Читать книгу By Order of the League - Fred M. White - Страница 5

Table of Contents

LE GAUTIER was not far wrong in his estimate of Carlo Visci. The game the former was playing was a dangerous one. He had met the youthful Genevieve in one of his country excursions, and, struck by her beauty, conceived the idea of finding some slight amusement in her society. It was not hard, in that quiet place, with his audacity and talents, to make himself known to her; nor did the child—for she was little more—romantic, passionate, her head filled with dreams of love and devotion, long remain cold to his advances. Friendship soon ripens into love in the sunny South, where temperaments are warmer, and the cold restraints of northern society do not exist The Frenchman had no sinister intentions when he commenced his little flirtation—a mere recreation pour passer le temps on his side; but alas for good intentions; the moth may not approach too near the flame without scorching its wings. Begun in playfulness, almost sport, the thing gradually ripened into love—love such as most women never know, love encountered by keen wit and a knowledge of the evil side of life. When the story opens, Genevieve had known Le Gautier for six months—had known him, loved him, and trusted him.

But Le Gautier was already tired of his broken toy. It was all very well as a pastime; but the gilded chains were beginning to chafe, and besides, he had ambitious schemes into which any calculations of Genevieve never entered. He had been thinking less of dark passionate eyes lately than of a fair English face, the face of Enid Charteris; so in his mind he began to revolve how he could best free himself from the Italian girl, ere commencing his campaign against the heart and fortune of Sir Geoffrey Charteris' heiress. Come what may now, he must file his fetters.

Filled with this virtuous and manly resolution, he set out the following afternoon for the Villa Mattio. It was Visci's whim to keep his sister there, along with a younger sister, a child as yet, little Lucrece, both under the charge of a sleepy old gouvernante. In spite of his faults, Visci was a good brother, having too sincere an affection for his sister to keep her with him among the wild student spirits he affected, fearing contamination for her mind. And so she remained in the country; Visci running down from the city to see her, each time congratulating himself upon the foresight he had displayed in such an arrangement as this, little thinking he had thus caused the greatest evil he had to fear.

Le Gautier walked on till the white facade and stucco pillars of the villa were in sight, and then, striking across a little path leading deep into a thick shady wood, all carpeted with spring flowers, threw himself upon the grass to wait There was a little shrine here by the side of a tiny stream, with the crucifix and a rude stone image of the Virgin in a dark niche; evidently a kind of rustic woodland sanctuary. But Gautier did not notice these things as he lay there; and there was a frown upon his brow, and a thoughtful, determined look upon his face, which boded ill for some one.

He had not long to wait Pushing the branches of the trees aside and coming towards him with eager, elastic step, was a girl. She was tall and slight; not more than seventeen, in fact, and her dark eyes and clear-cut features gave promise of great beauty. There was a wistful tender smile upon her face as she came forward—a smile tinged with pain, as she noted the moody face of the man lying there, but nevertheless a smile which betokened nothing but perfect, trusting, unutterable love. Le Gautier noted this in his turn, and it did not tend to increase his equanimity. It is not easy for a man, when he is going to commit a base action, to preserve his equanimity when met with perfect confidence by the victim. For a moment she stood there, looking at him, neither speaking for a brief space.

'How ridiculously happy you look, Genevieve,' Le Gautier said irritably. 'It is a great compliment to me, but—'

The girl looked at him shyly, as she leant against a tree, the shafts of light through the leaves playing upon her lustrous coronal of dusky hair and showing the happy gleam in her eyes. 'I am always contented when you are here, Hector,' she answered softly.

'And never at any other time, I suppose—'

'I cannot say that I have many things to do, but I can always find time to think of you. I dwell upon you when you are away, and think what I should do if you were to leave me. Ah, yes, I know you will not do that; but if you did, I should die.'

Le Gautier groaned inwardly. Time had been when he had dwelt with pleasure on these outpourings of an innocent heart.

'You are not one of the dying order of heroines, Genevieve. By no means. And so you often wonder what you would do if I were to leave you?'

The girl half started from her reclining position, with her scarlet lips parted, and a troubled expression on her lace. 'You speak very strangely to-day, Hector,' she exclaimed. 'What do you mean?'

'Precisely what I say. You are anxious to know how you would feel if I left you. Your curiosity shall be gratified. I am going to leave you.'

'To leave me! Going away, Hector, and without me?' Genevieve wondered vaguely whether she heard the words aright She started and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to still its rebellious beating. Going away? The warmth seemed to have departed from the scene, the bright light grew dim as gradually the words forced themselves upon her; and the cold numbness of despair froze her trembling limbs.

'Yes, I am going away,' Le Gautier repeated in a matter-of-fact manner, but always with his eyes anywhere but on the girl's face. 'Indeed, I have no alternative; and as to taking you with me, it is impossible.'

