Beatrice did not speak again as she slowly walked up the steep ascent to
the hotel. Bastianello and Teresina exchanged a word now and then in a
whisper and Ruggiero came last, watching the dark outline of Beatrice's
graceful figure, against the bright light which shone outside at the
upper end of the tunnel. Many confused thoughts oppressed him, but they
were like advancing and retreating waves breaking about the central rock
of his one unalterable purpose. He followed Beatrice till they reached
the door of the house. Then she turned and smiled at him, and turned
again and went in. Bastianello of course carried the bag upstairs for
Teresina, and Ruggiero stayed below.
He was very calm and quiet throughout that day, busying himself from
time to time with some detail of the preparations for the evening's
excursion, but sitting for the most part alone, far out on the
breakwater where the breeze was blowing and the light surf breaking just
high enough to wet his face from time to time with fine spray. He had
made up his mind, and he calmly thought over all that he meant to do,
that it might be well done, quickly and surely, without bungling.
To-morrow, he would not be sitting out there, breathing in the keen salt
air and listening to the music of the surging water, which was the only
harmony he had ever loved.
His was a very faithful and simple nature, and since he had loved
Beatrice, it had been even further simplified. He thought only of her,
he had but one object, which was to serve her, and all he did must tend
to the attainment of that one result. Now, too, he had seen with his
eyes and had understood in other ways that she was to be married against
her will to a man she hated and despised, and who was already betraying
her. He did not try to understand how it all was, but his instinct told
him that she had been tricked into saying the words she had spoken to
San Miniato at Tragara, and that she had never meant them. That at least
was more comprehensible to him than it might have been to a man of
Beatrice's own class. Her head had been turned for a moment, as Ruggiero
would have said, and afterwards she had understood the truth. He had
heard many stories of the kind from his companions. Women were
changeable, of course. Every one knew that. And why? Because men were
bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made. He did not
love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he
was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons
for the passion that devoured him. Since he felt it, it was real. What
other proof of its reality could he need? It never entered his head to
ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less
rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.
And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by
himself. Beatrice could never love him. The mere idea was absurd beyond
words. How could she love a common man like himself? But she did not
love San Miniato either, and unless something were done quickly she
would be forced into marrying him. Of course a mother could make her
daughter marry whom she pleased. Ruggiero knew that. The only way of
saving Beatrice was to make an end of San Miniato, and that was a very
simple matter indeed. San Miniato would be but a poor thing in those
great hands of Ruggiero's, though he was a well grown man and still
young and certainly stronger than the average of fine gentlemen.
Of course it was a great sin to kill San Miniato. Murder was always a
sin, and people who did murder and died unabsolved always went straight
into eternal fire. But the eternal fire did not impress Ruggiero much.
In the first place Beatrice would be free and quite happy on earth, and
in the natural course of things would go to Heaven afterwards, since she
could have no part whatever in San Miniato's destruction. Secondly, San
Miniato would be with Ruggiero in the flames, and throughout all
eternity Ruggiero would have the undying satisfaction of having brought
him there without any one's help. That would pay for any amount of
burning, in the simple and uncompromising view of the future state which
he took.
So he sat on the block of stone and listened to the sea and thought it
all over quietly, feeling very happy and proud, since he was to be the
means of saving the woman he loved. What more could any man ask, if he
could not be loved, than to give his soul and his body for such a good
and just end? Perhaps Ruggiero's way of looking at the present and
future state might have puzzled more than one theologian on that
particular afternoon.
While Ruggiero was deciding matters of life and death in his own way,
with absolute certainty of carrying out his intentions, matters were not
proceeding smoothly on the Marchesa's terrace. The midday breakfast had
passed off fairly well, though Beatrice had again grown silent, and the
conversation was carried on by San Miniato with a little languid help
from the Marchesa. The latter was apparently neither disturbed nor out
of humour in consequence of the little scene which had taken place in
the morning. She took a certain amount of opposition on Beatrice's part
as a matter of course, and was prepared to be very long-suffering with
the girl's moods, partly because it was less trouble than to do battle
with her, and partly because it was really wiser. Beatrice must grow
used to the idea of marriage and must be gradually accustomed to the
daily companionship of San Miniato. The Marchesa, in her wisdom, was
well aware that Beatrice would never see as much of him when he was her
husband as she did now that they were only engaged. San Miniato would
soon take up his own life of amusement by day and night, in his own
fashion, and Beatrice on her side would form her own friendships and her
own ties as best pleased her, subject only to occasional interference
from the Count, when he chanced to be in a jealous humour, or when it
happened that Beatrice was growing intimate with some lady who had once
known him too well.
