Читать книгу Donna Teresa - Frances Mary Peard - Страница 3

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It was sirocco in Rome; sirocco which, as every one knows, brings out a damp ooze on the pavement, and makes the hills yet more slippery for the overladen horses and mules; sirocco which disposes man and woman to take peevish views of life, especially if they have no work on which to fasten thought; sirocco, in fine, hot, baleful, depressing, sapping the strength of one and the energy of another, a universal excuse for whatever untoward may befall a Roman on the days when it makes itself felt.

In spite of this languor, however, the young Marchesa di Sant’ Eustachio, and her sister Sylvia Brodrick, were walking briskly along the street which, broken into three names and many hills, stretches the long distance from the end of the Pincio to the foot of Santa Maria Maggiore. There was little likeness between the sisters, in spite of strangers asserting that it was to be found. The marchesa, or Donna Teresa as she preferred to be called—for although no such title, as a title, actually exists, it is given by courtesy to Italian women of rank in place of the ‘signora’—was in mourning, and her face, while intelligent, was not beautiful. But Sylvia’s almost deserved the word. A critical observer might have taken exception to a certain absence of variety, a want of play about the pretty features; that allowed for, the most grudging would have been unable to deny that the features in themselves were charming, and the colouring delightful. Her dress was absolutely neat, though there was nothing in it particularly to admire, and perhaps something inharmonious in the lines.

Donna Teresa was the talker, and as she was in the best of spirits, her talk was eager, and she laughed at small things which would have scarcely amused her unless she held some inward cause for rejoicing. She laughed at the placards on the walls, at the goldfish in their bowls. There was not an old stone built into a wall, not a bright cavern of vegetables, not a chestnut roaster stooping over his rusty tripod and quickening dull embers with fan of turkey feathers, but she noticed, and pointed them out gaily. Sirocco might blow, she cared nothing. For the first time since she became a woman, she was rejoicing in the breeziness of freedom, the bliss of living her own life, of forming plans, and of carrying them out with no one to say her nay.

She had been very young—too young—when she met the marchese at Florence, and, unfortunately, insisted upon marrying him. Three miserable years followed, he being disappointed in two matters, the amount of her fortune, and the recoil which she experienced from his religion. As for her, she was disappointed in everything, and shocked in a great deal, so that when he unexpectedly died, she felt rather relief than grief. Then she blamed herself for the sensation, and in one of the moments of rash remorse to which she was always liable, offered to remain at Florence with the marchesa, his mother. The old lady had been fairly kind to her, and Teresa had a notion that if she had been a more forbearing wife, her husband might have been a better man. Whether the idea were true or mistaken, it haunted her, and gave her two more years, if not of such acute misery, at any rate of a bondage irksome beyond words. The old marchesa had been a power in her youth, and in age ruled her house as once she had ruled society, caring for no visitors except priests, treating Teresa as a lost heretic; untidy, unpunctual, and recognising neither right of solitude nor cultivation of gifts in her daughter-in-law.

How long the girl—for she was still little more in years—would have continued to reproach herself and to endure, is difficult to decide, but it is certain that by the end of the years her first exalted ideas of expiation had lost freshness and strength, and were taking refuge in obstinacy. Happily, for her, two things came about. Her brother-in-law, the marchesa’s second son, developed a passion for travel, and his wife and children were ready and anxious to make the Palazzo Sant’ Eustachio their home. At the same time Teresa heard that her grandmother and sister were coming for the winter to Rome, and wanted her to join them. She jumped at the opportunity, had a stormy interview with the old marchesa, left Florence, as she hoped, for ever, and renouncing palaces and the threadbare state belonging to an impoverished family, found herself, to her unbounded joy, in a small apartment in Rome with her grandmother and sister.