'I have dreamt of something like this,' Genevieve intoned in a low vague voice, her look seemingly far away. 'It has been forced upon me, though I have tried not to think so, that you have been growing colder day by day. And now you come and tell me that you are going to leave me! There is no regret in your voice, no sorrow in your face. You will go away and forget, leaving me here in my sorrow, mourning for my lost love—leaving me here heartbroken—deceived!'

'You should go on the stage,' Le Gautier replied sardonically. 'Your talents are wasted here. Let me assure you, Genevieve, speaking as a man who has had a little experience, that if you can get up a scene like this upon the boards, there is money in it'

'You are cruel!' the girl cried, dashing her tears away impetuously—'you are cruel! What have I done to deserve this from you, Hector? You wish to leave me; that you will not come back again, my heart assures me.'

'Your heart is a prophetic organ, then, cara mia. Now, do look at the thing in a rational light. I am under the orders of the League; to disobey is death to me; and to take you with me is impossible. We must forget all our little flirtations now, for I cannot tell when I may be in Italy again. Now, be a sensible girl; forget all about unfortunate me. No one possibly can know; and when the prince appears, marry him. Be assured that I shall tell no foolish tales.'

Gradually, surely, the blood crept into the girl's face as she listened to these mocking words. She drew herself up inch by inch, her eyes bright and hard, her head thrown back. There was a look of infinite withering scorn upon her as she spoke, sparing not herself in the ordeal. 'And that is the thing I loved!' she said, each word cold and clear—'that is the thing to which I gave all my poor heart! I understand your words only too well. I am abandoned. But you have not done with me yet My turn will come, and then—beware!'

'A truce to your histrionics,' Le Gautier cried, all the tiger aroused in him now, and only too ready to take up the gage thrown down. 'Do you think I nave no occupation, nothing to dwell upon but romantic schoolgirls one kills pleasant hours with in roaming about the world! You knew well enough the thing could not last I leave for London to-morrow; so, be sensible, and let us part friends.'

'Friends!' she echoed disdainfully. 'You and I friends! You have made a woman of me. From this moment, I shall only think of you with loathing!'

'Then why think of me at all? It is very hard a man cannot have a little amusement without such a display of hysterical affection as this. For goodness' sake, Genevieve, do be sensible!'

Stung to madness by this cruel taunt, she took one step towards him and stopped, her whole frame thrilling with speechless, consuming rage. It would have gone hard with him then, could she have laid her hand upon a weapon. Then all at once she grew perfectly, rigidly calm. She stepped to the little sanctuary, and took down the wooden cross, holding it in her right hand. 'Before you go, I have a word to say to you,' she said between her clenched white teeth. 'You are a man; I am a poor defenceless girl. You are endowed with all the falseness and deceit that flesh is heir to; I am ignorant of the great world that lies beyond the horizon. You fear no harm from me now; I shall evoke no arm in my defence; but my time will come. When you have nearly accomplished your most cherished schemes, when you nave your foot upon the goal of your crowning ambition, when fortune smiles her brightest upon your endeavours—then I shall strike! Not till then shall you see or hear of me; but the hour will come. Beware of it!'

'Perfection!' Le Gautier cried. 'You only want—'

'Not another word!' the girl commanded. 'Now, go!—mean, crawling hound, base deceiver of innocent girls! Go! and never look upon my face again; it shall be the worse for you if you do! Go! and forget my passionate words; but the time will come when they shall come back to yon. Go!' With steady hand she pointed to the opening in the wood; and without another word he slunk away, feeling, in spite of his jaunty air, a miserable, pitiful coward indeed.

As he turned to go, Genevieve watched him down the long avenue out of sight, and them sinking on her knees, she sobbed long and bitterly, so full of her grief and care that she was oblivious to her surroundings. Her face was deadly pale, her white lips moved passionately, as she knelt there weeping, half praying, half cursing herself in her despair.

'Genevieve!'

The word, uttered in a tone of wonder and alarm, was repeated a second time before the agitated girl looked up. Salvarini was standing there, his usually grave face a prey to suspicion and alarm, a look which did not disguise entirely an expression of tenderness and affection. Genevieve rose to her feet and wiped away her tears. It was some moments before she was calm enough to speak to the wondering man at her side.

'I have chosen an unfortunate moment for my mission,' Salvarini mournfully continued; 'I am afraid my presence is unwelcome here.—Genevieve, there is something behind this I do not understand. It must be beyond an ordinary grief to move you like this.'

'There are some sorrows we dare not think of,' Genevieve replied with an air of utter weariness.—'Luigi, do not press me now. Some day, perhaps, I will ask you to help me.'

'I am afraid a brother is the fittest confidant in a case like this. Pardon me, if I am wrong; but when I hear you talking to a man—for his voice came to me—and then I find you in such a plight as this, I must think.—Genevieve! my only love, my idol and dream since I first saw your face, to have given your heart to some one unworthy of you. What will Carlo say, when he hears of it?'

