THE VILLINO OF THORNS
I
Donna Fedele had Leila carried, still unconscious, to a large,
double-bedded room, and saw that she was undressed and put to bed.
Presently the young girl came to herself, cast an astonished glance
about her, pushed away with a moan the hands of the maid who was
arranging the bedclothes, and raised herself on her elbow. Donna Fedele
ordered the two women to withdraw, and motioned to them to wait in
the dressing-room. She closed the door and, coming back to the bed,
caressed Leila tenderly. "You have been walking in your sleep, dear,"
she said. "But now, please, keep quite still, for I am myself feeling
so ill that I really must rest." Gently she laid her back upon the
pillows, then put out the light, and lay down quietly upon the other
bed. She had been suffering greatly of late, so much so that she had at
last almost made up her mind to see a doctor, not that she was nervous
about herself, but she thought it would be advisable. But at the
present moment her greatest anxiety was for the humiliation Leila must
be experiencing over the failure of her attempt. She was determined
to deceive the girl, to make her think that no one even suspected the
truth.
As yet not a single word had passed Leila's lips, but about a quarter
of an hour afterwards Donna Fedele thought she heard her move. She
called softly to her:
"Leila!"
There was no answer. "Leila!" she called again in a louder tone, but
still no answer came. She did not dare persist, but she raised her head
slightly from the pillow, in an effort to catch a glimpse of the girl.
Leila appeared to be lying motionless upon her back, but Donna Fedele
could not tell whether her eyes were open or closed. She continued to
listen carefully for any sound, but she heard only the wind whistling
round the house. Softly creeping out of bed, she went to dismiss the
servants, and by the light that slanted through the door and across the
room she saw Leila turn over quickly upon her side, with her face to
the wall. When she was back in bed once more, Donna Fedele inquired,
in her usual voice, if Leila had been in the habit of walking in her
sleep as a child. But there was again no answer. "You certainly must
have done so in your childhood," Donna Fedele added. During the rest
of the night all was silent, save for Leila's restless movements
and the roaring and howling of the wind. It was a mortally long and
weary night. Towards dawn Leila fell asleep, and her breathing became
laboured. Donna Fedele rose, and placed her hand upon her brow. It
was burning hot. The sleeping girl shuddered at her touch, started up
in bed, and moaned, "This is not my room! This is not my room!" Donna
Fedele told her that she had left the house in her sleep, and had had
a fall. A fall? What did she mean by that? She had not fallen. In her
feverish mind the word "fall" could only refer to the terrible fall
she had premeditated. She fancied she must have somehow carried out
her purpose. Donna Fedele held her in her arms, and felt her embrace
returned, felt the girl's kisses and tears, and her burning fever. She
found it difficult to release herself from this embrace, and to get
Leila to lie quiet again. At last she rang for the maid and ordered her
to send the gate-keeper for the doctor.
Donna Fedele dressed painfully, and when the doctor arrived she left
the maid with Leila, and went to tell him only so much as it was
absolutely necessary for him to know. Signorina Leila had gone out
in the night, in a moment of great mental agitation, which had been
brought about by recent domestic events. She had fallen just beyond the
gate, and lost consciousness. In order to spare her feelings they had
led her to believe that they attributed her having left the house to an
attack of somnambulism, and Donna Fedele begged the doctor to keep this
in mind in speaking with his patient.
Leila refused to take either food or medicine of any description. She
was greatly excited by the fever, and kept up an incessant flow of talk
concerning somnambulism and sleep-walkers, but never once betrayed
herself. She seemed morbidly intent upon confirming Donna Fedele's
conclusions. Only once did she vary her topic. Then she mentioned
poor Signor Marcello, and burst out crying. Towards night the fever
diminished, and she became gloomy and silent. Late in the evening
the doctor came again, and finding her temperature almost normal,
tried to cheer her up; but the resentment that quickly overspread the
beautiful pale face made him give up the attempt. Donna Fedele herself
was flushed and burning with fever. The true cause of her sufferings
was unknown to the doctor as to everybody else, and he put her present
condition down to fatigue, and advised her to sleep alone that night
and keep as quiet as possible. She smiled, but said nothing. Peace for
her was not to be gained so easily. That could only come in devoting
herself entirely to the young girl, not so much for the latter's own
sake as for the sake of Marcello and for the sake of the love he had
borne his son. Once more she ordered the bed beside Leila to be
prepared for her. She was suffering, but she was rejoicing in the
thought that her life was at this moment more full of purpose than it
had ever been.
