The state of certainty in regard to Adele's doings, at which Ghisleri
had now arrived, seemed to make any action in the matter useless if not
practically impossible. He ascertained without difficulty the law
concerning such attempts to do bodily injury as he was quite sure she
had made. The crime was homicide when the attempt led to fatal results.
There was no doubt of that. On the other hand, even if it should seem
advisable to bring Adele to justice, and to involve both the Savelli and
Gerano families in an affair which would socially ruin them for at least
one whole generation, in case Adele were convicted, yet the positive
proofs would be very hard to produce, and the ultimate good to be gained
would be infinitesimally small compared with the injury done to innocent
persons. The best course was to maintain the most absolute secrecy and
to discourage as far as possible any allusions others might make to the
mystery of the lost letter. Ghisleri, too, understood human nature far
too well to suppose that Adele had in the first instance desired or
expected to kill Herbert Arden. She had most probably only meant to
cause Laura the greatest possible anxiety and trouble by bringing a
dangerous illness upon her husband. Scarlet fever, as is well known, is
not often fatal to adults in Italy, and such cases as Arden's in which
death ensues within eight and forty hours, are so rare as to be
phenomenal in any part of the world. But Ghisleri had found them
described in the book he chanced to possess, under the head of
"rudimentary cases ending fatally"--and it was there stated that they
were the consequence of "a very violent infection." Adele, in practising
some one of the methods of fever-poisoning which the great professor had
described so vividly at Gouache's, had of course not known exactly what
result she was about to produce. She had assuredly not foreseen that
Arden would die, and had very probably not even believed that he would
really take the fever at all. As for the wish to do harm, Pietro
explained that naturally enough. He knew that the dinner of
reconciliation must have been brought about by the Prince of Gerano, and
he guessed that in the interview between the father and the daughter
Adele had been deeply humiliated by being forced to yield and by the
necessity of openly retracting what she had said of Arden and Laura. In
a woman whose impulses were naturally bad, and whose mind had never been
very well balanced, it was not very hard to explain how the idea had
presented itself, if chance had at that moment thrown the necessary
information into her way. The whole story was now sufficiently connected
from first to last, and Ghisleri, as he thought over it, saw how all the
details he remembered confirmed the theory. He recollected the doctor's
remarks about the case, and how surprised he had been by its
extraordinary violence. He recalled vividly all that he had heard of
Adele's behaviour immediately after the dinner party, and his own
impression of her appearance when he had met her in the street and had
recommended her a soporific, was extremely distinct, as well as her
behaviour whenever, in the course of the past two years, he had said
anything intentionally, or not, which she could construe as referring to
her crime. The chain was complete from the beginning to the end and her
present dangerous state was the direct consequence of the very first
slander she had cast on Laura Arden.
What Ghisleri felt when he was fully persuaded that Adele Savelli had
brought about the death of his best friend, is not easily described. In
natures like his, the desire for vengeance is very strong--strongest
when most justified. The instinct which demands life for life is always
present somewhere in the natural human heart and, on the whole, the
great body of human opinion has in most ages approved it and given it
shape in law--or sanction, where laws have been or still are
rudimentary. Ghisleri was not therefore either unusually cruel or
bloodthirsty in wishing that Adele might expiate her crime to the full.
But in this case, even if capital punishment had not been abolished in
Italy, the law would not have applied it, and personal revenge without
the law's assistance being out of the question in the nineteenth
century, Pietro could hardly have invented a worse fate than actually
awaited his friend's murderess. There was a grand logic, as it seemed to
him, in the implacable retribution which was pursuing and must before
long overtake Adele Savelli. He could enjoy the whole satisfaction of
the most complete vengeance without so much as raising a finger to
hasten it. That was the first result of his cogitations, and he was very
well pleased with it. He bought books containing accounts of morphinism
and calmly tried to calculate how long Adele had to live, what precise
phenomena her end would exhibit, and to decide whether she would lose
her mind altogether before the physical consumption of the tissues
destroyed her body.
But before long he became disgusted with himself, for he was not cruel
by nature, though capable of doing very cruel things under the influence
of passion. It was probably not from any inherent nobility of character,
but rather out of the commonest pity combined with a rather uncommon
though material refinement of taste, that he at last turned from his
study and contemplation of Adele's sufferings and resolutely put her and
them out of his mind.
"Heaven can do with her what it pleases. I will think no more about it,"
he said to himself one day, and the saying was profoundly characteristic
of the man.