They were all poor together, and their apartment had no pretensions to grandeur; but Teresa, whose artistic longings had been cramped and even smothered in her Florentine rooms, was wild with joy at finding herself able to pull the furniture about as she pleased, and to surround herself with flowers, books, and pictures at will. Her energy leapt to life again, and her companions were content to allow her to exercise it as actively as she chose. She was a beneficent housekeeper, for she walked long distances to get the best salad, the best cream, or the best maritozzi. She scolded Nina, the good-natured careless untidy servant, who adored her; she dusted books, bargained, painted, and insisted upon her sister seeing Rome and Roman functions conscientiously. It was with this aim that she was conducting her to the church of San Martino in Monte, that day in festa.

The difference between the two sisters became more marked as they walked along the pavement, and now it was to the advantage of Teresa, for she carried herself with a light grace which was yet firm and decided, while Sylvia wavered, and seldom knew on which side to pass the people she met. Teresa’s face, again, changed expression rapidly, and when she spoke was lit with eager interest, while Sylvia’s remained placid, and if at times her eye became anxious, it never brightened. Still, she was unusually pretty. She adored Teresa without in the least understanding her, and her mind lumbered heavily after the freakish darts of imagination in which this other—who had suffered enough to crush a less elastic nature—revelled. Generally Sylvia was unconscious that she did not understand, but there were times when a remark of Teresa’s, flung and forgotten, would leave her painfully struggling to catch its hidden meaning, so that her very affection kept her as it were on the strain of tiptoe.

When they had passed the heavy leathern curtain at the door of San Martino, raised for them by one of the many clamorous beggars who rattled their tins outside, they saw the large church crowded with such a shuffling and shifting throng, that it was difficult to find standing-room except at the back or in the aisles, and Donna Teresa was obliged to skirt the congregation and pilot her less capable sister until they reached the steps leading to the choir, where, although there was no seat, they could lean against a pillar for support, and, as Sylvia thankfully reflected, thus avoid contact with the children, whose dirt and rags left her quite indifferent to the splendour of their eyes, and to a certain unkempt artistic force. Such a crowd as filled San Martino was incomparably more picturesque than the straight rows of worshippers in an English church. Some stood, some sat, at intervals all knelt; and the broken headline, the strong contrasts, the columns and dim distances, the splashes of vivid colour sharply accentuated against a somewhat misty background, the faces, often remarkable and seldom insignificant, gave Donna Teresa, well accustomed as she was to such sights, an immediate gratification. Sylvia, meanwhile, concentrated her full attention upon the function. A cardinal officiated, and a group of priests were assisting under the direction of a short fat man, whose duty it was to instruct each what he should do—to pull one and push another into place, to whisper how the book was to be held, to indicate to the cardinal where he should read, to show the boy-server where to stand for the censing, and when to hand the censer to the cardinal; at all these varied movements Sylvia Brodrick stared with a riveted attention which assured her sister that she was interested. She was, therefore, the more amazed when Sylvia turned upon her with a whisper which was almost a cry—

“Let us go! Please let us go! I can’t bear it!”

Donna Teresa was always prompt. She immediately edged her way out, asking no questions until they reached more open space at the end of the church, where her quick eye caught sight of a vacant chair.

“Sit down, Sylvia. What is the matter? Are you ill?”

The other shook her head.

“I couldn’t stay, it was too dreadful!”

She spoke in a frightened voice, and Teresa flung a hasty glance round to see what had alarmed her.

“Do tell me,” she said encouragingly.

“Oh, all,” said Sylvia sighing. “That cardinal sitting on a stool like a red idol, having his clothes pulled about and arranged, and that little fat man. All!”

Teresa was half relieved, half provoked.

“Was that it?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I thought you were interested.”

“I couldn’t bear it,” said Sylvia dolorously. “But if you really like to stay, I can go home by myself of course.”

Donna Teresa scarcely heard the words; her vigorous, somewhat impatient personality found itself every now and then brought up suddenly and unexpectedly against what could only be compared to a dead wall in her sister’s nature. She resented it, and then, as usual, smitten with remorse, and acknowledging some emotion which she was sure was more delicate and subtile than her own, began impetuously to carry out Sylvia’s wishes.

