of the year following that described in the last chapter,
the Contessa Delmar surprised Ghisleri with a very startling piece of
news. They were talking together in the grand stand at one of the May
races.
"You know I always tell you everything I hear that seems to be of any
importance," she said. "We generally know what to believe. I heard a
story last night which is so very odd that there may be some truth in
it. As it may be nothing but a bit of mischief, I will not name the
person who told me. It is said that more than a year ago, when Adele
Savelli thought she was dying out at Gerano, she did not wish to confess
to the parish priest, whom she had known all her life, and so she wrote
out a general confession and sent it to a priest here in Rome. Is that
possible, do you think?"
"Such things have been done," answered Ghisleri. "I do not know what the
rule is about them, but the case is possible."
"I was not sure. Now they say that this confession of Adele's never
reached its destination, and that a copy of it, if not the original, is
in circulation in society, passing quietly from hand to hand. That is a
strange story, is it not?"
"A very strange story." Pietro's face was grave, for he remembered many
circumstances which this tale might explain. "And what is the confession
said to contain?" he asked, after a pause.
"Some extraordinary revelations about Adele's social career; it is even
hinted that there is something which might bring very serious
consequences upon her if it were known, though what it is no one can
find out. That is what I heard, and I thought it worth while to tell
you. I think, so far as I am concerned, that I shall deny it. It looks
improbable enough, on the face of it. One need not say that its very
improbability makes one think it cannot be all an invention."
"No. I think you are wise--and charitable as well. If there is any truth
in it, Donna Adele will have another illness when it reaches her ears. I
suppose people have not failed to say that it was Lady Herbert who had
the confession stolen through a servant."
"Strange to say, no one has said that yet, but they will," added
Maddalena, with conviction. "Here comes Savelli--take care! Will you put
fifty francs for me on the next race? Here is the note."
There was no exaggeration in the Contessa's account. The story was
actually in circulation, if the lost confession was not. Unlike the
majority of such tales, however, this one was not openly repeated or
commented upon where more than two people were present. It disappeared
and reappeared in unexpected places like the river Alpheus of old, but
its shape was not materially changed. It was told in whispers and under
terrible oaths of secrecy, and occasionally--very rarely, indeed--the
mere word "Confession," spoken in casual conversation, made people smile
and look at each other. There was not even a scandalous little
paragraph in any of the daily papers, referring to it. For there are
moments when society can keep its secrets, strangely communicative as it
is at other times. The houses of Savelli and Gerano were too important
and, in a way, too powerful still, to be carelessly attacked. Indeed,
society very much preferred that neither the one nor the other should be
attacked at all, and behaved so carefully in this one instance, that it
was very long before any one discovered that a few weeks before the
rumour had been set afloat Francesco Savelli had himself summarily
dismissed Adele's maid for the really serious offence of helping her
mistress to procure more morphia than the doctor's orders allowed. It
was longer still before any one knew that the maid's name was Lucia, and
that she had immediately found a situation with Donna Maria Boccapaduli.
What was never known to the public at all was that when Savelli sent her
out of the house, Lucia had threatened to make certain revelations
injurious to the family if he persisted, but that Francesco had not paid
the slightest attention to the menace, nor even spoken of it to his
wife. He was selfish, cold, and was very far from admirable as a man,
but he had been brought up in good traditions, and had the instincts of
a gentleman when his own comfort was not endangered by them.
All Ghisleri's suspicions revived at the news Maddalena gave him. Again
he took down the medical work he had consulted on the evening when the
idea that Adele was in some way guilty of Arden's death had first
flashed across his mind, more than a year previously. Again he read the
chapter on scarlet fever carefully from beginning to end, and sat down
to think over the possibilities in such a case, and once more, after
several days of serious consideration, he grew sceptical, and abandoned
the attempt to fathom the mystery, if mystery there were. He knew that
even without that, Adele might have written many things to her confessor
in confidence which, if repeated openly in the world, would do her
terrible harm. He was quite sure that all the infamous slanders on
Laura and her husband could ultimately be traced to Adele alone, and it
was possible that the stolen document contained a full account of them,
though how any sane person could be rash enough to trust such a
statement to the post was beyond Ghisleri's comprehension. He did not
know that Adele had hardly been responsible for her actions on that day
and on many succeeding ones. He had seen, while at Gerano, that she was
far from well, but she had been apparently in full possession of her
senses. That she should have entrusted to paper the confession that she
had wilfully and successfully attempted to make Herbert Arden catch the
scarlet fever in her own house, he could not believe, though he thought
it possible that the crime might have actually been committed.
