To Win the Love He Sought E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This third novel by Oppenheim was published in 1895. It was originally published under the title „A Daughter of the Marionis” and was reprinted several times. The story of a vendetta, makes a capital plot for the novelist who takes characters from Southern life for his story, and in Margharita, „a daughter of the Marionis,” we have a not impossible character. She does not appear till late in the story, but takes up the vendetta of her uncle with a will. Marionis himself is a fine figure, and the scene when, having been let out of prison an old man, he seeks to resume his scheme of vengeance, and visits the degenerate committee of the „White Hyacinth Society” is full of stern pathos. The struggle Margharita has between love and hatred is also well described, and the interest in the story is never allowed to flag, and it continues absorbing to the end.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE MEETING

II. "SHE IS A SINGER"

III. "BETTER THOU WERT DEAD BEFORE ME"

IV. "DOWN INTO HELL TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT"

V. TREACHERY

VI. "THE BITTER SPRINGS OF ANGER AND FEAR"

VII. COMFORT! COMFORT SCORNED OF DEVILS

VIII. "DEATH IN THE FACE, AND MURDER IN THE HEART"

IX. "AH! WHY SHOULD LOVE..."

X. A MARIONI'S OATH

XI. A MEETING OF THE ORDER

XII. "A FIGURE FROM A WORLD GONE BY"

XIII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

XIV. AN EVERLASTING HATE

XV. THE COUNT'S SECOND VISITOR

XVI. A NEW MEMBER FOR THE ORDER

XVII. THE RETURN TO REASON

XVIII. "I HAVE A FEAR—A FOOLISH FEAR"

XIX. THE NEW GOVERNESS

XX. LORD LUMLEY AND MARGHARITA

XXI. A LAND THAT IS LONELIER THAN RUIN

XXII. LORD LUMLEY'S CONFESSION

XXIII. MARGHARITA'S DIARY—A CORRESPONDENCE

XXIV. "WHITE HYACINTHS"

XXV. AMONG THE PINE TREES

XXVI. STORMS

XXVII. A LIFE IN THE BALANCE

XXVIII. ONE DAY'S RESPITE

XXIX. THERE IS DEATH BEFORE US

XXX. THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE

XXXI. AN OLD MAN'S HATE

XXXII. THE KEEPING OF THE OATH

THE GREAT AWAKENING

I. THE MEETING

The soft mantle of a southern twilight had fallen upon land and sea, and the heart of the Palermitans was glad. Out they trooped into the scented darkness, strolling along the promenade in little groups, listening to the band, drinking in the cool night breeze from the sea, singling out friends, laughing, talking, flirting, and passing on. A long line of carriages was drawn up along the Marina, and many of the old Sicilian aristocracy were mingling with the crowd.

Palermo is like a night blossom which opens only with the first breath of evening. By day, it is parched and sleepy and stupid; by night, it is alive and joyous–the place itself becomes an al fresco paradise. It is night which draws the sweetness from the flowers. The air is heavy with the faint perfume of hyacinths and wild violets, and a breeze stirring among the orange groves wafts a delicious aromatic odor across the bay. Long rays of light from the little semi-circle of white-fronted villas flash across the slumbering waters of the harbor. Out of door restaurants are crowded; all is light and life and bustle; every one is glad to have seen the last of the broiling sun; every one is happy and light-hearted. The inborn gaiety of the south asserts itself. Women in graceful toilettes pass backward and forward along the broad parade, making the air sweeter still with the perfume of their floating draperies, and the light revelry of their musical laughter.

‘Tis a motley throng, and there is no respecting of persons. Townspeople, a sprinkling of the old nobility, and a few curious visitors follow in each other’s footsteps. By day, those who can, sleep; by night, they awake and don their daintiest clothing, and Palermo is gay.