She was accustomed to read a chapter from the "Imitation of Christ"
every night before going to sleep. She asked Leila if the light
disturbed her, for in that case she would not read, and she repeated
her question twice before receiving an answer. At last an almost
inaudible "No" reached her. She concluded it would be wiser to put out
the light, and presently, hearing a sigh from the next bed, she called:
"Leila!"
As before, there was no answer, but she decided to go on with what she
had to say.
"May I talk to you?"
Silence.
"Please answer me. I want to speak about myself. I want to ask you to
do something for me. Will you listen to me?"
This time she heard a listless "Yes." The voice seemed to say, "I
cannot refuse you, but why will you torment me?"
"Forgive me, dear!" the sweet voice went on. "Do you wish to go to
sleep at once?"
As before, Leila moaned, "No."
Donna Fedele was silent for a time, thinking how to tell a story which
she hoped would result in great good, and which only the dark gave her
courage to utter.
"Will you give me your word not to repeat to any one what I am going to
tell you?" she began at last.
The other voice answered sadly, but no longer listlessly:
"Yes."
There was another pause.
"You don't know," Donna Fedele began slowly, "no one knows, and no one
must know, that I cannot live very much longer."
She waited for a word, a movement of surprise or protest, but none came.
"I have been ill for more than a year. I have shrunk from examination,
and probably it is now too late for anything. I suffer terribly. But my
pain is not all physical--I suffer mentally as well."
The slow voice sank lower.
"There was one terrible time in my life. At eighteen I fell in love
with a man who was not free. You have already guessed who it was. Do
not think my love for him was entirely spiritual. I loved him with my
whole soul, my whole being. Fortunately, he did not reciprocate my
love, and almost begged me to forget him. It was then I thought of
taking my life. I cast about me for a way that should not look like
suicide, for my father's sake, and I finally decided upon a long walk
among the hills, a dangerous path, and a fatal slip. Fortunately, just
at that time my father fell ill. I was all he had, for my mother had
died when I was thirteen. My love for him, which had been numbed by
that other passion, now awoke once more, and my religious feelings
awoke too. I do not know whether my father read my heart, but during
his convalescence he spoke much to me of God, of Christ, of the soul,
of grief, and of love--never reproachfully or warningly, but very
gently and with a tenderness that made me realise how sinful I had
been. The nuns at my convent school had given me but a superficial
religion. It was my father who made me believe from the bottom of my
heart. Poor father!"
Donna Fedele was silent, overcome by the sad memories that had rushed
in upon her as she talked. Presently she asked:
"Do I tire you?"
The "No" that answered her now was neither listless nor sorrowful. It
was almost eager.
"The saddest part is yet to come," Donna Fedele went on. "I was
seven-and-twenty when my father died, and I was living in Turin with
a companion whom my father had chosen to take me into society. I went
out a great deal at that time. An officer fell in love with me. He
was younger than myself, and poor, but gifted, far finer in character
than I was. I liked him, and thought I might come to love him, but
unfortunately I was foolish enough not to let him know my feelings. At
last he asked me to marry him, and when it was too late I realised that
nothing more than friendship could ever be possible between us. He left
me without a word, and went home...."
"He killed himself!" Leila whispered.
Donna Fedele was silent, but becoming conscious of a little hand moving
towards her along the edge of the bed, she reached out for it and took
it in hers. She felt her own hand drawn and touched by two hot lips. It
was her reward for having opened her heart to this woman who was almost
a stranger to her, and whom she had loved only for the sake of another.
"Dear!" she murmured softly, and for a few moments was unable to go on
with her story.
"He was an only son," she said at last, "and he left a mother and
sister. They were in straitened circumstances, and they hated me
because they believed I had first encouraged him and then cast him off.
