When Laura Arden returned to Rome, she was met by her mother with a full
account of what had taken place. Under any ordinary circumstances the
Princess of Gerano would have been very merciful in her judgment and
would assuredly not have hastened to give her daughter every detail of
the last great scandal. But she had never liked Ghisleri, and she had
feared that Laura was falling in love with him, and he with Laura.
Moreover, neither her love for her own child nor Adele's shortcomings
had destroyed all her affection for the latter, and under her husband's
influence she had lately come to look upon Ghisleri as a monster of
iniquity and on Adele as little less than a martyr. She spared Laura
nothing as she told the story, and was unconsciously guilty of
considerable exaggeration in explaining the view the world in general
took of the case, though that was bad enough at best. Laura's dark eyes
flashed with indignation as she listened.
"I do not believe a word of this story, mother," she said. "As for the
part I am supposed to have played in it, you had better know the truth
at once. When I got those letters, I sent for Signor Ghisleri, and gave
them to him. We knew at once that they came from Adele herself."
She told her mother exactly what had occurred, and how she had believed
in him then, and should believe in him still. The Princess sighed and
shook her head.
"There is very little left to believe in, my dear," she said, "trustful
though you are, to a fault. I hope you will at all events not receive
him until after the trial. Indeed, it will be quite impossible--I am
sure you would not think of it. If he has any sense of decency left, he
will not call."
"I will not only receive him," answered Laura, without hesitation:
"whenever he chooses to come, but if he does not come of his own accord,
I will make him. What is the use of friendship, if it will not bear any
test?"
"I suppose it is of no use to discuss the matter," said the Princess,
wearily. "You will do as you please. I do not recognise you any longer."
As soon as her mother was gone, Laura wrote a note to Pietro, telling
him that she had heard all the story, that she believed in him as firmly
as ever, and begging him to come and see her on the following day at the
usual hour. The last words dropped from her pen naturally. It seemed but
yesterday that they had spoken of meeting "at the usual hour" on the
morrow of the day after that. Ghisleri's heart beat faster as he broke
the seal, and when he came to the words he was conscious that its
beating annoyed him. He knew, now, that he loved her well, as he had
loved but once before in his life. But he determined that he would not
go and see her. He blessed her for believing in his innocence, but there
were many strong reasons against his going to her house, or even seeing
her. Merely on general grounds he would have kept away, while under the
accusation which hung over him, as even the Princess of Gerano had
anticipated that he would, and feeling as he did that he loved her in
good earnest, it would have seemed absolutely dishonourable to renew
their former relations until he had cleared himself. He wrote her a
short note.
"MY DEAR FRIEND:--I am deeply touched by your wishing to see me, and
I am more than ever grateful for your friendship and for the faith
you have in me. But I will not come to you at present. I am accused
of a crime worse than most crimes, in my opinion, and the world is
by no means altogether on my side. When I have cleared myself
publicly, I will come and thank you--if I can find words for the
thanks you deserve.
"Most gratefully and faithfully,
"PIETRO GHISLERI."
He was not prepared for the answer which came within the hour in the
shape of a second note, short, vigorous, and decisive. It seemed hard
to realise that the sweet, dark woman with deep, holy eyes, as he had
once described her, could be the writer of such determined words.
"MY DEAR SIGNOR GHISLERI:--I care for the world and its opinion much
less than you do for my sake, or than you suppose I do for myself. I
mean to see you, and to have it known that I see you, and I will. If
you are not here to-morrow at precisely one o'clock I will go to
your lodgings and wait for you if you are out. People may say what
they please.
"Ever yours sincerely,
"LAURA ARDEN."
Ghisleri read the note over several times, to be quite sure that he had
not misunderstood it, and then burned it, as he had always burned
everything in the nature of writing until his last difficulties had
begun. He saw that Laura had forced the situation, and he knew her well
enough not to doubt that she would execute her threat to the letter, and
wait for him, watch in hand, on the morrow. He hated himself for being
glad, for he knew that the world she despised would give her little
credit for her generous act. Yet, in spite of his self-contempt, he was
happy. Five minutes before one o'clock on the next day he rang at her
door. She had returned as usual to the small apartment she had occupied
since leaving the Tempietto.
He found her dressed for walking, all in black, and looking at the
clock. As he entered she turned and laughed happily. There was a faint
colour in her cheeks too.
"I knew you would not let me ruin my reputation for the sake of your
obstinacy," she said, as she came forward to meet him. "In four minutes
I would have left the house." She grasped his hand warmly as she spoke.