He had never been an unbeliever since the last years of his boyhood,
when, like many boys in our times, he had already fancied himself a man,
and had thought it manly to believe in nothing. But such a state of mind
was not really natural to him, nor even possible for any length of time.
Of his intimate convictions he never spoke, for they concerned no one,
and no one had a right to judge him. But that he really had certain
convictions no one who knew him well could doubt, and on certain
occasions they undeniably guided his actions.
Laura Arden had not heard even the faintest hint about the lost letter,
and it became one of Ghisleri's principal occupations to keep the story
from her. She was, of course, not in the way of hearing it unless some
unusually indiscreet person should take pains to acquaint her with it;
but such people are unfortunately not uncommon, and Pietro knew that at
any moment Laura might hear something which would make her look at her
husband's death in a new light. The shock would be terrible, he knew,
and he did not like to think of it. He little suspected that when the
story reached her ears it would be so distorted as to convey a very
different meaning to her, nor did he guess the part he himself was to
play in what followed.
A month and more passed away without any incident of importance. He saw
Laura constantly and met Adele occasionally in society. The latter
always greeted him with a great affectation of cordiality, but evidently
avoided conversing with him alone. Her expression when she looked at him
was invariably smiling, but the eyes which had grown so strange under
the daily influence of the poison had something in them on the rare
occasions when they met his that might have warned him had he suspected
danger. But he anticipated nothing of that sort for himself. He supposed
rather that she felt herself to be in his power and feared him, so that
she would carefully avoid doing anything which might provoke him. But in
this he was very much mistaken. He neither knew that she believed her
lost letter to be in a safe place, where no one could find it and where
it must ultimately turn to dust, nor realised how far her mind was
already unbalanced. Still less did he understand all the causes for
which she so sincerely hated him. Even had he felt that she was an
active adversary, he would have undervalued her power to do him harm.
Adele meditated her last stroke a long time. Though Ghisleri had
frightened her terribly during the conversation she had herself asked
for on that memorable evening in Casa Montevarchi, he had also suggested
the very idea of which she had long been in search. She turned it over,
twisted it, so to say, into every possible shape, and at last reached a
definite plan. There was already something of madness in the scheme she
ultimately adopted, and which she carried out with an ingenuity and
secrecy almost beyond belief.
Laura Arden was surprised one morning by receiving a letter addressed to
her in an unknown handwriting, which she at once judged to be that of a
woman, though it was small, cramped, and irregular.
"Madam," the letter began, "I apply to your well-known charitable heart
in the greatest conceivable distress. My husband, who was for a long
time in the service of one of the noblest Roman families as a clerk in
the steward's office, lost his position in the ruin which has lately
overtaken that most excellent house. He walks the streets from sunrise
to sunset in search of employment, and returns at night to contemplate
the spectacle of misery afforded him by his starving family. Misery is
upon us, and there is no bread, nor even the commonest food, such as day
labourers eat, with which to quiet the piteous cries of our children."
There followed much more to the same effect. The style was quite that of
a woman of the class to which the writer claimed to belong, and the
appeal for help, though couched in rather flowery language, had a ring
of truth in it which touched Laura's heart. It had, indeed, been copied,
with a few alterations, from a genuine letter which Adele Savelli had
chanced to receive. The concluding sentences stated that the applicant,
"who had never known poverty before was ashamed, for her husband's sake,
to give the name which had so long been respectable. If Lady Herbert
Arden was moved to pity and would give anything--the very smallest
charity--would she put it into an envelope and send it to 'Maria B.'
addressed to the general post-office?"
Laura hesitated a moment, and then slipped a five franc note with her
card into an envelope and addressed it as requested in the letter. On
the next day but one she received a second, full of gratitude, and
expressing the most humble and sincere thanks for the money, but not
asking for anything more. This also was copied from a genuine
communication, and the style was unmistakably the same. Adele had
answered the first by sending a larger sum than Laura had given, in
order that the reply might be relatively effusive.
A week passed, and Laura heard no more from Maria B., and had almost
forgotten the incident when a third letter came, imploring further
assistance. Laura was far from rich, and gave all she could in the way
of charity to such poor people as she considered to have an especial
claim upon her consideration. On this occasion, therefore, she made no
reply. This was exactly what Adele expected, and suited her plan
admirably. After a sufficient time had elapsed to make it quite plain
that Laura did not intend to answer the second appeal, another
communication came through the post.