“Dear, we will go together,” she said, “only I am afraid we must get back to the big entrance. You needn’t look at poor Cardinal Simone, you know,” she added, her smile broadening as she noticed that Sylvia was indeed keeping her head carefully turned in an opposite direction. The sisters were only able to make slow way, for the throng was thick, and Teresa could never help becoming alertly interested in what was about her. She moved on, however, determinedly, until, when pushing out the heavy leathern door-pad, a man jostled her rudely, passed, and ran down the steps. Teresa, sure of what had happened to her, cried, “Oh!” and felt for her purse. It was gone. She exclaimed hastily to Sylvia, “There is Mrs Scott, join her,” and flew after the thief, who was already out of sight.

By the time she reached the corner he was not far away, and her light steps quickly overtook him. He glanced over his shoulder, hesitated, and when she exclaimed indignantly, “You have my purse!” held it out silently. Teresa caught it, but hers was not a nature to let wrong-doing go free, and she promptly appealed to the bystanders. A crowd in Rome will gather with inconceivable swiftness, so that in a moment a dozen persons were hanging round, by no means actively engaged in assisting law and order, rather, indeed, sympathising with the other side, but sufficiently amused and curious to see what would come of this accusation by a young and solitary lady, to put, for the moment, a few apparently undesigned obstacles in the way of escape. These would have soon vanished if two municipal guardie had not unexpectedly found themselves where they were wanted, and to them with instinctive though often disappointed confidence, Teresa breathlessly appealed.

“This man has just stolen my purse as I came out from San Martino,” she said.

“But the signorina holds it,” returned one of the guardie, glancing at it indifferently.

“As you see,” broke in the young man violently. “I pick up this devil of a purse in the church, the signorina pursues, I hand it to her at once, and this is how she repays me! Ecco!” and he opened his hands and looked round insolently. Teresa was becoming more angry.

“He gave it to me—yes! But it is probable he first emptied it. As you see,” she added in her turn, holding it out after brief examination.

“Signorina—” the guardia began again, shrugging his shoulders.

She stopped him haughtily—

“The Marchesa di Sant’ Eustachio, if you please.”

The mention of her name caused a visible stir of interest, and the police looked uneasy. The one who had not spoken drew her on one side.

“Eccellenza,” he said civilly, “it is all doubtless as you say; but, permit me, had you anything in your purse which you could identify?”

“I had next to nothing. Four or five lire, perhaps. But how can you doubt, when it is so perfectly clear?”

“A hundred pardons, eccellenza; it is a great pity you did not catch him in the act. Then! As it is—you heard his story—who knows?”

And he also spread his hands.

By this time Teresa was pale, and very angry indeed, for she saw that the guardie were afraid.

“If you let him go,” she remarked quietly, “I shall certainly report you.”

The officer still hesitated, and the situation was becoming embarrassing, when a man’s voice said in English—

“Can I be of any use?”

The marchesa turned impetuously.

“Oh, Mr Wilbraham, I am so glad to see you! Please back me up.”

“Of course, of course,” said Wilbraham hastily. “Let me first get you out of this crowd,” he added, looking round him with an Englishman’s horror of anything approaching to a scene.

“Not yet,” said Teresa. “That man took my purse in the most barefaced manner, and they are evidently afraid of him, and inclined to let him go.”

“I’ll see to it, only let me put you into a cab.”

“Thank you,” she was beginning stiffly, when the guardia once more came to her side.

“With your excellency’s permission we will take his name and address, and keep him under supervision. We can then lay our hands upon him if required.”

“It is not likely that he will give you the right particulars,” said Donna Teresa scornfully.

“Eccellenza, it is a mere form. He is very well known.”

“As you please. I cannot oblige you to do your duty, only you must understand that I shall complain to the questura.”

