The Patriot Part 38

"I should hurt you too much," she murmured.

He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her soul, and was silent. He did not withdraw his hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if Maria, whom he had evoked in vain, had died a second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy atmosphere, the mingled odours of the room, affected him so strongly that he was obliged to go out, or he would have fainted.

He went to the loggia. The windows were open and the sweet, fresh air restored him. Out there in the dark he wept for his little daughter unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which light imposes. He knelt by one of the windows, crossed his arms on his breast and wept, his face raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing together, disjointed words of anguish and of faith, calling out to G.o.d for help, to G.o.d, to G.o.d who had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes he cried out, begging that his tears might continue to flow, confessing that he knew full well why the child had died. Had he not prayed again and again that G.o.d would preserve her from the danger of losing her faith through her mother's influence? Ah! that last night! That last night when Maria had said to him: "Darling papa, a kiss!" and so many other tender things, and would not let go his hand, how he had prayed! The memory of it was a terror, a joy, a spasm to him. "Lord, Lord!" said he, gazing heavenward. "Thou wert silent, but my voice reached Thee. Thou hast answered my prayer in Thine own mysterious way. Thou hast taken my treasure to Thyself, she is safe, she is happy, she awaits me. Thou wilt reunite us." The fast-falling tears that accompanied his last words had no bitter taste, but presently, while thinking once more of that last night, he was bitterly sorry he had left Maria without telling her that he had deceived her. "Maria, my own Maria!" he entreated, weeping, "forgive me!" Good G.o.d! it seemed impossible that all this could be true; it seemed impossible that if he went into the alcove-room he should not find her there asleep in her little bed, her head drooping towards her shoulder and her tiny hands resting, palms upward, upon the sheet. Indeed she was still there, but----! Oh! how awful it all was!

Surely his tears would never end.

Leu came in bringing a light and a cup of coffee. The Signora had sent her. He felt a thrill of tender grat.i.tude towards his wife. Good G.o.d!

Poor Luisa! How hopeless was her grief! And what an awful semblance of punishment for her in the blow which had fallen upon her at that very moment, that very moment! She herself had realised that he must think this, and he did indeed think it, but had denied his thought in order to spare her, and this she had also realised. And was this awful semblance of punishment destined not to bear any fruit whatsoever? She seemed to shrink from G.o.d more than ever now, and who could tell how far she might wander! Poor, poor Luisa! It was not Maria he should pray for, Maria did not need his prayers. He must pray for Luisa, pray night and day, trusting also in the prayers of the precious little soul now hidden in G.o.d.

He talked with Leu, feeling more calm now, and had her tell him all she had seen, all she had heard of this terrible event. "The Lord wanted your little child for Himself," said Leu at last. "If you could only have seen her in church, with her little folded hands and her serious little face! She looked just like an angel. Indeed she did." Then she asked Franco if she should leave the light. No, he preferred to be in the dark. At what time was the funeral to take place? At eight o'clock, Leu thought. When Leu once began talking it was always hard for her to leave off, and perhaps now she was afraid of staying in the kitchen all alone. "Her papa!" she added, before going out. "Her dear papa! It isn't more than a week ago that I came here with some chestnuts for the Signora, and that blessed little creature, who spoke so well, for all the world like a lawyer, said to me: 'Do you know, Leu, my papa is coming to Lugano very soon, and I am going to see him.' Oh, dear! What a dreadful thing!"

His tears flowed afresh. Ah, G.o.d had taken the child to save her from the errors of the world. G.o.d had punished Luisa for her errors, but was not this awful punishment intended for him also? Was he not guilty also?

Ah, yes! Very, very guilty! A clear vision of his past life rose before him, his life, barren of all useful labour, full of vanities, corresponding ill with the beliefs he professed, a life which rendered him responsible for Luisa's unbelief. The world accounted him virtuous for certain qualities he possessed through no merit of his own, for they were inborn in him, and he felt that for this very reason G.o.d's judgment of him must be doubly severe; for G.o.d had endowed him richly, and he had gathered no fruit. Once more he fell upon his knees and humbly accepted his punishment, in the desolate contrition of his heart, in his burning desire to expiate, to purify himself, to become worthy of re-union with Maria at last.

A long, long time he prayed and wept. At last he went out to the terrace. Above Galbiga and the hills of the Lake of Como the sky was growing light; day was breaking. From neighbouring Boglia a cold north wind was blowing. From far and near, from the lake sh.o.r.e, from the lofty bosom of the valley, bells rang out. The thought that Maria and Grandmother Teresa were together and happy, rose suddenly, clear and sweet in Franco's heart. It seemed to him the Lord was saying to him: "I afflict thee, but I love thee. Wait, be steadfast, and thou shalt know." The bells chimed far and near, from the lake sh.o.r.e and from the lofty bosom of the valley. The sky grew ever brighter above Galbiga and towards the Lake of Como, along the steep, black profile of the Picco di Cressogno; and the sweep of smooth water down there in the East, between the great shadows of the mountains, was like a shining pearl. The sprays of the pa.s.sion-flower vine, touched by the north wind, waved silently above Franco's head, in quivering antic.i.p.ation of the light, of the immense glory that was rising out of the east, colouring clouds and clear sky with itself, and welcomed by the bells.