The terrace of the Hotel de l’Europe extends to the very verge of the promenade, and, night by night, is crowded with men of all conditions and nations, who sit before little marble tables facing the sea, smoking and drinking coffee and liqueurs. At one of these, so close to the promenade that the dresses of the passers-by almost touched them, two men were seated.

One was of an order and race easily to be distinguished in any quarter of the globe–an English country gentleman. There was no possibility of any mistake about him. Saxon was written in his face, in the cut of his clothes; even his attitude betrayed it. He was tall and handsome, and young enough not to have outlived enthusiasm, for he was looking out upon the gay scene with keen interest. His features were well cut, his eyes were blue, and his bronze face was smooth, save for a slight, well-formed moustache. He wore a brown tweed coat and waistcoat, flannel trousers, a straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he was smoking a briar pipe, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet resting upon the stone work.

His companion was of a different type. He was of medium height only, and thin; his complexion was sallow, and his eyes and hair were black. His features, though not altogether pleasing, were regular, and almost classical in outline. His clothes displayed him to the worst possible advantage. He wore black trousers and a dark frock coat, tightly fitting, which accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. The only relief to the sombreness of his attire consisted in a white flower carefully fastened in his button-hole. He, too, had been smoking, but his cigarette had gone out, and he was watching the stream of people pass and repass, with a fixed, searching gaze. Though young, his face was worn and troubled. He had none of the sang froid or the pleasure-seeking carelessness of the Englishman who sat by his side. His whole appearance was that of a man with a steadfast definite purpose in life–of a man who had tasted early the sweets and bitters of existence, joy and sorrow, passion and grief.

They were only acquaintances, these two men; chance had brought them together for some evil purpose of her own. When the Englishman, who, unlike most of his compatriots, was a young man of a sociable turn of mind, and detested solitude, had come across him a few minutes ago in the long, low dining-room of the hotel, and had proposed their sharing a table and their coffee outside, the other would have refused if he could have done so with courtesy. As that had been impossible, he had yielded, however, and they had become for a while companions, albeit silent ones.

The Englishman was in far too good a humor with himself, the place, and his surroundings, to hold his peace for long. He exchanged his pipe for a Havana, and commenced to talk.

“I say, this is an awfully jolly place! No idea it was anything like it. I’m glad I came!”

His vis-à-vis bowed in a courteous but abstracted manner. He had no wish to encourage the conversation, so he made no reply. But the Englishman, having made up his mind to talk, was not easily repulsed.

“You don’t live here, do you?” he asked.

The Sicilian shook his head.

“No! It happens that I was born here, but my home was on the other side of the island. It is many years since I visited it.”

He had made a longer speech than he had intended, and he paid the penalty for it. The Englishman drew his chair a little nearer, and continued with an air of increasing familiarity.

“It’s very stupid of me, but, do you know, I’ve quite forgotten your name for the moment. I remember my cousin, Cis Davenport, introducing us at Rome, and I knew you again directly I saw you. But I’m hanged if I can think of your name! I always had a precious bad memory.”

The Sicilian looked none too well pleased at the implied request. He glanced uneasily around, and then bent forward, leaning his elbow upon the table so that the heads of the two men almost touched. When they had come into the place, he had carefully chosen a position as far away from the flaming lights as possible, but they were still within hearing of many of the chattering groups around.

“I do not object to telling you my name,” he said in a low tone, sunk almost to a whisper, “but you will pardon me if I make a request which may appear somewhat singular to you. I do not wish you to address me by it here, or to mention it. To be frank, there are reasons for wishing my presence in this neighborhood not to be known. You are a gentleman, and you will understand.”

“Oh, perfectly,” the Englishman answered him, in a tone of blank bewilderment.

What did it all mean? Had he run off with some one else’s wife, or was he in debt? One of the two seemed to be the natural conclusion. Anyhow, he did not want to know the fellow’s name. He had only asked out of politeness, and if he were in any sort of scrape, perhaps it would be better not to know it.