After breakfast, as usual, they drank coffee and smoked upon the
terrace, which Beatrice was beginning to hate for its unpleasant
associations. Before long, however, she disappeared, leaving her mother
and San Miniato together.
The latter talked carelessly and agreeably at first, but insensibly led
the conversation to the subject of money in general and at last to the
question of Beatrice's marriage settlement in particular. He was very
tactful and would probably have reached this desired point in the
conversation in spite of the Marchesa, had she avoided it. But she was
in the humour to discuss the matter and let him draw her on without
opposition. She had thought it all over and had determined what she
should do. San Miniato was surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by
her extreme clearness of perception when they actually arrived at the
main discussion.
"You are aware, San Miniato mio," she was saying, "that my poor husband
was a very rich man, and you are of course familiar--you who know
everything--with the laws of inheritance in our country. As our dear
Beatrice is an only child, the matter would have been simple, even if he
had not made a will. I should have had my widow's portion and she would
have had all the rest, as she ultimately will."
"Of course, dearest Marchesa. I understood that. But it is most kind of
you to tell me about the details. In Beatrice's interest--and her
interests will of course be my first concern in life--"
"Of course, carissimo," said the Marchesa, interrupting him. "Can I
doubt it? Should I have chosen you out of so many to be my son-in-law if
I had not understood from the first all the nobility and uprightness of
your fine character?"
"How good you are to me!" exclaimed San Miniato, who mistrusted the
preamble, but was careful not to show it.
"Not at all, dear friend! I am never good. It is such horrible trouble
to be either good or bad, as you would know if you had my nerves. But we
were speaking of my poor husband's will. One half of his fortune of
course he was obliged to leave to his daughter. He could dispose of the
other half as he pleased. I believe it was that admirable man, the first
Napoleon, who invented that just law, was it not? Yes, I was sure. My
husband left the other half to me, provided I should not marry--he was a
very thoughtful man! But if I did, the money was to go to Beatrice at
once. If I did not, however, I was--as I really am--quite free to
dispose of it as I pleased."
"How very just!" exclaimed San Miniato.
"Do you think so? Yes. But further, I wish to tell you that he set aside
a sum out of what he left Beatrice, to be her dowry--just a trifle, you
know, to be paid to her husband on the marriage, as is customary. But
all the remainder, compared with which the dowry itself is
insignificant, does not pass into her hands until she is of age, and of
course remains entirely in her control."
"I understand," said San Miniato in a tone which betrayed some
nervousness in spite of his best efforts to be calm, for he had
assuredly not understood before.
"Of course you understand, dearest friend," answered the Marchesa. "You
are so clever and you have such a good head for affairs, which I never
had. I assure you I never could understand anything about money. It is
all so mysterious and complicated! Give me one of your cigarettes, I am
quite exhausted with talking."
"I think you do yourself injustice, dearest Marchesa," said San Miniato,
offering her his open case. "You have, I think, a remarkably good
understanding for business. I really envy you."
The Marchesa smiled languidly, and slowly inhaled the smoke from the
cigarette as he held the match for her.
"I have no doubt you learned a great deal from the Marchese," continued
San Miniato. "I must say that he displayed a keenness for his
daughter's interests such as merits the sincerest admiration. Take the
case, which happily has not arisen, dearest friend. Suppose that
Beatrice should discover that she had married a mere fortune-hunter. The
man would be entirely in your power and hers. It is admirably arranged."
"Admirably," assented the Marchesa without a smile. "It would be
precisely as you say. Beyond a few hundred thousand francs which he
would control as the dowry, he could touch nothing. He would be wholly
dependent on his wife and his mother-in-law. You see my dear husband
wished to guard against even the most improbable cases. How thankful I
am that heaven has sent Beatrice such a man as you!"
"Always good! Always kind!" San Miniato bent his head a little lower
than was necessary as he looked at his watch. He had something in his
eyes which he preferred to hide.
Just then Beatrice's step was heard on the tiled floor of the
sitting-room, and neither the Marchesa nor San Miniato thought it worth
while to continue the conversation with the danger of being overheard.
