Читать книгу Donna Teresa - Frances Mary Peard - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Donna Teresa walked thoughtfully along the Quattro Fontane. Had she been asked for her thoughts, she would have said they were wondering how Wilbraham, left to himself, would thread the difficulties of the questura, but, in truth, her mind was filled with problematic questionings as to Cesare and his character. Her eye, trained to observation, held his features pretty faithfully. He was young—probably no older than she herself—and pale, with a long face, drooping nose, and thin resolute jaw. The head was wide across the forehead, the brows reached closely towards each other, and between them that slight wrinkle was already graven which usually comes only to older men. Teresa thought, and her thought hesitated. There rose within her, as there often rose, a vast pity for the poor of Italy, over-taxed, miserable, and sometimes desperate. Italy is not the only country where bribery and corruption help the rich, and leave the poor defenceless, but in other countries the effect is not, perhaps, as yet so apparent, and as yet there seems no such awakening of the national conscience as might give hope for the future. There is revolt seething in the lower classes, the revolt of misery. What is far more dangerous is the apparent absence of the sense of righteous justice in the upper. An upright man is apt to end by being kicked out of his department.

Teresa knew something of these matters; her emotions were swift and impulsive; she had many times been reproached for them, and it was true that they had so often led her into pitfalls that she dreaded their guidance. This fear it was which gripped her when speaking to Wilbraham, and induced her to resign matters into his hand. He, she reflected, was a man, had common-sense—it looked out all over him—he had better do what he considered to be right, and she had better stand aside and let him do it. And yet if she were wrong?

She passed the great block of the Barberini, and the piazza with the Triton, went along the Sistina, and, turning up the Porta Pinciana hill, presently reached her own door. Neither entrance nor stairs were inviting, for the house was old, and had not kept pace with the general embellishment of Rome; but the porter, old also, made up in smiles what he wanted in tidiness, and now hastened to assure her that the signora and signorina were both at home. Teresa was still grave as she climbed the weary stairs, but when she had turned the key of their flat, her face grew suddenly radiant. The wonder and joy of finding herself with her own people, the intimate delight of owning something which was, to all intents and purposes, home, the exhilaration of liberty, were as strong as, or stronger than, they had been in the first breathless moments of possession, strong enough to sweep all else out of her mind.

An old lady, very small and slight, sat in a low chair knitting. She had a charming face, sweet and yet shrewd, with clear blue eyes, a rose-blush complexion, and wavy white hair. As Teresa came in, she stretched out a welcoming hand.

“So here you are, my dear child,” she said. “Sylvia is disturbed about you. Sylvia!”

The girl came hurriedly. Seen thus, without her hat, she looked even prettier than before. The lines of her face were delicate, and there was an appealing expression in her eyes to which a man could scarcely be indifferent. She rushed to kiss her sister.

“Oh, Teresa, I hope you did not mind! I thought I ought to have stayed, but Mrs Scott was certain you would rather I went with her, and Mr Wilbraham said he would go after you, and—and—”

“Suppose we hear what Teresa has to say?” put in Mrs Brodrick drily.

“Of course you were right to go,” said the marchesa, smiling at her sister. “You could not have done any good by staying.”

“Did you get your purse?” demanded her grandmother.

“Yes, I did—in a way. It was empty, though,” added Teresa, sitting down and taking off her hat.

“Then it was the man?”

“I suppose so. I thought so. The police were as unsatisfactory as usual, and Mr Wilbraham has gone to the questura to stir them up.” Her face darkened again, and she added inconsequently, “I rather wish he hadn’t.”

“Oh, let him,” returned her grandmother smiling. “A thief ought to be punished.”

Teresa looked at her reflectively.

“I suppose so,” she repeated. “Certainly he had the purse.”

“Proof enough, I should say.”

“Yes. Oh, he must have taken it,” she added quickly, with the air of one who was seeking confidence. “But he is a man with a story. He shot his sister some little time ago. On purpose, if you understand.”

Sylvia cried out, but Mrs Brodrick had lived a long life.

“That is very terrible,” she said gravely.

“Terrible. Granny,”—Teresa knelt by her grandmother’s chair—“you know things. Do you believe a man could do that, and afterwards go about the streets picking pockets? He is young, remember. Could he?”

Perhaps Mrs Brodrick’s beliefs reached higher and lower than Teresa’s. She hesitated.

“What did he say about it himself?”

“He said he picked up the purse in the church.”