They would never have consented to accept aid from me. The mother is
dead, but the sister lives in Turin, quite alone. I will give you her
address. I help her secretly. Should I leave her something in my will
she would not accept it, and so this is the favour I would ask of you.
What I should leave to her, I will leave to you instead, and I wish
you to continue to help her as I do at present. I beg you also to see
her after my death, and convince her that I did not try to lead her
brother on, that I was only mistaken enough to fancy that I might come
to return his affection, and that the grief of my error was ever with
me, even until the hour of my death. Will you do this?"
Now it was Donna Fedele who stretched out her hand towards the other
bed. It was quickly seized and pressed, but there was no answer. Once
more she questioned, "Will you do this?"
Twice she felt the back of her hand pressed to wet eyes, and then heard
the whispered words:
"You must not die! You must get well!"
"But should I not get well, will you do this for me?"
The imprisoned hand was pressed violently.
"Do not make me answer at once."
Donna Fedele withdrew her hand, which Leila did not try to prevent, and
said no more. But suddenly the girl cried:
"I know----!" and paused.
"What do you know?"
"Nothing!"
Both were silent for a time, and then Leila crept slowly out of bed,
put her arms round her friend's neck, and laid her head upon her breast.
"I know why you confide this mission to me," she said, in a voice that
was hardly audible. "I know why you changed my room. I know----"
"Hush!" said Donna Fedele, trying to stop what she feared was coming,
and when Leila began again, "I know ..." the elder woman ordered her
almost harshly to be still, and go back to bed. "You can give me your
answer to-morrow," she said.
Leila got into bed with a sigh, and without having either consented
or refused. Presently, hearing her friend move, she asked if she had
put out the light on her account, and begged her to light it again and
read, as usual. When Donna Fedele had done so and begun to read, Leila
asked what the book was, but without replying her friend turned over a
few pages, and then read aloud the following passage:
"'But now I oftentimes groan, and bear my happiness with grief. Because
many evils occur in this vale of miseries, which do often trouble,
sadden, and overcloud me, often hinder and distract me, allure and
entangle me, so that I can have no free access unto Thee.'"
"'Unto Thee'?" said Leila. "To whom does that refer?"
"To Jesus Christ."
Leila said no more. Donna Fedele went on reading to herself for a few
minutes, and then put out the light.
* * * * *
Towards daybreak Donna Fedele was seized with pain so violent as to
wring a groan from her. Leila, who was still awake, sprang out of bed,
lighted the lamp, and did what she could to relieve the sufferer, who,
seeing her distress, smiled at her even before she was able to speak.
Not until it was broad daylight did she get relief from pain.
"Well," said she, "are you going to do as I wish? You see what my
condition is."
"First, you must promise me to undergo an examination, either at Padua
or Turin," said Leila, "and to follow the doctor's advice afterwards."
"Then will you also promise what I asked?"
"Yes," was the prompt and decided answer.
Donna Fedele promised, and, stretching out her arms, embraced Leila
very tenderly. During the day she felt much better, and judging from
past experience, looked forward to an interval of calm, and accordingly
proceeded to make arrangements for carrying out her promise. It was
really necessary for her to go to Turin on business, as her agent lived
there. She determined to consult Carle, and should he consent, she
would go to some cool spot, perhaps in the neighbourhood of Monte Rosa
or into Val d'Aosta. Would Signor Camin allow his daughter to accompany
her? Leila declared, in her usual short and conclusive manner, that she
would go without his consent. Her friend smiled, and called her a silly
child, telling her that her father had the right to send the police
to fetch her home. "He would never dare!" cried Leila, remembering
the many humble letters he had written her, the sums of money she had
so often sent him. Donna Fedele's eyebrows went up somewhat, but she
refrained from comment. Presently, of her own initiative, she wrote a
note to Camin. The gate-keeper took it to the Montanina, and brought
back word that Signor da Camin was expected home on the following
morning. Even before Donna Fedele asked her, Leila declared that,
should her father come to the Villino, she would refuse to see him, and
she was so vehement and resolute in her declaration that her friend
deemed it prudent to refrain from any argument at that moment. She
put the subject aside to be brought up again in the night, when their
talks were more confidential. She had suggested that Leila might like
to return to her own room, but the girl had declined to do so, wishing
to be near the friend who had shown her such motherly devotion, in
case she should need her. Donna Fedele was glad of her refusal, for
she felt she could get nearer to the girl when she had her with her at
night-time.