So the afternoon wore on, bright and cloudless, and when the air grew
cool Beatrice and her mother drove out together along the Massa road,
and far up the hill towards Sant' Agata. They talked little, for it is
not easy to talk in the rattling little carriages which run so fast
behind the young Turkish horses, and the roads are not always good, even
in summer. But San Miniato was left to his own devices and went and
bathed, walking out into the water as far as he could and then standing
still to enjoy the coolness. Ruggiero saw him from the breakwater and
watched him with evident interest. The Count, as has been said before,
could not swim a stroke, and was probably too old to learn. But he liked
the sea and bathing none the less, as Ruggiero knew. He stayed outside
the bathing-house fully half an hour, and then disappeared.
"It was not worth while," said Ruggiero to himself, "since you are to
take another bath so soon."
Then he looked at the sun and saw that it lacked half an hour of sunset,
and he went to see that all was ready for the evening. He and
Bastianello launched the old tub between them, and Ruggiero ballasted
her with two heavy sacks of pebbles just amidships, where they would be
under his feet.
"Better shift them a little more forward," said Bastianello. "There will
be three passengers, you said."
"We do not know," answered Ruggiero. "If there are three I can shift
them quickly when every one is aboard."
So Bastianello said nothing more about it, and they got the kettle and
the torches and stowed them away in the bows.
"You had better go home and cook supper," said Ruggiero. "I will come
when it is dark, for then the others will have eaten and I will leave
two to look out."
Bastianello went ashore on the pier and his brother pulled the skiff out
till he was alongside of the sailboat, to which he made her fast. He
busied himself with trifles until it grew dark and there was no one on
the pier. Then he got into the boat again, taking a bit of strong line
with him, a couple of fathoms long, or a little less. Stooping down he
slipped the line under the bags of ballast and made a timber-hitch with
the end, hauling it well taut. With the other end he made a bowline
round the thwart on which he was sitting, and on which he must sit to
pull the bow oar in the evening. He tied the knot wide enough to admit
of its running freely from side to side of the boat, and he stowed the
bight between the ballast and the thwart, so that it lay out of sight in
the bottom. The two sacks of pebbles together weighed, perhaps, from a
half to three-quarters of a hundredweight.
When all was ready he went ashore and shouted for the Cripple and the
Son of the Fool, who at once appeared out of the dusk, and were put on
board the sailboat by him. Then he pulled himself ashore and moored the
tub to a ring in the pier. It was time for supper. Bastianello would be
waiting for him, and Ruggiero went home.
As the evening shadows fell, Beatrice was seated at the piano in the
sitting-room playing softly to herself such melancholy music as she
could remember, which was not much. It gave her relief, however, for she
could at least try and express something of what would not and could
not be put into words. She was not a musician, but she played fairly
well, and this evening there was something in the tones she drew from
the instrument which many a musician might have envied. She threw into
her touch all that she was suffering and it was a faint satisfaction to
her to listen to the lament of the sad notes as she struck them and they
rose and fell and died away.
The door opened and San Miniato entered. She heard his footstep and
recognised it, and immediately she struck a succession of loud chords
and broke into a racing waltz tune.
"You were playing something quite different, when I came to the door,"
he said, sitting down beside her.
"I thought you might prefer something gay," she answered without looking
at him and still playing on.
San Miniato did not answer the remark, for he distrusted her and fancied
she might have a retort ready. Her tongue was often sharper than he
liked, though he was not sensitive on the whole.
"Will you sing something to me?" he asked, as she struck the last chords
of the waltz.
"Oh yes," she replied with an alacrity that surprised him, "I feel
rather inclined to sing. Mamma," she cried, as the Marchesa entered the
room, "I am going to sing to my betrothed. Is it not touching?"
"It is very good of you," said San Miniato.
The Marchesa smiled and sank into a chair. Beatrice struck a few chords
and then, looking at the Count with half closed eyes, began to sing the
pathetic little song of Chiquita.
"On dit que l'on te marie
Tu sais que j'en vais mourir--"
Her voice was very sweet and true and there was real pathos in the words
as she sang them. But as she went on, San Miniato noticed first that she
repeated the second line, and then that she sang all the remaining
melody to it, singing it over and over again with an amazing variety of
expression, angrily, laughingly, ironically and sadly.
"--Tu sais que j'en vais mourir!"
She ended, with a strange burst of passion.
She rose suddenly to her feet and shut the lid down sharply upon the
key-board.
"How perfectly we understand each other, do we not?" she said sweetly, a
moment later, and meeting San Miniato's eyes.
"I hope we always shall," he answered quietly, pretending not to have
understood.