“Oh, but, Teresa—” cried Sylvia, squeezing her hands together, and tripping over incoherent words, “he—yes—oh, he did! Now I remember looking back just before we went out, and I saw a man stooping down and couldn’t think why. It was—yes, indeed, of course it was—that very man!”

Teresa turned pale. Naturally generous in all her thoughts and impulses, the dismal experiences of her life had added a more acute horror of injustice than often belongs to women. She said in a low voice—

“I must go to the questura instantly.”

“Wait half an hour. You are so tired,” urged Mrs Brodrick. But the marchesa had sprung to her feet.

“How can I?” she cried impatiently.

“I don’t know what steps Mr Wilbraham may have taken; but it is all my fault. I accused the man publicly, and have no right to keep him in that position a minute later than necessary. I wish I had left the horrid purse alone. His eyes have haunted me ever since.”

Mrs Brodrick, slower to move, still looked doubtful.

“I don’t like your going alone. People will talk.”

“Let them!” Donna Teresa drew herself up with a sudden hardening of her face. It softened again as she caught her grandmother’s look. “Dear, remember I am going to forget all about the marchesa. I have no children to be hurt by what I do, and don’t care the least little bit in the world for what may be said behind my back. But I care horribly for having made an unjust accusation, and it must be unsaid without delay.”

“Go, then,” said Mrs Brodrick, smiling again. She added hesitatingly, “You might take Sylvia.”

“Sylvia would not like it. I’ll be extravagant and take a botte instead.”

“Here are English letters.”

“Oh, let them wait.”

She spoke from the door, and looked back to kiss her hand before running down the grey stone staircase, and calling one of the little open carriages with which Rome abounds. They are cheap enough, but she rarely indulged in such luxuries, for the marchese, her husband, had squandered what he could of her small fortune, and her grandmother’s income was ridiculously inadequate to all that she contrived to do with it. Just now, however, Teresa would not have begrudged a larger outlay, for she was on thorns at the idea of having committed an injustice. She searched the pavements anxiously for Wilbraham, but had gone down the crowded Tritone, and passed the Trevi, before she caught sight of him. She stopped the carriage, stepped out, and dismissed it, even at this moment amusedly conscious of Wilbraham’s startled face.

“Well?” she asked quickly.

“I have done all that’s necessary,” he answered with a touch of stiffness. “I don’t think there’s anything more wanted. I worked them up to send to the man’s house, and if he hasn’t bolted, he’ll be arrested.”

“Oh,” cried Teresa despairingly, “then I am too late!”

“Too late? What for?”

“To spare him the disgrace. What he said was true—isn’t it awful? Sylvia saw him pick up the purse, which, of course, the real thief had thrown away. I am so sorry they have sent. Let us go at once.”

Wilbraham did not look pleased. He hated scenes, and still more hated women to be mixed up in them. There was no help for it, however, for Teresa was already walking rapidly in the direction from whence he had come, and of course he had to stick to her.

“They don’t think much of your friend at the questura,” he said drily.

“All the more reason that we should see him through.”

Teresa’s tone was uncompromising. Wilbraham half liked her for it, and was half provoked. It gave him a slightly malicious pleasure to find at the questura that all her fluent and impetuous Italian could not obviate the usual delay. Wilbraham felt it must be his duty to calm her, as she walked with an extraordinary swift grace up and down the room in which they waited; but his efforts failed, and evidently she was neither thinking of herself nor her companion. He, on his part, found it difficult to understand or sympathise with her extreme remorse. Cesare, with his excited, somewhat theatrical gestures, seemed to him a man who, if he had not committed one crime, was probably well up to the throat in others. The very reason which had awakened Teresa’s compassion—that he had been the slayer of his sister—at once destroyed any germ of pity in Wilbraham’s mind; his theory of cause and effect being more direct and more of the nature of a sledgehammer than Teresa’s.

Shown into another room, the marchesa hurried eagerly to a gentleman who was sitting, and who rose courteously.

“The Marchesa di Sant’ Eustachio, I believe?” he said, glancing at the card in his hand. “You have come, doubtless, eccellenza, about this affair of your purse?”

“It was all a mistake. I have come to say how grieved I am,” began Teresa breathlessly. “When I reached home my sister told me she had seen the man pick it up; that was what he said. I am so very, very sorry that I did not believe him.”

The questor looked incredulous.

“She did not speak of this before, however?”

“She had no time. I missed my purse and ran after him. When I reached home she told me. Pray, signore, do me the kindness to send one of your men to tell him that it was a mistake.”

