Chapter 51
THE stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together as they sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawn again almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca's face was hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. A moment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul were breaking from her heart.
In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of her weeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feel human pity for another's suffering, turned and looked at her with shadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew that she had borne more than any one had guessed.
She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to call down pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness. Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving with herself.
He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He could not comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that there was one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done long ago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come, should be heavy and relentless and enduring.
At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowed together, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to his feet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. He stood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the balustrade. When she at last raised her head, she thought that he was gone.
"Where are you?" she asked, in a startled voice.
Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understood why he had moved--that she might not feel that he was watching her and seeing her tears.
"I am not ashamed," she said. "At least you know me, now."
"Yes. I know."
She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the balustrade and looked into his face.
"I am glad you know," she said, and he saw how pale she was, and that her cheeks were wet. "Now that it is over, I am glad that you know," she said again. "You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, though you are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, it should be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are not unkind."
"Nor kind--nor anything," he said.
"No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave--or to eternity. It is safe with you."
"Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead."
"He never knew it. Thank God! He never knew it! To me he was always the same faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought him above cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that he should be cruel to you?"
"Yes," answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. "It was very human."
"And you forgive him for it?"
"I?" There was surprise in his tone.
"Yes," she answered. "I want your forgiveness for him. He died without your forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you--I have not the right to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?"
"It is nothing," said Griggs. "There is no such thing as forgiveness in my world. How could there be? I resent nothing."
"But then, if you do not resent what he did, you have forgiven him. Have you not?"
"I suppose so." He was puzzled.
"Will you not say it?" she pleaded.
"Willingly," he answered. "I forgive him. I remember nothing against him."
"Thank you. You are a good man."
He shook his head gravely, but he took her outstretched hand and pressed it gently.
"Thank you," she repeated, withdrawing hers. "Do not think it strange that I should ask such a thing. It means a great deal to me. I could not bear to think that he had left an enemy in the world and was gone where he could not ask forgiveness for what he had done. So I asked it of you, for him. I know that he would have wished me to. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Griggs, thoughtfully. "I understand."
Again there was silence for a long time as they stood there. The tears dried upon the woman's sweet pale face, and a soft light came where the tears had been.
"Will you come with me?" she asked at last, looking up.
He did not guess what she meant to do, but he left the step on which he was standing and stood ready.
"It must be late," he said. "Should you like to try and rest? I will arrange a place for you as well as I can."
"Not yet," she answered. "If you will come with me--" she hesitated.
"Yes?"
"I will say a prayer for the dead," she said, in a low voice. "I always do, every night, since he died."
Griggs bent his head, and she came down from the step. He walked beside her, down the silent nave into the darkness. Before the Chapel of the Sacrament they both paused and bent the knee. Then she hesitated.
"I should like to go to the Pieta," she said timidly. "It seems so far. Do you mind?"
He held out his arm silently. She felt it and laid her hand upon it, and they went on. It was very dark. They knew that they were passing the pillars when they could not see the little lights from the chapels in the distance on their left. Then by the echo of their own footsteps they knew that they were near the great door, and at last they saw the single tiny flame in the silver lamp hanging above the altar they sought.
Guided by it, they went forward, and the solitary ray showed them the marble rail. They knelt down side by side.
"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very softly.
She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, the mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago, who had been called Addolorata.
"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, for Gloria--for Angelo Reanda."
She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.
"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for that Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.
"Let us be friends," she said simply.
"Such as I am, I am yours."
Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the fingers were cold and wet and dark.
It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.
The swift sure blade had struck him as he stood there, repeating the name of his dead wife. There had been no one near the door and none to see the quick, black deed. Strong hands had thrown his falling body within the marble balustrade, that was still wet with his heart's blood.
There Paul Griggs found him, lying on his back, stretched to his length in the dim shadow between the rail and the altar. He had paid the price at last, a loving, sinning, suffering, faithful, faultful man.
But the friendship that was so grimly consecrated on that night, was the truest that ever was between man and woman.
END OF VOL. II.
THE RALSTONS.
BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD.
2 vols. 16mo. Cloth. $2.00.
PRESS COMMENTS.
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"As a picture of a certain kind of New York life, it is correct and literal; as a study of human nature it is realistic enough to be modern, and romantic enough to be of the age of Trollope."--_Chicago Herald._
"The whole group of character studies is strong and vivid."--_The Literary World._
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KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.