"No," he said, "I could not have done that. What ways you have of
forcing people to obey you! But you are very wrong; I still maintain
that."
"Sit down," she said, "and let us talk of more interesting things. I
must hear the whole story from your own lips, though I am sure my mother
did her best to be quite truthful; but she does not understand you and
never will, as I begin to think."
"Tell me first how you are, and about Herbert," said Ghisleri. "You will
hear quite enough of this miserable affair. It will keep a day or two."
"It need not keep so long as that," answered Laura, "I can tell you the
news in a few words. I am perfectly well. Herbert is perfectly well too,
thank God, and has outgrown his clothes twice and his shoes four times
since we have been away. Since I last wrote great things have happened.
I have been in England again at last, and have stayed with the
Lulworths. You see I am in mourning. Uncle Herbert died a month ago. I
never saw the old gentleman but once, for he lived in the most
extraordinary way, in complete isolation. You know that--well, he is
dead, and he has left all the fortune to my Herbert, with a life
interest in one-quarter of it for me, besides an enormous allowance for
Herbert's education. That is all there is to tell."
"It is good news indeed," said Ghisleri. "I am so glad. It will make an
immense difference to you, though of course you have known of it a long
time."
"It will not make so much difference as you fancy. I shall go on living
much as I do, for I have had almost all I wanted in these years. But I
am glad for Herbert's sake, of course. And now begin, please, and do not
stop until you have told me everything."
"Needs must, when you will anything," Ghisleri answered, with a faint
smile.
So he told her the story, while she listened and watched him. She had
developed in strength and decision during the last year, more rapidly
than before, and he felt in speaking to her as though she had power to
help him and would use it. He was grateful, and more than grateful.
Within the last few weeks he had learned that the strongest and most
determined men may sometimes need a friend. He had long had one in her,
and he had found a new one in San Giacinto; but though the latter's
imposing personality had more influence in the world than that of any
man Ghisleri knew, there was that in Laura's sympathy which gave him a
new strength of his own, and fresh courage to face the many troubles he
expected to encounter before long. For man gets no such strength in life
to do great deeds or to bear torments sudden and sharp or mean, little
and harassing, as he gets from the woman he loves, even though he does
not yet know that she loves him again.
"I hope I do not take my own side too much," he said, as he ended the
long tale, "though I suppose that when a man is perfectly innocent he
has a right to say hard things of people who accuse him. For my own
part, I believe that Donna Adele is mad. There is the ingenuity of
madness in everything she does in this affair. No sane person could
invent such a story almost out of nothing, and make half the world
believe it."
"She may be mad," Laura answered, "but she is bad, too. It will all come
out at the trial, and she will get what she deserves."
"I hope so. But do you know what I really expect? Unless it can be
proved that the confession has been all the time in the safe keeping of
some person who has not even read it, I shall be convicted and
imprisoned. I am quite prepared for that. I suppose that will come to me
by way of expiation for my sins."
"Please do not talk like that," cried Laura. "It is absurd! There is no
court in the world that would convict you--a perfectly innocent man.
Besides I shall give my evidence about those letters. I shall insist
upon it. That alone would be enough to clear you."
"I am afraid not. Even my lawyer thinks that your testimony would not
help me much. After all, you know what happened. I told you that I was
innocent, and you believed me. Or, if you please, you believed me
innocent before I said I was. There is only your belief or my word to
fall back upon, and neither would prove anything in court. Ubaldini says
so. I really expect to be convicted, and I will bear it as well as I
can. I will certainly not do anything to escape from it all." He had
hesitated as he reached the last words, but he saw that Laura
understood.
"You should not even think of such things," she said gravely. "You are
far too brave a man to take your own life even if you were convicted,
and you shall not be. I tell you that you shall not be!" she repeated,
with sudden energy.
"No one can tell. But I am inclined to think that if you were angry you
might terrify judge and jury into doing whatever you pleased." He
laughed a little. "You have grown so strong of late that I hardly
recognise you. What has made the change?"
"Something--I cannot explain it to you. Besides--was I ever a weak
woman? Did I ever hesitate much?"
"No, that is true. Perhaps I did not use the right word. You seem more
active, more alive, more determined to influence other people."
"Do I? It may be true. I fancy I am less saint-like in your opinion than
I was. I am glad of it. You used to think me quite different from what I
was. But I know that I have changed during this summer. I feel it now."