He saw strong reasons for thinking that the confession had either been
destroyed, or had never really been shown, but that some third person
had known something of its contents and had perhaps betrayed the
knowledge in a fit of anger. The Contessa dell' Armi could never tell
him anything further than she had communicated at the races, and she, as
he knew, was intimate with many who would be acquainted with all the
current gossip. Strange to say, the story neither developed nor changed;
and contrary to his expectations and to Maddalena's own, no one ever
suggested that Lady Herbert Arden had been instrumental in causing the
confession to be stolen. The men did not talk about the story at all,
or, at least, no one ever hinted at it when Ghisleri was present.
Laura saw him often during that winter, though not so regularly as in
the first months which had succeeded her husband's death. It was evident
to Pietro that the Princess was seriously disturbed by his frequent
visits to her daughter, and he willingly restricted them rather than
give offence to the elderly lady. As was to be expected, he gradually
became more intimate with Laura as time went on. There were strong bonds
of friendship between them, and the elements of a deep sympathy. On
more than one occasion each had spoken to the other the whole thoughts
of the moment, as people like themselves rarely speak to more than one
or two persons who come into their lives. Ghisleri felt that Laura was
taking the place of everything in his existence for which he had
formerly cared, and the thought of love for any woman had never been so
far from him as during that year and the following summer. He began to
take a pleasure in small things that concerned her, which he had rarely
found in the great emotions of his former life. Occasionally, when he
was in a bad temper, he sneered at himself and said that he was growing
old, and was only fit to be the guardian of distressed widows and
fatherless children. But in spite of such moments, he was sometimes
conscious of something not unlike happiness, and he was, on the whole,
far more cheerful and less discontented with himself than he had
formerly been.
"It is the calm before the storm," he said to Laura one day, with a
laugh. "Something appalling is going to happen to me before long."
"I do not believe it," she answered, confidently. "You have lived such
an existence of excitement for so many years, that you cannot understand
what peace means now that you have tried it. Of course if you go in
search of emotions again, you will find them. They grow on every bush,
and are as cheap as blackberries."
Laura laughed a little, too, as she made the reply. She thought much of
Ghisleri now, and she could hardly realise what her life would be
without him. Little Herbert first, then her mother, then Pietro--so the
three stood in their respective order when she thought of her rather
lonely position in the world. For she was very lonely, even when Arden
had been dead eighteen months or more. Her old acquaintances rarely came
to see her, and when they did there was a constraint in their manner
which told of fear, or dislike, or both. The idle tale of the evil eye
which she had so heartily despised once upon a time had done its work.
In the following year, when, in the natural course of events, she would
have gone out occasionally in a very quiet way, she found herself almost
cut off from society.
Even then she did not care so much as might have been expected. But her
mother was in despair. She and the Prince constantly had Laura to dine
with them, and always asked at the same time two or three friends with
whom she had formerly been more or less intimate. But when it became
known that "to dine quite informally" meant that the person invited was
to meet Laura Arden, it became very hard to find evenings when any one
chanced to be free to accept an invitation to the Palazzo Braccio.
Incredible as it may seem, Laura was almost ostracised. No one who has
not seen the social ruin which such a reputation as hers brings with it,
could believe how complete it can be. Ghisleri ground his teeth in
impotent anger against the stupid and cruel superstition which possessed
his fellow-citizens, and which in a year or two would inevitably drive
Laura to leave Rome, as it had driven others before then. He could do
nothing, for the thing was never mentioned before him, and moreover he
would be far more careful now than he had ever been not to be drawn into
a quarrel on Laura's account.