“I tell you what,” the Englishman explained, in the midst of the other’s hesitating pause, “don’t tell it me! I can call you anything you like for this evening. I daresay we I sha’n’t meet afterwards, and if you want to keep it dark about your being here, why, then, I sha’n’t be able to give you away–by accident, of course. Come, I’ll call you anything you like. Choose your name for the night!”

The Sicilian shook his head slowly.

“You have been told my name when I had the honor of being presented to you at Rome,” he said, “and at any chance mention you might recall it. I prefer to tell it to you, and rely upon your honor.”

“As you like.”

“My name is Leonardo di Marioni!”

“By Jove! of course it is!” the Englishman exclaimed. “I should have thought of it in a moment. I remember Davenport made me laugh when he introduced us. His pronunciation’s so queer, you know, and he’s only been at Rome about a month, so he hasn’t had time to pick it up. Good old Cis! he was always a dunce! I suppose his uncle got him in at the Embassy.”

“No doubt,” the Sicilian answered politely. “I have only had the pleasure of meeting your cousin once or twice, and I know him but slightly. You will not forget my request, and if you have occasion to address me, perhaps you will be so good as to do so by the name of ‘Cortegi.’ It is the name by which I am known here, and to which I have some right.”

The Englishman nodded.

“All right. I’ll remember. By the bye,” he went on, “I had the pleasure of meeting your sister in Naples, I believe. She is engaged to marry Martin Briscoe, isn’t she?”

The Sicilian’s face darkened into a scowl; the thin lips were tightly compressed, and his eyes flashed with angry light.

“I was not aware of it,” he answered haughtily.

The other raised his eyebrows.

“Fact, I assure you,” he continued suavely, not noticing the Sicilian’s change of countenance. “Martin told me about it himself. I should have thought that you would have known all about it. Briscoe isn’t half a bad fellow,” he went on meditatively. “Of course, it isn’t altogether pleasant to have a father who makes pickles, and who won’t leave off, although he must have made a fine pot of money. But Martin stands it very well. He isn’t half a bad fellow.”

The Sicilian rose from his chair with a sudden impetuous movement. The moonlight fell upon his white, furious face and black eyes, ablaze with passion. He was in a towering rage.

“I repeat, sir, that I know of no such engagement!” he exclaimed, in a voice necessarily subdued, but none the less fierce and angry. “I do not understand your nation, which admits into the society of nobles such men. It is infamous! In Sicily we do not do these things. For such a man to think of an alliance with a Marioni is more than presumption–it is blasphemy!”

“That’s all very well, but I only know what I was told,” the Englishman answered bluntly.

“It’s no affair of mine. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

The Sicilian stood quite still for a moment; a shade of sadness stole into his marble face, and his tone, when he spoke again, was more mournful than angry.

“It may be as you say, Signor. I have been traveling, and for many months I have seen nothing of my sister. I have heard such rumors as you allude to, but I have not heeded them. The affair is between us two. I will say no more. Only this. While I am alive, that marriage will not take place!”

He resumed his seat, and conversation languished between the two men. The Englishman sat with knitted eyebrows, watching the people pass backward and forward, with an absent, puzzled look in his blue eyes. He had an indistinct recollection of having been told something interesting about this man at the time of their introduction. He was notorious for something. What was it? His memory seemed utterly to fail him. He could only remember that, for some reason or other, Leonardo di Marioni had been considered a very interesting figure in Roman society during his brief stay at the capital, and that he had vanished from it quite suddenly.

The Sicilian, too, was watching the people pass to and fro, but more with the intent gaze of one who awaits an expected arrival than with the idle regard of his companion. Once the latter caught his anxious, expectant look, and at the same time noticed that the slim fingers which held his cigarette were trembling nervously.

“Evidently looking out for some one,” he thought. “Seems a queer fish anyhow. Is it a man or a woman, I wonder?”

Soon he knew.