"So have I. The change began before you went away." Ghisleri glanced at
her, and then looked at the wall.
A short silence followed. Both felt strangely conscious that their
former relation had not been renewed exactly where it had been
interrupted by their separation in the summer. But there was nothing
awkward about the present break in the conversation.
"In what way have you changed?" asked Laura at last. She had evidently
been thinking of his words during the pause.
"Indeed I should find it hard to tell you now," Ghisleri answered, with
a smile at the thought uppermost in his mind. "I would rather not try."
"Is it for the worse, then?" Laura's eyes sought his.
"No. It is for the better. Perhaps, some day, if all this turns out less
badly--" He stopped, angry with himself for having said even that much.
"Shall you have more confidence in me when the trial is over?" asked
Laura, leaning back and looking down. "Have I shown that I believe in
you, or not, to-day?" Had she known what was so near his lips to say,
she might not have spoken.
"You have done what few women would have done. You know that I know it.
If I will not say what I am thinking of, it is for that very reason."
His fingers clasped each other and unclasped again with a sharp, nervous
movement.
"I am sorry you do not trust me altogether," said Laura.
"Please do not say that. I do trust you altogether. But I respect you
too. Will you forgive me if I go away rather suddenly?" He rose as he
spoke and held out his hand.
"You are not ill, are you?" Laura stood up, looking anxiously into his
face. Unconsciously she had taken his hand in both of her own.
"No--I am not ill. Good-bye!"
"Come to-morrow, please. I want to see you often. Promise to come
to-morrow." Her tone was imperative, and he knew that she had the power
to force him to compliance.
He yielded out of necessity, and left her. When he was in the street he
stood still a few moments, leaning upon his stick as though he were
exhausted. His face was white. Oddly enough, what he felt recalled an
accident which had once happened to him. On a calm, hot day, several
years earlier, he had been slowly sailing along a southern shore. The
heat had been intense, and he had thrown himself into the water to get
a little coolness, holding by a rope, and allowing himself to be towed
along under the side of the boat. Then one of the men called to him
loudly to come aboard as quickly as he could. As he reached the deck,
the straight black fin of a big shark glided smoothly by. He could
remember the shadow it cast on the bright blue water, and the sensation
he experienced when he saw how near he had unconsciously been to a
hideous death. Like many brave but very sensitive men, he had turned
pale when the danger was quite past and had felt for one moment
something like physical exhaustion. The same feeling overtook him now as
he paused on the pavement before the house in which Laura Arden lived.
An instant later he was walking rapidly homeward.
At the corner of a street he came suddenly upon Gianforte Campodonico.
Both men raised their hats almost at the same moment, for their
relations were necessarily maintained upon rather formal terms. Ghisleri
owed his old adversary a debt of gratitude for his conduct at the club,
but a rather exaggerated sense of delicacy hindered Pietro from stopping
and speaking with him in the street. Campodonico, however, would not let
him pass on and stood still as Ghisleri came up to him.
"I wish to thank you with all my heart for the generous way in which you
have spoken of me," said Ghisleri, grasping the other's ready
outstretched hand.
"You have nothing to thank me for," replied Gianforte. "Knowing you to
be a perfectly honourable and honest man, I should have been a coward if
I had held my tongue. You have a good friend in San Giacinto, and I
suppose I cannot be of much use to you. But if I can, send for me. I
shall never like you perhaps, but I will stand by you, because I respect
you as much as any man living."
"I thank you sincerely," said Ghisleri, pressing his hand again. "You
are very generous."
"No, but I try to be just."
They parted, and Ghisleri pursued his way, meditating on the
contradictions of life, and wondering why at the most critical moment of
his existence the one man who had come forward unasked and of his own
free impulse to defend him publicly and to offer his help, should be his
oldest and most implacable enemy. He was profoundly conscious of the
man's generosity. The world, he said to himself, might not be such a bad
place after all. But he did not guess how soon he was to need the
assistance so freely proffered.
He went home at once. Bonifazio closed the door behind him and followed
him respectfully into the sitting-room.
"I beg pardon, signore," he began, standing still as he waited for
Ghisleri to turn and look at him.
"Do you need money?" asked the latter carelessly.
"No, signore. You have perhaps forgotten that you gave me money
yesterday. It is something which I have had upon my conscience a long
time, and now that you are falsely accused, signore, it is my duty to
speak, if you permit me."