“As to that, he is already here, marchesa. This gentleman!”—he bowed to Wilbraham—“was desirous that no time should be lost, and my own view coincided with his.”

Teresa looked very unhappy.

“May I see him, then? May I tell him how sorry I am? Of course he can be released at once?”

“I regret to say that is impossible. He was violent and resisted my men. They were obliged to handcuff him, and even then he was troublesome. Believe me, that a night in a cell will cool his blood.”

“Oh!” cried Teresa, squeezing her hands in distress, “pray, pray let him go! He was maddened by a false accusation.”

The other coughed significantly.

“Excuse me, marchesa,” he said; “I could tell you a great deal about the fellow, which you do not know and would not guess.”

“I know,” she said, “that he is a most unhappy man.”

“He belongs to the advanced socialist party. He is dangerous.”

“I do not care whether he is dangerous or not,” she returned indignantly, for she was growing angry. “I supposed he was, as your men were so afraid of him. Being a socialist has nothing to do with it; he is here because I accused him falsely, and I don’t wonder that he resisted. You would have done the same.”

The questor shrugged his shoulders stubbornly. Wilbraham believed that he was rejoiced to inflict a humiliation upon an enemy of law and order.

“Possibly,” he assented. “Nevertheless, he must be punished.”

Teresa changed her manner.

“What will be the punishment?” she asked.

“If he did not take the purse, eccellenza, he will have the option of a fine or a few days’ detention.”

“A fine? That might be paid to-day.”

“To-morrow.”

“But I will pay it. I am quite ready to pay it,” she exclaimed eagerly. “Please let him go at once. You would oblige me very greatly.”

The magistrate waved his hand indulgently.

“It is absolutely impossible. The case cannot be dealt with so summarily. The signore will understand that certain formalities have to be gone through,” he added, appealing to the superior intelligence of the masculine mind.

“I think you’d better let it be as he says,” Wilbraham urged, anxious to get her out of the place. “I’ll be here to-morrow morning, and see it well through.”

Teresa might not have heard. She stood considering.

“If,” she said at last gravely—“if you really have not the power to release an innocent man—”

“Innocent possibly as to your purse, marchesa. But he assaulted my officers,” interrupted the questor, stung to retort. “He deserves a heavier punishment.”

She made a slightly incredulous gesture, but the next moment turned to him with a charming smile.

“I am unreasonable, and you must forgive me, signore, because it was really all my fault. Will you treat him as leniently as possible, and tell me when I should be here?”

“Perhaps before midday. Earlier? Who knows!” He spread his hands and bowed. “I will do what I can.”

“I will come at nine,” said the young marchesa decidedly. “And pray let him know at once of my mistake. A thousand thanks.”

She drew herself up with a little touch of the great lady in her manner, which brought a greater deference into the official manner, and at the entrance repeated her intention of being there the next morning. As they walked away, Wilbraham again urged her to leave the matter with him.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked, wounded. “I assure you he shall have justice.”

“He’s had nothing but the other thing so far,” she said sharply. “Thank you. It’s perverse, I know, but I’d rather go myself.”

“Perverse is no word for his opinion of me, granny,” she was saying twenty minutes later. “The truth is I’m always wanting to shock him, and he yearns to call me ‘My dear young lady.’ People who call you that are absolutely insufferable.”

Mrs Brodrick glanced at her.

“He has never said it.”

“It’s on the tip of his tongue. Oh, there are the letters. Have you read them?”

“Teresa!”

“You might—you may! But I didn’t like the marchesa doing it.”

“Ah, the marchesa seems to have often stepped off the path,” said Mrs Brodrick quietly. But her hand shook.

“It was for the good of my soul,” explained Teresa indifferently, “and it did not much matter, because she could not understand English. What’s this?” she added, taking a letter out of a long envelope, and turning it over.

“It looks as if it came from a lawyer.” Her grandmother’s face changed. She saw that Teresa was staring blankly at the sheet, and she was instantly frightened, for, to her, lawyer’s letters invariably preceded some loss of income. Presently Teresa looked up still blankly.

“I think,” she said, drawing a deep breath—“I think there must be some mistake.”

“Lawyers don’t often make mistakes,” said Mrs Brodrick gravely, after a momentary silence in which she braced herself. Teresa was staring at her now, and frowning.

“It is about Sir James Stanton—” she said in a slow changed voice.

“James Stanton!” Mrs Brodrick caught both her wrists. “He has left you something, Teresa! And I who thought it was bad news!”