The tone this time, was, if possible, more humble and piteous than
before. After enumerating and discanting upon the horrible sufferings
the family underwent, and declaring that unless some charitable
Christian would give assistance in some shape, even were it but a loaf
of bread, the whole household must inevitably perish, and after adding
that father, mother, and all four children--the latter of tender
age--expected to be turned into the street by a hard-hearted landlord,
Maria B. made a distinct proposition. Contemptible as it must appear in
the eyes of a great and rich English lady to take advantage of having
discovered a secret in order to beg a charity, necessity knows no law.
The ex-clerk was in possession of certain letters written by a near
connexion of Lady Herbert's to a person with whom the latter was
intimately acquainted, and whom, it was commonly reported, she was about
to marry. These letters, five in number, referred to a transaction of a
very peculiar nature, which it would be advisable not to make public,
for the sake of the persons concerned. It was very far from Maria B.'s
thoughts to degrade herself by setting a price upon the documents. If
Lady Herbert cared to possess them they should be hers, and any small
reward she might be willing to give would be humbly and thankfully
accepted. In order that she might judge of the nature of the letters in
question, Maria B. enclosed a copy of the one last written before the
transaction alluded to had been concluded. Lady Herbert would be able to
understand the names from the initials used by the copyist.
Laura, even then, did not suspect in the least what she was about to
find. She unfolded the separate sheet which had dropped from the letter
when she had opened it, and began to read with an expression of
curiosity and some amusement.
"MY DEAR G.:--Of course I understand your position perfectly and I
have known you long enough to be sure that you will take every
advantage of it, short of doing me an open injury, which would
hardly be for your own good. I know perfectly well, also, where you
found the paper at Gerano, for I went to the spot myself to look for
it, and it was gone. You had been there before me--by chance, no
doubt, since you could not possibly guess that there was anything
there worth finding. It is quite clear that if you really circulate
that letter among our mutual friends, you will subject me to the
ridicule of all Rome and to an amount of humiliation which I am not
prepared to endure. You see I am quite willing to come to terms. But
I think your demand is really out of all proportion to the
circumstances. A hundred thousand francs for a miserable scrap of
paper! Absurd, my friend. You are not the accomplished scoundrel I
took you for if you suppose that I will pay that. Fifty thousand is
the most I can possibly offer you. If you are satisfied with that,
wear a gardenia in your coat to-night at the Frangipani dance. As
for my behaviour in public, you need not warn me. I can keep my
countenance almost as well as you. A.S."
The letter dropped from Laura's hands before she had read to the end. An
instant later she took it up again and tore it to the smallest shreds.
She had heard of cases of blackmail, but never of anything so infamous
as this. She did not hesitate long, but wrote within the hour a few
lines to Maria B. in which she warned the latter not to dare to proceed
with her abominable fraud, and rather rashly threatened her with the law
if she attempted anything further of the same kind. As for speaking to
Ghisleri about it, the idea never crossed her thoughts.
Again three days passed. Then, one morning, the post brought a large and
rather bulky letter, registered and addressed in a round, ornate,
clerk's hand. Adele had got the address written at the post-office on
pretence that her own handwriting was not legible enough. Laura supposed
that the missive contained a business communication from her banker, and
opened it without the least suspicion. It contained three greyish-blue
envelopes of the paper now very commonly used for daily correspondence.
All three were opened in a peculiar way, and precisely as Laura had more
than once seen Ghisleri open a letter in her presence. He had a habit of
tearing off a very thin strip along one edge, with so much neatness as
almost to give the paper the appearance of having been cut with a sharp
instrument. All three were addressed to him, moreover, in Adele
Savelli's handwriting, without any attempt at disguise. Laura held them
in her hand, turned them over, and saw the tiny prince's coronet over a
single initial which Adele had used for years. There was no mistaking
the authenticity of everything about the envelopes. Laura's heart stood
still. There was no word of explanation from her former correspondent,
but Laura recollected that the latter had said that the letters were
five in number, whereas these were only three. It was clear that the
remaining two had been kept back as a tacit threat in case the request
for money were not complied with. Laura's first impulse was to treat
them as she had treated the copy Maria B. had at first sent her, and to
tear them into minute shreds, without so much as glancing at the
contents. But a moment's reflection made her change her mind. She
slipped them all back into the large envelope and locked them up in the
drawer of her writing-table, putting the key into her pocket. Then she
wrote a note to Ghisleri, asking him to come and see her as soon as
possible, and despatched Donald with it immediately.