She turned sharply away, without flinging a glance upon Wilbraham, but when she had gone a few yards she heard one woman say to another—

“Ah, they would not arrest him—not they!”

Teresa stopped.

“Who is he?”

The woman hesitated.

“Eh, madama?”

“So you are afraid, too!” said Teresa imperiously. “Don’t you see it is over?”

The second woman, who was younger, broke in with an expressive gesture.

“Eh, that it true! It is over, poor fellow, thanks to the Madonna! As for who he is, he is the Cesare who shot his sister a little while ago.”

“His sister!” repeated Donna Teresa, shocked. “Do you mean that he murdered her?”

“Murdered! ma che!” said the woman indignantly. “He loved her. He was an excellent brother. As for her”—she shrugged her shoulders—“she was no good, and would not listen, so he shot her—and him. Only, unluckily, he was not killed.”

Teresa, feeling that she was suddenly rubbing shoulders with a tragedy, had forgotten her own annoyance and herself. She asked quickly—

“But why was not this Cesare punished?”

“For what, madama? He was an excellent brother.”

“And my husband said they made the court ring when he was acquitted,” chimed in the second woman.

There was a momentary silence before Teresa became aware of a voice at her elbow—

“Hadn’t we better—”

“Why does he pick pockets? Is he so poor?” she demanded abruptly, paying no attention.

“Oh, it was not he, madama,” said the younger woman, with a laugh; “it was not he. Probably he picked it up; what did he say? As for being poor—yes. But he would not steal, not Cesare!”

Donna Teresa, asking no more questions, walked, frowning, towards the church. Wilbraham, relieved that this part of the episode was ended, remarked—

“You won’t find Miss Brodrick.”

She stopped with a laugh.

“I had forgotten. I suppose I was walking mechanically. Where is she then?”

“She drove away with a lady, and asked me to look after you. I wish I had reached you a little earlier.”

“Oh, it did well enough,” said the marchesa absently.

“I hope you didn’t lose much?”

“What you would call nothing. I ought to have been more careful, for the churches swarm with pickpockets, and the police are quite useless, as you saw.”

“Well, certainly they couldn’t be called energetic.”

“I thought you took their view of the case?” But the instant she had shot her little dart she looked at him, and laughed frankly again. “Perhaps it was as well. Perhaps he didn’t take it, after all.”

“I fancied you were quite sure?”

“Oh—sure? You were all so lukewarm,” retorted Teresa. “Besides, I have just heard his history. Not long ago he shot his sister.”

“Accidentally?”

“No; deliberately.”

“The villain!” said Wilbraham. “And is still unhung!”

“Those women considered him a hero. I am afraid she wasn’t very nice.”

There was a silence, which he broke by saying—

“I should think that had disposed of your scruples.”

“I believe, on the contrary, it has set them going,” said Donna Teresa, gazing reflectively at the ground. She exclaimed impetuously the next moment—“Do you really believe that any man who had shared in such an awful tragedy could go about the world picking pockets? Think what he must carry with him! Think what his thoughts must be! Though he was acquitted, it wasn’t from any doubt that he did the deed. And even if he is able to persuade himself that he was right, he can’t believe it always; there must be dark dreadful hours when her face comes between him and everything he looks at. At the best, to have been her executioner! I wish—oh, I do wish I had not felt so certain he was the man!”

Her voice trembled slightly, and Wilbraham’s face grew a little hard.

“I should expect the greater to include the less,” he returned shortly; “and I wouldn’t waste my compunctions if I were you.”

She glanced at him with a change of expression.

“You believe I was right in my first idea?”

“Undoubtedly.”

She stopped.

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m off to the police office, the questura, or whatever you call it.”

“Do you want me?”

“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Wilbraham, who had just been congratulating himself on having got her out of the scrimmage.

“Very well,” she returned, looking at him with a smile he did not understand. “Then you must turn down that street. But don’t be too hard on Cesare.”