II. “SHE IS A SINGER”

There was a brief lull in the stream of promenaders. The Englishman turned round with a yawn, and ordered another cup of coffee. From his altered position he had a full view of the Sicilian’s face, and became suddenly aware of an extraordinary change in it. The restlessness was gone; the watching seemed to be at an end. The fire of a deep passion was blazing in his dark eyes, and the light of a great wistful joy shone in his face. The Englishman, almost involuntarily, turned in his chair, and glanced round to see what had wrought the change.

He looked into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. A flood of silver moonlight lay upon the Marina, glancing away across the dark blue waters of the bay, and the soft dazzling light gently touched her hair, and gleamed in her dark, sweet eyes. She was tall, and clad in white flowing draperies clinging softly around her slim, girlish figure, and giving to her appearance an inexpressible daintiness, as though they were indeed emblematic of the spotless purity of that fair young being. Was it the chastened light, or was there indeed something spiritual, something more than humanly beautiful in the delicate oval face–perfect in its outline, perfect in its faint coloring and stately poise? She was walking slowly, her every movement full of a distinctive and deliberate grace, and her head a little upturned, as though her thoughts were far away among the softly burning stars, rather than concerned with the fashionable and picturesque crowd which thronged around her. A remark from her companion, a girl of somewhat slighter stature and darker complexion, caused her to lower her eyes, and in doing so they fell upon the eager, impassioned gaze of the young Englishman.

Afterwards he was never ashamed to confess that that moment brought with it a peculiar lingering sweetness which never altogether died away. It was the birth of a new sensation, the most poignant of all sensations, although philosophers deny and materialists scoff at it. After all, there is something more than refined sensuality in love which has so sudden a dawning; there is a certain innate spirituality which sublimates and purifies it, so that the flame burns softly but brightly still through joy and grief, mocking at satiety, surviving the sorrow of gray hairs, triumphing over the desolation of old age, and sweetening the passage to the grave. He was a headstrong, chivalrous young man, passionate, loyal, and faithful, among all his faults. That first love of his never grew cold, never lessened. It lasted forever. For some men it is not possible to give the better part of themselves up to the worship of a pure woman; selfishness forbids it. But this young Englishman who sat there spellbound, absorbed in the consciousness of this new and sweet emotion, was not one of these.

Suddenly she withdrew her eyes with a faint, conscious blush, and as she did so she saw for the first time the Sicilian. Her whole aspect swiftly changed. A terrified shudder swept across her features, and her lips parted with fear. She looked into a face but a moment before, at her first appearance, all aglow with passionate love, now black with suppressed anger and fierce jealousy. His eyes fascinated her, but it was the fascination of dread; and, indeed, his appearance was not pleasant to look upon. His thin form seemed dilated with nervous passion, and his eyes were on fire. Suddenly he conquered himself, and, with the swiftness of lightning across the water, the fierceness died out of his face, leaving it pale almost to ghastliness in the moonlight. He half rose from his seat, and, lifting his hat, bowed low.

She answered his salutation timidly, and touched her companion on the arm. She, too, started as she saw that dark, thin figure gazing so steadfastly upon them, and her first impulse seemed to be to approach him. She stopped short on the promenade, and though there was a certain amount of apprehension in her dark eyes, there was also some pleasure, and her lips were parted in a half-welcoming, half-inviting smile. But he did not make any advance toward her; on the contrary, with a slight and almost imperceptible gesture, he motioned them to proceed. With a little wave of the hand, she obeyed him, and he resumed his seat, drawing his hat over his eyes, and no longer watching the stream of promenaders.

The Englishman, absorbed in his own sudden passion, had seen nothing out of the common in the brief interchange of glances between the trio. All that he noticed was that his companion had saluted the taller of the two girls, and that she had acknowledged the salutation. It was quite enough for him.

He leaned over the low palisade, watching her until she disappeared among the crowd, scarcely daring to hope that she might look back, and yet determined to lose no opportunity of a farewell glance should she do so. When she was finally out of sight, he drew a long breath and turned toward his companion.