She sat down to wait, strangely affected by what had happened. It is
hardly to be wondered at, if the whole thing seemed inexplicable. Even
at first she could not suspect Pietro Ghisleri. She would hardly have
believed him capable of such an action as he was accused of had she seen
him write the letters to which these of Adele were supposed to be
answers. And yet those answers were there in the drawer, within reach of
her hand. She had not the slightest doubt but that the original of which
she had already seen a copy was amongst them. She could take it out and
read it if she pleased. It was damning evidence--but she would not have
believed in Ghisleri's guilt for twice as much proof as that. The one
thing she was forced to admit was that Adele had really written the
letters, though when, or for what purpose, or in what connexion, she
could not guess. The whole thing might turn out to be some Carnival jest
carried on by correspondence, and of which she had never heard. That was
the only explanation she could find, as she waited for Pietro Ghisleri.
He came within the hour.
"Has anything happened?" he asked, as he took her hand. "I thought there
was something anxious about your note."
"Something very strange has happened," she answered, looking into his
bright blue eyes, and acknowledging for the hundredth time that she
would believe him in spite of any testimony to the contrary. "Sit down,"
she said. "I have something to give you which seems to belong to you. I
will tell you the story afterwards."
She opened the drawer again and handed him the envelope. He looked at it
in surprise.
"Am I to read what is inside?" he asked.
"See for yourself."
He took out the letters and looked at them as he had first looked at the
outer address. Then, realising that they were addressed to himself, his
expression changed. He recollected Adele's handwriting though she had
rarely written to him anything more than an invitation, and he knew the
paper on which she wrote. But where or when he had received these
particular ones, or how they had got into Laura's hands, was a mystery.
"What are they?" he asked. "Are they old invitations? Why have they been
sent to you?"
"I believe them to be forgeries," said Laura, "or else that they refer
to some standing jest you and she once may have kept up for a time. I
have not read them, but I have read a copy of one of them which was sent
me, and I know what they are about. I will tell you the whole story
afterwards. See for yourself, as I said before."
Ghisleri drew out the first sheet.
"If they are forgeries, they are very cleverly done," he said, with a
laugh. "The person has even imitated my way of opening a letter."
His face grew very grave, as Laura watched it while he was reading, and
his brow knit together angrily. He read the second and the third, and
she could see his anger rising visibly in his eyes as he silently looked
at her each time he had finished one of them. When he had reached the
end of the last he did not speak for some moments.
"Did you say that you knew what these letters were about?" he asked at
length, in a steady, cold voice.
"I think so. I read a copy of one of them almost without knowing what I
was doing. Adele pretends that you are trying to get money from her for
a letter of hers you found at Gerano."
"Yes, that is what they are about. It is her doing, but it is my fault."
"Your fault!" exclaimed Laura. "But surely there never even was such a
letter as she refers to. Do you understand at all?"
"Yes, I understand much too well. She has done this for a distinct
purpose. Tell me in the first place one thing. Do you still trust me in
the face of such evidence as this?"
"I trust you as much as ever," answered Laura.
"Thank you," he said simply, and he looked into her deep eyes a moment
before he continued. "There are two stories to tell, yours and mine.
Tell yours first. Tell me how you came by the copy you speak of. Who
sent it to you, and when?"
As briefly as she could, Laura gave him all the details she could
remember from the day she had received the first request for help from
Maria B. It was painful to her to repeat what she could of the substance
of the copy sent her, but she went through with it to the end.
"That letter is not among these," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. "It is
one of the two which have been kept back for future use. Now let me tell
you what I can remember. Do not be surprised that I should never have
told you the story before. Since you can trust me in such a matter as
this, you will believe me when I say that there was a good reason for
not telling you."
He gave a concise account of the conversation which had taken place
between himself and Adele at the Montevarchi's party, omitting only what
referred to his own suspicions concerning the manner of Arden's death.
If possible, he meant always to conceal that side of the question from
Laura. But it was necessary to tell her something about the document
constantly mentioned in the letters.
"There is a story in circulation," he said, "to the effect that when
Donna Adele was ill at Gerano nearly two years ago, she was unwilling to
confess to the parish priest, and wrote a confession to be sent to her
confessor in Rome. A servant stole it, says the story, and it is
supposed to be in existence, passing from hand to hand in society. It is
quite possible that she believes that I bought it of the thief. But I
doubt even that. She has most probably regained possession of it before
attempting this stroke. And this is almost what I suggested to her in a
general way, and laughing, as one way of ruining a man. I remember my
own words--an injury that would make a woman who loves a man turn upon
him. Substitute friendship for love, and the case is almost identical."