She left him with her mother and went out upon the terrace and looked
down at the black water deep below and at the lights of the yachts and
the far reflections of the stars upon the smooth bay, and at the distant
light on Capo Miseno. The night air soothed her a little, and when
dinner was announced and the three sat down to the table at the other
end of the terrace her face betrayed neither discontent nor emotion, and
she joined in the conversation indifferently enough, so that San Miniato
and her mother thought her more than usually agreeable.
At the appointed time the two porters appeared with the Marchesa's
chair, and Teresina brought in wraps and shawls, quite useless on such a
night, and the little party left the room in procession, as they had
done a few days earlier when they started for Tragara. But their mood
was very different to-night. Even the Marchesa forgot to complain and
let herself be carried down without the least show of resistance. On the
first excursion none of them had quite understood the other, and all of
them except poor Ruggiero had been in the best of humours. Now they all
understood one another too well, and they were silent and uneasy when
together. They hardly knew why they were going, and San Miniato almost
regretted having persuaded them. Doubtless the crabs were numerous along
the rocky shore and they would catch hundreds of them before midnight.
Doubtless also, the said crustaceans would be very good to eat on the
following day. But no one seemed to look forward to the delight of the
sport or of the dish afterwards, excepting Teresina and Bastianello who
whispered together as they followed last. Ruggiero went in front
carrying a lantern, and when they reached the pier it was he who put the
party on board, made the skiff fast astern of the sailboat and jumped
upon the stern, himself the last of all.
The night breeze was blowing in gusts off the shore, as it always does
after a hot day in the summer, and Ruggiero took advantage of every
puff of wind, while the men pulled in the intervals of calm. The
starlight was very bright and the air so clear that the lights of Naples
shone out distinctly, the beginning of the chain of sparks that lies
like a necklace round the sea from Posilippo to Castellamare. The air
was soft and dry, so that there was not the least moisture on the
gunwale of the boat. Every one was silent.
Then on a sudden there was a burst of music. San Miniato had prepared it
as a surprise, and the two musicians had passed unnoticed where they sat
in the bows, hidden from sight by the foresail so soon as the boat was
under way. Only a mandolin and a guitar, but the best players of the
whole neighbourhood. It was very pretty, and the attempt to give
pleasure deserved, perhaps, more credit than it received.
"It is charming, dearest friend!" was all the Marchesa vouchsafed to
say, when the performers paused.
Beatrice sat stony and unmoved, and spoke no word. She said to herself
that San Miniato was again attempting to prepare the scenery for a
comedy, and she could have laughed to think that he should still delude
himself so completely. Teresina would have clapped her hands in applause
had she dared, but she did not, and contented herself with trying to see
into Bastianello's eyes. She was very near him as she sat furthest
forward in the stern-sheets and he pulled the starboard stroke oar,
leaning forward upon the loom, as the gust filled the sails and the boat
needed no pulling.
"You do not care for the mandolin, Donna Beatrice?" said San Miniato,
with a sort of disappointed interrogation in his voice.
"Have I said that I do not care for it?" asked the young girl
indifferently. "You take too much for granted."
Grim and silent on the stern sat Ruggiero, the tiller in his hand, his
eye on the dark water to landward constantly on the look-out for the
gusts that came down so quickly and which could deal treacherously with
a light craft like the one he was steering. But he had no desire to
upset her to-night, nor even to bring the tiller down on his master's
head. There was to be no bungling about the business he had in hand, no
mistakes and no wasting of lives.
The mandolin tinkled and the guitar strummed vigorously as they neared
Scutari point, vast, black and forbidding in the starlight. But a gloom
had settled upon the party which nothing could dispel. It was as though
the shadow of coming evil had overtaken them and were sweeping along
with them across the dark and silent water. There was something awful in
the stillness under the enormous bluff, as Ruggiero gave the order to
stop pulling and furl the sails, and he himself brought the skiff
alongside by the painter, got in and kept her steady, laying his hand
upon the gunwale of the larger boat. Bastianello stood up to help
Beatrice and Teresina.
"Will you come, Donna Beatrice?" asked San Miniato, wishing with all his
heart that he had never proposed the excursion.
It seemed absurd to refuse after coming so far and the young girl got
into the skiff, taking Ruggiero's hand to steady herself. It did not
tremble to-night as it had trembled a few days ago. Beatrice was glad,
for she fancied that he was recovering from his insane passion for her.
Then San Miniato got over, rather awkwardly as he did everything so
soon as he left the land. Then Teresina jumped down, and last of all
Bastianello. So they shoved off and pulled away into the deep shadow
under the bluffs. There the cliff rises perpendicularly seven hundred
feet out of the water, deeply indented at its base with wave-worn caves
and hollows, but not affording a fast hold anywhere save on the broad
ledge of the single islet of rock from which a high natural arch springs
suddenly across the water to the abrupt precipice which forms the
mountain's base.