For he was well aware that his position towards her was anomalous and
might very easily be misunderstood in a society where almost all were
prejudiced against her. He supposed that the world expected him to marry
her when a little more time had passed, and he knew that nothing was
further from his thoughts. It was at this time, just two years after
Herbert Arden's death, that he began to torment himself, perhaps with
better reason than in former days. Knowing as he did what might be said,
and what in all likelihood was said about his friendship for Laura, the
advisability of discontinuing his visits almost altogether presented
itself for consideration, and would not be summarily annihilated by any
specious argument. It had formerly seemed to him treacherous even to
think of loving Arden's wife, though the thought had rarely crossed his
mind even as the wildest hypothesis until some time after his friend had
been dead and buried. It now seemed as impossible as ever to love her,
but he was obliged by the commonest of common sense considerations to
admit that such an affection would not imply the smallest breach of
faith to Arden's memory. She was a widow, and any man who knew her had a
right to love her and to ask her hand if he so pleased. That right,
then, was his also, if ever he should need to avail himself of it. But
it was precisely because he did not love Laura Arden that the doubt as
to his own conduct arose. As he had no intention of asking her to marry
him, could he and should he put her in such a position as to favour
speculation in regard to her? Unquestionably he should not. But in that
case, what was he to do? The old, ignoble, worldly instinct told him to
create a diversion by causing gossip in other directions, where scandal
would be easily manufactured, and then to procure himself the liberty of
doing what he pleased behind the world's back, so to say. But to his
credit it must be admitted that he did not entertain the idea for a
moment. It disgusted him and he sought for a solution elsewhere, trying,
in his imagination, every conceivable expedient by which he fancied that
he might enjoy Laura's society without compromising her in any way. In
such cases, however, it is hard to find a stratagem which shall at once
satisfy the exigencies of the situation, and an honest man's conscience
and sense of honour. He had long given up the custom of going to see
Laura every other day, and when she was at her mother's house he was
rarely invited, on account of the Princess's prejudice against him, and
which no good conduct on his part seemed capable of destroying. To give
up seeing Laura altogether was a sacrifice so great that he did not feel
strong enough to make it; nor, perhaps, would Laura herself have
understood it. Yet, unless he kept away from her for a long time, he
knew that the all-wise world would continue to say that he saw her
every day. The more he thought about it, the harder he found it to come
to any decision. Considering the terms on which he now saw her, and that
in former times they had more than once spoken of the same matter, he at
last reluctantly resolved to lay the question before her, and to let her
decide what he should do. He hated to ask advice of any one, and he
detested even the appearance of shifting responsibility upon another.
But he could see no other way.
Laura found it as hard to come to a determination as he had. During the
last six months he had become almost a necessary part of her life, and
she would have turned to him as naturally as he now turned to her for
counsel in any difficult situation. Her own character was too simple and
straightforward to demand the elaborate explanations of the nature of
friendship, which he required of himself; but when he put the difficulty
before her she saw it plainly enough.
"For myself, I am perfectly indifferent," she said at last. "I do not
see why I should sacrifice anything because there are people bad enough
to imagine evil where there is none. You and I need no justification of
our friendship, and as I cannot see that I, at least, am much in debt to
the world, it is not clear to me why I should care what it says. But I
have to consider my mother."
"And yourself, in spite of what you say," answered Ghisleri. "You
yourself are first--your mother next."
"Of course you, as a man, look at it in that light. But if it were not
for my mother, do not imagine that I should take any notice of what
people choose to say. They have said such vile things of me already that
they can hardly invent anything worse. If it were perfectly indifferent
to you, I do not say but that I might prefer to be careful."
"If what were indifferent?" asked Ghisleri, who did not understand the
rather enigmatic speech.
"If you were quite an indifferent person to me--which you are not."
Her eyes met his frankly, and she smiled as she spoke. There was not a
trace of timidity or shyness in the speech. She had no reason whatever
for concealing the fact that she liked him. But he, on his part,
experienced an odd sensation, the meaning of which was by no means clear
to him. He could not have told whether it partook more of satisfaction
or of disappointment, but it was a distinct emotion of a kind which he
had never expected to feel in her presence.
"I am glad you like me," he said. "I should be very unhappy if you did
not. I value your friendship more than anything in the world."
"You have earned it if ever a man did," she answered.
"It is enough that I have it. I do not know how I have deserved anything
half so precious."
"I know more of what you have done for me than you suppose," said Laura.
"Never mind that. The facts are simple enough. We are good friends; we
depend, for a certain amount of happiness, upon seeing one another
often; because the world does not understand, it expects us to sacrifice
our inclinations. For my part, I refuse. There is only one person to be
consulted--my mother, who is dearer to me than any friend can be. I will
speak to her and make her see the truth. In the mean time do nothing,
and forget all this absurd complication. It is only the unreal shadow of
an artificial morality which has no foundation nor true existence
whatever. You know that better than I."
Ghisleri laughed.
"When you choose to express yourself strongly, you do not lack force,"
he said. "In the old days I used to fancy that if you spoke out plainly,
your sentiments would take the form of a prayer, or a hymn, or something
of that sort."
"I am much more human than you think me," Laura answered. "I told you so
once, and you would not believe me."
Laura therefore took the matter into her own hands, and spoke to her
mother about it. But the Princess was not easily persuaded, and when the
summer came the two were still at variance. A woman like Laura's mother
is hard to move when she has allowed a prejudice to take firm root in
her mind, and becomes altogether obstinate when that prejudice is
tolerably well founded. It was an unquestionable fact that Ghisleri had
always been considered a dangerous and rather fast man, whose
acquaintance did not improve a woman's reputation, and the Princess of
Gerano had no means of understanding his real character. It was a
constant wonder to her that Laura should like him. The excellent lady
never at all realised that the blood of poor Jack Carlyon was in his
daughter's veins, and that, sooner or later, it might make itself felt
and produce rather unexpected results. Carlyon's chief characteristic
had been his recklessness of consequences. If the Princess had
remembered that, she would have understood better why Laura had married
Herbert Arden in spite of his deformities, and why she made an intimate
friend of Pietro Ghisleri in spite of his reputation. But Laura had
never shown any subversive tendencies in childhood or early youth, and
her fearless truthfulness, her rather melancholy and meditative nature
when a young girl, and her really charitable heart had combined with her
pale beauty and saintly eyes to make her mother suppose her infinitely
more submissive, obedient, and nun-like than she actually was. After
long and patient discussion Laura turned rather suddenly.
"I am not a child, mother," she said. "I know Signor Ghisleri very much
better than you, and better than most people can. I know enough of his
past life to understand that, although he has done many foolish things
and some cruel ones, he is not what I call a bad man, and he has changed
very much for the better during the last two years. I will not give up
his friendship for the sake of pleasing a set of people who do not even
pretend to like me."
"Laura, Laura, take care! You are falling in love with that man, and he
is not fit to be your husband."
"In love?" Laura's deep eyes flashed angrily, for the first time in her
mother's recollection of her. "You do not know what you are saying,
mother."
The Princess sighed, and turned her face away. She attributed the
extraordinary change in her daughter to Ghisleri's bad influence, and
her prejudice against him increased accordingly. She could not see that
the girl had developed in the course of years into a fully grown woman
whose character had not turned out to be what she had expected.
And Laura was very angry at the suggestion that she could possibly love
Ghisleri--quite unjustifiably so, her mother considered. But here,
again, the elder woman did the younger an injustice. Love was very far
from Laura's thoughts just then, though her friendship for Pietro was
assuming an importance it had not had before.
She did not speak again for some minutes, and when she did, she spoke
quietly and without any show of anger. Her tone was not hard, nor was
anything she said either cutting or defiant, but the Princess felt that
there was to be no appeal from the verdict.
"Dearest mother," she said, "I never did anything and I never will do
anything with the intention of displeasing or hurting you. But I have my
own life to lead, and my own responsibilities to bear, in my own way.
There are some things in which I must judge for myself, and one of them
is in the matter of choosing my friends."
"If you had chosen any one but that wild Ghisleri!" sighed the Princess.
"A man who knew him better than either you or I can, loved him dearly,
and when he was dying bade him take care of me. The promise then made
has been faithfully kept. I will not shut my door to my husband's old
friend, who has become mine, merely because the world is what it is--a
liar, an evil speaker, and a slanderer."
Laura was a little pale, and the lids drooped over her eyes as though to
hide something she would not show. It was the first time she had ever
spoken of Herbert Arden since her child had been born.
If the world had been aware that the matter of her intimacy with
Ghisleri had been under discussion, it would have been much delighted by
her decision. It would really have been too unkind of Laura to deprive
it of a subject of conversation full of never-flagging interest. For not
a day passed without a reference to Pietro's devotion to her, and the
reference was rarely made without a dash of spite and a little
flavouring of social venom. Laura was not to be forgiven for having made
Ghisleri prefer her company to that of a score of other women, all, in
their own estimation, as good-looking as she, and infinitely more
agreeable.
Ghisleri himself accepted the situation, since Laura wished him to do
so, though he was constantly uneasy about his own position. It seemed to
him that if there were the slightest danger of giving colour to any
serious slander on her name it must be his duty to disobey her and
altogether discontinue his visits. And he knew also that he would
naturally be the last person to hear what was common gossip. The season,
however, passed on quietly enough until Lent began, bringing the period
of mortification and fasting during which society uses its legs less and
its tongues more. This, it may be here again said for the sake of
clearness, was the Lenten season of the second year after Arden's death,
and after the final break between Ghisleri and Maddalena dell' Armi.
At that time several events occurred which it is necessary to chronicle
in greater detail, for the better understanding of this history, and for
the more complete refutation of the story which passed commonly current
for some time afterwards, and which very nearly brought about the most
irreparable consequences.