To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and ascend! That was what the light demanded! He must carry the living away in his arms, carry the dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work for Italy, die for her!

The dawning day demanded this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco clasped his hands in a transport of desire.

Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she might not have heard them, wished that day might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in which Maria must be consigned to the grave. On her knees beside her baby's little body she promised her that every day of her life she would come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear her company; morning and evening she would come. Then she sank down and gave herself up to those dark thoughts which she had not wished to confess to her husband, and which had grown and matured in her during the last twenty-four hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin which has lain dormant in the system, being caught up at last in the current of the blood, suddenly bursts forth with overwhelming violence.

All her religious views, her faith in the existence of G.o.d, her scepticism concerning the immortality of the soul were tending towards subversion. She was convinced that she was in no way responsible for Maria's death. If indeed there did exist an Intelligence, a Will, a Power which was master of men and of things, then the monstrous guilt was of this Intelligence, which had coldly pre-ordained Barborin Pa.s.sotti's visit and gift; had withdrawn Maria from those who should have watched over her in her mother's absence; had lured her, defenceless, towards destruction; had killed her. That same Power had checked her, the mother, when she had been about to perform an act of justice. Fool that she was, ever to have believed in Divine Justice!

There was no such thing as Divine Justice! Instead there was the altar allied to the throne; the Austrian G.o.d, a party to all injustice, all tyranny, author of suffering, and of evil, slayer of the innocent and protector of the wicked. Ah! if such a G.o.d did indeed exist, it were better that Maria be there in that body, better that no part of her should live on to fall into the toils of this fiendish Omnipotence!

But it was possible to doubt the existence of this horrible G.o.d. And if He did not exist we might desire that a part of a human being should continue to live beyond the grave, live not miraculously, but naturally.

That was perhaps easier to conceive than the existence of an invisible tyrant, of a Creator who was cruel to the beings of His own creation.

The rule of nature without G.o.d was certainly preferable; better a blind master, who was not our enemy, not deliberately cruel. But henceforth, at least, no thought must be wasted in any way, either in this life or in the next--if, indeed, the next exist--upon that vain phantom, Justice!

The faint light of dawn mingled with her thoughts as it had mingled with Franco's thoughts, solemn and consoling to him, hateful to her. He, the Christian, meditated an insurrection of wrath and of arms against brothers in Christ, for love of a dot upon the surface of one of Heaven's...o...b..; she meditated an immense rebellion, the liberation of the Universe. Her thought might be the greater, her intellect might appear the stronger, but he whom the human generations learn to know even better as they advance in civilisation and science; He who allows each generation to honour Him according to its strength, and who gradually transforms and raises the ideals of the nations, making use even of inferior and fleeting ideals, when He deems it opportune, in His government of the world; He who, being Peace and Life, has allowed Himself to be called the G.o.d of armies, had impressed the sign of His judgment upon the face of the woman and upon the face of the man. While dawn burned into the glory of sunrise, Franco's brow became ever more brightly illumined by a light from within, and through his tears his eyes shone with the vigour of life; but Luisa's brow grew ever darker, and from the depths, the shadows mounted to her dull eyes.

As the sun rose a boat came in sight off the point of Caravina. It brought the lawyer, V., who had come from Varenna in obedience to Luisa's call.

CHAPTER XII

PHANTOMS

On the evening of that same day a numerous company a.s.sembled in the Marchesa's red drawing-room. Pasotti had brought his unlucky wife by main force, and he had brought Signor Giacomo Puttini also, although that gentleman had held out for some time against the most gracious Controller's despotic caprices. The curate of Puria and Paolin had also put in an appearance, both being anxious to observe the effects of the tragedy on the old lady's marble countenance. Paolin of course dragged the worthy Paolon in his wake, he being still in a state of limp and sheepish resistance. The curate of Cima, who was devoted to the Marchesa, came also, as did the prefect of Caravina, whose heart really belonged to Franco and Luisa, but who, as parish-priest of Cressogno, was bound to treat their enemy with a certain amount of consideration.

She received them all with her usual impa.s.sive expression, with her usual calm greeting. Signora Barborin, who had been cautioned by her master against alluding to the event at Oria, was made to sit on the sofa beside her hostess, who graciously accepted the homage of the others, put the usual questions to Paolin and Paolon concerning their respective consorts, and having satisfied herself that both Paolina and Paolona were enjoying the best of health, she folded her hands over her stomach and relapsed into dignified silence, her courtiers forming a semicircle around her. Pasotti, noting the absence of Friend, inquired for him with obsequious solicitude. "And Friend? Dear little Friend?"