Calmly, as though it were an every-day excursion, Ruggiero lighted a
torch and held it out when the boat was alongside of the rocks, showing
the dark green crabs that lay by dozens motionless as though paralysed
by the strong red glare. And Bastianello picked them off and tossed them
into the kettle at his feet, as fast as he could put out his hands to
take them. Teresina tried, too, but one almost bit her tender fingers
and she contented herself with looking on, while San Miniato and
Beatrice silently watched the proceedings from their place in the stern.
Little by little Ruggiero made the boat follow the base of the
precipice, till she was under the natural arch.
"Pardon, Excellency," he said quietly, "but the foreigners think this is
a sight with the torches. If you will go ashore on the ledge, I will
show it you."
The proposal seemed very natural under the circumstances, and as the
operation of picking crabs off the rocks and dropping them into a
caldron loses its interest when repeated many times, Beatrice
immediately assented.
The larger boat was slowly following and the tinkle of the mandolin,
playing waltz music, rang out through the stillness. Ruggiero brought
the skiff alongside of the ledge where it was lowest.
"Get ashore, Bastianello," he said in the same quiet tone. Bastianello
obeyed and stood ready to help Beatrice, who came next.
As she stepped upon the rock Ruggiero raised the torch high with one
hand, so that the red light fell strong and full upon her face, and he
looked keenly at her, his eyes fixing themselves strangely, as she could
see, for she could not help glancing down at him as she stood still
upon the ledge.
"Now Teresina," said Ruggiero, still gazing up at Beatrice.
Teresina grasped Bastianello's hand and sprang ashore, happy as a child
at the touch. San Miniato was about to follow and had already risen from
his seat. But with a strong turn of his hand Ruggiero made the stern of
the skiff swing out across the narrow water that is twenty fathoms deep
between the mountain and the islet.
"What are you doing?" asked San Miniato impatiently. "Let me land!"
But Ruggiero pushed the boat's head off and she floated free between the
rocks.
"You and I can take a bath together," said the sailor very quietly. "The
water is very deep here."
San Miniato started. There was a sudden change in Ruggiero's face.
"Land me!" cried the Count in a commanding tone.
"In hell!" answered the sailor's deep voice.
At the same moment he dropped the torch, and seizing the bags of
ballast that lay between his feet, hove them overboard, springing across
the thwarts towards San Miniato as he let them go. The line slipped to
the side as the heavy weight sank and the boat turned over just as the
strong man's terrible fingers closed round his enemy's throat in the
darkness. San Miniato's death cry rent the still air--there was a little
splashing, and all was done.
* * * * *
So I have told my tale, such as it is, how Ruggiero of the Children of
the King gave himself body and soul to free Beatrice Granmichele from a
life's bondage. She wore mourning a whole year for her affianced
husband, but the mourning in her heart was for the strong, brave,
unreasoning man, who, utterly unloved, had given all for her sake, in
this world and the next.
But when the year was over, Bastianello married Teresina, and took her
to the home he had made for her by the sea--a home in which she should
be happy, and in which at least there can never be want, for Beatrice
has settled money on them both, and they are safe from sordid poverty,
at all events.
The Marchesa's nerves were terribly shaken by the tragedy, but she has
recovered wonderfully and still fans herself and smokes countless
cigarettes through the long summer afternoon.
Of those left, Bastianello and Beatrice are the most changed--both,
perhaps, for the better. The sailor is graver and sterner than before,
but he still has the gentleness which was never his brother's. Beatrice
has not yet learned the great lesson of love in her own heart, but she
knows and will never forget what love can grow to be in another, for she
has fathomed its deepest depth.
And now you will tell me that Ruggiero did wrong and was a great sinner,
and a murderer, and a suicide, and old Luigione is sure that he is
burning in unquenchable fire. And perhaps he is, though that is a
question neither you nor I can well decide. But one thing I can say of
him, and that you cannot deny. He was a man, strong, whole-hearted,
willing to give all, as he gave it, without asking. And perhaps if some
of us could be like Ruggiero in all but his end, we should be better
than we are, and truer, and more worthy to win the love of woman and
better able to keep it. And that is all I have to say. But when you
stand upon the ledge by Scutari, if you ever say a prayer, say one for
those two who suffered on that spot. Beatrice does sometimes, though no
one knows it, and prayers like hers are heard, perhaps, and answered.