Olive in Italy Part 37

Don Filippo was really gone, and he was waiting now on the platform of the Albano station for the train that should take him back to Rome. He was not, however, presenting the spectacle of the murderer fleeing from his crime. He was quite calm. The heat and cruelty of the Tor di Rocca blood flared in him, but it burned with no steady flame. He had not the tenacity of his forefathers; and so, though he might kill his brother, he would not care to torment him during long years. Hate palled on him as quickly as love. He was content to leave the lives of Jean Avenel and of Olive on the knees of the G.o.ds.

There was no pity, no tenderness in him to be stirred by the remembrance of blue eyes dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of the small thing that had lain in a huddled heap at his feet, and he was not afraid of any consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea of jealousy covers a mult.i.tude of sins, and he was sure that a jury would acquit him if he were charged with murder.

How many hundred years had pa.s.sed since Pilate had called for water to wash his hands! Filippo--reminded in some way of the Roman governor--felt that same need. His hands were not clean--there was dust on them--and it seemed that the one thing that really might clog his thoughts and tarnish them later on was the dust on a frilled cushion.

CHAPTER X

To some men their world is most precious when their arms may compa.s.s it. These are the great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it mattered little whether this grey hour of rain and silence preluded life or death. Presently they would come to the edge of the stream called Lethe, and then he, making a cup of his hands, would give the woman he loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness, and all remembrance of loneliness and tears, and of the pain that ached now in his side and in her shot breast would pa.s.s away.

He looked down from a great height and saw:

"_the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf;_"

and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped in a web of clouds, hung by a slender thread of some huge spider's spinning. There was a dark mark upon it that spread and reddened until it seemed to be a stain of blood on a woman's breast. She had been pale, but the colour had come again when he had kissed her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red that oozed between his fingers?

In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts fluttered and pa.s.sed like white moths. Was that the roar of voices? The hall was full and they wanted him, but he could not play again. Love was best. He would stay in the garden with Olive.

What were they asking for? A nocturne--yes; it was getting dark, and the sea was rising--that was the sound of the sea.

The doctor Vincenzo had brought in rose from his knees and stood thoughtfully wiping his hands on a piece of lint.

"We must see about extracting the bullets later on. One went clean through his arm and so has saved us the trouble. As to her--I am not sure--but I think the injury may not be so serious as it now appears.

She was evidently stunned. She must have struck her head against the table in falling."

"Can they be moved?" the servant asked anxiously. "My master would not care to stay on here. Can you take them into your house, and--and not say anything?"

The doctor hesitated. He was a bald, grey-whiskered man, fat and flaccid. His cuffs were frayed and there were wine-stains on his shabby clothes. He was very poor.

"I should inform the authorities," he said.

"Oh, I don't think that is necessary. It would be worth your while not to."

Jean's fur coat had been thrown across a chair. The doctor eyed it carefully. It was worth more lire than he had ever possessed at one time.

"Very well," he said. "The vineyard across the lane is mine. We can go to my house that way and take them through the gate without ever coming out on to the road. I will go and tell my housekeeper to get the rooms ready."

Vincenzo's face brightened. "I will go in the car to-night to fetch the master's brother. He is very rich. It will be worth your while,"

he repeated.

"He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be able to do it alone?"

"_Via!_" cried the little man. "I am very strong. Go now and come back soon."

When the other had left the room he crouched down again on the floor at Jean's feet. "Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me! Look at me!"

But there was no voice now, nor any that answered.

For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent swimmer, struggling to reach a distant sh.o.r.e. The cruel cross-currents drew him, great waves buffeted him, and the worst of it was they were hot. All the sea was bubbling and boiling about him, and the sound in his ears was like the roar of steam. There were creatures in the water, too; octopi, such as he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian fishermen and flung on the yellow sands of the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering in the green curled edges of each wave that threatened to beat him down into the depths.

Vincenzo kept them off. He was always there, sitting by the door, and when he was called he came running to his master's bedside.

"Where is she? Don't let her be drowned! Don't let the octopi get her!

Vincenzo! Vincenzo!" he cried, and the good fellow tried to rea.s.sure him.

"_Sia benedetto_, signorino! They shall not have her. I will cut them in pieces with my knife."

"What is the matter? I am quite well. Is it only the tyre? There is Orvieto, and the sun just risen. Is it still raining?"

"No, signorino. The sun shines and it has not rained for days. It will soon be May."

Very slowly the tide of feverish dreams ebbed, and Jean became aware of the iris pattern on the curtains of the bed; of the ray of sunlight that danced every morning on the ceiling and pa.s.sed away; of the old woman who gave him his medicine. She was kind, and he liked to see her sitting sewing by lamplight, and to watch her distorted shadow looming gigantic in an angle of the wall. Hilaire was there too, but sometimes he was called away, and then Jean would hear his uneven step going to and fro across an uncarpeted floor, and the sound of hushed voices in the next room.

"Hilaire, is--is it all right?"

"Yes, do not be afraid. Get well," the elder man answered, but Jean still lay with his face turned to the wall. He was afraid. The longing to see Olive, to hold her once more in his arms, burned within him. He moved restlessly and laid his clenched hands together on the half-healed wound in his side.

One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a child sleeps, and woke at dawn. He raised himself on his elbow in the bed and looked about him, and Vincenzo came to him at once and asked him what he wanted.

"Go out," he said, "and leave me alone for a while."

The green painted window-shutter was unfastened, and it swung open in the little wind that had sprung up. Jean saw the morning star shining, and the widening rift of pale gold in the grey sky above the hills. He heard the stirring of awakened life. Birds fluttered in the laurels. A boy was singing as he went to his work among the vines by the lake side:

"_Ho da dirti tante cose._"

It seemed to Jean that he too had many things to say to the woman he loved. He called to her faintly, in a weak, hoa.r.s.e voice: "Olive!"

After a while he heard her answering him from the next room.

"Jean! Oh, Jean!"

He lay still, smiling.

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THE BLUE LAGOON