“Who is she?” he asked abruptly.

“I fear that I do not quite understand you,” he said quietly, although his voice and limbs were trembling with passion; “to whom do you allude?”

“The girl in white who passed just now. You knew her! Tell me her name!”

“Why should I?”

“I wish to know it.”

The Sicilian lit his cigarette. He was growing calmer, but the fingers which held the match were still shaking.

“Possibly. But that is no reason why I should tell it to you. That lady is a friend of mine, certainly, but it is not the custom in my country, however it may be in yours, to bandy a lady’s name about a public place.”

“But I am not asking out of curiosity,” the other persisted, “nor am I a stranger to you.”

“What is your motive, if it be not curiosity?” the Sicilian asked, with a dark shade stealing into his face. “You had better be careful, Signor; there is danger at hand for any man who so much as directs an impertinent glance at either of those ladies.”

The Englishman was far too deeply in earnest to be angry.

“You won’t tell me, then?” he said simply.

“I will not.”

“Certain?”

“Quite certain.”

“Very good. I shall find out.”

The Sicilian laid his hand upon the other’s arm. His black eyes were flashing angrily, and his tone was threatening.

“Signor! a word of warning! I constitute myself the protector of those ladies. I have a very good right to do so. Any idle and public inquiries concerning them, or any attempt to obtrude an acquaintance upon them, I shall–punish! You understand!”

“Certainly,” he answered. “You have only to prove the offense and the right of protectorship, and I shall be at your service. You probably know little concerning the men of my country. Let me tell you that we are not in the habit of forcing ourselves upon unknown ladies, nor in our respect for them are we second to the men of any nation in the world. I wish you good-evening, Signor.”

He walked away with his head in the air, an object of much curiosity to the many scattered little groups of dusky foreigners and Jews through which he passed. At the door of the hotel he paused for a moment, and then, instead of joining the stream of promenaders, he entered and slowly ascended the broad marble staircase toward his room. Just as he reached the first landing, however, he felt a light touch on his arm, and a guttural voice In his ear. He turned sharply round, and found before him one of the waiters–the one who had served him with his coffee outside.

“Well! what do you want?” he asked.

The man answered in a low tone, with his eyes glancing suspiciously around all the time.

“The Signor was inquiring the name of the lady who passed by,” he said apologetically. “The Signor spoke loudly, and I could not choose but hear.”

The Englishman came to a sudden standstill, and looked down into the ferretlike face and black eyes of the man who had followed him.

“Well?”

“I can tell it to the Signor.”

“Look sharp then!”

“The Signor is generous,” he remarked, with a cunning look. “I have risked my place by leaving the terrace without permission to bring him this news, and I am poor–very, very poor!” he added, with a sudden drop in his voice which resembled a whine.

The Englishman threw a piece of gold into the brown, greedy palm.

“Tell it me, and be off,” he said shortly.

The waiter–half Greek, half native, and a thorough rascal–bowed low, and his beadlike eyes glistened.

“The Signor is noble. The beautiful lady’s name is Signorina Adrienne Cartuccio.”

“The singer?”

“The same, Signor. The divine singer.”

“Ah!”

The Englishman turned toward the wide, open window, and gazed steadfastly at the place in the crowd where she had vanished.

“She sings to-night, does she not?” he asked.

“Truly, Signor. Palermo is full of visitors from all parts of the island on purpose to hear her.”

“At what time?”

“At nine o’clock, Signor, in the concert hall. If the Signor desires to hear her he should go early, for to-night is the only chance. She sings but once, and it is for the poor. They say that she has come to the Villa Fiolesse on the hill, to be away from the world, to rest.”

The Englishman descended the stairs and went slowly back to his seat. He had only one thought. In a few hours’ time he would see her again. It would be Paradise!

He reached his table and sat down. The seat opposite to him was empty. The Sicilian had gone.