“Yes, something.” She still spoke mechanically, and her grandmother was surprised at the effect upon her. The next moment she sprang up and flung open the bedroom door. “Sylvia, Sylvia, come here! Come and listen, come and tell me I’m really awake;” but before her sister could answer, she was back and standing before Mrs Brodrick, her hands clasped behind her, and her eyes beginning to shine. “Granny, did I ever see him?”

“James? Never. He was your father’s cousin. He knew your mother, too,” she added, with a keen glance and a smile of remembrance. “And now!”

“Yes, now,” repeated Teresa, catching Sylvia by the waist. “Now, guess.”

Mrs Brodrick hesitated.

“One mustn’t be greedy,” she said. “It would be very nice for you if it were five hundred pounds.”

“That is a good deal,” said Teresa, looking queerly at her.

“Yes, it is. Well, if it is only a hundred or two, it will be very useful. Teresa, what is it?”

For she saw that the young marchesa was trembling, and began to think that the matter must be more considerable than she had imagined.

“He has left me a thousand a year,” Teresa said in a very low voice. There was not a touch of triumph in it, but the thing was amazing because they were all unaccustomed to good fortune, and they simply stared at each other. Sylvia broke the silence—

“A thousand a year! How rich you will be!”

“How rich we shall all be!” echoed Teresa in a gay unsteady voice. “Granny, every day of your life you will go for a drive. No more thinking whether a fire is necessary or not, or how long a passo of wood will last. But do you believe it is quite true? Not a mistake of the lawyers?”

And for the first time in her life Mrs Brodrick reflected thankfully that lawyers did not often make mistakes. She could not speak, but she thanked God silently.

“I don’t understand it,” said Sylvia, laughing vaguely.

“Oh, nor do I! Don’t let us try.”

“What will Nina say now?”

“Now—why?”

“Because she was so miserable about your purse. I think she was crying. She said,” Sylvia went on with a little awe, “that she was sure you must have met a priest the first thing this morning, and didn’t come back and wait for an hour as you should have done. And then it is Tuesday, which is always an unlucky day, don’t you know?”

Teresa jumped up and ran to the door. “Nina!”

“Eccellenza!”

A curious small bright-eyed woman appeared, with rough hair and not too tidy clothes. She came from Viterbo, and had a laugh for everything and sometimes a tear.

“Why did you tell the signorina it was an unlucky day?”

“Eh-h-h-h-h-h!” Nina’s “eh” began on the fourth line, and ran down chromatically. Taken with outspread hands and raised shoulders it implied, “How can the signora ask, when she knows as well as I?” What she said was, “Did not the eccellenza lose her purse?”

“But I have had a much bigger one sent to me,” said Teresa gravely.

“Then, eccellenza, it is probable that after the priest you met a hunchback, and she might counteract. Besides—” she hesitated—“there is always that unfortunate Cesare.”

The marchesa was not surprised, Nina having an extraordinary knack of knowing whatever went on. But she was vexed at her thoughts being flung back upon a subject which gave her a miserable impression of having behaved ill without intending it.

“What do you know about Cesare?”

Nina screwed her eyes together, and nodded her rough head.

“See here, eccellenza, I should not mind knowing less. When one meets such in the street it is best to shut one’s eyes and walk on. If he has a temper or not! That poor Camilla! She was a butterfly, yes, and foolish, yes—but to be shot all in a minute, without a priest! What a brother!”

“They say he loved her.”

“Eh-h-h-h-h—h! So they say. They came from Sicily alone, these two, without parents, and he was strict with her, poor little baby, and so—! It was not a love I should have liked, but as for stealing! No, no, no, that is not Cesare.”

“Why did not the guardie say so, then?” demanded Teresa impatiently.

“See, eccellenza, they are afraid, and they do not like him. He is hand and glove with the fiercest men in Rome, men who would overthrow anything, everything, king or pope, what you will! Since Camilla died it is as if an evil spirit had entered into him—he keeps with those men, he never hears mass, he is like a lost soul. What took him into San Martino, I wonder? At any rate I wish the eccellenza had had nothing to do with him,” Nina ended, uneasily.

And Teresa wished the same thing with all her heart. The young violent face, the passion of the eyes, haunted her. Her grandmother and sister were taken up with delight and wonderment over her good fortune. She tried to fling herself into it with them, but while she planned, with all the generosity of her nature, which but yesterday would have leapt to feel certain galling chains removed, her thoughts wandered away to the police station, and to Cesare in the lock-up, with a board for his bed, and the smart of an unjust accusation goading him to yet more furious rebellion against his fate.