"Tell me what it is." Ghisleri sat down at his writing-table, and lit a
cigarette.
"It is a very secret matter, signore. But if I keep it a secret any
longer, I shall be doing wrong, though I also did wrong in coming by the
information I have, though I did not know it. I have also been to a
lawyer who understands these matters, and takes an interest in the case,
and he has told me that unless some saint performs a miracle nothing can
save you at the trial. So that I must give my evidence. But if I do, the
Princess Adele will go to the galleys, and the house of Savelli will be
quite ruined. For the Princess murdered Lord Herbert Arden, and tried to
murder Donna Laura, as we call her. She invited them to dinner and gave
them napkins which she with her own hand had poisoned with infection of
the scarlet fever, her maid Lucia having had it at the time. And Lord
Herbert died within three days, but Donna Laura did not catch it. And I
have read how she did this, and many other wicked things, in a letter
written with her own hand. For it was I who found the confession they
speak of, when I went alone to look at the old prisons at Gerano, while
you and the signori were out driving. And now I do not know what to do,
but I had to speak in order to save you, and you must judge of the rest,
signore, and pardon me if I have done wrong."
Ghisleri knew the truth at last, and his lean, weather-beaten face
expressed well enough the thirst for vengeance that burned him. He
waited a few moments and then spoke calmly enough.
"Have you got the confession here?" he asked. "If it is found in my
house it will ruin me, though it may ruin Donna Adele too."
"I understand, signore. Have no fear. I read it through, because I found
it open and the leaves scattered as it must have fallen, though how it
fell there I do not know. But it is still at Gerano. If you will allow
me, I will explain what I did. When I had read it, I put it into my
pocket, saying to myself that it was a difficult case for the
conscience. And I thought about it for more than an hour while I walked
about the castle. Then I went and got an envelope and I put the leaves
into it thinking that perhaps it would be wrong to burn it. So I wrote
on the outside: 'This was found in the prison of the castle of Gerano by
Bonifazio di Rienzo,' and I also wrote the date in full. Then at the
tobacconist's shop in the village I bought some wax, and took a seal I
have, which is this one, signore. It has 'B.R.' on it. And I sealed the
letter with much wax, so that the tobacconist laughed at me. But I did
not let him see what was written on the envelope. Then I took it to the
parish priest whose name is Don Tebaldo, and who seemed to me to be a
very respectable and good man. I told him in confidence that I had found
something which it was not possible for me to give to the rightful
owner, but which I thought it would be wrong to destroy, because the
rightful owner might some day make inquiry for it and wish to have it.
He asked many questions, but I would not answer them all, and he did not
know what the letter was about nor that it was a confession. So I begged
him to put it into another envelope and to seal it again with his own
seal, and I gave him what was left of the wax I had bought. Then he did
as I asked him, and wrote on the back: 'This was brought to me to be
kept, by one Bonifazio di Rienzo, until the owner claims it. But it is
to be burned when I die.' And there it is to this day, for I have made
inquiries and Don Tebaldo is alive and well, and God bless him! So I
come to tell you all this, in order that you may act as you see fit,
signore. For Don Tebaldo can swear that I gave him the letter on the day
I found it and I can swear that you never knew anything of it."
Ghisleri looked at his faithful old servant, whose round brown eyes met
his so steadily and quietly.
"I can never thank you enough, my dear Bonifazio," he said. "You have
saved me. I will not forget it."
"As for that, signore, I will not accept any present, and I humbly beg
you not to offer me any, for it would be the price of blood, such as
Judas Iscariot received, seeing that the Princess Adele will go to the
galleys."
"You need not be afraid of that, Bonifazio," answered Ghisleri. "Casa
Savelli will easily prove that she was mad, as I believe she is, and she
will end her life in a lunatic asylum. But you must not bring either Don
Tebaldo or the letter here. Go at once to the Marchese di San Giacinto
and tell him exactly what you have told me, and that I sent you. He will
know what to do. Take money with you and execute his orders exactly
without returning here, no matter what they are. I can do without you
for a week if necessary, and I wish to know nothing of the matter until
it is over."
"Yes, signore," answered Bonifazio, and without more words he left the
room and went directly to San Giacinto's house.
The latter received him in his study, and listened to his story with
calm attention. Then, without making any remark, he smoked nearly half a
cigar, while Bonifazio stood motionless, respectfully watching him. Then
he rang the bell, and gave the man who answered it instructions to order
out a sort of mail-cart he used for driving himself, and the strongest
horses in the stable.