That evening, as soon as the room was dark, she began:
"And so if your father should come----?"
"If my father comes, I shall send word that I am not well yet, that I
have a headache, and cannot see him."
Donna Fedele pointed out gently, and in a quiet voice, that this was
impossible. It was contrary to all propriety, contrary to her duty as a
daughter, contrary to her own interest. Leila protested that she cared
nothing either for propriety or interest. But how about duty? Donna
Fedele asked. Duty indeed ... and with such a father! She had given him
money, and would give him more, if she had it, but that was all. After
all, he wanted nothing but money! He certainly did not want affection.
"But you are religious...." Donna Fedele ventured to suggest.
"That has nothing to do with it."
"Yes, indeed it has!"
Leila was silent.
"I really don't know whether I am religious or not!" she suddenly burst
out.
"You don't know?"
Donna Fedele had introduced this topic not so much to remind Leila
of the religious side of her filial duties as to discover what her
religious opinions were. Leila answered dryly:
"No, I really don't know."
"But you pray?"
"I don't pray any longer--at least, not as the priests teach us to
pray. I hate them!"
"But why?"
Leila did not answer.
"Years ago," said Donna Fedele, "I had a maid who would not drink wine
because she had once mistaken the bottle and drank ink."
Leila was silent for a time, and then asked:
"What do you think about religion?"
"I have always told you I am an old-fashioned Catholic, and, moreover,
I do not confuse bad priests with religion itself."
"I thought you held the same views as----"
The girl would not go on even when Donna Fedele demanded, "As whom?"
But the elder woman had guessed her meaning.
"What do you know of that person's views?" she asked.
"There you go!" cried Leila hotly. "You will never allow him to be
touched!"
Donna Fedele burst out, throwing her usual precaution to the winds:
"As you failed to understand his sentiments, my dear, you have proved
yourself entirely incapable of understanding his views!"
"His sentiments, indeed!" Leila muttered. "_He_ did not go and kill
himself!"
The thoughtless and uncalled for words, jarring upon such painful
memories, wounded Donna Fedele to the quick.
"He certainly did not try to kill himself," she retorted. "You do not
know what true religion is, and Alberti does."
After this neither spoke again, even to say good-night.
II
Shortly after eleven on the following morning Sior Momi gently and
discreetly pushed open the main gate of the Villino delle Rose. His
honest intention was to put forward in the same gentle and discreet
manner his desire to have his daughter with him, but upon this he was
not going to insist; and, above all, he was determined to ingratiate
himself with Leila's friend and counsellor. It never entered his head
to boast of his paternal authority with her, as he had done to Molesin.
With only a few months of power in front of him, he had settled on his
policy. It was to appropriate during this short time as much movable
property as possible; to show humility and repentance, in order
that Leila, on coming of age, might be moved to make him a handsome
allowance; and to humour that precious Checco sufficiently to obtain
favourable terms with his creditors. He understood perfectly Molesin's
motive in encouraging him to demand Leila's return, but he was not
going to aim at so complete a conquest. He knew that it would never be
possible for his daughter and Carolina to be in the same house. Leila
would immediately refuse to have anything further to do with him. It
was still more out of the question to send Carolina away. Grasping as
was he himself, and even more obstinate, she had a certain hold upon
him, and they were fond of one another in their own way, though at
times they had violent quarrels.
