CHAPTER XIV

AN EVERLASTING HATE

At four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day, an open barouche, drawn by a pair of magnificent bay horses, drove up to the door of the Hotel Continental. The manager, who was standing at the window of his private room, noticed two things—first, that there was a coronet upon the carriage door; and secondly, that the lady who was alighting carried in her hand a copy of the Morning Post turned down, as though to mark a certain place in it.

As she crossed the pavement he had a better view of her face, and recognized her with a little start of surprise. In a moment he was outside, and on the steps to receive her, an attention he very rarely bestowed upon his guests.

The swing doors opened and closed, and the lady, with the paper still in her hand, turned to the manager.

"Do you know anything about this paragraph?" she asked, touching it with her delicately-gloved forefinger. "The one, I mean, which concerns the Count di Marioni?"

"Certainly, your ladyship," he answered. "I inserted it myself."

"He is still here, I suppose?"

"He is, your ladyship. I do not know whether you will consider that I acted wisely in taking such a step, but I could see no alternative. He arrived here alone about a fortnight ago, and at that time there seemed to be nothing singular about him excepting his clothing, and a certain nervousness which the servants marked in his manner, and which we can scarcely wonder at, considering his painful history and recent return to—er—civilized ways. He left the hotel almost immediately after engaging his room, and was away, I believe, for several hours. I chanced to be in the hall on his return, and was struck by the change in his appearance. Your ladyship, I never saw a man on whose face was written such dumb and helpless agony. He went straight to his room, and since then has never left it. He is simply pining to death there. He neither eats, nor drinks, nor speaks. He sits there, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, like a man waiting for his end. I ventured to visit him one morning, but my attempts at remonstrance were cut short at once in a most dignified fashion. I feel that it would be heartless to ask him to leave the hotel; but, at the same time, if he remains, and continues in the same way, he will certainly either die or go mad very shortly. What he wants is the personal care of friends, and very kind treatment; and as I could think of no other way of communication with them, I decided to advertise his presence here. I trust that your ladyship does not think my interference officious?"

He bowed his head, and turned away out of respect for the tears which he could see in her eyes, and which she made scarcely an effort to conceal.

"No; you did quite right," she said after a moment's pause. "I was waiting for my husband outside the club, and quite by chance I took up the Post and saw your paragraph. I drove here at once. Will you show me to the Count's rooms, if you please?"

"Certainly, your ladyship. Will you come this way?"

She followed him up the fine marble staircase and down the first-floor corridor. At the extreme end he paused outside a door.

"It is of no use knocking," he said; "he never answers. If I can be of any further service, your ladyship will perhaps be so good as to ring the bell."

He opened the door for her, and closed it quietly as she entered. Then he retreated along the corridor, and returned to his room, wondering not a little at the visitor whom his advertisement had brought.

The great room in which the Count Marioni was sitting was almost in darkness, for the afternoon was dull and foggy, and the curtains were partially closed. There was no lamp lit, and the only light came from the brightly-burning fire near which the Count was sitting in an armchair ludicrously too large for his frail body. The flames fell upon his white, worn face, with its deep branding lines, and gleamed in his great sad eyes, so bright and dry that they seemed like mirrors for the firelight. His hair and short unkempt beard were as white as snow, matching even the unnatural pallor of his skin, and his black frock coat was buttoned across a chest which would have been narrow for a consumptive boy. He did, indeed, look on the threshold of death.

He had not turned his head at the opening or closing of the door, but presently another sound broke the silence. It was a woman's sob, and as he slowly turned his head, a tall, graceful figure moved forward out of the shadows, and he heard his name softly murmured.

"Leonardo!"

His hand went up to his forehead. Was it a dream; or was he indeed back once more in the days of his youth, back among the pine woods which topped his castle, walking side by side with her whose presence seemed to make the long summer days one sweet dream of delight? The familiar odor of violets and wild hyacinths seemed to fill the room. The fog-bound city, with its ceaseless roar, existed for him no longer. The sun of his own dear country warmed his heart, and the sea wind blew in his eager face. And she was there—his queen—the great desire of his weary life. All his pulses leaped with the joy of her presence. Five-and-twenty years of lonely misery were blotted out. Ah! memory is a wonderful magician!

"Leonardo! Will you not speak to me?"

Again that voice! Where was he now? Face to face with her on the sands at Palermo, deceived, betrayed, given over to the enemies of his country, and by her—the woman for whom his passionate love had been his sole crime. Listen! The air is full of that cry of threatened vengeance. Hark how the echoes ring back from the cliffs. "By the sun, and the sky, and the sea, and the earth, I swear that, as they continue unchanged and unchanging, so shall my hate for you remain!" Darkness—a prison cell. Year by year, year by year, darkness, solitude, misery! See the blade hair turn gray, the strength of manhood wasting away, the eye growing dim, the body weak. Year by year, year by year, it goes on. What was that scratched upon the whitewashed walls? What was the cry which rang back from the towering cliff! "Hate unchanging and unchanged!" The same—ever the same.

"Leonardo, have you no word for me?"

He rose slowly from his chair, and fixed his eyes upon her.

Before their fire she shrank back, appalled. Was it a storm about to burst upon her? No! The words were slow and few.

"You have dared to come—here; dared to come and look upon your handiwork! Away! Out of my sight! You have seen me. Go!"

Tears blinded her eyes. The sight of him was horrible to her. She forgot, in her great pity, that justice had been upon her side. She sank upon her knees before him on the velvet pile carpet.

"Leonardo, for the love of God, forgive me!" she sobbed. "Oh! it is painful to see you thus, and to know the burden of hate which you carry in your heart. Forgive me! Forgive us both!"

He stooped down until his ghastly face nearly touched hers.

"Curse you!" he muttered hoarsely. "You dare to look at me, and ask for forgiveness. Never! never! Every morning and night I curse you. I curse you when my mother taught me to pray. I live for nothing else. If I had the strength I would strangle you where you stand. Hell's curses and mine ring in your ears and sit in your heart day by day and night by night! Away with you! Away, away!"

She was a brave woman, but she fled from the room like a hunted animal, and passed out of the hotel with never a look to the right or to the left.

The manager came out to speak to her, but he stood still, aghast, and let her go without uttering a word or offering to assist her. As long as he lived he remembered the look on the Countess of St. Maurice's face as she came down those stairs, clutching hold of the banisters, and, with hasty trembling steps, left the hotel. He was a great reader of fiction, and he had heard of Irish banshees and Brahmin ghosts; but never a living story-teller had painted such a face as he looked upon at that moment.