=The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.=
"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in 'Katharine Lauderdale' we have him at his best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._
"A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women."--_The Westminster Gazette._
"It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework."--_Life._
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"'Katharine Lauderdale' is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest level of his work. In some respects it will probably be regarded as his best. None of his works, with the exception of 'Mr. Isaacs,' shows so clearly his skill as a literary artist."--_San Francisco Evening Bulletin._
PIETRO GHISLERI.
"The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic environment,--the entire atmosphere, indeed,--rank this novel at once among the great creations."--_The Boston Budget._
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"Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all such we commend it heartily."--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
"The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current modern thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary plane of novel interest."--_Boston Advertiser._
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
"We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in words."--_Churchman._
"We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story 'Marzio's Crucifix' is perfectly constructed."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
KHALED.
A Story of Arabia.
"Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the building out and development of the character of the woman who becomes the hero's wife and whose love he finally wins, being an especially acute and highly finished example of the story-teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford's work need be told."--_The Chicago Times._
PAUL PATOFF.
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ZOROASTER.
"The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be unbounded. . . . In 'Zoroaster' Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures a daring flight. . . . Yet 'Zoroaster' is a novel rather than a drama. It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage could possibly do."--_The Times._
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
"It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and vivid story. . . . It is doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue."--_Critic._
"Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dramatic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The taste which is left in one's mind after the story is finished is exactly what the fine reader desires and the novelist intends. . . . It has no defects. It is neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect."--_Boston Beacon._
AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.
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"The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest interest."--_New York Tribune._
GREIFENSTEIN.
"'Greifenstein' is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates once more the author's unusual versatility, it also shows that he has not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types of a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 'noblesse oblige' is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of is startlingly shown."--_New York Tribune._
A ROMAN SINGER.
"One of Mr. Crawford's most charming stories--a love romance pure and simple."--_Boston Home Journal._
"'A Roman Singer' is one of his most finished, compact, and successful stories, and contains a splendid picture of Italian life."--_Toronto Mail._
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"No story of human experience that we have met with since 'John Inglesant' has such an effect of transporting the reader into regions differing from his own. 'Mr. Isaacs' is the best novel that has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions."--_The Daily News, London._
DR. CLAUDIUS.
A True Story.
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"To our mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. The story, an exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with much skill; the characters are strongly marked without any suspicion of caricature, and the author's ideas on social and political subjects are often brilliant and always striking. It is no exaggeration to say that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted for the recreation of student or thinker."--_Living Church._
TO LEEWARD.
"A story of remarkable power."--_Review of Reviews._
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"One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read."--_Boston Times._
SANT' ILARIO.
A sequel to "Saracinesca."
"The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 'Sant' Ilario' is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca family. . . . A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Admirably developed, with a naturalness beyond praise. . . . It must rank with 'Greifenstein' as the best work the author has produced. It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing in interest."--_New York Tribune._
DON ORSINO.
A continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
"The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing with three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 'Saracinesca,' 'Sant' Ilario,' and 'Don Orsino,' and these novels present an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the present century. Each one of these novels is worthy of very careful reading, and offers exceptional enjoyment in many ways, in the fascinating absorption of good fiction, in interest of faithful historic accuracy, and in charm of style. The 'new Italy' is strikingly revealed in 'Don Orsino.'"--_Boston Budget._
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THE THREE FATES.
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CHILDREN OF THE KING.
A Tale of Southern Italy.
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THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
A Fantastic Tale.
ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY.
"'The Witch of Prague' is so remarkable a book as to be certain of as wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest interest for most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revelations of hypnotic science. . . . It is a romance of singular daring and power."--_London Academy._
"Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange a one as that which dominates 'The Witch of Prague.' . . . The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . . A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story."--_New York Tribune._
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Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Vol. 1
Page 50, "retractation" changed to "retraction" (of a general retraction)
Page 83, "baiscchi" changed to "baiocchi" (ten baiocchi for)
Vol. 2
Page 27, "premiss" changed to "premise" (a false premise)
Page 29, "premisses" changed to "premises" (assumed premises)
Page 118, "np" changed to "up" (paused, looked up)
Page 152, "orf" changed to "or" (or the letter was)
Page 219, "Calpasta" changed to "Calpesta" (Calpesta il mio)
Page xvi, letter "i" missing in "generations" replaced (generations of the Saracinesca)