"You must come with me," he said to Bonifazio. "We can be back before
midnight." Then he began to write rapidly.
He wrote a note to his cousin, the Prince of Sant' Ilario, another to
Gianforte Campodonico, and then a rather longer one to Savelli. In the
last mentioned, he informed the Prince that he would appear on the
morrow, with Campodonico and Sant' Ilario, and that he desired to be
received by Savelli himself in the presence of Francesco and Adele, as
he had a communication of the highest importance to make. In his usual
hard way he managed to convey the impression that it would be decidedly
the worse for the whole house of Savelli and for Adele in particular if
his request were not complied with to the letter. By the time he had
finished a servant announced that the carriage was waiting. San Giacinto
thrust a handful of black cigars and a box of matches into his outer
pocket.
"Come," he said to Bonifazio, "I am ready. It is a long drive to
Gerano."
It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when they started, and the
days were very short and the weather threatening. But the horses were
splendid animals, and there were few roads between Rome and the Abbruzzi
which San Giacinto did not know well. He was acting as he always did,
swiftly, surely, and in person, trusting to no one, and making himself
alone responsible for the result. Before one o'clock in the morning he
was back, bringing with him a mild and timid old priest, muffled in a
horse blanket against the bitter wind. But the sealed packet containing
Adele Savelli's confession was in his own pocket.
On his table he found three notes, which satisfied him that everything
would take place as he had hastily planned it before his departure.
Campodonico expressed his readiness to serve Ghisleri in any way, Sant'
Ilario said that he was ready to support San Giacinto in anything he
undertook, though he had never been intimate with Ghisleri, who was much
younger than he. Savelli answered coldly that he would receive the three
men as requested, adding that he hoped the communication would prove to
be of such importance as to justify putting his daughter-in-law to the
inconvenience which any prolonged interview caused her in her present
state of ill-health. San Giacinto smiled rather grimly. He did not think
that his visit to Casa Savelli need be a very long one. Before he went
to bed, he debated whether he should send word to Gerano to be present
also, but he ultimately decided not to do so. It seemed useless to make
Adele's father witness his daughter's humiliation, though he meant not
to spare either Savelli or his son. Towards Adele he was absolutely
pitiless. It was his nature. If she had been dying, he would have found
means to make her listen to what he had to say. If she had been at the
very last gasp he would have forced his way to her bedside to say it. He
was by no means a man without faults.
Meanwhile Ghisleri was pacing his room in solitude, reflecting on the
sudden change in all the prospects of the future, and wondering how
matters would be managed, but feeling himself perfectly safe in San
Giacinto's hands, and well understanding that he was not to be informed
of what had happened until all was over. That San Giacinto would face
all the assembled Savelli and force them then and there to withdraw all
charges against Ghisleri, the latter was sure, and, on the whole, he was
glad that he was not to witness their discomfiture. But it was not only
of his being in one moment cleared of every accusation that he thought.
The consequences to himself were enormous. He remembered the sickening
horror he had felt that afternoon when he realised how nearly he had
told Laura that he loved her. In four and twenty hours there would be
nothing to hinder him from speaking out what filled his heart. If he
chose to do so, he might even now write to her and tell her what he had
struggled so hard to hide when they had been face to face. But he was
not the man to write when there was a possibility of speaking, nor to
trust to the black and white of ink and paper to say for him what he
could say better for himself.
Then the old doubt came back, and he spent a night of strange
self-questioning and much useless moral torment. Was this the last, the
very last of his loves? He remembered how a little less than three years
earlier he had bid good-bye to Maddalena dell' Armi, saying to himself
that he could never again feel his heart beat at a woman's voice, nor
his face turn pale with passion for a woman's kiss. And now he loved
again, perhaps with little hope of seeing his love returned, but with
the mad desire to stake his fate upon one cast, and win or lose all for
ever. He had never felt that irresistible longing before, not even when
he had first loved Bianca Corleone in his early days. Then, it was true,
he had been very young, and Bianca had not been like Laura. She had been
young herself as he was, and had loved him from the first, almost
without hiding it. There had been little need for words on either side,
for love told his own tale plainly. Yet it seemed to him now that if he
had then thought Bianca as cold as he had reason to believe that Laura
was, he might have resigned himself to his fate at the beginning--he
might not have found the strength he now had to risk such a defeat as
perhaps waited him, to run any danger, now that he was free, rather than
live in suspense another day.