III. “BETTER THOU WERT DEAD BEFORE ME”

On the brow of the Hill Fiolesse, at a sharp angle in the white dusty road, a man and woman stood talking. On one side of them was a grove of flowering magnolias, and on the other a high, closely-trimmed hedge skirted the grounds of the Villa Fiolesse. There was not another soul in sight, but, as though the place were not secure enough from interruption, the girl, every now and then, glanced half fearfully around her, and more than once paused in the middle of a sentence to listen. At last her fears escaped from her lips.

“Leonardo, I wish that you had not come!” she cried. “What is the good of it? I shall have no rest till I know that you are beyond the sea again.”

His face darkened, and his tone was gloomy and sad.

“Beyond the seas, while my heart is chained forever here, Margharita!” he answered. “Ah! I have tried, and I know the bitterness of it. You cannot tell what exile has been like to me. I could bear it no longer. Tell me, child! I watched you climb this hill together. You looked back and saw me, and waited. Did she see me, too? Quick! answer me! I will know! She saw me on the Marina. Did she know that I was following her?”

“I think she saw you. She said nothing when I lingered behind. It was as though she knew.”

The Sicilian clasped his hands, and looked away over the sea. The moonlight fell upon his weary pallid face, and glistened in his dark sad eyes. He spoke more to himself than her.

“She knew! And yet she would not wait to speak a single word to me! Ah! it is cruel! If only she could know how night by night, in those far-distant countries, I have lain on the mountain tops, and wandered through the valleys, thinking and dreaming of her–always of her! It has been an evil time with me, my sister, a time of dreary days and sleepless nights. And this the end of it! My heart is faint and sick with longing, and I hastened here before it should break. I must see her, Margharita! Let us hasten on to the villa!”

She laid her hand upon his arm. Her eyes were soft with coming tears.

“Leonardo, listen,” she cried. “It is best to tell you. She will not see you. She is quite firm. She is angry with you for coming.”

“Angry with me! Angry because I love her, so that I risk my life just to see her, to hear her speak! Ah! but that is cruel! Let me go in and speak to her! Let me plead with her in my own fashion!”

She shook her head.

“Leonardo, the truth is best,” she said softly. “Adrienne does not love you. She is quite determined not to see you again. Even I, pleading with tears in my eyes, could not persuade her. She has locked herself in her room while she prepares for the concert. You could not see her unless you forced yourself upon her, and that would not do.”

“No, I would not do that,” he answered wearily. “Margharita, there is a question; I must ask it, though the answer kill me. Is there–any one else?”

She shook her head.

“There is no one else, Leonardo, yet. But what matter is that, since it cannot be you? Some day it will come. All that a sister could do, I have done. She pities you, Leonardo, but she does not love you. She never will!”

He moved from the open space, where the moonlight fell upon his marble face, to the shadow of the magnolia grove. He stood there quite silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a strained, hard voice, which she scarcely recognized.

“Margharita, you have done your best for me. You do not know what a man’s love is, or you would not wonder that I suffer so much. Yet, if it must be, it must. I will give her up. I will go back to my exile and forget her. Yet since I am here, grant me a last favor. Let me see her to say farewell.”

She looked up at him in distress.

“Leonardo, how can I? She has given orders that under no circumstances whatever are you to be admitted.”

“But to say farewell!”

“She would not believe it. It has been so before, Leonardo, and then you have been passionate, and pleaded your cause all over again. I have promised that I will never ask her to see you again.”

“Then let me see her without asking. You can find an opportunity, if you will. For my sake, Margharita!”

She laid her troubled, tear-stained face upon his shoulder.

“It is wrong of me, Leonardo. Yet, if you will promise me to say farewell, and farewell only––”

“Be it so! I promise!”

“Well, then, each night we have walked past the Marina, and home by the mountain road. It is a long way round and it is lonely; but we have Pietro with us, and on these moonlight nights the view is like fairy-land.”

“And will you come that way home to-night, after the concert?”

“Yes.”