'But he must not hear;' Genevieve whispered, terrified. 'Luigi, you have surprised me; but you must keep my secret—I implore you.'

'I can refuse no words of yours. But one thing you must, nay, shall do—you must tell me who this man is; you must have an avenger.'

'Luigi,' the girl said, laying her hand gently upon his arm, 'I shall be my own avenger—that I have sworn by the cross I hold in my hand. If it is for years, I can wait—and hope.'

'That is a wrong spirit,' Salvarini replied sorrowfully. 'You are mad just now with your wrongs. Stay here at home, and let me be your champion. I love you too well to admire such sentiments from you yet. I shall not press you now; but all time, for good or for evil, I shall wait for you.'

'Luigi, you are a good man, far too good for me. Listen! I must gratify my revenge; till then, all must wait. Things alter; men change; but when the time comes, and you are still the same, say "Come to me," and I shall be by your side.'

'I shall never change!' he replied as he touched the outstretched hand with his lips gently.

Slowly and sadly they walked back towards the house—Genevieve calm and collected now; Salvarini, mournfully resigned; pity and rage—pity for the girl, and rage against her deceiver—alternately supreme in his heart. For some time neither spoke.

'Will you come in?' she asked.

'Not now,' he replied, feeling instinctively that his presence would only be an unwelcome restraint. 'I had a message to bring from Carlo. He and Sir Geoffrey and Miss Charteris are coming to-morrow.—And now, remember, if you want a friend, you have one in me.—Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, Luigi,' she said mechanically. 'You are very good. I shall remember.'

Strangers coming to-morrow. The words bear on her brain like the roar of countless hammers. Strangers coming; and how was she to meet them now, with this wild sense of wrong burning within her vengeful Italian heart, bruised but not crushed? She walked slowly up-stairs and sat down in her room, thinking, till the evening light began to wane, and the lamps of distant Rome to twinkle out one by one. The very silence of the place oppressed her.

'Are you coming down to supper, Genevieve?'

She aroused herself at these words, and looking up, saw a child standing there before her. She was regarding her sister somewhat curiously, and somewhat pitifully too; the latter, child as she was, did not fail to notice the pale face and dark-ringed eyes. She approached the older girl, throwing her arms round her neck and kissing her gently. 'What is the matter, cara?' she asked in her soft liquid Italian. 'Have you one of your headaches again, sister? Let me comfort you.'

'I have something more than headache, Lucrece—some pain that no soft words of yours can charm away. Run away down-stairs, child; I am not fit to talk to you now.'

'Please, Genevieve, I would rather stay with you.'

Genevieve looked out again across the landscape, lit here and there now by twinkling lights, reflected from the happy firesides, till it was too dark any longer to see aught but the ghostly shadows.

'Lucrece!' she exclaimed suddenly, 'come here.'

The child hesitated for a moment, and obeyed, taking her sister's cold damp hand in her own, and waiting for her to speak.

'Do you remember, Lucrece, the Golden City I used to tell you about when you were a little one, the blessed place far away, where there is no strife and no care, and every heart can rest?'

'Yes, I remember, sister.'

'And should you care to go with me?'

'O yes, please. I would go anywhere with you and not be afraid.'

'Then you shall go. When you go to your room to-night, do not take off your clothes, but lie awake till I come for you. Only, mind, if you say a word of this, you will not see the beautiful city.'

Through the rest of the hours, Genevieve moved about mechanically, getting through the evening meal she scarcely knew now. Gradually time passed on, one by one the members of the household retired. It was an hour later when Genevieve entered her little sister's room. 'Lucrece, are you awake?' she whispered.

'Yes, sister; I am waiting for you. Are we going now?'

'Yes, we are going now. Walk softly, and hold my hand. Come, let us hasten; we have far to go, and the way is weary.'

Silently they passed down the stairs, and out into the night air, along the path to Rome, walking on till they were lost in the darkness of the night; Genevieve's face stern and set; the little one's, bright and hopeful.

Gradually the east flushed with the golden splendour of the coming dawn; the birds awoke to welcome up the sun; and after them, the laggard morn. The orb of day saw strange things as he rose in the vault of heaven: he saw two tired wayfarers sleeping on the roadside; and then, later, the anxious faces of a party gathered at a pretty villa by the Tiber. As he sank to rest again, he went down upon a party searching woods and streams far and near; and as he dipped behind the shoulder of the purple hills that night, his last red glimpse flushed the faces of the stern sad-visaged group on their way to Rome. When he rose again there were no wayfarers by the roadside, but a brother on his knees praying for his lost darlings and strength to aid him in his extremity. In Sol's daily flight he saw hope lost, abandoned in despair; but as came each morn, he brought a gentle healing, but never Genevieve back to the Mattio woods again!

And so time passed on, bringing peace, if not forgetfulness.