Christine of the hills

“Signor, I did not take Christine back to Zlarin, as you may well imagine. Rather, I laughed away her scruples, telling her that she was worthy of any man’s love, and that it was her plain duty to remain at the château. For the matter of that, though it was not hidden from me that the Count loved her, none the less did I deem any change in her condition impossible for months—nay, for years to come. Paul Zaloski was not one to marry the first that he picked off the roadside, without mature deliberation and a long-confirmed resolve. It was even possible that no thought of marriage would enter his head. The honour of a woman is a cheap commodity in Bosnia. Things which would shame Western eyes are there without significance. If the Count chose to offer love to the child, and to seek no sanction of the Church, the world, I said, would applaud him. Nor was it to be expected that the last of the Zaloskis should link his name and his fortune with one whose story was like a fable from a book and whose birthright was poverty. The very suggestion would have been scouted in the market-place—the idea scoffed at as the idea of a fool.

“As this was my thought, so was it the thought of others. Scarce had I comforted the child, making merry over her suggestion that I should take her back to Zlarin, when the priest met me in the garden of the house, and asked me to his room, there to drink a glass of prune brandy with him. I went the readier because he had shewn me some friendship from the first, and I had found him to be a large-minded man, very able to read the future; and when we had settled ourselves near to his big fire of logs, and he had placed a bottle of the liqueur, with cigars, at my elbow, we began to talk of many things, but chiefly of Christine and of her prospects.

“‘We owe you hearty thanks, Signor Andrea,’ said he, while he filled my glass and lighted a cheroot; ‘this is no weather to be out on the hills, though your desire to see little Christine must have helped you on the journey.’

“‘Diamine,’ replied I, ‘that is so; yet what says the proverb, “la povertà è la madre di tutte le arti”—the poor must dance when the rich pipe. Father, I could not refuse the Count’s invitation, and I doubt not that he will hold the fact in remembrance. Three days of labour have I lost in the coming, to say nothing of peril by the way. But this would I do again to-morrow, and more, if little Christine could be helped thereby.’

“He looked at me curiously, knocking the ashes off his cigar with much deliberation.

“‘Undoubtedly,’ said he, ‘the child owes much to you. It is your intention now, I understand, to carry her to Sebenico, and there to place her with the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration. That would be a work of much merit.’

“‘Per nulla,’ said I, ‘all that is old talk. It is true that I mentioned the matter to the Count when he saw fit to make a charge of neglect against me; but he would not hear of it, and I confess that the burden would be heavier than my shoulders could bear. She has a good home here; why should I seek to check the providence of God and to take her from it?’

“He heard me out, and then, going first to see that the door of the room was shut, he drew his chair closer to mine, and unfolded his scheme.

“‘Signor Andrea,’ he said, ‘we are both men of the world. If others blind their eyes, that is no reason why we should walk in the darkness with them. You especially should be very ready to hear of any plan by which one you love may be snatched from the danger which is threatening her soul and the soul of a man whose every action I may not approve, but who is bound to me, nevertheless, by many ties of affection. You follow me?’

“‘Perfectly,’ I replied, ‘remembering always my own exceeding poverty.’

“‘As I remember it, and think of it in all I would do. It must be plain to you that the Count, my master, is not the one to entertain, even for a moment, the thought of marrying a little peasant girl out of Dalmatia——’

“‘And why not?’ cried I.

“At this, excellency, he fidgeted upon his chair, and made a little gesture of impatience.

“‘There are a hundred reasons,’ said he.

“‘Body of my soul,’ said I, ‘but I would like to hear them! And if it comes to that, Father, let me tell you that I can conceive no greater happiness for my child than a union so exalted, so noble, so worthy of her beauty, as this would be. A hundred reasons! Santa Maria, what talk!’

“I made my answer so, not believing a word I said, but intending to hide from him any appearance of falling in too readily with his suggestions. And in this I succeeded beyond my expectations. His tone became less confident; he filled my glass again and drew his chair yet nearer.

“‘You misunderstand me, my friend,’ said he. ‘It may be as you say; he may even contemplate a step so disastrous to his ambitions and his house. It lies upon us who have his interests at heart—and with his interests the interests of the child also—to save him from himself and his reckless will. We can do that in one way only—by sending her to Sebenico.’

“I nodded my head gravely, and he proceeded:

“‘You, I am well aware, are in no way able to bear so heavy a burden. That knowledge makes me the more willing to contemplate some personal sacrifice in any proposal I have to make. I am not a rich man, but if you, demanding the charge of Christine as a right,—and I believe such guardianship was conferred upon you by her brother’s will,—should carry her to the convent of the Perpetual Adoration, I on my part will pay all the charges incurred by her education there, and, moreover, will ask you to accept a thousand francs a year for any expense you may be put to in the matter. Thus alone can we save the Count from himself and the child from the peril. You follow me, signor?’

“I followed him well enough, excellency, for my brain was very busy as he spoke. And one thing was plain to me from the first. If Count Paul meant to marry Christine, then could I look for something more than a thousand francs a year from her. ‘She will never forget the hand which gave her bread,’ I thought; ‘she may even appoint me to some place about the house wherein the weight of my years may be made light.’ On the other hand, if there was danger to be faced, then was it my duty to accept the priest’s offer; ‘for,’ said I, ‘in that case my presence will be a reproach to them, and they will turn me away from their gates.’ But my difficulty was to read the Count’s intention aright; and until I had so done it was not prudent that I should either reject or accept the offer of the priest.

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘your words are the words of a righteous man. Let me think upon them until to-morrow, and then you shall have my answer. Meanwhile there is one possibility we have both forgotten in weighing up these chances. I refer to the man Ugo Klun, who before the law, if not before God, is Christine’s husband. How do we know that he is dead?’

“This was my saying to him; yet, God knows, I had done better to have cut off my right hand than to have spoken so foolishly. No sooner had he heard the words than his face flushed with the blood which ran up to it, and clutching me by the arm so that his fingers seemed to touch my bone, he asked:

“‘My friend, do you think that Ugo Klun still lives, then?’

“‘How should I think it?’ replied I, for now I saw my folly; ‘it is at the most an old woman’s tale. Was he not shot in the woods above the Verbas? You have read the corporal’s report with your own eyes. Accidente, Father, is not that enough?’

“He was walking about the room now, muttering to himself and snapping his fingers. I do not think he heard my answer, for presently he came and stood opposite to me, and with a great beat of his fist on the table he cried:

“‘If the man lives, God helping me, I will find him.’

“He would have said more, but even as he was repeating his words there was a loud knocking on the door of the room, and when we opened quickly we found Hans, the steward, breathless with news which sent us running to the park and crying for help as we ran.”