“It is good.”

“You will remember your promise, Leonardo,” she said anxiously.

“I will remember,” he answered. “And, Margharita, since this is to be our farewell, I have something to say to you also, before I pass away from your life into my exile. In Rome I was told a thing which for a moment troubled me. I say for a moment, because it was for a moment only that I believed it. The man who told me was my friend, or he would have answered to me for it, as for an insult. Shall I tell you, Margharita, what this thing was?”

Her face was troubled, and her eyes were downcast. The Sicilian watched her confusion with darkening brows. Since she made no answer, he continued:

“They told me, Margharita, that you, a Marioni, daughter of one of Europe’s grandest families, daughter of a race from which princes have sprung, and with whom, in the old days, kings have sought alliance, they told me that you were betrothed to some low American, a trader, a man without family or honor. They told me this, Margharita, and I answered them that they lied. Forgive me for the shadow of a doubt which crossed my mind, sister. Forgive me that I beg for a denial from your own lips.”

She lifted her head. She was pale, but her dark eyes had an indignant sparkle in them.

“They did lie, Leonardo,” she answered firmly, “but not in the fact itself. It is true that I am engaged to be married.”

“Betrothed! Without my sanction! Margharita, how is that? Am I not your guardian?”

“Yes, but, Leonardo, you have been away, and no one knew when you would return, or where you were.”

“It is enough. Tell me of the man to whom you are betrothed. I would know his name and family.”

“Leonardo, his name is Martin Briscoe, and his family–he has no family that you would know of. It is true that he is an American, but he is a gentleman.”

“An American! It is perhaps also true that he is a trader?”

His coolness alarmed her. She looked into his face and trembled.

“I do not know; it may be so. His father––”

The Sicilian interrupted her. His face was marble white, but his eyes were afire.

“His father! Spare me the pedigree! I know it! Margharita, stand there, where the moonlight touches your face. Let me look at you. Is it you, a daughter of the Marionis, who can speak so calmly of bringing this disgrace upon our name? You, my little sister Margharita, the proud-spirited girl who used to share in my ambitions, and to whom our name was as dear as to myself?”

“Leonardo, spare me!”

“Spare you? Yes, when you have told me that this is some nightmare, some phantasm–a lie! Spare you! Yes, when you tell me that this presumptuous upstart has gone back to his upstart country.”

She dropped her hands from before her face, and stood before him, pale and desperate.

“Leonardo, I cannot give him up, I love him!”

“And do you owe me no love? Do you owe no duty to the grandeur of our race? Noblesse oblige, Margharita! We bear a great name, and with the honor which it brings, it brings also responsibilities. I do not believe that you can truly love this man; but if you do, your duty is still plain. You must crush your love as you would a poisonous weed under your feet. You must sacrifice yourself for the honor of our name.”

“Leonardo, you do not understand. I love him, and cannot give him up. My word is given; I cannot break it.”

He drew a step further away from her, and his voice became harder.

“You must choose, then, between him and me; between your honor and your unworthy lover. There is no other course. As my sister, you are the dearest thing on earth to me; as that man’s wife, you will be an utter stranger. I will never willingly look upon your face, nor hear you speak. I will write your name out of my heart, and my curse shall follow you over the seas to your new home, and ring in your ears by day and by night. I will never forgive; I swear it!”

He ceased and bent forward, as though for her answer. She did not speak. The deep silence was broken only by the far-off murmur of the sea, and the sound of faint sobbing from between her clasped hands. The sound of her distress softened him for a moment; he hesitated, and then spoke again more quietly.

“Margharita, ponder this over. Be brave, and remember that you are a Marioni. Till to-morrow, farewell!”