"Yes," Laura answered thoughtfully. "Substitute friendship for love."
She hardly knew why she repeated the words, and a moment later a faint
colour rose in her cheeks.
"She has done this thing, therefore, with the deliberate intention of
ruining me in your eyes," said Ghisleri.
"And she has utterly failed to do so, or even to change my opinion of
you a little. But it is very well done. There are people who would have
been deceived. The idea of forging--it is not forging--of writing
imaginary letters to you herself is masterly."
"I do not think she is quite sane. The morphia she takes is beginning to
affect her brain. She does not always know what she is doing."
"You take far too merciful and charitable a view," answered Laura, with
some scorn.
"No, on the contrary, if she were quite what she used to be, she would
be more dangerous--she would not make mistakes. Two or three years ago
she would not have gratuitously thrown herself into danger as she has
now. She would not have made such a failure as this."
"And what a failure it is! Do you know? It was very puzzling at first.
To know positively that you never could have received those letters, and
yet to see that they are still in existence, addressed to you, and
opened in your peculiar way. I felt as though I were in a dream."
"I wonder you did not feel inclined to believe me guilty. The evidence
was almost as strong as it could be. In your position I should have
hesitated."
"Would you have believed such a thing of me, if it had been just as it
is, only if the letters had gone to you instead of to me?" asked Laura.
"Certainly not!" exclaimed Ghisleri, with strong emphasis. "That would
be quite another matter."
"I do not see that it would. You would have been exactly in my position,
as you hinted a moment ago."
"I was not thinking of you. The day I do not believe in you I shall not
believe in God. You are the last thing I have left to believe in--and
the best, my dear friend."
He was very much in earnest, as Laura knew from the tone of his voice.
But she would not look at him just then, because she felt that he was
looking at her, and she preferred that their eyes should not meet.
"Will you do anything about this?" she asked, after a pause, and not
referring to what he had last said. "Will you destroy those vile
things?"
"Since they are addressed to me, I suppose I have a right to do so,"
answered Ghisleri, and he began slowly to tear up the sheets of the
first letter.
"There can be no doubt about their being genuine?" asked Laura, with
sudden emotion.
"Not at all, I should say. But you are the best judge of that. You
should know her handwriting better than I. If you like," he added, with
a short laugh, "I will go and show them to her and ask her if she wrote
them. Shall I?"
"Oh, no! Do not do that!" exclaimed Laura, who knew that he was quite
capable of following such a course as he suggested.
There was apparently nothing to be done. Laura believed that any attempt
to make use of the two remaining letters would be as abortive as the
first, and there could certainly be no use in keeping those which had
been sent. On the contrary, it was possible that if they were preserved,
chance might throw them into hands in which they might become far more
dangerous than they were.
"Shall I write to Maria B., whoever she is?" asked Laura.
"You might send her another five francs," answered Ghisleri, grimly. "It
would show her how much you value the documents she has for sale."
"I will," said Laura, with a laugh. "How furious she will be! Of course
it is Adele who gets these things."
"Of course. Five francs is quite enough."
And Laura, little knowing or guessing how it would be used against her,
sent a five-franc note with her card in an envelope and addressed it. On
the card she had written in pencil, "For Maria B., with best thanks."
"There is one other thing I would like to do," she said. "But I do not
know whether you would approve. It would give me such satisfaction--you
know I am only a woman, after all."
"What is that?" asked Ghisleri, "and why should you need my approval?"
"Only this. To-morrow, and perhaps the next day, when she is quite sure
I must have received those letters, I would like to drive with you in an
open carriage where we should be sure to meet Adele. I would give
anything to see her face."
Ghisleri laughed. The womanly side of Laura's nature was becoming more
apparent of late, and its manifestations pleased and surprised him. He
thought Laura would hardly have seemed human if she had not wished to
let Adele see how completely the attempt had failed which she had so
ingeniously planned and carried out.
"If anything would make the town talk, that would," he answered. "The
only way to manage it would be to get the Princess to go with you and
then take me as--" He stopped short, rather awkwardly.
"I should rather go without her," said Laura, turning her face away to
hide her amusement at the slip of the tongue of which he had been
guilty.
In Rome, for Ghisleri to be seen driving with the Princess of Gerano and
her daughter would have been almost equivalent to announcing his
engagement to Laura.