Sior Momi walked slowly along the avenue of linden-trees, and
walked round the house, for he was not sure which was the visitors'
entrance--the verandah in the front or the low door on the opposite
side. He blinked rapidly, but at last instinct led him to run his head
in at the low door. His "May I come in?" followed by a loud blowing of
his nose, brought the maid hurrying downstairs, and, having ushered
him into the drawing-room, she went to tell her mistress. Unlike
Dr. Molesin, Sior Momi always stiffened visibly in the presence of
people of quality or position. As she observed his rigid attitude,
his pasteboard mask, and red lids, blinking over glassy eyes, Donna
Fedele once more asked herself if he were a knave or simply a fool.
She repeated to him more or less the same information contained in her
note, while he punctuated what she was saying by fragmentary sentences,
aimless expressions of gratitude, and vague exclamations, such as,
"Quite so!... Free, perfectly free!" When, in order to prepare him
for a possible refusal, on her part, to grant him the interview he
must certainly desire, the Signora alluded to his daughter's character
as somewhat eccentric, he uttered his perpetual "Aho, aho!" which on
this occasion was expressive of jocose assent. He then proceeded to
express his entire approval of the journey to Turin. "Delighted--quite
delighted, I assure you, Signora.... An honour--a great honour!" And
finally, as if he had been worked by machinery, he delivered the speech
he had prepared.
"If it is no trouble ... no trouble at all ... I should like ... if it
is really not inconvenient!" Nothing further being forthcoming, Donna
Fedele concluded that this was his official demand to see Leila. Was
that what he wanted? "Well, yes, Signora ... If I may make so bold...."
She warned him that Leila was not feeling quite well yet, but said she
would let her know of his presence. Donna Fedele had previously so
strongly urged her to see her father, if he should call, that the girl
had given way.
Leila received him standing, with great dignity, and a stern face. He
hastened towards her, stammering, "Ciao, ciao! How are you? How are
you?" and kissed her on both cheeks.
She shuddered, but nevertheless allowed herself to be kissed. She
did not ask him to sit down, and although he cast sidelong glances
at a chair, he did not venture to take it. He expressed his approval
of her journey to Turin. "It would be a good thing ... delighted,
quite delighted!" Then, taking out his pocket-book, he said that,
the Signora having written to him of this journey, he had brought
the "wherewithal." He drew a small packet of ten-lire bills from the
pocket-book and handed them to Leila.
"Things have changed," he said. "Aho, aho!... Ah! but it is all yours,
all yours, of course. Only a few months longer, and I shall have to
render an account!" Another inane laugh followed, and then Sior Momi
cleverly converted his exclamation point into a mark of interrogation.
"Isn't that so? Shan't I have to render an account?"
"It is quite the same to me!" Leila exclaimed, with a glance of
contempt, and without stopping to consider her words. Sior Momi found
them greatly to his taste, and swallowed them slowly, figuratively
stroking himself the while, and quite forgiving Leila for keeping him
standing there like any servant.
"You have been indisposed, have you not?" he said presently, with
touching solicitude. "What was the matter? Fever, influenza,
indigestion, or anæmia?"
He popped out this strange list like so many shots from a revolver.
"Rheumatism," said Leila shortly.
"Ah! rheumatism. And will you come to your own home on your return from
Turin?"
"No."
"Ben, ben! Well, well!" said this meek and docile parent, slipping into
dialect from the Italian he had always used with his daughter since
her return from boarding-school. He would have liked to kiss her again
at parting, but did not dare to do so. His embarrassed and choppy mode
of speech, his awkward laugh--"Aho, aho!"--his rigid bearing in the
presence of those he looked up to or feared were really the result of
a certain nervous timidity, which was another boon, as precious as his
fool's face, and was like a thick wash of virginal innocence over his
well-laid plans. His daughter's intellectual and moral superiority and
her haughty manner had always filled him with shyness.
"Will you write?" he mumbled on the threshold.
Leila's only answer was a short "Goodbye," and Sior Momi proceeded
downstairs.
He did not forget Donna Fedele, and once more entered her presence in
a state of the utmost rigidity. "My respects! My respects! Very happy
indeed.... I wish you a pleasant journey!"
And with this he left the house, already thinking how he should break
the news to dear friend Molesin that he had been forced to yield, that
his daughter had been most hostile in her attitude, that there were no
plums to be got from this pie--unless they were stolen ones.