IV. “DOWN INTO HELL TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT”

It was two hours later, and the Marina was almost deserted. The streets and squares, too, of the southern city were silent and empty. It seemed as though all Palermo had gathered together in that sprawling, whitewashed building, called in courtesy a concert hall. Flashes of light from its many windows gleamed upon the pavements below, and from the upper one the heads of a solid phalanx of men and women, wedged in together, threw quaint shadows across the narrow street. The tradespeople, aristocracy, and visitors of the place had flocked together to the concert, frantically desirous of hearing the great singer who although so young, had been made welcome at every court in Europe. It was an honor to their island city that she should have visited it at all; much more that she should choose to sing there; and the quick Palermitans, fired with enthusiasm, rushed to welcome her. The heavy slumberous air was still vibrating with the shout which had greeted her first appearance, and the echoes from across the scarcely rippled surface of the bay were lingering among the rocky hills on the other side of the harbor.

The Sicilian heard it as he threaded his way toward the poorer part of the city, and a dull red glow burned for a moment in his sallow cheeks. It maddened him that he, too, was not there to join in it, to feast his eyes upon her, and listen to the matchless music of her voice. Was she not more to him than to any of them? So long he had carried her image in his heart that a curious sense of possession had crept into all his thoughts of her. He was frantically jealous, heedless of the fact that he had no right to be. He would have felt toward the man on whom Adrienne Cartuccio had smiled, as toward a robber. She was his, and his only she should be. Years of faithful homage and unabated longing had made her so. His was a narrow but a strong nature, and the desire of her had become the mainspring of his life. His she should surely be! No other man had the right to lift his eyes to her. As he hurried through those silent streets, he forgot her many kindly but firm repulses. Jesuitical in his love, any means by which he might win her seemed fair and honorable. And to-night, though he was stooping to treachery to possess himself of this long coveted jewel, he felt no shame; only his heart beat strong and fast with passionate hope. The moment had come at length for him to play his last card, and at the very prospect of success heaven itself seemed open before his eyes.

He had been threading his way swiftly, and with the air of one well acquainted with the neighborhood, through a network of narrow streets and courts, filthy and poverty stricken. At last he came to a sudden pause before a flight of steps leading down to the door of a small wine shop, which was little more than a cellar.

From the street one could see into the bar, and the Sicilian paused for a moment, and peered downward. Behind the counter, a stout, swarthy-looking native woman was exchanging coarse badinage with a man in a loose jersey and baggy trousers. There seemed to be no one else in the place, save another man who sat in the darkest corner, with his head buried upon his arms.

The Sicilian only hesitated for a moment. Then he pulled his soft hat lower over his eyes, and lighting a cigarette, to dispel as far as possible the rank stale odor of the place, stepped down and entered the wine shop.

Evidently he was not known there. The woman stared curiously at him as she passed the glass of curaçao for which he asked, and the man scowled. He took no notice of either, but, with his glass in his hand, made his way across the sawdust-covered floor to the most remote of the small tables.

A few feet only from him was the man who slept, or who seemed to sleep, and all around quaint shadows of the tall buildings outside stealing in through the open window almost shut the two men off from the rest of the wine shop where the gas jets hung. The Sicilian smoked on in silence; his neighbor commenced to move. Presently the woman and her admirer resumed their talk, with their heads a little closer together and their voices lowered. They were absorbed in themselves and their coarse flirtation. The man sipped more liquor, and the woman filled his glass with no sparing hand. The strong brandy ran through his veins quicker and quicker. He tried to embrace the woman, and failed, owing to the barrier between them. He tried again, and this time partially succeeded. Then he tried to clamber over the counter, but missed his footing and fell in a heap on the floor, where he lay, to all appearance, too drunk to get up–helpless and stupefied.

The woman peered over at him with a sneer on her face. Then she arranged the bottles in their places, and called out a noisy greeting to the Sicilian who was smoking silently among the shadows with only the red tip of his cigarette visible in the darkness. He made no reply. She yawned, and looked downward at the drunken man once more. There was no sign of life in his coarse face. He was wrapped deep in a drunken sleep, and he still had money in his pockets. Ah, well! It should be hers when these two strangers had gone.