Although, had he had him in his clutches--_solus c.u.m solo_--the nasty, little snarling beast which worried his trousers and his wife's skirts, he would have joyfully wrung his neck. Friend had been ill for two days.

The entire company was greatly affected by this news, and loudly deplored the misfortune, secretly hoping the while that the accursed little monster might not recover. Barborin, not hearing a word, but seeing so many mouths at work, so many faces a.s.suming a look of affliction, naturally supposed they were speaking of Oria, and turning to her neighbour Paolon, questioned him with her eyes, opening her mouth and pointing towards Oria. Paolon shook his head. "They are talking about the little dog," said he. The deaf woman did not understand, but she said: "Ah!" on general principles, and a.s.sumed an expression of affliction like the rest.

Friend ate too much, and his food was too rich, and he was now suffering from a disgusting skin disease. Paolin and the curate of Puria gave much careful advice. The prefect of Caravina had elsewhere expressed the charitable opinion that the creature ought to be pitched into the lake with his mistress tied to his neck. While the others were discussing the favourite with such lively interest, the prefect was thinking of Luisa as he had seen her that morning, her features distorted, opposing mad resistance first to the closing of the coffin, and then to its removal.

He was thinking how, in the cemetery, she with her own hands had cast the earth upon her child, telling her to be patient, that she herself would soon come and lie down beside her, and that that would be their Paradise.

In spite of the animated and eager conversation concerning the mangy Friend, the phantoms of the dead child and the distracted mother were hovering in the room. Presently there came a moment of silence when no one could think of anything more to say about the dog, and then the two unhappy phantoms were heard by all, demanding that they speak of them, and all could see them distinctly in the eyes of one who loved them, in the eyes of poor, deaf Barborin. Her husband at once sought a diversion, and propounded a problem in _tarocchi_ to Signor Giacomo. The other _tarocchi_ enthusiasts immediately took up the question, the voices of the phantoms could no longer be heard, and every one breathed more freely.

It was nine o'clock. Usually at that hour the footman would come in with two lighted candles, and prepare the little _tarocchi_ table in one corner of the room, between the great fireplace and the balcony on the West. Then the Marchesa would rise and say, with her habitual, drowsy calm:

"If you are ready----"

The two or three guests would invariably answer: "Quite ready," and then the three-handed or four-handed game would begin.

The old footman--who was devotedly attached to Don Franco--hesitated that night about bringing the candles. He did not believe it possible that his mistress and her guests would have the courage to play. At five minutes past nine, as the footman had not yet appeared, each one began privately commenting upon the delay. Before entering the house Paolin had maintained that there would be no playing, while the prefect had maintained the contrary. He now cast a triumphant glance at his adversary, as did also Paolon, who, from a spirit of solidarity with the other Paul, was pleased that he should be in the right. Pasotti, who had felt sure of his game, began to show signs of uneasiness. At seven minutes past nine the Marchesa requested the prefect to ring the bell.

It was now the prefect's turn to bestow a triumphant glance on Paolin, and he put into it all the silent contempt for the old woman that it would hold.

"Prepare the table," said the Marchesa to the footman.

He soon returned with the two candles. From the depths of his sorrowful eyes also, the phantom of the dead child looked forth. While he was busy arranging the candles, the cards, and the ivory counters on the table, the room was enveloped in that silence which always preceded the rising of the Marchesa. But the Marchesa showed no intention of rising. She turned to Pasotti, saying:

"Controller, if you and the others wish to play----"

"Marchesa," Pasotti promptly replied, "my wife's presence must not deter you from enjoying your game. Barborin is not a good player, but she delights in looking on."

"I shall not play this evening," the Marchesa answered, and although the tone was mild, the refusal was decisive.

The worthy Paolon, who was always silent and could not play _tarocchi_, believed he had at last discovered a word which was both wise and obsequious, and which he might safely utter:

"Exactly!" said he.

Pasotti gave him a surly glance, thinking: "What business is it of his?"

but he did not venture to speak. The Marchesa appeared not to have noticed Paolon's utterance, and added:

"The others can play if they like."

"Never!" exclaimed the prefect. "We should not think of such a thing!"

Pasotti drew his snuff-box from his pocket. "The _Signor Prefetto_,"

said he, speaking very distinctly, and slightly raising his open hand, a pinch of snuff between the thumb and forefinger, "The _Signor Prefetto_ must speak for himself. For my part, as the Signora Marchesa wishes us to play, I am quite willing to oblige her."

The Marchesa was silent, and the fiery prefect, encouraged by her silence, grumbled in an undertone:

"After all, we are in a house of mourning."

Never since Franco had left the house had his name been mentioned at these evening a.s.semblies in the red drawing-room, nor had the Marchesa even alluded either to him or to his wife. She now broke the silence that had lasted four years.

"I am sorry for the baby," said she, "but as for her father and mother, the Almighty has seen fit to punish them."

No one spoke. After some minutes Pasotti said in a low and solemn tone:

"A fearful punishment!"

And the curate of Cima added in a louder voice: