[Transcriber's note: Both "Matilde" and "Matilda" appear in the sourcetext. ]

TAQUISARA

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD

1895

CHAPTER I. 

"Where shall I sign my name?"

Veronica Serra's thin, dark fingers rolled the old silver penholdernervously as she sat at one end of the long library table, looking up atthe short, stout man who stood beside her. 

"Here, if you please, Excellency, " answered Lamberto Squarci, with anaffable smile. 

His fingers were dark, too, but not thin, and they were smooth and dingyand very pointed, a fact which the young princess noticed with dislike, as he indicated the spot on the broad sheet of rough, hand-made paper, where he wished her to sign. A thrill of repulsion that was strongenough to be painful ran through her, and she rolled the penholder stillmore quickly and nervously, so that she almost dropped it, and a littleblot of ink fell upon the sheet before she had begun to write. 

"Oh! It is of no importance!" said the Neapolitan notary, in areassuring tone. "A little ink more or less!"

He had some pink blotting-paper ready, and was already applying a cornerof it to the ink-spot, with the neat skill of a professional scribe. 

"I will erase it when it is dry, " he said. "You will not even see it. Now, if your Excellency will sign--that will make the will valid. "

Three other persons stood around Donna Veronica as she set the point ofher pen to the paper, and two of them watched the characters she traced, with eager, unwinking eyes. The third was a very insignificant personagejust then, being but the notary's clerk; but his signature was needed asa witness to the will, and he patiently waited for his turn. The othertwo were husband and wife, Gregorio and Matilde, Count and CountessMacomer; and the countess was the young girl's aunt, being the onlysister of Don Tommaso Serra, Prince of Acireale, Veronica's dead father. She looked on, with an eager, pleased expression, standing upright andbending her head in order to see the point of the pen as it moved overthe rough paper. Her hands were folded before her, but the uppermost onetwitched and moved once or twice, as though it would go out to getpossession of the precious document which left her all the heiress'sgreat possessions in case of Donna Veronica's death. It was a bit ofpaper well worth having. 

The girl rose, slight and graceful, when she had written her name, andthe finely chiselled lips had an upward curve of young scorn, as sheturned from the table, while the notary and his clerk proceeded towitness the will. Immediately, the countess smiled, very brightly, showing beautiful teeth between smooth red lips, and her strong armswent round her young niece. She was a woman at least forty years of age, but still handsome. 

"I thank you with all my heart!" she cried. "It is a proof of affectionwhich I shall never forget! You will live a hundred years--a thousand, if God will it! But the mere wish to leave me your fortune is a token oflove and esteem which I shall know how to value. "

Donna Veronica kissed her aunt's fresh cheek coldly, and drew back assoon as she could. 

"I am glad that you are pleased, " she answered in a cool and colourlessvoice. 

She felt that she had said enough, and, so far as she expected anythanks, her aunt had said too much. She had made the will and had signedit, for the sake of peace, and she asked nothing but peace in return. Ever since she had left the convent in which she had been educated andhad come to live with her aunt, the question of this will had arisen atleast once every day, and she knew by heart every argument which hadbeen invented to induce her to make it. The principal one had alwaysbeen the same. She had been told that if, in the inscrutable ways ofProvidence, she should chance to die young, unmarried and childless, the whole of the great Acireale property would go to relations whom shehad never seen and of whom she scarcely knew the names. This, theCountess Macomer had insisted, would be a terrible misfortune, and ashuman life was uncertain, even when one was very young, it was the dutyof Veronica to provide against it, by leaving everything to the oneremaining member of the Serra family who, with herself, represented thedirect line, who had taken a mother's place and duties in bringing upthe orphan girl, and who had been ready to sacrifice every personalconsideration for the sake of the child's welfare. 

Veronica did not see clearly that the Countess Macomer had ever reallysacrificed anything at all in the execution of her trust as guardian, any more than the count himself, who, with Cardinal Campodonico, was ajoint trustee, had ever been put to any inconvenience, beyond that ofbeing the uncle by marriage of one of the richest heiresses in Italy. Itwas natural that when she had signed the will at last, she shouldreceive her aunt's effusive thanks rather coldly, and that she shouldshow very little enthusiasm when her uncle kissed her forehead andexpressed his appreciation of her loving intention. The plain truth wasthat if she had refused any longer to sign the will, the two would havemade her life even more unbearable than it was already. 

She knew that there was no reason why her life should be made hard tobear. She was not only rich, and a princess in her own right. She wasyoung and, if not pretty, at least fairly well endowed with those giftswhich attract and please, and bring their possessor the daily littlesatisfactions that make something very like happiness, before passionthrows its load into the scales of life on the right side or the wrong. She knew that, at her age, she might have been married already, and shewondered that her aunt should not have proposed to marry her before now. Yet in this she was not displeased, for her best friend, BiancaCampodonico, had been married two years already to Corleone, of evilfame, and was desperately unhappy. Veronica dreaded a like fate, and wasin no haste to find a husband. The countess told her always that sheshould be free to choose one for herself within reasonable limits ofage, name, and fortune. Such an heiress, with such a fortune, saidMatilde Macomer, could marry whom she pleased. But so far as Veronicahad been allowed to see the world, the choice seemed anything but large. 

The count and countess had always been very careful in the selection oftheir intimate associates--they could hardly be said to have anyintimate friends. Since Veronica had come to them from the convent inRome, where she had been educated according to her dead father'sdesire, they had been doubly cautious and trebly particular as to thepersons they chose to receive. Their responsibility, they said openly, was very great. The child's happiness, was wholly in their hands. Theywould be held accountable if she should form an unfortunate attachmentfor some ineligible young man who might chance to dine at their table. The responsibility, they repeated with emphasis, was truly enormous. Itwas also an unfortunate fact that in their Neapolitan society there weremany young men, princes and dukes by the score, who had nothing buttheir names and titles to recommend them, and who would have found itvery hard to keep body and title together, so to say, if gambling hadsuddenly been abolished, or had gone out of fashion unexpectedly. 

Then, too, the Macomer couple had always led a retired life and had keptaloof from the very gay portion of society. They lived well, accordingto their station, and so far as any one could see; but it had alwaysbeen said that Gregorio Macomer was miserly. At the same time it suitedhis wife, for reasons of her own, not to be conspicuous in the world, and she encouraged him to lead a quiet existence, spending half the yearin the country, and receiving very few people when in Naples during thewinter and spring. Gregorio had one brother, Bosio, considerably youngerthan himself and very different in character, who was not married andwho lived at the Palazzo Macomer, on excellent terms both with Gregorioand the countess, as well as with Veronica herself. The young girl wasinclined to like him, though she felt dimly that she could neverunderstand him as she believed that she understood her aunt and uncle. He was, indeed, almost the only man, excepting her uncle, whom she couldbe said to know tolerably well. He was not present on that afternoonwhen she signed the will, but his absence did not surprise her, for hehad always abstained from any remarks about her property or hisbrother's and sister-in-law's guardianship, in such a marked way as tomake her understand that he really wished to know nothing about themanagement or disposal of her fortune. 

She liked him for several reasons, --for his non-interference indiscussions about her affairs, for a certain quiet consideration, just ashade more friendly than deference, which he showed for her slightestwishes, and chiefly, perhaps, for his conversation and perfectly eventemper. 

Her uncle Macomer was not always good-tempered and he was neverconsiderate. He was a stiff man, of impenetrable face, much older thanhis wife, cold when he was pleased, and harsh as rough ice when he wasannoyed; a tall, bony man, with flattened lips, from which the greymoustaches and the beard were brushed smoothly away in all directions. He had very small eyes--a witty enemy of his said they were so smallthat one could not find them in his face, and those who knew him laughedat the jest, for they always seemed hard to find when one wished to meetthem. His shoulders were unusually high and narrow, but he did notstoop. On the contrary, he habitually threw back his head, with acertain coldly aggressive stiffness, so that he easily looked above theperson with whom he was talking. Though he had never been given to anysort of bodily exercise, his hands were naturally horny, and they werealmost always cold. For the rest, he was careful of his appearance andscrupulous in matters of dress, like many of his fellow-countrymen. Inhis household he insisted upon a neatness as fastidious as his own, andnothing could have induced him to employ a Neapolitan servant. Hisfamily colours were green and black, and the green of his servants'liveries was of the very darkest that could be had. 

He imposed his taste upon his household, and gave it a certain markedrespectability which betrayed no information about his fortune. To allappearances he was not poor; but it would have been impossible to saywith certainty whether he were rich or only in moderate circumstances. He was undoubtedly more careful than ninety-nine out of a hundred of hisfellow-citizens, in getting the value of what he spent, to theuttermost splitting of farthings; and when he spoke of money there was acertain cruel hardening of the hard lines in his face, which Veronicanever failed to notice with dislike. She wondered how her aunt couldhave led an apparently tranquil life with such a man during more thantwenty years. 

Doubtless, she thought, Bosio's presence acted as a palliative in thesomewhat grim atmosphere of the Palazzo Macomer. He was utterlydifferent from his brother. In the first place, he was gentle and kindin speech and manner, though apparently rather sad than gay. He wasdifferent in face, in figure, in voice, in carriage--having quiet browneyes, and brown hair only streaked with grey, with a full, silky beard;a clear pale complexion; in frame shorter than Gregorio, with smallerbones, slightly inclined to stoutness, but rather graceful than stiff;small feet and well-shaped hands of pleasant texture; a clear, low voicethat never jarred upon the ear, and a kindly, half-sad laugh in whichthere was a singular refinement, of the sort which shows itself more inlaughter than in speech. Laughter is, indeed, a terrible betrayer of thecharacter, and a surer guide in judgment than most people know. For menlearn to use their voices skilfully and to govern their tones as well astheir words; but, beyond not laughing too loud for ordinary decency ofbehaviour, there are few people who care, or realize, how they laugh;and those who do, and who, being aware that there is room forimprovement, endeavour to improve, very generally produce either asemi-musical noise, which is false and affected, or a perfectly inanecachinnation which has nothing human in it at all. 

Bosio Macomer was a refined man, not only by education and outwardcontact with the refinements he sought in others, but within himself andby predisposition of nature. He read much, and found beauties in bookswhich his friends thought dull, but which appealed tenderly to hisinnate love of tenderness. He had probably lost many illusions, but thesweetest of them all was still fresh in him, for he loved natureunaffectedly. In an unobtrusive way he was something of an artist, andwas fond of going out by himself, when in the country, to sketch anddream all day. Veronica did not understand how with such tastes he couldbear the life in the Palazzo Macomer, for months at a time. He was freeto go and come as he pleased, and since he preferred the country, shewondered why he did not live out of town altogether. His existence wasthe more incomprehensible to her, as he rarely lost an opportunity offinding fault with Naples as a city and with the Neapolitans as humanbeings. Sometimes he did not leave the house for many days, as hefrankly admitted, preferring the little apartment in the upper story ofthe house, where he lived independently, with one old servant, amongsthis books and his pictures, appearing downstairs only at dinner, and notalways then. His place was always ready for him, but no one everremarked his absence, nor inquired where he might be when he chose tostay away. 

He was on excellent terms with every one. The servants adored him, whilethey feared his brother and disliked the countess; when he appeared henever failed to kiss the countess's hand, and to exchange a friendlyword or two with Gregorio; but as for the latter, Bosio made no secretof the fact that he preferred the society of the ladies of the householdto that of the count, with whom he had little in common. He certainlyadmired his sister-in-law, and more than once frankly confessed toVeronica that in his opinion Matilde Macomer was still the mostbeautiful woman in the world. Yet Veronica had observed that he wascritical of looks in other women, and she thought his criticismsgenerally just and in good taste. For her part, however, if he chose toconsider her middle-aged aunt lovely, Veronica would not contradict him, for she was cautious in a certain degree, and in spite of herself shedistrusted her surroundings. 

There were times when the Countess Macomer inspired her with confidence. Those very beautiful dark eyes of hers had but one defect, namely, thatthey were quite too near together; but they were still the bestfeatures in the elder woman's face, and when Veronica looked at themfrom such an angle as not to notice their relative position, she almostbelieved that she could trust them. But she never liked the smooth redlips, nor the over-pointed nose, which had something of the falcon'skeenness without its nobility. The thick and waving brown hair grewalmost too low on the white forehead, and, whether by art or nature, theeyebrows were too broad and too dark for the face, though they were sowell placed as to greatly improve the defect of the close-set eyes. There was a marvellous genuine freshness of colour in the clearcomplexion, and the woman carried her head well upon a reallymagnificent neck. She was strong and vital and healthy, and herpersonality was as distinctly dominating as her physical self. Yet shewas generally very careful not to displease her husband, even when hewas capricious, and Veronica was sometimes surprised by the apparentweakness with which she yielded to him in matters about which she had asgood a right as he to an opinion and a decision. The girl supposed thather aunt was not so strong as she seemed to be, when actually broughtface to face with the rough ice of Gregorio Macomer's character. 

Veronica made her observations discreetly and kept them to herself, aswas not only becoming but wise. At first the change from thesemi-cloistered existence of the convent in Rome to the life at thePalazzo Macomer had dazzled the girl and had confused her ideas. Butwith the natural desire of the very young to seem experienced, she hadbegun by manifesting no surprise at anything she saw; and she had soondiscovered that, although she was supposed to be living in the societyof the most idle and pleasure-loving city in the world, her surroundingswere in reality neither gay nor dazzling, but decidedly monotonous anddull. She had dim, childish memories of magnificent things in herfather's house, though the main impression was that of his death, following closely, as she had been told, upon her mother's. Of thelatter, she could remember nothing. In dreams she saw beautiful things, and brilliant light and splendid pictures and enchanted gardens, andwhen she awoke she felt that the dreams had been recollections of whatshe had seen, and of what still belonged to her. But she sought thereality in vain. The grand old palace in the Toledo was hers, she wastold, but it was let for a term of years to the municipality and wasfilled with public offices; the marble staircases were black and dingywith the passing of many feet that tracked in the mud in winter and thefilthy dust of Naples in summer. Dark, poor faces and ill-clad formsmoved through the halls, and horrible voices echoed perpetually in thecorridors, where those who waited discussed taxes, and wrangled, andcursed those in power, and cheated one another, and picked a pocket nowand then, and spat upon the marble pavement whereon royal and lordlyfeet had so often trod in days gone by. It had all become a great nestof dirt and stealing and busy chicanery, where dingy, hawk-eyed men withsodden white faces and disgusting hands lay in wait for the unwary whohad business with the city government, to rob them on pretence offacilitating their affairs, to cringe for a little coin flung them inscorn sometimes by one who had grown rich in greater robbery than theycould practise--sometimes, too, springing aside to escape a kick or ablow as ill-tempered success went swinging by, high-handed and vulgarlycruel, a few degrees less filthy and ten thousand times more repulsive. 

Once, Veronica had insisted upon going through the palace. She wouldnever enter it again, and after that day, when she passed it, she turnedher face from it and looked away. Vaguely, she wondered whether theywere not deceiving her and whether it were really the home she dimlyremembered. There had been splendid things in it, then--she would notask what had become of them, but without asking, she was told that theyhad been wisely disposed of, and that instead of paying people forkeeping an uninhabited palace in order, she was receiving an enormousrent for it from the city. 

Then she had wished to see the lovely villa that came back in thepictures of her dreams, and she had been driven out into the countryaccording to her desire. From a distance, as the carriage approached it, she recognized the lordly poplars, and far at the end of the avenue theelaborately stuccoed front and cornices of the old-fashioned "barocco"building. But the gardens were gone. Files of neatly trimmed vines, trained upon poles stuck in deep furrows, stretched away from the avenueon either side. The flower garden was a vegetable garden now, and theartichokes and the cabbages and the broccoli were planted withmathematical regularity up to the very walls. There were hens andchickens on the steps and running in and out of the open door, and froma near sty the grunt of many pigs reached her ears. A pale, earthy-skinned peasant, scantily clad in dusty canvas, grinned sadly andkissed the hem of her skirt, calling her 'Excellency' and beginning atonce to beg for reduction of rent. A field-worn woman, filthy anddishevelled, drove back half a dozen nearly naked children whose littlelegs were crusted with dry mud, and whose faces had not been washed fora long time. 

And within, there was no furniture. In the rooms upstairs were stores ofgrain and potatoes, and red peppers and grapes hanging on strings. Thecracked mirrors, built into the gilded stucco, were coated with heavyunctuous dust, and the fine old painted tiles on the floor were looseand broken in places. In the ceiling certain pink and well-fed cherubsstill supported unnatural thunderclouds through which Juno forever droveher gold-wheeled car and team of patient peacocks, smiling high andgoddess-like at the squalor beneath. Still Diana bent over Endymioncruelly foreshortened in his sleep, beyond the possibility of a wakingreturn to human proportions. Mars frowned, Jove threatened, Venus roseglowing from the sea; and below, the unctuous black dust settled andthickened on everything except the cracked floors piled with maize andbeans and lupins, and rubbed bright between the heaps by the peasants'naked feet. 

Veronica turned her back upon the villa, as she had turned from thegreat palace in the Toledo. They whispered to her that the peasant'srent must not be reduced, for he was well able to pay, and they pointedto the closely planted vines and vegetables and olives that stretchedfar away to right and left, where she remembered in her dreams of farchildhood that there had been lawns and walks and flowers. The man, shewas told, was not the only peasant on the place. There were other housesnow, and huts that could shelter a family, and there was land, land, always more land, as far as she could see, all as closely and neatlyand regularly planted with vegetables and grain, vines and olives; andit was all hers, and yielded enormous rents which were wisely invested. She was very rich indeed, but to her it all seemed horribly sordid andgrinding and mean--and the peasants looked prematurely old, labour-worn, filthy, wretchedly poor. If she had even had any satisfaction from somuch wealth, it might have seemed different. She said so, in her heart. She was accustomed to tell her confessor that she was proud anduncharitable and unfeeling--not finding any real misdeeds to confess. She was willing to believe that she was all that and much more. If shehad been living in the whirling, golden pleasure-storm of an utterlythoughtless world, she believed herself bad enough to have shut hermemory's eyes to the haggard peasant-mother of the dirty half-cladchildren--to all the hundreds of them who doubtless lived just like theone she had seen, all upon her lands; she could have forgotten thebusy-thieving, sodden-faced crowd that thronged the chambers wherein herfathers had been born and had feasted kings and had died--the very roomwhere her own father had lain dead. She could have shut it all out, shethought, if she had held in her hands the gold that all this brought, toscatter it at her will; for she was sure that she had not a better heartthan other girls of her age. But she had never seen it. The reality ofher own life was too weak and colourless, by contrast, to make the nameof fortune an excuse for the sordid facts of meanness. There was nosplendour about her, no wild gaiety, none of the glorious extravaganceof conscious young wealth, and there was very little amusement to diverther thoughts. The people she would have liked to know were kept at adistance from her. She was advised not to buy the things which attractedher eyes, and was told that they were not so good as they looked, andthat on the whole it was better to keep money than to spend it--butthat, of course, she might do as she pleased, and that when she wantedmoney her uncle Macomer would give it to her. 

It all passed through his hands, and he managed everything, with theassistance of Lamberto Squarci the notary and of other men ofbusiness--mostly shabby-looking men in black, with spectacles andunhealthy complexions, who came and went in the morning when old Macomerwas in his study attending to affairs. Veronica knew none but Squarci byname, and never spoke with any of them. There seemed to be no reason whyshe should. 

The count had told her that when she wished it, he was ready to renderan account of the estates and would be happy to explain everything toher at length. She understood nothing of business and was content toaccept the roughest statement as he chose to give it to her. She wasfar too young to distrust the man whom she had been taught to respect asher guardian and as a person of scrupulous honesty. She was completelyin his power, and she was accustomed to ask him for any little sums sheneeded. It never really struck her that he might misuse the authorityshe indifferently left in his hands. 

It was her aunt who had induced her to make the will, and for whoseconduct she felt a sort of undefined resentment and contempt. Considering, she thought, how improbable it was that she herself shoulddie before Matilde Macomer, the latter had shown an absurd anxiety aboutthe disposal of the fortune. If Veronica had yielded the point, she haddone so in order to get rid of an importunity which wearied herperpetually. She was to marry, of course, in due time. God would giveher children, and they would inherit her wealth. It was reallyridiculous of her aunt to be so anxious lest it should all go to thosedistant relations in Sicily and Spain. Nevertheless, in order to havepeace, she signed the will, and her aunt thanked her effusively, and oldMacomer's flat lips touched her forehead while he spoke a few words ofgratified approval. 

In the evening she told Bosio, the count's brother, of what she haddone. His gentle eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a few seconds, andhe did not smile, nor did he make any observation. 

A few minutes later he was talking of a picture he had seen for sale--amere sketch, but by Ribera, called the Spagnoletto. She made up her mindto buy it for him as a surprise, for it pleased her to give himpleasure. 

But when she was alone in her room that night she recalled Bosio'sexpression when she had told him about the will. She was sure that hewas not pleased, and she wondered why he had not at least said somethingin reply--something quite indifferent perhaps, but yet something, instead of looking at her in total silence, just for those few seconds. After all, she was really more intimate with him than with her aunt anduncle, and liked him better than either of them, so that she had a rightto expect that he should have answered with something more than silencewhen she told him of such a matter. 

She sat a long time in a deep chair near her toilet table, thinkingabout her own life, in the great dim room which half a dozen candlesbarely lighted; and perhaps it was the first time that she had reallyasked herself how long her present mode of existence was to continue, how long she was to lie half-hidden, as it were, in the sombrelyrespectable dimness of the Macomer establishment, how long she was toremain unmarried. Knowing the customs of her own people in regard tomarriage, as she did, it was certainly strange that she should not haveheard of any offer made to her uncle and aunt for her hand. Surely themothers of marriageable sons knew of her existence, of her fortune, ofthe titles she held in her own right and could confer upon her husbandand leave to her children. It was not natural that no one should wish tomarry her, that no mother should desire such an heiress for her son. 

With the distrustful introspection of maiden youth, she suddenly askedherself whether by any possibility she were different from other girlsand whether she had not some strange defect, physical or mental, ofwhich the existence had been most carefully concealed from her all herlife. In the quick impulse she rose and brought all the burning candlesto the toilet table, and lighted others, and stood before the mirror, inthe yellow light, gazing most critically at her own reflexion. Shelooked long and earnestly and quite without vanity. She told herself, cataloguing her looks, that her hair was neither black nor brown, butthat it was very thick and long and waved naturally; that her eyes werevery dark, with queer little angles just above the lids, under theprominent brows; that her nose, seen in full face, looked very straightand rather small, though she had been told by the girls in the conventthat it was aquiline and pointed; that her cheeks were thin and almostcolourless; that her chin was round and smooth and prominent, her lipsrather dark than red, and modelled in a high curve; that her ears werevery small--she threw back the heavy hair to see them better, turningher face sideways to the glass; that her throat was over-slender, andher neck and arms far too thin for beauty, but with a young leannesswhich might improve with time, though nothing could ever make themwhite. She was dark, on the whole. She was willing to admit that she wassallow, that her eyes had a rather sad look in them, and even that onewas almost imperceptibly larger than the other, though the differencewas so small that she had never noticed it before, and it might be dueto the uncertain light of the candles in the dim room. But mostassuredly there was no physical defect to be seen. She was not beautifullike poor Bianca Corleone; but she was far from ugly--that was certain. 

And in mind--she laughed as she looked at herself in the glass. BosioMacomer told her that she was clever, and he certainly knew. But her ownexpression pleased her when she laughed, and she laughed again withpleasure, and watched herself in a sort of girlish and innocentsatisfaction. Then her eyes met their own reflexion, and she grewsuddenly grave again, and something in them told her that they were notlaughing with her lips, and might not often look upon things mirthful. 

But she was not stupid, and she was not ugly. She had assured herself ofthat. The worst that could be said was that she was a very thin girl andthat her complexion was not brilliant, though it was healthy enough, andclear. No--there was certainly no reason why her aunt should not havereceived offers of marriage for her, and many people would have thoughtit strange that she should be still unmarried--with her looks, her name, and that great fortune of which Gregorio Macomer was taking such goodcare. 

CHAPTER II. 

On that same night, when Veronica had gone to her room, Bosio Macomerremained alone with the countess in the small drawing-room in which thefamily generally spent the evening. Gregorio was presumably in hisstudy, busy with his perpetual accounts or otherwise occupied. He veryoften spent the hours between dinner and bed-time by himself, leavinghis brother to keep his wife company if Veronica chose to retire early. 

The room was small and the first impression of colour which it gave wasthat of a strong, deep yellow. There was yellow damask on the walls, thecurtains were of an old sort of silk material in stripes of yellow andchocolate, and most of the furniture was covered with yellow satin. Thewhole was in the style of the early part of this century, modified bythe bad taste of the Second Empire, with much gilded carving about thedoors and the corners of the big panels in which the damask wasstretched, while the low, vaulted ceiling was a mass of gilt stucco, modelled in heavy acanthus leaves and arabesques, from the centre ofwhich hung a chandelier of white Venetian glass. There were no pictureson the walls, and there were no flowers nor plants in pots, to relievethe strong colour which filled the eye. Nevertheless the room had theair of being inhabited, and was less glaring and stiff and old-fashionedthan it might seem from this description. There were a good many bookson the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; andthere were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or threeopen notes. A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adornedwith marble and gilt brass. 

Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood acrossa corner of the room far from the fire. One hand lay idly in her lap, the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa, and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down. She had fixed hereyes upon a point of the carpet and had not moved from her position fora long time. The folds of her black gown made graceful lines from herknees to her feet, and her imposing figure was thrown into strong reliefagainst the yellow background as she leaned to the corner, one foot justtouching the floor. 

Bosio sat at a distance from her, on a low chair, his elbows on hisknees, staring at the fire. Neither had spoken for several minutes. Matilde broke the silence first, her eyes still fixed on the carpet. 

"You must marry Veronica, " she said slowly; "nothing else can save us. "

It was clear that the idea was not new to Bosio, for he showed nosurprise. But he turned deliberately and looked at the countess beforehe answered her. There were unusual lines in his quiet face--lines ofgreat distress and perplexity. 

"It is a crime, " he said in a low voice. 

Matilda raised her eyes, with an almost imperceptible movement of theshoulders. 

"Murder is a crime, " she answered simply. Then Bosio started violentlyand turned very white, almost rising from his seat. 

"Murder?" he cried; "what do you mean?"

Matilde's smooth red lips smiled. 

"I merely mentioned it as an instance of a crime, " she said, without anychange of tone. "You said it would be a crime for you to marry Veronica. It did not strike me that it could be called by that name. Crimes aremurder, stealing, forgery--such things. Who would say that it wascriminal for Bosio Macomer to marry Veronica Serra? There is no reasonagainst it. I daresay that many people wonder why you have not marriedher already, and that many others suppose that you will before long. Youare young, you have never been married, you have a very good name and asmall fortune of your own. "

"Take it, then!" exclaimed Bosio, impulsively. "You shall have it allto-morrow--everything I possess. God knows, I am ready to give you all Ihave. Take it. I can live somehow. What do I care? I have given you mylife--what is a little money? But do not ask me to marry her, yourniece, here, under your very roof. I am not a saint, but I cannot dothat!"

"No, " answered the countess, "we are not saints, you and I, it is true. For my part, I make no pretences. But the trouble is desperate, Bosio. Ido not know what to do. It is desperate!" she repeated with suddenenergy. "Desperate, I tell you!"

"I suppose that all I have would be of no use, then?" asked Bosio, disheartened. 

"It would pay the interest for a few months longer. That would be all. Then we should be where we are now, or shall be in three weeks. "

"Throw yourself upon her mercy. Ask her to forgive you and to lend youmoney, " suggested Bosio. "She is kind--she will do it, when she knowsthe truth. "

"I had thought of that, " answered Matilde. "But, in the first place, youdo not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico. "

"Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio's hands, hewill not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the guardianshipis at an end--"

"The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing theaccounts--that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection wellenough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him ofour trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell BiancaCorleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowingthe truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better forus to escape before the crash--if we could. It comes to that--unless youwill help us. "

"By marrying Veronica?" asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural tohim. 

"I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could bemarried, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would neverknow, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and stillbe the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It wouldbe peace--at last, at last!" she repeated, with a sudden change of tonethat ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. "You do not knowhalf there is to tell, " she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment'spause. "We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years. Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago, though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helpedhimself, as he could--with her money. It was easy, for he controlledeverything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarcisaid so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber, anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house ismortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in threeweeks. We have nothing left--nothing but the hope of Veronica'scharity--or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvationand disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was--"

The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ringwhich she wore. She was pale. 

"There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone. 

"There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January, "said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, youknow--very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of courseit would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would belonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see herat night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"

Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio withfrightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously. 

"I am afraid of you, " he said. 

"Of me?" Her presence of mind returned. "What an idea! just because Isuggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever inthis horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And justbecause I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing herin the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talkof such sad things?"

"It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them, "answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. "Youare overwrought, Matilde--you are unhappy, afraid of the future--whatshall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way. "

"Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too--"

"Do not say it--"

"Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peaceinto the house--for my sake, Bosio--for me!"

She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like agesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes. 

"For your sake, " repeated Bosio, dreamily. "For your sake? But you askthe impossible, Matilde. Besides, she would not marry me. She wouldlaugh at the idea. And then--for you and me--it is horrible! You have noright to ask it. "

"No right? Ah, Bosio! Have I not the right to ask anything of you, afterall these years?"

"Anything--but not that! Your niece--under your roof! No--no--no! Icannot, even if she would consent. "

"Not even--" Matilda's splendid eyes, so cruelly close together, fastened themselves upon the weak man's face, and she frowned. 

"Not even if you thought it would be much better for her?" she askedvery slowly, completing the sentence. 

Again he started and shrank from her. 

"Just God!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That a woman should havesuch thoughts!" Then he turned upon her with an instinctive revival ofmanhood and honour. "You shall not hurt her!" he cried, as fiercely ashis voice could speak. "You shall not hurt a hair of her head, not evento save yourself! I will warn her--I will have her protected--I willtell everything! What is my life worth?"

"You would merely be told that you were mad, and we should have youtaken out to the asylum at Aversa--as mad as I am, or soon shall be, ifthis goes on! You are mad to believe that I could do such things--I, awoman! And yet, I know I say words that have no reason in them! And Ithink crimes--horrible crimes, when I am alone--and I can tell no onebut you. Have pity on me, Bosio! I was not always what I am now--"

She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, forshe had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety. The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first toher lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in herhands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with theconvulsive sob that was so near. 

But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at thefire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he wasterrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably noman of any great strength of character, however bad, could have livedthe life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such awoman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himselfand to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strongman, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turnedupon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, hisheart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. ButBosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow wasmoist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heartand tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold, but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamedof the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forgetthe things she had said. 

If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but hissilence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that shewas strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marryVeronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before aman weaker than herself, though she may be near it. 

"You must marry her, " said Matilde, with returning steadiness. "You oweit to your brother and to me. Should I say, 'to me, ' first? It is tosave us from disgrace--from being prosecuted as well as ruined, frombeing dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded--thatis the word they would use!--for having wilfully defrauded VeronicaSerra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians andresponsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that--yourbrother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believethat I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant ofhis affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio--Ibelieve that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power onearth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything butVeronica's money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much, but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marryher, she will never know--no one will know--no one will ever guess. Asher husband you will have control of everything, and no one then willblame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife's money to save yourbrother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean, too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? Whatis the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, aconviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, CountMacomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife. "

"My God! What a choice!" exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold handsto his wet forehead. 

"There is no choice!" answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis. "Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I donot care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half inlove with you--what other man does she know? And if she did--she wouldnot repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make herhappy--as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talkof choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and thegalleys, --a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!"

Her large eyes flashed with the furious determination to make him dowhat she desired. His hands had fallen from his face, and he was lookingat her almost quietly, not yielding so much as she thought, but at leastlistening gravely instead of telling her that she asked the impossible. 

The door opened discreetly, and a servant appeared upon the threshold. 

"The Signor Duca della Spina begs your Excellency to receive him for amoment, if it is not too late. "

"Certainly, " answered the countess, instantly, and with perfectself-control. 

The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message. Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so thatshe might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person ofimportance. She looked keenly at Bosio. 

"Do not go away, " she said quickly, in a low voice. "Your forehead iswet--dry it--compose yourself--be natural!"

Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door openedagain, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait. He had weak andinquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked. His head wasbald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damaskhangings. His gait was not firm, and as he passed Bosio in order toreach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, asthough he were inclined to speak to him first. Matilde had risen, however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking atthe same time, as though to direct him to herself, with the somewhatmaternal air which even young women sometimes assume in greeting oldmen. 

The Duca della Spina smiled rather feebly as he took the outstretchedhand, and slowly sat down upon the sofa beside Matilde. 

"I feared it might be too late, " he began, and his watery blue eyessought her face anxiously. "But my son insisted that I should come thisevening, when he found that I had not been able to see you thisafternoon. "

"How is he?" asked the countess, suddenly assuming an expression ofgreat concern. 

"Eh! How he is! He is--so, " answered the Duca, with a gesture whichmeant uncertainty. "Signora Contessa, " he added, "he is not well at all. It is natural with the young. It is passion. What else can I tell you?He is impatient. His nerves shake him, and he does not eat. Morning andevening he asks, 'Father, what will it be?' So, to content him, I havecome to disturb you. "

"Not in the least, dear Duca!"

The door opened again, and Gregorio Macomer entered the room, havingbeen informed of the presence of a visitor. The Duca looked up, and hishead shook involuntarily, as he at once began the slow process ofgetting upon his legs. But Macomer was already pressing him into hisseat again, holding the old hand in both of his with an appearance ofmuch cordiality. 

"I hope that Gianluca is no worse?" he said, with an interrogation thatexpressed friendly interest. 

"Better he is not, " answered the Duca, sadly. "What would you? It ispassion. That is why I have come at this hour, and I have made myexcuses to the Signora Contessa for disturbing her. "

"Excuses?" cried Gregorio, promptly. "We are delighted to see you, dearfriend!"

But as he spoke he turned a look of inquiry upon his wife, and sheanswered by a scarcely perceptible sign of negation. 

They had been taken by surprise, for they had not expected the Duca'svisit. Not heeding them, his heart full of his son, the old mancontinued to speak, in short, almost tremulous sentences. 

"It is certain that Gianluca is very ill, " he said. "Taquisara has beenwith him to-day, and Pietro Ghisleri--but Taquisara is his best friend. You know Taquisara, do you not?"

"A Sicilian?" asked the countess, encouraging the old man to go on. 

"Yes, " said Macomer, answering for the Duca, for he was proud of hisgenealogical knowledge, "The only son of the old Baron of Guardia. Butevery one calls him Taquisara, though his father is dead. There is astory which says that they are descended from Tancred. "

"It may be, " said the old Duca. "There are so many legends--but he isGianluca's best friend, and he comes to see him every day. The boy isill--very ill. " He shook his head, and bent it almost to his breast. "Hewastes away, and I do not know what to do for him. "

The Count and Countess Macomer also shook their heads gravely, but saidnothing. Bosio, seated at a little distance, looked on, his brain stilldisturbed by what had gone before, and wondering at Matilde's power ofseeming at her ease in such a desperate situation; wondering, too, athis brother's hard, cold face--the mask that had so well hidden thepassion of the gambler, and perhaps many other passions as well, ofwhich even Bosio knew nothing, nor cared to know anything, havingsecrets of his own to keep. 

All at once, and without warning, after the short pause, the old manbroke out in tremulous entreaty. 

"Oh! my friends!" he cried. "Do not say no! I shall not have the courageto take such a message to my poor son! Eh, they say that nowadaysold-fashioned love is not to be found. But look at Gianluca--he consumeshimself, he wastes away before my eyes, and one day follows another, andI can do nothing. You do not believe? Go and see! One day followsanother--he is always in his room, consuming himself for love! He ispale--paler than a sheet. He does not eat, he does not drink, he doesnot smoke--he, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day! As for the theatre, or going out, he will not hear of it. He says, 'I will not see her, forif she will not have me, it is better to die quickly. ' A father's heart, dear Macomer--think of what I suffer, and have compassion! He is my onlyone--such a beautiful boy, and so young--"

"We are sorry, " said Matilde, with firm-voiced sympathy that was alreadya refusal. 

"You will not!" cried the old man, shakily, in his distress. "Say youwill not--but not that you are sorry! And Heaven knows it is not forDonna Veronica's money! The contract shall be as you please--we do notneed--"

"Who has spoken of money?" The countess's tone expressed graveindifference to such a trifle. "Dear Duca, do not be distressed. Wecannot help it. We cannot dictate to Providence. Had circumstances beendifferent, what better match could we have found for her than your dearson? But I told you that the girl's inclinations must be consulted, andthat we had little hope of satisfying you. And now--" She lookedearnestly at her husband, as though to secure his consentbeforehand--"and now it has turned out as we foresaw. Courage, dearDuca! Your son is young. He has seen Veronica but a few times, and theyhave certainly never been alone together--what can it really be, suchlove-passion as that? Veronica has made her choice. "

Not a muscle of Macomer's hard face moved. He knew that if his wife hada surprise for him on the spur of the moment, it must be for their jointinterest. But the Duca della Spina's jaw dropped, and his hands shook. 

"Yes, "--continued the countess, calmly, "Veronica has made her choice. It is hard for us to tell you, knowing how you feel for your son. Veronica is engaged to be married to Bosio, here. "

Bosio started violently, for he was a very nervously organized man; buthis brother's face did not change, though the small eyes suddenlyflashed into sight brightly from beneath the drooping, concealing lids. A dead silence followed, which lasted several seconds. Matilde had laidher hand upon the Duca's arm, as though to give him courage, and shefelt it tremble under her touch, for he loved his son very dearly. 

"You might have written me this news, " he said at last, in a low voiceand with a dazed look. "You might--you might have spared me--oh, my son!My poor Gianluca!" His voice broke, and the weak, sincere tears brokefrom the watery eyes and trickled down the wasted cheeks piteously, while his head turned slowly from side to side in sorrowfully hopelessregret. 

"It has only been decided this evening, " said Matilde. "We should havewritten to you in the morning. "

"Of course, " echoed her husband, gravely. "It was our duty to let youknow at once. "

The Duca della Spina rose painfully to his feet. He seemed quiteunconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leavewith any formality. Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, andhis face was white. The old man passed him without a word, going to thedoor. 

"My poor son! my poor Gianluca!" he repeated to himself, as GregorioMacomer accompanied him. 

Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that thecount would return at once. They stood still, looking each at the other, with very different expressions. 

Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have donesomething, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or wouldhave left the room rather than accept the situation in submissivesilence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should haveunderstood the protest. She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval ofhis conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from thepredominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction, and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sureof doing with him as she pleases. Yet she was not so sure of herself asshe seemed, and wished to seem, for she dreaded Bosio's sense of honour, which was not wholly dead. 

"Do not deny it to Gregorio, " she said, in a low tone, when she heardher husband's footstep returning through the room beyond. 

Old Macomer came back and closed the door behind him. 

"What is this?" he asked, at once; but though his voice was hard, it wastrembling with the anticipation of a great victory. "Has Veronicaconsented?"

"No one has spoken to her, " answered Bosio, before Matilde could speak. 

"As though that mattered!" cried the countess, with contempt. "There istime for that!"

Gregorio's eyelids contracted with an expression of cunning. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed thoughtfully, "I understand. " He began to walk up anddown in the narrow space between the furniture of the smallsitting-room, bending his head between his high shoulders. "I see, " herepeated. "I understand. But if Veronica refuses? You have been rash, Matilde. "

"Veronica loves him, " answered the countess. "And of course you knowthat he loves her, " she added, and her smooth lips smiled. "You neednot deny it before us, Bosio. You have loved her ever since she camefrom the convent--"

"I?" Bosio's pale face reddened with anger. 

"See how he blushes!" laughed Matilde. "As for Veronica, she will talkto no one else. They are made for each other. She will die if she doesnot marry Bosio soon. "

The yellow reflexion danced in her eyes, as she fastened them upon herbrother-in-law's face, and he shuddered, remembering what she had saidbefore the Duca had come. 

"If that is the case, " said Macomer, "the sooner they are married, thebetter. Save her life, Bosio! Save her life! Do not let her die of lovefor you!"

He, who rarely laughed, laughed now, and the sound was horrible in hisbrother's ears. Then he suddenly turned away and left the room, stilldrily chuckling to himself. It was quite unconscious and an effect ofhis overwrought and long-controlled nerves. 

Matilde and Bosio were alone again, and they knew that he would not comeback. Bosio sank into his chair again, and pressed the palms of hishands to his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. 

"The infamy of it!" he groaned, in the bitterness of his weak misery. 

Matilde stood beside him, and gently stroked his hair where it wasstreaked with grey. He moved impatiently, as though to shake off herstrong hand. 

"No, " she said, and her voice grew as soft as velvet. "It is to saveme--to save us all. "

He shook her off, and rose to his feet with spasmodic energy. 

"I cannot--I will not--never!" he cried, walking away from her withirregular steps. 

"But it will be so much better--for Veronica, too, " she said softly, forshe knew how to frighten him. 

He turned with startled eyes. Then, with the impulse of a man escapingfrom something which he is not strong enough to face, he reached thedoor in two quick strides, and went out without looking back. 

Matilde watched the door, as it closed, and stood still a few secondsbefore she left the room. Her eyes wandered to the clock, and she sawthat it was nearly midnight. 

The look of triumph faded slowly from her face, and the brows contractedin a look which no one could easily have understood, except Bosiohimself, perhaps, had he still been there. The smooth lips were drawn inand tightly compressed; and she held her breath, while her right handstrained upon her left with all her might. Then the lips parted with asort of little snap as she drew breath again; and she turned her headsuddenly, and looked behind her, growing a trifle paler, as though sheexpected to see something startling. 

She tried to smile, and roused herself, rang the bell for the servant toput out the lights, and left the room. It was long before she slept thatnight. In the next room she could hear Gregorio's slow and regularfootsteps, as he walked up and down without ceasing. In his own roomupstairs, Bosio Macomer sat staring at the ashes of the burnt-out fireon his hearth. Only Veronica was asleep, dreamless, young, and restful. 

CHAPTER III. 

Naples, more than any other city of Italy, is full of the violentcontrasts which belong to great old cities everywhere, and the absenceof which makes new cities dull, be they as well built, as well situated, as civilized and as beautiful as they can be made by art handling naturefor the greater glory of modern humanity. 

In Naples, there is a fashionable new quarter, swept, watered, andgarnished with plants and trees, but many of the great palaces stand inold and narrow streets, rising up, grim and solemn and proud, out of therecklessly vital life of one of the worst populaces in the world. Fiftypaces away, again, is a wide thoroughfare, perhaps, raging and roaringwith traffic from the port. A hundred yards in another direction, andthere is a clean, deserted court, into which the midday sun pours itselfas into a reservoir of light, --a court with a quiet church and simpleold houses, through the doors of which pale-faced ecclesiastics silentlycome and go. 

Round the next corner leads a dark lane, between hugely high buildingsthat press the air and keep out the sun and all sky but a thin ribbandof blue. And the air is heavy with all vile things, from the ill-washedlinen that hangs, slowly drying, from the upper windows, thrust out intothe draught with sticks, to the rotting garbage in the gutters below. The low-arched doors open directly upon the slimy, black pavement; andin the deep shadows within sit strange figures with doughy faces andglassy eyes, breathing in the stench of the nauseous, steamyair, --working a little, perhaps, at some one of the shadowy, back-streettrades of a great city, but poisoned to death from birth by the air theylive in, diseased of the diseased, from very childhood, and prolific asdisease itself, multiplying to fatten death at the next pestilence. 

And then, again, a vast square, gaudy with coloured handbills, noisywith wheels and the everlasting Neapolitan chattering of a thick-lipped, loud, degenerate dialect. There the little one-horse cabs tear hitherand thither, drivers lashing their wretched beasts, wheels whirling, arms gesticulating, bad eyes flashing and leering, thick lips chatteringeverlastingly: and the tram-cars roll along, crowded till the peoplecling to one another on the steps; and the small boys dodge in and outbetween the cars and the carriages and the horses and thefoot-passengers, some screaming out papers for sale, some looking forpockets to pick, some hunting for stumps of cigars in the dust, --dirty, ragged, joyous, foul-mouthed, God-forsaken little boys; and then throughthe midst of all, as a black swan swimming stately through muddy waters, comes a splendid, princely equipage, all in mourning, from the blackhorses to the heavy veil just raised across a young widow's whiteface--and so, from contrast to contrast, through the dense city, anddown to the teeming port, and out at last to the magic southern sea, where the clean life of the white-sailed ships passes silently, andscarce leaves a momentary wake to mar the pure waters of the tidelessbay. 

But there is life everywhere, --reckless, excessive, and the desire forlife as a supreme good, worth living for its own sake--even if it is tobe food for the next year's pestilence--a life that can support itselfon anything, and thrive in its own fashion in the flashing sun, and thedust and the dirt, and multiply beyond measure and mysteriously fast. Only here and there in the swarm something permanent and fossilizedstands solid and unchanging, and divides the flight of the myriadephemeral lives--a monument, a church, a fortress, a palace: or, perhaps, the figure of some man of sterner race, with grave eyes andstrong, thin lips, and manly carriage, looms in the crowd, and by itsmere presence seems to send all the rest down a step to a lower level ofhumanity. 

Such a man was Taquisara, the Sicilian, of whom the old Duca della Spinahad spoken. He had no permanent abode in Naples, but lived in a hoteldown by the public gardens, beyond Santa Lucia; and on the day after theDuca had been to see the Countess Macomer, he strolled up as usual, byshort cuts and narrow streets, to see his friend Gianluca in the Spinapalace, in the upper part of the city. Many people looked at him, as hewent by, and some knew him for a Sicilian, by his face, while some tookhim for a foreigner, and pressed upon him to beg, or made faces and vilegestures at him, as soon as he could not see, after the manner of thelower Neapolitans. But he passed calmly on, supremely indifferent, hishandsome, manly face turning neither to the right nor the left. 

He might have stood for the portrait of a Saracen warrior of theeleventh century, with his high, dark features and keen eyes, his evenlips, square jaw, and smooth, tough throat. He had, too, something ofthe Arabian dignity in his bearing, and he walked with long, well-balanced steps, swiftly, but without haste, as the Arab walksbarefooted in the sand, not even suspecting that weariness can ever comeupon him; erect, proud, without self-consciousness, elastic; collectedand ever ready, in his easy and effortless movement, for sudden andviolent action. He was not pale, as dark Italians are, but his skin hadthe colour and look of fresh light bronze, just chiselled, and able toreflect the sun, while having a light of its own from the strong bloodbeneath. That was the reason why the Neapolitans who did not chance tohave seen Sicilians often, took him for a foreigner and got into hisway, holding out their hands to beg, and making ape-like grimaces at himbehind his back. But those who knew the type of his race and recognizedit, did nothing of that sort. On the contrary, they were careful not tomolest him. 

The friend whom he sought, high up in the city, in a luxurious, sunlitroom overlooking the harbour and the wide bay, was as unlike him as oneman could be unlike another--white, fair-haired, delicate, with softblue eyes and silken lashes, and a passive hand that accepted thepressure of Taquisara's rather than returned it--the pale survival ofanother once conquering race. 

Gianluca was evidently ill and weak, though few physicians could havedefined the cause of his weakness. He moved easily enough when he roseto greet his friend, but there was a mortal languor about him, and anevident reluctance to move again when he had resumed his seat in thesun. He was muffled in a thickly wadded silk coat of a dark colour. Hisfair, straight hair was brushed away from his thin, bluish temples, andthe golden young beard could not conceal the emaciation of his throatwhen his head leaned against the back of his easy-chair. 

Taquisara sat down and looked at him, lighted a black cigar and lookedagain, got up, stirred the fire and then went to the window. 

"You are worse to-day, " he said, looking out. "What has happened?" Heturned again, for the answer. 

"It is all over, " said Gianluca. "My father was there last night. She isbetrothed to Bosio Macomer. "

His voice sank low, and his head fell forward a little, so that his chinrested upon his folded hands. Taquisara uttered an exclamation ofsurprise, and bit the end of his cigar. 

"She? To marry Bosio Macomer? No--no--I do not believe it. "

"Ask my father, " said Gianluca, without raising his eyes. "Bosio wasthere, in the room, when they told my father the news. "

"No doubt, " said Taquisara, beginning to walk up and down. "No doubt, "he repeated. "But--" He lit his cigar instead of finishing the sentence, and his eyes were thoughtful. 

"But--what?" asked his friend, dejectedly. "If it had not been true, they would not have said it. It is all over. "

"Life, you mean? I doubt that. Nothing is over, for nothing is done. They are not married yet, are they?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then they may never marry. "

"Who can prevent it? You? I? My father? It is over, I tell you. There isno hope. I will see her once more, and then I shall die. But I must seeher once more. You must help me to see her. "

"Of course, " answered Taquisara. "But what strange people you are!" heexclaimed, after a moment's pause. "Who can understand you? You aredying for love of her. That is curious, in the first place. I understandkilling for love, but not dying oneself, just by folding one's hands andlooking at the stars and repeating her name. Then, you do nothing. Youdo not say, 'She shall not marry Macomer, because I, I who speak, willprevent it, and get her for myself. ' No. Because some one has said thatshe will marry him, you feel sure that she will, and that ends thequestion. For the word of a man or a woman, all is to be finished. Youare all contemplation, no action--all heart, no hands--all love, noanger! You deserve to die for love. I am sorry that I like you. "

"You always talk in that way!" said Gianluca, with a wearily sadintonation. "I suppose that life is different in Sicily. "

"Life is life, everywhere, " returned the Sicilian. "If I love a woman, it is not for the pleasure of loving her, nor for the glory of having itwritten on my tombstone that I have died for her. It is better thatsome one else should die and that I should have what I want. How doesthat seem to you? Is it not logic? It is true that I have never lovedany woman in that way. But then, I am young, though I am older than youare. "

"What can I do?" The pale young man smiled sadly and shook his head. "You do not understand our society. I cannot even see her except at adistance, unless they choose to permit it. I cannot write love lettersto her, can I? In our world one cannot do such things, and it would beof no use if I could--"

"I would, " said Taquisara. "I would write. I would see her--I wouldempty hell and drag Satan out by the hair to help me, if the saintswould not. But you! You sit still and die of love. And when you aredead, what will you have? A fine tomb out in the country, and lights, and crowns, and some masses--but you will not get the woman you love. Itis not love that consumes you. It is imagination. You imagine that youare going to die, and unless you recover from this, you probably will. With your temperament, the best thing you can do is to come with me toSicily and forget all about Donna Veronica Serra. No woman would everlook at a man who loves as you do. She might pity you enough to marryyou, if no one else presented himself just then; but when she was tiredof pitying you she would love some one else. It is not life to bealways pitying. That is the business of saints and nuns--not of men andwomen. "

Gianluca was hurt by his friend's tone. 

"You admit that you never were in love, " he said; "how can youunderstand me?"

"That is just it! I do not understand you. But if I were you, I wouldtake matters into my own hands. I will wager anything you please thatDonna Veronica has never so much as heard that you wish to marry her--"

"But they have told her, of course!" interrupted Gianluca. "They haveasked her--"

"Who told you so?" inquired Taquisara, incredulously. "And if any onehas told you, why should you believe it? There are several millions onthe one side, which Macomer wishes to possess, and there can be nothingon the other but the word of one of the interested persons. You have mether in the world and exchanged a few words--that has been all--"

"I have spoken with her five times, " said Gianluca, thoughtfully. 

"Have you counted?" Taquisara smiled. "Very good--five times--seventeen, if you like--you, sitting on the edge of your chair and opening youreyes wide to see her profile while she was looking at her aunt--you, saying that it was a fine day, or that Tamagno was a great singer; andshe, saying 'yes' to everything. And you love her. Well, no doubt. Icould love a woman with whom I might never have spoken atall--surely--and why not? But you take it for granted that she knows youlove her and expects you to ask for her, and has been told that you havedone so and has herself dictated the refusal. You are credulous anddespondent, and you are not strong. Besides, you sit here all day long, brooding and doing nothing but expecting to die, and hoping that shewill shed a tear when she hears of your untimely end. Is that what youcall making love in Naples?"

"I have told you that I can do nothing. "

"It does not follow that there is nothing to be done. "

"What is there, for instance?"

"Go to the Palazzo Macomer and find out the truth yourself. Write toher--take your place before the door and stand there day and night untilshe sees you and notices you. " Taquisara laughed. "Do anything--but donot sit here waiting to die in cotton wool with your feet to the fireand your head in the clouds. "

"All that is absurd!" answered Gianluca, petulantly. 

"Is it absurd? Then I will begin by doing it for you, and see whathappens. "

"You?" The younger man turned in surprise. 

"I. Yes. All the more, as I have nothing to lose. I will go and findBosio Macomer and talk with him--"

"You will insult him, " said Gianluca, anxiously. "There will be aquarrel--I know you--and a quarrel about her. "

"Why should we quarrel?" asked Taquisara. "I will congratulate him onhis betrothal. I know him well enough for that, and in the course ofconversation something may appear which we do not know. Besides, if I goto the house, I may possibly meet Donna Veronica; if I do, I shall soonknow everything, for I will speak to her of you. I know her. "

"One sees that you are not a Neapolitan, " said Gianluca, smilingfaintly. 

"No, " answered the other, "I am not. " And he laughed with a sort ofquiet consciousness of strength which his friend secretly envied. "It istrue, " he added, "that things look easy to me here, which would beutterly impossible in Palermo. We are different with our women--and weare different when we love. Thank Heaven, for the present--I am as Iam. "

He smiled and relit his cigar, which had gone out. 

"No, " said Gianluca. "You have never been in love, I think. "

His fair young head leaned back wearily against the chair, and his eyeswere half closed as he spoke. 

"Nor ever shall be, in your way, my friend, " answered the Sicilian, rising from his seat. "I suppose it is because we are so different thatwe have always been such good friends. But then--one need not look forreasons. It is enough that it is so. "

Again he took the delicate, thin hand in his and pressed it, and wentaway, much more anxious about Gianluca than he was willing to show. Forthough he had suspected much of what he now saw, as a possibility, itwas a phase too new and startling not to trouble him greatly. It willreadily be conceived that if Gianluca had always been the weak anddejected and despairing individual from whom Taquisara parted thatmorning, there could never have been much friendship between the two. But Gianluca, not in love, had been a very different person. With anextremely delicate organization and a very sensitive nature, he wasnaturally of a gay and sunny temper. The two had done voluntary militaryservice in the same regiment during more than a year, and their rank, together with the fact that they were both from the south, had in thefirst place drawn them together. Before long they had become firmfriends. In his normal condition Gianluca, though never strong, wasbrave, frank, and cheerful. Taquisara thought him at times poetic andvisionary, but liked the impossible loftiness of his young ideals, because Taquisara himself was naturally attracted by all that lookedimpossible. Amongst a number of rather gay and thoughtless young men, who jested at everything, Gianluca adhered to his faith openly, and noone thought of laughing at him. He must have possessed something of thatwonderful simplicity, together with much of the extraordinary tact, which helped some of the early saints to be what they were--the saintswho were beloved rather than those who were persecuted. Not, indeed, that his conduct was always saintly, by any means, nor his life withoutreproach. But in an existence which ruins many young men forever hepreserved an absolutely unaffected admiration for everything good andhigh and true, and had the rare power of asserting the fact, now andthen, without being offensive to others. Taquisara had no desire toimitate him, but was nevertheless very strongly attracted by him, and ifGianluca had ever needed a defender, the Sicilian would have silencedhis enemies at the risk of his own life. Gianluca, however, wasuniversally liked, and had never been in need of any such old-fashionedassistance. 

Since he had been in love with Veronica Serra, he was completelychanged, and it was no wonder that his friend was anxious about him. Taquisara, like most men of perfectly healthy mind and body, would havefound it hard to believe that Gianluca was merely love-sick, and wasliterally 'consuming himself, ' even to the point of death, in anunrequited passion. It was certainly true, however, that he had loststrength rapidly and without the influence of any illness which could bedefined, ever since the negotiations for Veronica's hand had shown signsof coming to an unsatisfactory conclusion. And they had lasted long. Many letters had been exchanged. The old Duca had been several times tothe Palazzo Macomer, and the count and countess had found many reasonsby which to put off their decision. For Gianluca was a good match, andaltogether an exceedingly desirable young man, and the countess hadalways thought that if she could not marry Veronica to Bosio, it mightbe wisest to accept Gianluca. He was always in delicate health, Matildareflected, and he might possibly die and leave his wife still absolutemistress of her fortune, if the marriage contract were cleverly framedwith a view to that contingency. 

But the young man himself had been diffident from the beginning, and atthe first hesitation on the other side he had taken it for granted thatall was lost. His slight vitality sank instantly under thedisappointment, he refused to eat, he could not sleep, and he was in areally dangerous state before ten days had passed. Then he had sent forTaquisara, who visited him daily for nearly a week, encouraging him inevery way, until to-day, when the news of the refusal was no more to bedenied. It was characteristic of the Sicilian that he at once attemptedto interfere with destiny in favour of his friend. He was not a man tolose time when time was precious. His ardent temper loved difficulties, even when they were not his own. Bold, untiring, discreet, and loyal, ifthere were anything to be done in Gianluca's case, he was the man to doit. 

Bosio Macomer was somewhat surprised that morning, when his old servantinformed him that Taquisara was at the door. He knew him but slightly inthe way of acquaintance, though very well by name and reputation, and hewondered what had brought him at that hour. He was inclined to say thathe could not receive him, offering as an excuse that he was ill, whichwas almost true. But he reflected that such a man must have a goodreason for wishing to see him. He remembered, too, that the Duca hadspoken of him as Gianluca's friend, and in the terrible position inwhich Bosio himself was placed, it seemed to him possible that one ofGianluca's friends might help him, --how, he had not the power ofconcentrating his mind enough to guess, --and he ordered the servant toadmit him. 

Bosio had not slept that night. He had spent the six hours betweenmidnight and the December dawn in his easy-chair before the fireplace. Once or twice, towards morning, he had felt sleep creeping upon himthrough sheer physical exhaustion, but he had fought it off, afraid tolose one of the precious moments which he still had before him in whichto think over what he should do. They were few enough, for a man of hisnature. 

He knew the absolute truth of all that Matilde had told him, and he hadeven suspected much of it before she had first spoken. He knew that hisbrother had secretly ruined himself in financial speculations, in whichhe had employed Lamberto Squarci as his agent, and that, with Squarci'sassistance, Gregorio had staved off the consequences of his actions by afraudulent use of Veronica's fortune, --of such part of it as he couldcontrol, of course, --absorbing much of the enormous income, and even, from time to time, obtaining the consent of Cardinal Campodonico for thesale of certain lands, on pretence of making more profitableinvestments. During fully ten years, Gregorio's management of the estatemust have been a systematic fraud upon Veronica Serra, carried on withsufficient skill to evade all inquiry from the cardinal. Gregorio'sfictitious reputation as a strictly honourable man had helped him, together with the fact that his wife was the ward's own aunt, which wasa strong presumption in favour of her honesty as a guardian. Then, too, it was generally believed that Macomer was a miser, and much richer thanhe allowed any one to suppose. As for the accounts of the estate, theycould bear inspection, as Matilde had said, provided that no attemptwere made to verify the existence of all the property therein described. 

The worst of the case was that Squarci had been an accomplice from thebeginning, and had doubtless enriched himself while Macomer had losteverything. In the event of a suit brought by the ward against theguardians, it would be in Squarci's power to turn evidence in favour ofVeronica, and expose the whole enormous theft; and it would be like himto keep on the side of wealth against ruin. For Veronica was still veryrich, in spite of all that had been stolen. 

There could be little doubt but that in the event of an action, Gregorioand Matilde Macomer would be condemned to penal servitude, as thecountess herself anticipated. It was equally certain that if Veronicamarried any one but Bosio, her husband and his family would demand thatthe accounts of the estate should be formally audited and the propertyscheduled; this must ultimately lead to the dreaded prosecution, whichcould have no possible conclusion but conviction and infamy. 

Whatever Bosio's true relations with Matilde had been in the course ofthe last ten years, he had at least loved her faithfully, with thecomplete devotion of a man who not only loves a woman, but is morallydominated by her in all the circumstances of life. He had not thecharacter which seeks ideals, and he asked for none. 

Matilde's beauty and conversation had sufficed him, for in his opinionhe had never known any one to be compared with her; and on her side shehad been strong enough to make a slave of him from the first. To theextent of his weak character and considerable physical courage, therewas no sacrifice which Bosio would not have been ready to make for her, and few dangers which he would not at least have attempted to face forher sake. 

But where all moral sense of right and all natural action of consciencewere gone, there remained in the man an inheritance of traditionalfeeling, which even Matilde's influence could not make him wittinglyviolate any further, --a remnant of honour, a thread, as it were, bywhich his soul was still held above the level of total destruction. There was nothing, perhaps, involving himself alone, which he would haverefused to do for Matilde's sake, under the pressure of her strong will. But what she required of him now was more than that, and worse. After anight of thought, he still felt that he could not do it. 

Of course, there was the possibility that Veronica herself mightabsolutely refuse to marry him, and thus save his weakness from thenecessity of trying to be strong. But Bosio thought this improbable. 

The fatherless and motherless girl had been purposely kept from alloutside influences by Gregorio and Matilde, in order that they mightcontrol her disposition for their own interests. She had been taught toexpect that in due time they would select a husband for her from the menwho might offer themselves, and that it would be more or less her dutyto accept their decision, as being really the best for her ownhappiness. They had hindered her from forming friendships with girls ofher own age, and altogether from acquaintanceship with young marriedwomen, excepting Bianca Corleone, who had been her friend in theconvent. In society, when she went with them, men were introduced to hervery rarely. Bosio had been present once or twice on such occasions, andhe remembered having seen her with Gianluca. It had been very much asTaquisara had described it to Gianluca himself--a mere exchange of a fewwords, while the girl watched her aunt almost all the time with a sortof childish fear of doing something not quite right. Veronica could notbe said to know any man to the extent of exchanging ideas with him, except her uncle and Bosio himself. And she liked Bosio very much. Itwas not at all improbable, considering all the circumstances, that shemight be delighted with the idea of marrying him, merely because sheliked him, and he was familiar in her daily life. Bosio knew thatMatilde would speak to her about it at once; and when he tried to thinkwhat he should do if Veronica readily accepted the proposition, the painin his head grew intolerable, and he found it impossible to thinkconnectedly. The horrible dishonour of it stared him in the face--andbeyond the dishonour, still more fearfully imposing, rose the vision ofsure disgrace and infamy for the woman he loved, if he himself refusedto do this vile deed. 

He looked ill, worn out with mental distress and physical exhaustion, when Taquisara entered the room, and the servant closed the door. TheSicilian came forward, and Bosio rose to meet him, still wondering whyhe had come, but far too much disturbed by his own troubles to care. Nevertheless, he supposed that the matter must be of some importance. Taquisara was surprised by his appearance, for he was evidentlysuffering. 

"I ought almost to ask you to excuse me for having received you, in mycondition, " said Bosio, politely. "I have a violent headache. But I amwholly at your service. In what can I be of use to you?"

Taquisara found himself in an awkward position. He had expected to findBosio Macomer radiant and ready to be congratulated by any one who choseto knock at his door. Instead, he found a man apparently both ill anddistressed. He hesitated a moment, for he knew Bosio but slightly, afterall. 

"I do not know whether you will think it strange that I should come, " hesaid, and his square face grew more square as he looked straight atBosio. "I am Gianluca della Spina's best friend. "

"Ah! Yes--I think I have heard so, " answered Bosio, not startled, butconsiderably disturbed, as his gentle eyes met Taquisara's bold glance. 

"I have come, as a friend, to ask whether it is really true that you areto marry Donna Veronica Serra, " continued Taquisara, feeling that afterall he might as well go straight to the point. 

Bosio straightened himself a little in his chair, and there was a lookof surprise in his face. But he hesitated an instant, in his turn. 

"That was the answer which my brother and his wife gave to the Ducadella Spina, " he replied coldly. 

"Yes, " said Taquisara. "I know it was. That is the reason why I havecome to you, directly, as Gianluca's friend. "

"Does Don Gianluca propose to call me out, because he cannot marry DonnaVeronica?" asked Bosio, in surprise, and in a tone which showed that hewas already offended. 

"No. He is very ill, and in no condition for that sort of amusement. "

"I am sorry to hear it, " said Bosio, with cold civility. "But you cometo represent him, in some way. Do I understand?"

"He is ill--of love, as they say. " Taquisara smiled at the idea, inspite of himself. "It is serious, at all events--so serious, that I havecome in person to ask whether it is really true that you are betrothedto Donna Veronica, in order that I may take him the truth as I hear itfrom your lips. I daresay you think me indiscreet, Count Macomer, for Iam only slightly acquainted with you. But I am sincerely devoted toGianluca, and if you were a total stranger to me, I should come to youas I have come now. "

"And if I refuse to answer your question, Baron Taquisara--what then?"

"As the answer--yes or no--cannot possibly involve anything in theslightest degree indelicate, I shall of course infer that you have noanswer to give, and that the matter is not yet really settled. "

Bosio's eyebrows contracted spasmodically, and his white hand strokedhis silky beard, while his eyes turned quickly from his guest and lookeddown at the carpet. In two passes, as though they had been fencingtogether, this singularly direct man had thrust him to the wall, and wasforcing him to make a decision. Of course it was still in his power toanswer in one way or the other, though he was yet undecided. But hehonestly could not bring himself to say that he would marry Veronica, and yet, if he denied that he was betrothed to her, he must put hisbrother and Matilde in the position of having told a deliberate lie toGianluca's father. He felt that he was growing confused, and that hishesitation and confusion were every moment making it clearer toTaquisara that the betrothal was by no means as yet a fact. He tried totemporize. 

"It depends upon what you understand by an engagement, " he said. "Withus, here in Naples, the betrothal means the signing of the marriagecontract. Now, the contract has not even been discussed. I think that mybrother's announcement was premature, though it was perhaps justifiable, as he wished to discourage any false expectations on the part of DonGianluca. "

"I am not a diplomatist, " answered the Sicilian. "The statement wascategorical--that you were betrothed to Donna Veronica. For the sake ofmy friend, I am indiscreet enough to wish to hear the confirmation ofthe statement from your own lips, without in the least questioning theright of the Count Macomer to make it last night. Gianluca is honestlyand very deeply in love. The happiness of his whole life is involved. With his delicate constitution and sensitive temper, I believe that hislife itself is in danger. You will be doing him an honourable kindnessin letting him know the truth, through me. "

"I will, " said Bosio, absently, "I will--as soon as--" He checkedhimself and glanced nervously at Taquisara. 

"As soon as you yourself have decided, " said the latter, quietly. "Ithink I understand. Your brother and the countess feel quite sure of thefact, as though it had already taken place, but for some reason whichdoes not concern me, you yourself are not so certain of the result. Tobe plain, there is still a possibility that the marriage may not takeplace. I need not tell you that in speaking to Gianluca I shall be verycareful not to raise any false hopes in his mind. But I am exceedinglyindebted to you for being so honourably frank with me. "

Taquisara repressed a smile at his own words as he rose from his seat, for he was very far from wishing to offend Bosio. The latter rose, too, and looked at him with a dazed, uncertain expression, like a man notquite sure of being in his senses. He put out his hand mechanically, without speaking, and a moment later he was alone with the horror of hisdesperate difficulty. 

The Sicilian descended the stairs slowly, and paused to look out of oneof the big windows at a landing, which offered nothing in the way of aview but an almost blank wall on the other side of the narrow street. Hedid not know what to do next, and yet, being eminently a man of action, rather than of reflexion, he knew that he must do more to satisfyhimself, for his suspicions were aroused. He had expected to find Bosiojubilant. From what he had seen, he had understood well enough thatthere was some mysterious trouble. He could not hope to extort anyinformation from Macomer or his wife, and he had no means of reachingVeronica, nor could he have asked direct questions if he had succeededin seeing her. 

Suddenly, he thought of the young Princess Corleone, whom he knewtolerably well, Corleone being a Sicilian like himself. She wasVeronica's only intimate friend. She was the niece of CardinalCampodonico, one of Veronica's guardians. If any one knew the truth, shemight be expected to know it. 

Taquisara looked at his watch, lit a cigar, and left the gloomy PalazzoMacomer, glad to be outside and to turn his face to the sunshine, andhis back upon all the wickedness of which its old walls kept thesecret. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The villas along the shore towards Posilippo face the sun all day inwinter, for they look due south from the water's edge, and their marblesteps lead down into the tideless sea, as though it were a landlockedlagoon or a Swiss lake. In winter the roses blossom amongst the laurels, and before the rose leaves are all fallen the violets peep out in theborders; the broad, fan-like palms stand unsheltered in the south wind, and the oranges and lemons are left hanging on the trees for beauty'ssake. There are but two changes in the year, from spring to summer, andfrom summer back to spring. 

It is sometimes cold in Naples, high up in the city, when the northeastwind comes screaming from the snowy Abruzzi, and when Vesuvius is cladin white almost to the lower villages. In Naples it is sometimes drearywhen the water-laden southwest sends up its mountains of black clouds. But somehow in soft Posilippo the wind is tempered and the rain seemsbut a shower, and spring and summer, summer and spring, ever join handsamongst the ilexes and the laurels and the orange trees. 

On this day it was all summer, for there was not a cloud in the air nora whitecap on the sea as the water gently lapped against the steps atthe foot of Bianca Corleone's garden. It was so warm that she wassitting there herself, a book unread on her knees, her marvellous facetowards the day, her small feet resting on the lower rail of anotherchair before her, just because the gravel might possibly be damp. 

Beside her, and turned towards her, looking earnestly to her avertedeyes, sat Pietro Ghisleri, the man who many years afterwards marriedLady Herbert Arden, of whom many have heard, --a man young at that timeand not world-worn as he was later, nor prematurely gaunt andweather-beaten. He was only five-and-twenty years of age, then, and thebeautiful Bianca was but twenty-one, and had already been married twoyears to Corleone. But the suffering of a lifetime had been crushed intothose two years; for Corleone was bad, from his head to his heart, allthrough, and she had believed that she loved him. 

Then, half broken-hearted, she had listened to Ghisleri; and he lovedher truly, with all his heart. Even society found little to say at that, and perhaps there was little enough to be said. To all intents andpurposes, Corleone had abandoned her, and Ghisleri was often with her. It was not until later that her brother, Gianforte Campodonico, liftedup his hand against Ghisleri for the first time. 

So Ghisleri was sitting beside Bianca on that morning, in her garden, when there was a sound of wheels, behind the house; and then, unannounced, as one familiar with the place, Veronica Serra came swiftlydown the walk towards the pair. Ghisleri rose to his feet, --a tall, fairman, sunburnt, lean and strong, with bright blue eyes, --and Biancaturned in her chair, with a smile, and held out her hand, as she sat, tothe young girl. 

"You do not mind?" asked Veronica, smiling innocently. "Am I notinterrupting you?"

"No, dear--no. " A very faint dawn of colour rose in Bianca's almostunnatural pallor. 

"Something so strange has happened, " said Veronica. 

Then she nodded to Pietro Ghisleri, realizing that she had forgottenhim. He moved forward for her the chair on which he had been sitting, while he continued to stand. Veronica had often met him there before. 

"Donna Veronica has something to say to you, " he said to Bianca. "If youwill allow me, I will go up to the stable and look at that dog. "

Bianca nodded, as though it were a matter of course that Pietro shouldlook after her dogs when there was anything the matter with them, andVeronica sat down. Her expression was strange, Bianca thought, asthough she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Yet she looked freshand well and not tired. The girl told her story in half a dozen words, as soon as Ghisleri was out of hearing. 

"They want me to marry Bosio, " she said, and then drew breath, holdingboth of Bianca's hands and looking into her eyes. 

"You? Marry Bosio Macomer? Oh! no--Veronica--no!"

Bianca's voice expressed the greatest apprehension, for Veronica wasalmost her only intimate friend. Veronica seemed surprised. 

"Why not?" she asked. "That is, if I wished to. Why do you speak in thatway? Do you know anything about him which I do not know? You must havesome reason. "

Bianca's exquisite face grew calm and grave, and she looked away, andwaited some seconds before she spoke. The sins of the earth werefamiliar to her before her time, and suffering and the payment. ButVeronica was a child. 

"It seems unfitting, " she said quietly. "He is almost like your uncle. Of course, one may marry one's uncle--but he is too old for you, dear. And, after all, with your name, and all you have--"

"But I like Bosio, " answered Veronica, simply. "He is always good to me. I talk with him a great deal. And he is really not old, though his hairis a little grey. I think I would perhaps rather have him just for afriend, instead of a husband. But then, he would be both. I do not knowwhat to do, so I came to you for advice. "

"Why do you not marry Gianluca della Spina?" asked Bianca, suddenly. 

"Don Gianluca?" repeated Veronica, rather blankly. "Why him, particularly? I have only seen him three or four times. "

"He is dying of love for you, my dear, " said Bianca. "At least, everyone says so. I have heard it from Taquisara and from Signor Ghisleri, who are friends of his. "

"Dying of love for me?" Veronica broke out in a girlish laugh. "Howabsurd! Why does he not ask for me, if that is true? Not that I wouldever marry him! He is like a Perugino angel, with his yellow hair andblue eyes. "

She laughed again. Bianca knew from Ghisleri that Gianluca's father haddone his best to bring about the marriage. She was amazed to find thatVeronica knew nothing of the negotiations. 

"It is very strange, " she said thoughtfully, and hesitating as to howmuch she should tell of what she had heard. 

"What is strange?" asked the young girl. 

"That you should not have known about Gianluca. They go to see him everyday. He is really madly in love with you, and is positively ill aboutit. That is why I say that you should marry him, if you marry atall--but not your uncle Bosio. "

"He is not my uncle, " said Veronica. "He is my aunt's brother-in-law. "

"It is the same thing--"

"No. It is not the same. Tell me all about Don Gianluca. It isinteresting--I feel like a heroine in a book--a man dying for love ofme, whom I scarcely know! It is too ridiculous! He must be in love withmy fortune, as my aunt says that so many people are. "

"No, dear, " said Bianca, gravely, "do not say that. It is for yourself, and he does not need your fortune. "

"I did not mean to say anything unkind, " answered Veronica. "But Iscarcely know him--and I have heard nothing about it. Have they spokenof the marriage?"

"Yes. "

They were interrupted by a servant, who came quickly down from thehouse. The man asked if the princess would receive Baron Taquisara. Bianca ordered him to be admitted, and told the man to ask Ghisleri tocome back from the stables. 

"Do you know Taquisara?" she asked Veronica. 

"A Sicilian? With a bronze face and fiery eyes? I have seen him once ortwice at balls, I think. Yes--he was introduced to me somewhere. Iremember him because they say he is descended from Tancred. "

"Yes, " said Bianca. "I could not refuse to receive him, because SignorGhisleri is here. They will both go away before long, and then we cantalk. Can you stay to breakfast with me?"

"Oh, no! I should not dare to do that!" Veronica laughed a little. "Noone knows where I am, " she added. "My aunt thinks I have gone for adrive to think over the matter. I just pulled down the curtain of thebrougham and told the man to bring me here--all alone. "

At this moment Taquisara and Ghisleri appeared on the gravel path, walking side by side, two men strongly contrasted with each other, Italians of the Lombard and the Saracen types, fine specimens both, inthe prime of youth and strength. Bianca gave the Sicilian her hand, andhe bowed gravely to Veronica. Ghisleri brought out more chairs, andwithout the slightest hesitation sat down beside Bianca, forcingTaquisara to place himself near the young girl. 

Taquisara was a man almost incapable of anything like social timidity, in whatever position he might be placed, and he was in reality delightedat thus being thrust upon Donna Veronica, from whom he felt sure that heshould learn something about the projected marriage. For he had greatand unaffected confidence in himself. But he hesitated a moment beforehe spoke, for he did not now remember that he had ever before enteredintentionally into a serious conversation with a young girl, in thewhole course of his life. The customs of the society in which he livedmade such things well-nigh impossible. As usual with him, he meditatedgoing straight to the matter in hand, and he only paused to considerwhat words he should use. Veronica, as she had been taught to do in sucha position, looked vacantly before her at the roots of the trees, waiting for him to say something. 

He had not seen her, except from a distance, since Gianluca had fallenso madly in love with her, and while she looked away from him, his boldeyes scrutinized her face. He saw what she had seen, when she had lookedinto the glass on the previous evening--neither more nor less, exceptthat she was dressed for walking, and something feathery was around herslender throat--and she wore a hat, which, in her own opinion, changedher appearance very much. But, as he looked, he was aware that there wasmore in her face than he had supposed. 

There was something in the expression which was, all at once, far morebeautiful to him, than anything he had ever discovered in the sad andfaultless features of the already famous beauty who sat beside her. Unconsciously, as he realized it, he forgot that he was expected tospeak. 

Then, wondering at his silence, and conscious of his gaze, Veronicaturned her face to his, with a shy look of girlish inquiry, and theireyes met. Taquisara was too dark to blush, but to his own surprise hefelt that the blood had mounted in his face, and in Veronica's own thin, young cheeks there was a faint and lovely tinge which lasted but amoment and then faded, coming again more strongly as she turned her eyesaway. Then he felt that he must speak. Ghisleri and Bianca, on the otherside, had begun at once to talk, and their voices, unknown tothemselves, had sunk to a low key. 

"I am very glad I have met you here, this morning, Donna Veronica, " saidTaquisara, leaning forward so as to speak close to her, but looking downat the gravel under his feet. "I had something especial to say to you. "

Veronica glanced at him, half startled. His tone and manner were quitedifferent from anything she had hitherto heard and seen. She saw that hewas not looking at her, and her eyes went back to the roots of thetrees. 

"Yes, " she said, almost inaudibly, for she did not know whether heexpected her to say anything. 

"I have a very good friend, Donna Veronica, " he continued; "I have beenwith him this morning. You have heard his name often of late, I think, and you know him--Gianluca della Spina. "

Veronica started a little, and again the colour came and went in herdelicate face. 

"Yes, " she said. "I--I know him a little. "

"He loves you, Donna Veronica, " Taquisara said, his voice softeningalmost to a whisper, for he did not wish Bianca Corleone to hear him. "He loves you so much that he is almost dangerously ill--indeed, I thinkit is dangerous--because you will not marry him. "

He paused to see what she would do. She quickly turned her startled eyesto him, and her lips parted, but she said nothing. He raised his faceand met her look as he went on. 

"Last night, his father was at your house, and he was told that therewas no hope, because you were betrothed to Count Bosio Macomer. "

"They told him that?" asked Veronica, quickly, and the colour mounted athird time in her cheeks. "But it is not true!" she added; and her eyesset themselves sharply, for she was angry. 

"No, " said Taquisara, "I know that it is not quite true, for I have beento see Count Bosio. I was there half an hour ago. "

"You have quarrelled?" asked Veronica, in sudden anxiety. 

"Quarrelled? no. Why should we quarrel? He gave me to understand thatnothing was settled. I thanked him, and came away. I did not hope to seeyou; but I knew that the Princess Corleone was your best friend, as Iam Gianluca's. I thought I would speak to her. Since, by a miracle, wehave met, I have spoken directly to you. Do you forgive me? I hope so, though I daresay that no mere acquaintance has ever talked as I amtalking. If you blame me, remember that it is for Gianluca, that he ismy friend, that he knows nothing of my speaking to you, since you and Ihave met by chance, and that he is perhaps dying--dying for you, DonnaVeronica. "

The girl's face was white and grave now, for Taquisara spoke in earnest. 

"How dreadful!" she exclaimed. 

Bianca turned her head, for she was not so much absorbed in herconversation with Ghisleri as not to have noticed that Veronica andTaquisara were speaking almost in whispers, which was strange conductfor a young girl with a mere acquaintance, to say the least of it. 

"What is so dreadful?" she asked, with a smile. 

"Oh!--nothing, " answered Veronica, glancing at her, and turning backinstantly to Taquisara. 

A shade of annoyance was in his face, and Veronica felt suddenly thatthis was the first real crisis in her life, and that she must hear allhe had to say, to the end, at any cost of propriety. 

"Come!" she said to Taquisara. 

She rose as calmly as a married woman, many years older than she, mighthave done, and Taquisara was on his feet at the same moment. She ledthe way down to the marble steps that descended to the sea, and stood onthe uppermost one, looking out. Bianca and Ghisleri watched her insurprise and Bianca made a slight movement, as though to follow, butthen leaned back again. There was then, and still is, a very strongfeeling in Southern Italy against allowing a young girl to be out ofearshot with a man. 

Though Bianca and Veronica had been children, together, and there waslittle difference of age between them, Bianca felt that, as the marriedwoman, she was responsible for the observance of social custom. But in amoment she realized that Taquisara was talking of Gianluca, and thatanything would be better than to allow Veronica to marry Bosio Macomer. 

"I understand, " she said to Ghisleri; "let them alone. It is better, solong as only you and I see it. "

Down by the steps, Veronica stood very still, looking out over the bluewater, and Taquisara was beside her. She waited for him to speak again, sure that he had not said all. 

"Such things seem improbable in these days, " he said quietly. "You saythat it is dreadful. It is. I have seen it, and have been with him dayafter day. I am not very sensitive, as a rule, but I have had a strangeimpression which I shall never forget. Gianluca and I met when we wereserving our time as volunteers. He was unlike the rest of us, even then. That was why we became friends--because he was unlike me, I suppose. "

"Unlike--in what way?" asked Veronica, still looking at the sea. 

"It is hard to explain. He is a man of ideals, a religious man, a goodman. " Taquisara smiled gravely. "That was enough to make him quitedifferent from us all, was it not?"

"I do not know, " said the young girl. "Are all men bad, as a rule?"

"Perhaps, " answered the Sicilian, shortly. "At all events, Gianluca wasnot. One saw that all the little that was bad in his life was only ajest, while all the much that was good was real and true. "

"You are indeed his friend, " said Veronica, softly. 

She was struck by the beauty of what the man had said so plainly andunaffectedly. 

"Yes, I am his friend, " replied Taquisara. "One of his friends, say, --for he has many. I am his friend as you are the friend of DonnaBianca. You understand that, do you not? And you understand that thereis nothing you would not do for a friend? Not out of mere obligation, because your friend has done much for you, but just forfriendship--love, if you choose to call it so. I have heard people speakeloquently of friendship--so have you perhaps. And we both understandwhat it means, though many do not. That is why I speak as I do, and if Ido not speak well, you must forgive me, and feel the meaning I cannotexpress to your ears. Gianluca loves you, Donna Veronica, as men veryrarely love women, so immensely, so strongly, that his love is burningup his life in him--and it has all been kept from you for some reason orother, while your relations are doing their best to make you marry BosioMacomer, who can no more be compared with Gianluca della Spina than--"

He checked himself, for he felt that his tone was contemptuous, andremembered that Veronica might perhaps like Bosio. She was listening, her eyes fixed on the distance, her mind wide open to the new experienceof life which had come so unexpectedly. 

"He cannot be compared with Gianluca, " continued Taquisara, modifyinghis sentence and omitting whatever simile had presented itself in histhoughts. "If you knew Gianluca, you would understand. It is because Iknow him well that I speak for him, that I implore you, pray you, beseech you, to see him before you consent to marry Count Bosio--"

"To see him!" exclaimed Veronica, startled at the sudden proposition, which was a blow to every tradition she had ever learned. 

But the Sicilian was not a man to hesitate at trifles where women wereconcerned, nor men either. 

"Yes--to see him!" he answered with a certain vehemence. "Is it a sin?Is it a crime? Is it dishonourable? Why should you cry out? What issociety that it should take you young girls by the throat, like martyrs, and chain you with proprieties to the stake of its rigid law--to beburnt to death afterwards by slow fire, like your best friend there, Donna Bianca? Ah--you understand that. You know her life, and I know ittoo. It is the life--or the death--to which you may look forward if youwill neither open your eyes to see, nor raise your hand to guardyourself. And you cry out in outraged horror at the idea of seeingGianluca della Spina here, in this garden, by these steps, under God'ssunlight, as you see me here to-day by accident. It seems to you--whatshall I say?--unladylike!" Taquisara laughed scornfully. "What does itmatter whether you are unladylike or not, so long as you are womanly, and kind, and brave? I am telling you truths you have never heard, butyou have a woman's right to hear them, whatever you may think of me. AndI speak for another. I have the holy right to say for him, for his life, for his happiness, all that I would not say for myself, perhaps. And Ido say, what is to prevent Gianluca from being here to-morrow, or thisvery afternoon, as I am here now, and why should it be such a dreadfulthing for you to come here, knowing that you will meet him? Do you thinkthat he would not give the last drop of his blood, at one word from yourlips, to save you from trouble, or danger, or insult? Do you think, ifhe knew how I am speaking to you--speaking roughly, perhaps, because Iam rough--he would not turn upon me, his friend, who am fighting for hislife, and quarrel with me, and disown me, because my roughness comesnear you and may offend you? You do not know him. How should you? Butbecause you do not know him and cannot guess how he loves you, do notthrow his life away without seeing it, without understanding what youdespise, and learning that it is far above your contempt--a noble life, an honest life, a true-hearted young life, which may be lived out foryou only--and, for you, I think it would be worth living. "

Taquisara was a man who could be in earnest for his friend, and therewas a strong vibration in his low voice which few could have heard withindifference. While he was speaking and forcing the appeal of his honestblack eyes upon Veronica's face, she could not help slowly turning tomeet them, and her lips parted a little as though in wonder, while shedrank in eagerly the words he spoke. It was the first time in her lifethat she had ever heard a man speak to her of love, and, in his rougheloquence, he spoke well and strongly, though it was not for himself. Inhis own cause, the words might not have come so readily, but they werenot now the less evidently sincere, because they were many. She was gladthat she had boldly risen, and left Bianca's side, in order to hear him. But when he paused, she scarcely knew what to answer. She wanted to hearmore. It was as though a dawn were rising, high and clear, in the dimcountry through which childhood had led her, and she longed suddenly forthe full light of broad day. 

"Indeed, you speak as though you loved him, " she said. 

"Yes, but I am trying to tell you how he loves you, and I cannot, thoughI know it all. You must hear it for yourself, you must see him, you mustknow him--"

"But it is impossible--" Veronica's protest broke off rather weakly inthe middle. 

"It is impossible that you should be here to-morrow at this hour?Perhaps--I do not know. But to-morrow at this hour Gianluca will behere, though he has not been able to leave the house for a week; and ifyou come, all the impossibility is gone. It is as simple as that--"

"That is an appointment--with a man--"

Again the blood rushed to the young girl's face but this time it wasgenuine shame of doing a thing which she had been taught to think themost dreadful in the whole world. 

"An appointment!" Taquisara laughed contemptuously. "Do you not comeoften to see the Princess Corleone? You will come again. And Gianlucawill come often, too--and if you chance to meet to-morrow, it will be anaccident of fate, that is all, as you chanced to see me here to-day. Youcannot forbid him to come here. You cannot, without a reason, ask DonnaBianca to refuse to receive him--"

"Oh!--if she ever guessed--" Veronica checked herself, still blushing, but Taquisara was too sincerely in earnest to smile at the slip she hadmade. 

"That is all, " he said. "There is neither appointment, nor engagement, nor anything but the possibility of a meeting which you cannot be sureof avoiding, unless you never come to see your friend, or unless yougive her some unjust reason for not letting him come, in case he calls. There is nothing but chance. How can I tell whether you will cometo-morrow, or not? I shall perhaps never know, for I shall not come withhim. I have been here to-day--what excuse could I give for calling againto-morrow? Donna Bianca would think it strange. I can hope, for hissake. I can tell you that no woman has the right to throw away such loveas his, to ruin such a life as his, to break such a heart without athought and without so much as hearing the man speak--whatever thiswretched society in which we live may say about proprieties and rightsand wrongs, and the difference between the proper behaviour for younggirls and married women. This is God's earth, Donna Veronica--notsociety's!"

Veronica said nothing; but there was perplexity in her face, and shelooked down, and pulled at one finger of her glove. She was wonderingwhether, if she came on the next day, and stood with Gianluca dellaSpina on that very spot, he would speak for himself as strongly and wellas his friend had been speaking for him. 

Somehow, she doubted it, and somehow, too, she knew that if by magicTaquisara should all at once turn out to be the real Gianluca, --not theGianluca she knew, --she should be better satisfied with the world. Foras things seemed just then, she was not satisfied at all, and the futurewas more dim and uncertain than ever. Still she looked down, thinking, and Taquisara glanced at her occasionally, and respected her silence. 

"You do not know Bosio Macomer, " she said, at last. "Or you know himlittle. If you chanced to be his friend, instead of Don Gianluca's, youcould speak as eloquently for him. "

"I think not, " answered Taquisara. And his lip curled a little, thoughshe did not see the expression. 

"Why not? You do not know him. How can you tell? A little while ago, yousaid that he was not to be compared to your friend. How can you be sosure? Everything is not written in men's faces. "

"I judge as I can, from what I see and know. "

"So do I. "

"From seeing and knowing the one and not the other. That is it. All Iask is that you will wait until you know both, before you make up yourmind--a week--no more, if you can spare no more. It is not for me totell you what your rights are, that you are not in the position of theaverage young girl, just from the convent, who accepts the choice herfather and mother make for her--because, perhaps, she may never haveanother; and, at all events, because she cannot choose. You have theworld to choose from, and--forgive me for saying it--you have no one tochoose for you but those who are interested in the choice. May I speak?"

She hesitated, and their eyes met for a moment. 

"Yes, " she said suddenly. 

"Count Bosio may be the best of men. I do not know. But he is themiddle-aged, younger brother of Count Macomer, with a very slenderfortune of his own and a position no better than the rest of us. If hemarries you, he becomes Prince of Acireale, a Prince of the Holy RomanEmpire, a Grandee of Spain of the First Class--and many times amillionnaire. For you have all that to give the man you marry. Grantthat he is the best of men. Is his brother wholly disinterested? I speakplainly. It is rumoured that Count Macomer has lost most of his fortunein speculations. I do not know whether that is true. Even if it is not, what was all his fortune compared to what it would mean to him if hisbrother held yours?"

"My uncle never speculated in his life!" answered Veronica, ratherindignantly. 

"Grant that. The other side remains. And the countess? Is she whollydisinterested? Has she been disappointed by the marriage she made, ornot? She was born a Serra, like yourself, and she married Macomer in thedays of the old court, when he was a favourite with the old king and hada brilliant position, and people said that he might be one of the firstmen in the kingdom. But Garibaldi swept all that away, and Macomer'schances with it, and the countess is a disappointed woman, for herhusband has remained just what he always was--plain Count Macomer, withhis name and his palace, neither of them extraordinary. Truly, DonnaVeronica, though you may refuse to speak to me again for what I say, Iwill dare to tell you that you must be very unsuspicious! They concealfrom you the honourable offer of such a man as Gianluca della Spina, theeldest son of a great old house, and they announce your betrothal withCount Bosio before either you or he know of it. One need not be verydistrustful to think all that strange--even granting that Count Bosio isthe best of men, a matter of which you are a judge. "

"I would rather that you should not say those things to me, " saidVeronica, a little pale, and turning half round as though she would goback to Bianca and Ghisleri. 

"Forgive me--for I have risked such opinion of me as you may have, tosay them. There may be reasonable doubt about them. But of therest--there is no doubt. There is a man's life in it, and death isbeyond doubts, and a love that can take a man and tear him and hurt himuntil he dies has a right to a woman's hearing--and to hercharity--before she throws it away. I ask no forgiveness of you forsaying that. Gianluca will come to-morrow at this time, and he will comeagain until he sees you. I have kept you too long, Donna Veronica, andyou have been kind in listening to me. If you need service in your life, use mine. "

She said nothing, but gravely inclined her head a little when she hadonce more looked into his eyes, before she turned towards Bianca andwalked slowly up the short, broad path by his side. 

CHAPTER V. 

Bosio felt that if he remained in his room alone with the horror of hisposition, he should go mad before night. He was weakly resolved not tomarry Veronica, but he knew and for the first time dreaded the powerMatilde had over his thoughts as well as his actions. He felt that if hecould avoid her, he could still cling to the remnant of honour, but thatshe would tear it from him if she could and cast it to the winds. Thewhole card-house of his ill-founded life was trembling under the breathof fate, and its near fall seemed to threaten its existence. 

He went out and walked slowly through sunny, unfrequented places, highup in the city, trying to shake off the chill of his fear as a man hopesto rid himself of an ague by sitting in the sun. But the chill was inhis heart, and it was his soul that shivered. He weakly wished that hewere wholly bad, that he might feel less. 

Then, in true Italian humour, he tried to think of something which mightdivert his thoughts from the duty of facing their own terribleperplexity. If it had been evening, he would have strolled into thetheatre; had it been already afternoon, he would have had himself drivenout along the public garden towards Posilippo, to see the faces of hisfriends go by. But it was morning. There was nothing but the club, andhe cared little for the men he might meet there. There was nothing todo, and his eyes did not help him to forget his troubles. He wandered onthrough ways broad and narrow, climbing up one steep lane and descendingagain by the next, hardly aware of direction and not noticing whether hewent east or west, north or south, up or down. 

At last, at a corner, he chanced to read the name of a street. It wasfamiliar enough to him, as a Neapolitan, but just now it reminded him ofsomething which might possibly help to distract his attention. Hestopped and got out his pocket-book, and found in it a card, glanced atthe address on it, and then once more at the name of the street. Then hewent on till he came to the right number, entered a gloomy doorway, black with dampness and foul air, ascended four flights of dark stonesteps, and stopped before a small brown door. The card nailed upon itwas like the one he had in his pocket-book. The name was 'GiudittaAstarita, ' and under it, in another character, was printed the word'Somnambulist. '

There was nothing at all unnatural in the name or the profession, inNaples, where somnambulists are plentiful enough. And the name itselfwas a Neapolitan one, and by no means uncommon. The card, however, waswhite and clean, which argued either that Giuditta Astarita had not longbeen a professional clairvoyante, or else that she had recently changedher lodgings. Bosio knew nothing about her, except that she had suddenlyacquired an extraordinary reputation as a seer, and that many people insociety had lately visited her, and had come away full of extraordinarystories about her power. He rang the little tinkling bell, which wasanswered by a very respectably dressed woman servant with only oneeye, --a fact which Bosio noticed because it was the blind side of herface which first appeared as the door opened. 

The Signora Giuditta Astarita was at home, and there was no othervisitor. Bosio, without giving his name, was ushered into a smallsitting-room, of which the only window opened upon a narrow courtopposite a blank wall. The furniture was scant and stiff, and such of itas was upholstered was covered with a cheap cotton corded material of aspurious wine colour. There were small square antimacassars on thechairs, and two of them, side by side, on the back of the sofa. Thesingle window had heavy curtains, now drawn aside, but evidently capableof shutting out all light. A solid, square, walnut table stood beforethe sofa, without any table-cloth, and upon it were arranged half adozen large books, bound with a good deal of gilding, and which lookedas though they had never been opened. 

Bosio was standing before the window, looking out at the blank wall, when he heard some one enter the room and softly close the door. Giuditta Astarita came forward as he turned round. 

He saw a heavy, phlegmatic woman, still very young, though abnormallystout, with an unhealthy face, thin black hair and large weak eyes of alight china blue. Her lips were parted in a sort of chronic sad smile, which showed uneven and discoloured teeth. She wore a long trailinggarment of heavy black silk, not gathered to the figure at the waist, but loose from the shoulders down, and buttoned from throat to feet infront, with small buttons, like a cassock. From one of the upperbuttonholes dangled a thin gold chain, supporting a bunch of smallcharms against the evil eye, a little coral horn, a tiny silverhunchback, a miniature gilt bell, and two or three coins of gold andsilver, besides an Egyptian scarabee in a gold setting. The womanremained standing before Bosio. 

"You wish to consult me, Signore?" she inquired, in a professional tone, through the chronic smile, as it were. Her voice was very hoarse. 

Bosio bowed gravely, whereupon she pointed to a chair for him, drewanother into position for herself, opposite his, and at some distancefrom it, and then fumbled in the curtains for the cord that pulledthem. 

"If you will sit down, " she said, "I will darken the room. "

Bosio seated himself, and in a moment the light was shut out as theheavy curtains ran together. Then he heard the rustle of the woman'ssilk dress as she sat down opposite to him in the dark. He feltunaccountably nervous, and her china blue eyes had made a disagreeableimpression upon him. He expected something to happen. 

"I see a name over your head, " said a clear, bell-like voice, certainlynot Giuditta Astarita's. "It is Veronica. "

Bosio started uneasily, though like most Neapolitans, he had visitedsomnambulists more than once. 

"Who is speaking?" he asked quickly. 

"It is the spirit, " said the woman's hoarse tones. "That is his voice. Is there such a person as Veronica in your life? Is it about her thatyou wish to consult the spirits?"

"Yes, " said the spirit voice, before Bosio could answer. "You are afraidthat they will murder her, if you do not marry her--or if she will notmarry you. "

Bosio uttered a loud exclamation of alarm and astonishment, for this wasaltogether beyond anything in his experience. 

"Is it so?" asked Giuditta Astarita. 

"Yes. It is true, " said Bosio, in uncertain tones. "And I wish toknow--whether--" he stopped. 

"Whether the grey-faced man and the handsome woman whose eyes are neartogether will really kill her?" asked the spirit voice. 

Bosio felt his soft hair rising on his head. "Do you know who I am?" heasked nervously. 

"No, " replied the voice of Giuditta. "The spirits know everything, but Ido not. They only speak through me with another voice. I do not knowwhat they are going to say. You need have no apprehension. This is moresacred than the confessional, Signore, more secret than the tomb. "

The phrase sounded as though it had been carefully studied and oftenrepeated, but the dramatic tone in which it was uttered produced acertain reassuring effect upon Bosio, in his half-frightened state. 

"Do you wish to tell whether they will really kill Veronica?" inquiredGiuditta. "If you have any question to ask, you must put it quickly. Icannot keep the spirits waiting. They exhaust me when they areimpatient. "

"What shall I do to avoid marrying her?" asked Bosio, suddenly springingto the main point of his doubts. 

"The handsome woman whose eyes are near together will make you marryVeronica, " said the spirit voice. 

"But if I refuse? If I say that I will not? What then? Is her lifereally in danger?"

"Yes. They wish to kill her to get her money. The handsome woman has herwill leaving her everything if she dies. "

"But will they really kill her?" insisted Bosio, half breathless in hisfear and nervous excitement. 

The spirit voice did not answer. In the silence Bosio heard GiudittaAstarita's breathing opposite to him. 

"Will they really kill her?" he asked again. 

Still there was silence, and Bosio held his breath. Then Giuditta spokehoarsely. 

"The spirit is gone, " she said. "He will not answer any more questionsto-day. "

"Can you not call it back?" asked Bosio, anxiously, and peering into theblackness before him, as though hoping to see something. 

"No. When he is gone he never comes back for the same person. Heanswered you many things, Signore. You must have patience. "

He heard her rise, and a moment later the light dazzled him as he lookedup and met her china blue eyes. He was dazed as well as dazzled, forthere had been an extraordinary directness and accuracy about the fewquestions and answers he had heard in the clear voice which was soutterly unlike Giuditta's, though quite human and natural. He wascertain that he had not heard the door open after she had drawn thecurtains. He looked about the scantily furnished room, in search ofsome corner in which some third person might have been hidden. GiudittaAstarita's chronic smile was momentarily intensified. 

"There was no one else here, " she said, answering his unspoken question. "You heard the spirit's voice through my ears. "

"How can that be?"

"I do not know. But what the spirit says is true. You may rely upon it. I do not know what it said, for when I return from the trance state Iremember nothing I have heard or seen while I have been in it. If youwish to ask more, you must have the kindness to come again. It is veryfatiguing to me. You can see that I am not in good health. The hours arefrom ten till three. "

The smile had subsided within its usual limits, and the china blue eyesstared coldly. She was evidently waiting to be paid. 

"What do I owe you?" asked Bosio, with a certain considerateness oftone, so to say. 

"It is twenty-five lire, " answered Giuditta Astarita. "I have but oneprice. Thank you, " she added, as he laid the notes upon the polishedwalnut table. "Do you wish a few of my cards? For your friends, perhaps. I shall be grateful for your patronage. "

"Thank you, " said Bosio, taking his hat and going towards the door. "Ihave one of your cards. It is enough. Good morning. "

As he opened the door, he found the one-eyed serving-woman in thepassage, ready to show him out. Instinctively he looked at the singleeye as he glanced at her face, and he was surprised to notice that itwas of the same uncommon china blue colour as Giuditta's own. The womanwho did duty as a servant to admit visitors was undoubtedly Giuditta'smother or elder sister, or some very near relative. It would be naturalenough, amongst such people, as Bosio knew, but he wondered how manymore of the same family lived in the rooms beyond the one in which hehad received spirit-communications, and whether Giuditta Astaritasupported them all by her extraordinary talents. 

He descended the damp stone stairs and passed out into the street again, dazed and disturbed in mind. He had been to such people before, as hasbeen said, and he had generally seen or heard something which had eitherinterested or amused him. He had never had such an experience as this. He had never heard a voice of which he had been so certain that it didnot come from any one in the room, and he had never found anysomnambulist who had so instantly grasped his most secret thoughts, without the slightest assistance or leading word from himself. Yet atthe crucial test--the question of a certainty in the future, this onehad stopped short as all stopped, or failed in their predictions of whatwas to come. He had been startled and almost frightened. Like manySouthern Italians, he was at once credulous and sceptical--asuperstitious unbeliever, if one may couple the two words into oneexpression. His intelligence bade him deny what his temperament inclinedhim to accept. Besides, on the present occasion, no theory which hecould form could account for the woman's knowledge of his life. She hadnever seen him. He had no extraordinary peculiarity by which she mighthave recognized him at first sight from hearsay, nor was he in any wayconnected with public affairs. He had come quite unexpectedly and hadnot given his name, and the spirit, or whatever it might be, hadinstantly told him of Veronica, of her danger, of his brother andsister-in-law and of the will. Moreover, the friends who had spoken tohim of Giuditta Astarita had told him similar tales within a few days. 

The spirit had said that the handsome woman would make him marryVeronica. But what had the silence meant, when he had asked more? Thatwas the question. Did it mean that the spirit was unwilling to affirmthat Veronica must die if he refused to marry her? He passed his handover his eyes as he walked. This was the end of the nineteenth century;he was in Naples, in the largest city of an enlightened country. Andyet, the situation might have been taken from the times of the Medici, of Paolo Giordano Orsini, of Beatrice Cenci, of the Borgia. There was afrightful incongruity between civilization and his life--between broad, flat, comfortable, every-day, police-regulated civilization, and thehideous drama in which he was suddenly a principal actor. 

More than once he told himself that he was mistaken and that such thingscould not possibly be; that it was all a feverish dream and that heshould soon wake to see that there was a perfectly simple, natural andundramatic solution before him. But turn the facts as he would, he couldnot find that easy way. If he refused to marry Veronica and attempted toget legal protection for her, the inevitable result would be theprosecution, conviction, and utter ruin of his brother and of the womanhe loved. If he refused to marry Veronica and did nothing to protecther, Matilde's eyes had told him what Matilde would do to escape publicshame and open infamy. If he married Veronica and saved his brother--hewas still man enough to feel that he could not do that. He could die. That was a possibility of which he had thought. But would his death, which would save him from committing the last and greatest baseness, save Veronica? She would have one friend less in the world, and she hadnot many. 

With a half-childish smile on his pale face, he wondered what such a manas Taquisara would do, if he were so placed, and the Sicilian's manlyface and bold eyes rose up contemptuously before him. To such a depthas Bosio had already reached, Taquisara could never have fallen. Bosio'sinstinct told him that. 

If he had been able to find one friend in all his acquaintance to whomhe might turn and ask advice, it would have been an infinite relief. Butsuch friends were rare, he knew, and he had never made one. Pleasantacquaintances he had, by the score and the hundred, in society, andamongst artists and men of letters. But the life he had led had shut outfriendship. To have a friend would have been to let some one into hislife, and that would have meant, sooner or later, the betrayal of thewoman he loved. 

Yet, though he felt that Taquisara was his enemy and not his friend, hehad such sudden confidence in the man's honour and truth that he wasinsanely impelled to go to him and tell him all, and implore him to saveVeronica at any cost, no matter what, or to whom. Then of course, amoment later, the thought seemed madness, and he only felt that he waslosing hold more quickly upon his saner sense. His visit to thesomnambulist, too, had helped to unnerve him, and as he wandered throughthe streets he forgot that it was time to eat, so that physicalfaintness came upon him unawares and suddenly. 

He did not wish to go home; for if he did, the final decision would bethrust upon him by Matilde, and he did not feel that he could faceanother scene with her yet. When he found himself near the PalazzoMacomer, he turned back, walking slowly, and went towards the sea, tillhe came to the vast Piazza San Ferdinando, beyond San Carlo. He wentinto a café and sat down in a corner to drink a cup of chocolate by wayof luncheon. The seat he had chosen was at the end of one of the longred velvet divans close to a big window looking upon the square. Therewere little marble tables in a row, and at the one before that whichBosio chose, a priest was seated, reading, with an empty cup before him. He was evidently near-sighted, for he held his newspaper so near hiseyes that Bosio could not have seen his face even had he thought oflooking at it. The priest had thrown back his heavy black cloak after hehad sat down, so that it fell in wide folds upon the seat, on each sideof him. His hands, which held up the paper, while he seemed to besearching for something in the columns, were thin to emaciation, almosttransparent, and very carefully kept, --a fact which might have arguedthat he was not an ordinary, hard-working parish priest of the people, even if his presence in a fashionable café had not of itself made thatseem improbable. On the other hand, he wore heavy, coarse shoes; hisclothes, though well brushed, were visibly threadbare, and his cleanwhite stock was frayed at the edge and almost worn out. He had taken offhis three-cornered hat, and his high peaked head was barely covered withscanty silver-grey hair. When he dropped his paper and looked about himfor the waiter, evidently wishing to pay for his coffee, he showed aface sufficiently remarkable to deserve description. The prominentfeature was the enormous, beak-like nose--the nose of the fanatic whichis not to be mistaken amongst thousands, with its high, arching bridge, its wide, sensitive nostrils, and its preternaturally sharp, down-turning point. But the rest of the priest's face was not in keepingwith what was most striking in it. The forehead was not powerful, narrow, prominent--but rather, broad and imaginative. The chin was roundand not enough developed; the clean-shaven lips had a singularly gentleexpression, and the very near-sighted blue eyes were not set deeplyenough to give strength to the look. The priest carried his headsomewhat bent and forward, in a sort of deprecating way, which made hislong nose seem longer, and his short chin more retreating. The skull wasunusually high and peaked at the point where phrenologists place theorgan of veneration. The man himself was tall and exceedingly thin, andlooked as though he fasted too often and too long. He was certainly avery ugly man, judged according to the standards of human beauty; andyet there was about him an air of kindness and sincerity which had in itsomething almost saintly, together with a very unmistakable individualidentity. He was one of those men whom one can neither forget normistake when one has met them once. Bosio did not notice him, being muchabsorbed by his own thoughts. The waiter came to ask what he wished, andwas stopped on his way back by the priest, who desired to pay for whathe had taken. But Bosio had turned to the window again, and sat lookingout and watching the people in the broad semicircular Piazza. 

The priest, having paid his little score, carefully folded his newspaperand put it into the wide pocket of his cassock. Then he gathered up thecollar of his big cloak behind him, as he sat, and began to edge his wayout from behind the little marble table. But the long folds had fallenfar on each side--so far that Bosio had unawares sat down upon thecloth, and as the priest tried to get out, he felt the cloak beingdragged from under him. The priest stopped and turned, just as Bosiorose with an apology on his lips, which became an exclamation ofsurprise, as he began to speak. 

"Don Teodoro!" he cried. "You were next to me, and I did not see you!"

The priest's eyelids contracted to help his imperfect sight, and hesmiled as he moved nearer to Bosio. 

"Bosio!" he exclaimed, when he had recognized him. "I am almost blind, but I was sure I knew your voice. "

"You are in Naples, and you have not let me know it?" said Bosio, reproachfully and interrogatively. 

"I have not been in Naples two hours, and have just left my bag at myusual quarters with Don Matteo. Then I came here to get a cup of coffee, and now I was going to you. Besides, it is the tenth of December. Youknow that I always come on the tenth every year, and stay until thetwentieth, in order to be back in Muro four days before Christmas. But Iam glad I have met you here, for I should have missed you at thePalazzo. "

"Yes, " said Bosio, "I am glad that we have met. Sit with me, now, whileI drink a cup of chocolate. Then we will do whatever you wish. " He satdown again. "I am glad you have come, Don Teodoro, " he addedthoughtfully. "I am very glad you have come. "

Don Teodoro produced a pair of silver spectacles as he reseated himself, and proceeded to settle them very carefully on his enormous nose. Thenhe turned to Bosio, and looked at him. 

"Have you been ill?" he asked, after a careful scrutiny of the pallid, nervous face. 

"No. " Bosio looked out of the window, avoiding the other's gaze. "I amnervous to-day. I slept badly; and I have been walking, and have notbreakfasted. Oh! no--I am not ill. I am never ill. I have excellenthealth. And you?" He turned to his companion again. "How are you? Alwaysthe same?"

"Always the same, " answered the priest. "I grow old, that is the onlychange. After all, it is not a bad one, since we must change in someway. It is better than growing young--better than growing young again, "he repeated, shaking his head sadly. "Since the payment must be made, itis better that the day of reckoning should come nearer, year by year. "

"For me it has come, " said Bosio, in a low voice, and his chin sank uponhis breast, as he leaned back, clasping his hands before him on the edgeof the marble table. The priest looked at him anxiously and in silence. The two would certainly have met later in the day, or on the morrow, andthe accident of their meeting at the café had only brought them togethera few hours earlier. For the hard-working country parish priest cameyearly to Naples for a few days before Christmas, as he had said, andthe first visit he made, after depositing his slender luggage at thehouse of the ecclesiastic with whom he always stopped, was to BosioMacomer, his old pupil. 

In his loneliness, that morning, Bosio had thought of Don Teodoro andhad wished to see him. It had occurred vaguely to him that the priestgenerally made a visit to the city about that time of the year, but hehad never realized that Don Teodoro always arrived on the same day, thetenth of December, and had done so unfailingly for many years past. 

Before he had been curate of the distant village of Muro, which belongedto the Serra family, Don Teodoro had been tutor to Bosio Macomer. He hadlived in Naples as a priest at large, a student, and in those days, tosome extent, a man of the world. When Bosio was grown up, his tutor hadremained his friend--the only really intimate friend he had in theworld, and a true and devoted one. It was perhaps because he was toomuch attached to Bosio that Matilde Macomer had induced him at last toaccept the parish in the mountains with the chaplaincy of the ancestralcastle of the Serra, --an office which was a total sinecure, as thefamily had rarely gone thither to spend a few weeks, even in the days ofthe late prince. Matilde hated the place for its appalling gloominessand wild scenery, and Veronica, to whom it now belonged, had never seenit at all. It had the reputation of being haunted by all manner ofghosts and goblins, and during the first ten years following the Italianannexation of Naples, the surrounding mountains had been infested byoutlaws and brigands. But Don Teodoro, as curate and chaplain, receiveda considerable stipend which enabled him to procure for himself books athis pleasure, when he could bring himself to curtail the daily andyearly charities in which he spent almost all he received. 

He was, indeed, a man torn between two inclinations which almostamounted to passions, --charity and the love of learning, --and theiraction was so evenly balanced that it was a real pain to him either todeny himself the book he coveted, or to forfeit the pleasure of givingthe money it would cost to the poor. He had sometimes kept the last notehe had left at the end of the month for many days, quite unable todecide whether he should send it to Naples for a new volume, or buyclothes with it for some half-clad child. So sincere was he in bothlongings, that after he had disposed of the money in one way or theother, he almost invariably had an acute fit of self-reproach. Hiscommon sense alone told him that when he had given away nine-tenths ofall he received, he had the right to spend the other tenth upon suchfood for his mind as was almost more indispensable to him than bread. But, besides this, he had been engaged for twenty years upon a historyof the Church, in compiling which he believed he was doing a work of thehighest importance to mankind; so that it appeared to him a duty toexpend, from time to time, a certain amount of money in order to procuresuch books, old and new, as were necessary for his studies. As a matterof fact, the seasons themselves decided his conduct in thesedifficulties; for in cold weather, or times of scarcity, his charityoutran his desire for books; whereas, in the warm weather, and whenthere was plenty, and no pitiful starved faces gathered about his door, he bought books, instead of searching for the few who were still inneed. 

In his youth, Don Teodoro had travelled much. He had accompanied amission to Africa at the beginning of his life, and had afterwardswandered about Europe, being at that time, as yet, more studious thancharitable, and possessed of a small independence left him by hisfather, who had been an officer in the Neapolitan army in the old days. He had seen many things and known many men of many nations, before hehad at last settled in Muro, in the little priest's house, under theshadow of the dismal castle, and close to the church. There he livednow, all the year round, excepting the ten days which he annually spentin Naples. The little house was full of books, and there was a big, oldshaky press, containing his manuscripts, the work of his whole life. Hehad neither friends nor companions of his own class, but he was belovedby all the people. Playing on his name, Teodoro, in their dialect, theycalled him, O prevete d'oro'--'the priest of gold. ' And many said thathe had performed miracles, when he had fasted in Lent. 

This was practically Bosio Macomer's only intimate friend. For althoughthe intimacy had been interrupted for years, by circumstances, it hadnever been checked by any action or word of either. It is true thatneither was, as a rule, in need of friendship, nor desirous ofcultivating it. Learning and charity absorbed the priest's whole life. Bosio's existence, of which Don Teodoro knew in reality nothing, hadmoved in the vicious circle of a single passion, which he could neveracknowledge, and which excluded, for common caution's sake, anythinglike intimacy with other men. But Bosio had not ceased to look upon thepriest as the best man he had ever known, and in spite of his ownerrings, he was still quite able to appreciate goodness in others; andDon Teodoro had always remembered his pupil as one of the few men towhom he had been accustomed to speak freely of his hopes, andsympathies, and aspirations, feeling sure of appreciation from a natureat once refined and reticent, though itself hard to understand. For DonTeodoro was, strange to say, painfully sensitive to ridicule, though inall other respects a singularly brave man, morally and physically. As achild or as a boy, he had been laughed at by his companions for hisextraordinary nose and his short sight; and he had never recovered fromthe childish suffering thus inflicted upon him by thoughtless children. The fear of being ridiculous had largely influenced him through life, and had really contributed much towards deciding him to accept the cureof the wild mountain town. 

Bosio's almost solemn words, as his chin fell upon his breast, and heclasped his hands before him, suddenly recalled to the priest the yearsthey had spent together, the confidence there had been between them, theinterest he had once felt in Bosio's fortune, --as an object once dailyfamiliar, and fresh once and not without beauty, then long hidden foryears, and coming suddenly to sight again, moth-eaten, dusty, and allbut destroyed, is oddly painful to him who used it long ago, and thensees it when it is fit only to be thrown away. 

"You are suffering, " said Don Teodoro, leaning forward upon the marbletable and peering through his silver-rimmed spectacles into Bosio's paleface, and gentle, exhausted eyes. 

The priest's nervous, emaciated hand softly pressed the sleeve of theyounger man's coat, and the fantastic features grew wonderfully gentleand kind. It was the transformation that came over them whenever any onewas visibly poor, or starving, or sorrowing, or hurt, --the change whicha beautiful passion brings to the ugliest face in the world. 

Bosio smiled faintly as he saw it, and a little hope was breathed intohis heart, as though somewhere, at some immeasurable distance, theremight be a possibility of salvation from the ruin and wreck of hishorrible life. 

"Yes, " he said. "I am suffering. It is a great suffering. I do not thinkthat I can live much longer. "

"Can I do nothing?" asked Don Teodoro. 

Bosio still smiled, as a man smiles in torture when one speaks to him ofpeace. 

"If I believed that anything could be done, " he said, "I should notsuffer as I do. I have lived a bad life, and the time has come when Imust pay the score. But it is not my fault if things are as they are--itis not all my fault. "

The priest sighed, and looked away after a moment. 

"We have all done some one great wrong thing in our lives, " he saidgently. "The price may perhaps be paid to God in good, as well as to manin pain. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Bosio shook his head, and a long silence followed. Once or twice heroused himself, stirred the cup of chocolate which the waiter had setbefore him, and sipped a teaspoonful of it absently. The corner wherethe two men sat together was quiet, but from the front of the café camethe continual clatter of plates and glasses, the echo of feet, and thering of voices; for it was just midday, and the place was full of itshabitual frequenters. 

"If we were in church, " said Bosio at last, "and if you were in aconfessional--"

He stopped, and glanced at his companion without completing thesentence. 

"You would make a confession? There are churches near, " said DonTeodoro. "I am ready. Will you come?"

Bosio hesitated. 

"No, " he said at last. "I could tell you nothing without betrayingothers. "

"Betraying! Is it a crime that you have on your conscience?" Thepriest's voice was low and troubled. 

"Many crimes, " answered Bosio. "The crimes that must come, and that Icannot prevent by living, nor hinder by dying. "

Again there was silence during several minutes. 

"You may trust me as a friend, even if, as a priest, you could notconfess all the circumstances to me, " said Don Teodoro, after the longpause. "I do not wish you to make confidences to me, unless you areimpelled to do so. But you are in that frame of mind, my dear Bosio, inwhich a man will sooner or later unburden himself to some one. You mightdo worse than choose me. I am your friend, I am old, and I know that Iam discreet. I am extraordinarily discreet. It may seem strange that Ishould say so myself, but my own life has taught me that I am to betrusted with secrets. "

"Yes, " replied Bosio. "You must have heard strange things sometimesunder the seal of confession. "

"I have known of strange things. " Don Teodoro's face grew sad andthoughtful, and Bosio, seeing it, suddenly made up his mind. 

He leaned far back against the painted wall for a moment, withhalf-closed eyes. Then he drew nearer to his friend, so that he spokeclose to the latter's ear, though he looked down at the table beforehim. His nervous fingers played with the teaspoon in the saucer of hiscup. 

It was a strange confession, there in the corner of the crowded café atmidday, and those who glanced idly at the two men from a distance wouldhardly have guessed that an act in a mysterious life was before theireyes--an act which was itself but a verbal recapitulation of manyactions past, but which to the speaker had an enormous importance of itsown, and an influence on the future of all concerned. 

Not much had been needed to break through the barrier of Bosio'sreticence. Walking through the streets that morning he had for a momenteven thought of telling some of his story to Taquisara. It was fareasier to tell it to the only true friend he had in the world, to one inwhom he had confided as a boy and had trusted as a young man. He toldalmost all. He confessed that his love of many years had been hisbrother's wife, and though he spoke no word of her love for him, the oldpriest knew the evil truth from the man's tone and look. For the rest hespared neither Matilde nor any one else, but told Don Teodoro all thetruth, and all his anxious fears for Veronica's safety, if he should notmarry her, with all his horror of his own shame if he should yield tothe pressure brought upon him. 

Don Teodoro's expression changed more than once while he listened, buthe never turned his head nor moved in his seat. 

"You see what I am, " said Bosio, at last. "You see what my people are. Indeed, I need a confessor, if one could save my soul; but I need afriend even more, for through me that poor girl is in danger of herlife. That is her choice--to die or to be my wife. Mine is, to see hermurdered or to do an unutterably shameful thing--or to see the woman Ilove driven out of the world with infamy for the crimes she has notcommitted, and the fear of that disgrace is making her mad. It is forher, and for Veronica! What do I care about myself? What have I left tocare for? What I have done, I have done. I am not good, I am notreligious, I am perhaps a worse sinner than most men, and a poorerbeliever than many. But I will not be the instrument of these deeds--andyet, if I refuse--there is death, or shame, or both, to those I love! Atleast I have spoken, and you will not betray me. It has been a relief, amoment's respite from torture. I thank you for it, my friend, and I wishI could repay you. You cannot give me advice, for I have twisted andturned it all in fifty ways, and there is no escape. You cannot help me, for no one can. But you have done me some little momentary good, just bysitting there and hearing my story. Beyond that there is nothing to bedone. "

The wretched man closed his eyes, and again leaned back against thebright red wall, which threw his white face and dark-ringed eyes intostrong and painful relief. Don Teodoro was silent, bending his mind uponthe hideous problem. Bosio misunderstood him and spoke again withoutmoving. 

"I know, " he said. "You need not speak. I know by heart all thereproaches I deserve, and I know that no human being, much less a holyman like yourself, could possibly feel anything but horror at allthis--"

"I am very far from being a holy man, " interrupted the priest. "If Ifeel horror, it is for what has been, and may be, but not for you. Bosio--" he hesitated a moment. "Will you come with me to Muro, andleave all this?" he asked suddenly. "Will you come out of the world fora while? No--I am not proposing to you to make a religious retreat. Iwish I could. I know the world, and you, and your people, for I livedlong among you, and I know that one cannot change one's soul, as onechanges one's coat--nor enter upon a retreat as one springs into the seafor a bath in hot weather. What you have made yourself, you are. Heavenitself would need time to unmake you. I speak just as one man toanother. Come with me to the mountains for a week, a month--as long asyou will. It is dreary and cold, and you will have to eat what you canget; but you will have peace, for nobody will come up there to disturbyou. Meanwhile, something may happen. You are overwrought by all youhave seen and heard and felt. Whatever the countess may have said, Donna Veronica is quite safe. My dear Bosio, people in your rank oflife do not murder one another for money nowadays. It is laughable, themere idea of it--"

"Laughable!" Bosio turned and looked at him. "If you had seen her eyes, you would find it hard to laugh, I think. Such things happen rarely, perhaps, but they happen sometimes. "

Don Teodoro was not persuaded. He thought that Bosio, in his excitedstate, very much overestimated the danger. 

"At all events, " he said, "nothing will happen, so long as there is thepossibility that you may marry her. If you come with me, you will atleast have time to think before acting. But here, you may be forced toact before you have been able to think. "

But Bosio shook his head slowly. 

"There are difficulties which can be helped by putting them off, " heanswered. "This is not one. You forget that in just three weeks mybrother will be ruined--absolutely ruined--if he cannot pay. If I stayedthat time with you, I should come back to find him a beggar--or obligedto throw himself upon Veronica's mercy and charity for his daily breadand for a roof to cover him. "

"There is one other way, " said the priest, thoughtfully. "There is onething left for you to do, if you have courage to do it. And you knowbetter than I what chance there would be of success. It is what Ishould do myself. It is a heroic remedy, but it may save everythingyet. "

Bosio's eyes turned anxiously to his friend, by way of question. 

"Find Veronica alone, " said Don Teodoro. "Take all rights into your ownhands and tell her everything, just as you have told me. You know herwell. If she is kind-hearted, as I think she is, she will pay yourbrother's debts, take over the estates herself, since it is time, andmanage that Cardinal Campodonico shall never suspect that there has beenanything wrong with the administration. If she is not so charitable asto do that of her own free will, why then, since you believe it, tellher that she must do it to save her life. It is most unlikely that shewill refuse and take refuge with the cardinal in order to bring publicdisgrace upon her father's sister. And even that, horrible as it seemsto you--if it must be, it will be, and it will not be your fault--"

"But Matilde--" Bosio began in troubled tones. "And yet, perhaps, it ispossible. Veronica would not be so cruel as to ruin them--the money isnothing to her. And, after all, she will hardly feel the loss out of herimmense fortune. Yes--" his face brightened slowly with the rays ofhope. "Yes--it may be possible, after all. I had thought of going toher, but not of telling her the whole truth. It did not seem as thoughI could, until I had heard myself tell it to you. It will be hard, butit seems possible, and it will save her--and then--"

His face changed again, as he broke off in the sentence, and hismelancholy eyes turned slowly to his friend. 

"And then, " said Don Teodoro, "perhaps you will go back with me to Muro, and rest and forget it all. "

"Yes, " answered Bosio, sadly and dreamily, "perhaps I shall go to Murowith you. I wonder, " he continued, after a short pause, "that you shouldwant such a man as I am in your priest's house there. "

"Oh! I am glad of a little society when I can get it, and I have much toshow you which might interest you. I have worked perpetually for manyyears, since we used to talk about my history of the Church. "

He checked himself. In spite of all he had just heard, and the realdistress and sympathy he had felt for Bosio, the one of his dominantpassions which was uppermost just then had almost made him forgeteverything, and launch into an account of his work and studies. Men who, intellectually, are deeply engrossed in one matter, and who, socially, have long lived very lonely lives, are not generally able to losethemselves in sympathy for others. As Bosio was not exactly an objectfor Don Teodoro's charity, he was in some danger of being made alistener for the outpouring of the priest's tremendous intellectualenthusiasm. But the latter checked himself. The things he had heard wereindeed of a nature not so easily forgotten. He went back to them atonce. 

"My dear Bosio, " he began again, "do not put yourself down as the worstof men. It is just as bad to go too far in one direction as in theother. There is undoubtedly, in theory, the man in the world, at anygiven moment, who must be a little worse than any other living man; butthough he might be our next-door neighbour, we have no means whatever ofknowing that he is the greatest sinner alive, because we do not know allabout all existing sinners. Consequently, and for the same reason, noman has any right to assume that he is worst of men. And as far as thatgoes, many men have done worse things, even in the religious view, thanyou have done, and very much worse things, in the opinion of society. You are not responsible for all that the others have done. You are onlyresponsible in the immediate future for your share of duty, in doing thewisest and best thing which may present itself. And if you can induceDonna Veronica to forgive your brother and your brother's wife, bytelling her the truth without prevarication, you will have donesomething to atone for the past evil which, you cannot undo. I am notpreaching to you, my dear friend. Pray look upon me as a man and not asa priest. Indeed, I would rather that you should never think of me as apriest at all. If you need spiritual help, there are many better menthan I, who can give it to you. But as a man and a friend, come to me ifyou will. You are to me also a man and a friend, and not a penitent. "

He finished speaking, took off his spectacles, and rested his headagainst the wall behind him, as Bosio had done, and the younger manglanced sideways at his friend's extraordinary profile. Its fantasticoutline had a moral effect upon him; for it recalled, as nothing elsecould, the early days of his life before he had been what he now was, when he had known what hope meant, and had understood aspirations inothers which had no meaning for him now. He was very grateful, too, forDon Teodoro's words, which certainly comforted him in a way he had notexpected. 

"Thank you, " he said, "I will think of it. I think I shall take youradvice and speak to Veronica. She can save us all, if she will. "

"Yes, " said Don Teodoro. "She can save you all--and she will. "

Then they sat a long time in silence in their corner, and the priest'smind wandered occasionally to the thought of his manuscript, and of themany points he intended to discuss with his friend Don Matteo, a man aslearned as himself, but indolent instead of active, one of thosepassive, living treasuries of thought upon which the active workerfastens greedily when he has a chance, to extract all the riches he canin the shortest possible time, in any shape, to carry the gold away withhim to his workshop and fashion it to his wish. 

And Bosio, whose intelligence was essentially dramatic and given tothrowing future interviews into an imaginary dramatic shape, thoughtover and over what he would say to Veronica and what she might beexpected to say to him. But he was terribly exhausted and harassed, andby degrees as the stimulant of recent comfort lost its cheering warmthwithin him, he silently grew despondent again within himself, and hisdramatic fancies of fear became near and tragic realities. He thought hecould hear the clear, bell-like voice of the somnambulist telling himthat he should be forced to marry Veronica. 

At last, realizing that he was probably detaining Don Teodoro, he rousedhimself, and the two went out together into the broad light of thePiazza San Ferdinando. 

"I will go home, " Bosio said. "I will think of it all. At this time Ican easily be alone with Veronica. "

His voice sounded as though he were speaking to himself, and his headwas bent, so that he stooped from the neck as Don Teodoro did. But thelatter, as he walked, his silver-rimmed spectacles balanced on his greatnose, thrust his bent head more forward. Or rather, it was as though hishead moved first in the direction he meant to follow, while his thinlegs had difficulty in keeping up with it. 

Bosio was willing to put off the moment of going home as long aspossible, and he accompanied his friend to the door of Don Matteo'slodging, which was in a clean, quiet, sunlit street, behind thePiazza--in one of those oases of light and cleanliness upon which onesometimes comes in the heart of Naples. The little green door wasreached by a couple of steps up from the level of the street. DonTeodoro had a key and stood on the upper step, holding it in his handand blinking in the warm sunshine. 

"You know this house, " he said. "You have been to see me here once ortwice. If you want me, you can always send for me in the afternoon, forI only go out in the morning. But I will come and see you. When?To-morrow, before noon?"

"Yes, " Bosio answered. "By to-morrow at midday something will bedecided. "

They shook hands and parted, Bosio turning eastward in the direction ofhis home. The priest absently tried to insert the key in the lock of thedoor, while his eyes followed his friend to the corner of the street. Then, as Bosio's still graceful figure disappeared, he turned from thekeyhole with a sigh, and let himself in. 

Bosio walked rapidly at first, and then more slowly as he came nearer tothe old quarter in which the Palazzo Macomer was situated. As with allmen of such character, his irresolution increased just when he fanciedthat he was about to do something decisive. He would not have hesitatedin the same way, if he had been called upon to face a physical danger;for though he was certainly no hero, he was by no means a physicalcoward, and in a quarrel he would have stood up bravely enough to facehis antagonist. But this was very different. He had been ruled byMatilde Macomer through many years, and when he thought of meeting herhe had a deadly presentiment of assured defeat. She would extract fromhim something more than the silent assent which he had been forced intogiving on the previous evening, and she could not let him go till hepromised to marry Veronica. He walked more slowly, as he felt the fearand uncertainty twisting his scant courage from his heart. 

Then he was ashamed of himself, and in a sudden attempt to be brave hehailed a passing cab and drove rapidly to the Palazzo Macomer. He askedfor Veronica and was told that she was in her room. He did not wish tosend her a message. Gregorio had gone out immediately after the middaybreakfast. Bosio was glad of that. He had not seen his brother since theprevious evening, and he did not wish to see him alone. There weremonstrous wrongs on both sides, and it was better to pretend mutualignorance, and keep up the ghastly farce, pretending that nothing wasthe matter. The very smallest incautious word would crack the swayingbubble that was blown to bursting with hell's breath. 

Bosio had entered the main apartments in order to inquire for Veronica, had passed through the long outer hall with its red walls, its mattedfloor and its great table covered with green baize, to the antechamberwithin, where, with some ostentation, as Bosio had always thought, Gregorio had hung up the escutcheon with the quartered arms of Macomerand Serra, flanked by half a dozen big old family portraits on eitherside, opposite the three windows. He had waited there until the footmanreturned after looking for Veronica in the drawing-room, and when heheard that she was not there, he turned to reach the staircase again andgo up to his own bachelor's quarters, for he feared to meet Matilde andhoped to put off seeing her until dinner-time, when he might somanoeuvre as not to be left alone with her. 

But the footman had hardly delivered his answer, and Bosio was in theact of turning, when one of the two masked doors under the picturesopened suddenly, and Matilde spoke into the room, calling him by name. He turned pale and stopped short, as though a cold hand had taken him bythe throat. The footman went out to the hall, as Bosio met Matilde'seyes. 

"Come, " she said briefly, "I want to speak to you. "

He obeyed silently, and followed her through the narrow door and througha passage beyond, to her own morning-room. Matilde shut the door. Theafternoon sun streamed in through two high windows, filling every cornerwith light and turning the crimson carpet blood red, where Matildestood, all round her feet and the folds of her loose dark gown, so thatshe seemed to rise out of a pool of vivid colour, a dark, strong figurewith the brightness all behind her and the gleam of her eyes justlightening in the shadow of her face. 

"Why did you go out without seeing me this morning?" she asked in a hardtone. "And why did Taquisara come to see you early? You scarcely knowhim--"

"I certainly did not send for him, " said Bosio, uneasily. 

"He did not come for nothing, " retorted Matilde. "He is no friend ofyours. He must have come for some particular reason. "

Bosio said nothing, but turned from her and moved towards a tablecovered with books. In an objectless way he opened a volume and lookedat the title page. Matilde followed him with her eyes. 

"Well?" she said presently, "I am waiting. What did Taquisara have tosay? He is Gianluca's friend--he came with a message. That is clear. What did he say? I am waiting to hear. "

"He came because he chose to come, " answered Bosio, still looking at thetitle page of the book. "Gianluca did not send him. He wished to knowwhether it were true that I was to marry Veronica. "

"I thought so. And what did you answer? Of course you told him that itwas quite settled. "

"We had a long conversation--I do not remember all that we said--"

"You do not remember whether you told him that you were to marryVeronica or not?" Matilde laughed angrily and came forward. 

"Let that book alone!" she said imperiously. "Look at me--so--now tellme the truth!"

She laid her hand upon his arm, and not gently, and she made him turn toher. Bosio felt that shock of shame which smites a man in the back, asit were, when a woman is too strong for him and orders him brutally todo her will. 

"I told him the truth, " he answered, and his pale cheeks reddened withfutile anger. 

"The truth!" Matilde's face darkened. "What? What did you tell him?"

Bosio was weakly glad to have frightened her a little. 

"The truth, " he said, trying to assume a certain indifference. "Justthat. I let him understand that nothing is definitely settled yet, andthat there is no contract--"

Matilde was silent, and her eyes seemed to draw nearer together, whilethe smooth red lips curled scornfully. 

"Oh, what a coward you are!" she cried in a low voice, in deep disgust, and as she spoke she dropped his arm in contempt, though she still heldhis face with her angry gaze. 

"You have no right to call me a coward, " answered Bosio, defending hismanhood. "I told you that I could not do it. The man put it in such away that I had to give him a definite answer. For your sake I would notdeny the engagement altogether--"

"For my sake!" exclaimed Matilde. "Do not use such phrases to me. Theymean nothing. For some wretched quibble of your miserable conscience--asyou still have the assumption to call it--you will ruin us in anotherday. "

"Yes, I still have some conscience, " replied Bosio, trying to be boldunder her scornful eyes. "I would not let Taquisara think that you andGregorio had lied, and I would not lie myself--"

"You are reforming, then? You choose the moment well!"

"I have told you what passed between Taquisara and me, " said Bosio. "That was what you wished to know. I will judge of myself whether I didright or not. "

He turned from her and walked away, towards the door. 

"Well?" she said, not moving, for she knew that her voice would stophim. 

"Is there anything else?" he asked, turning again and standing still. 

"There is much more. Come back! Sit down and talk to me like a sensiblebeing. There is much to be said. The matter is all but settled in spiteof the account which Taquisara frightened you into giving him. I likethat man, he is so brave! He is not at all like you. "

"If you wish me to stay longer, you must not insult me again, " saidBosio, not yet seating himself, but resting his hands on the back of achair as he stood. "You know very well that I am no more a coward, if itcomes to fighting men, than others are. One need not be cowardly todread doing such a thing as you are trying to force me to. "

"It does not seem such a very terrible thing, " said Matilde, her tonesuddenly changing and growing thoughtful. "It really does not seem to mesuch a dreadful thing that you should be Veronica's husband. Of courseI do not speak of the material advantages. You were always an idealist, Bosio--you do not care for those things, and I daresay that when you aremarried you will not even care to take her titles, nor to spend much ofher money. I know well enough what passes in your mind. Sit down. Let ustalk about it. We cannot afford to quarrel, you and I, can we? I amsorry I spoke as I did--and I never meant that you were cowardly in theordinary sense. I was angry about Taquisara. What right had he to comehere, to pry into our affairs? I should think you would have resentedit, too. "

"I did, " said Bosio, somewhat sullenly. "But I could not turn him out, nor get into a quarrel with him. It would have made a useless scandaland would have set every one talking. "

"Certainly, " assented Matilde. "Perhaps you did right, after all--atleast, you thought you did. I am sure of that. I do not know why I wasso angry at you. I am unstrung, and nervous, I suppose. Did I say verydreadful things to you, dear? I do not know what I said--"

"You called me a coward several times, " replied Bosio, thinking to showa little strength by relenting slowly. 

"Oh! but I did not mean it!" cried the countess. "Bosio, forgive me. Idid not mean to say such things--indeed, I did not. But do you wonderthat I am nervous? Say that you forgive me--"

"Of course I forgive you, " answered Bosio, raising his eyebrows ratherwearily. "I know that you are under a terrible strain--but you saythings sometimes which are unjust and hard. I know what all this meansto us both--but there must be some other way. "

Matilde shook her head mournfully, as Bosio sat down beside her, alreadysinking back to his long-learned docility. 

"There is no other way, " she said. "There is certainly none, that issure. I have thought it all over, as one thinks of everything wheneverything is in danger. The only other course is to throw ourselvesupon Veronica's mercy--"

"Well? Why not?" asked Bosio, eagerly, as Don Teodoro's advice gainedinstant plausibility again. "She is kind, she is charitable, she willforgive everything and save you--"

"The shame of it, Bosio! Of confessing it all--and she may refuse. Veronica is not all kindness and charity. She is a Serra, as I am, andthough she is a mere girl, if she takes it into her head to be hard andunforgiving, there would be no power on earth that could move her. Sheis not so unlike me, Bosio. You may think so because she is so unlike mein looks. She has the type of her father, poor Tommaso. But we Serraare all Serra--there is not much difference. No--do not interrupt me, dear. And as for your marriage, there is much to be said for it. It istime that you were married, you know. You and I have lived our lives, and we are not what we were. I shall always be fond of you--we shallalways be more than friends--but always less than what we have been. Itmust have come sooner or later, Bosio, and it may as well come now. Youknow--we cannot be always young. And as for me, if I am not already old, I soon shall be. "

The woman who had held him so long knew how to tempt him, sacrificingeverything in the desperate straits to which she was reduced. Though hehad loved her well, and sinfully, but truly, for so many years, his lovehad sometimes seemed an unbearable thraldom, to escape from which hewould have given his heart piecemeal, though he should lose all thehappiness life held for him, for the sake of a momentary freedom. Possibly, too, she knew that he never longed for that freedom so much aswhen she had just been most violent and despotic. She was prepared forthe feeble dissent with which he answered her suggestion of separation. He would be the more easily persuaded to yield and marry Veronica. 

"As for your being old, " he said, "it is absurd. It is I who have grownold of late. But our being friends--" he paused thoughtfully. 

"A man is never too old to marry, " answered Matilde. "It is only womenwho grow too old to be loved. You will begin your life all over againwith Veronica. You and she will go away together--you can live in Rome, when you are tired of Paris. It will be better. You and I will see eachother seldom at first. By and by it will be so easy for us to be goodfriends after we have been separated some time. "

"Friends?" Bosio spoke the one word again, with a sad and dreamyintonation. 

"I asked Veronica this morning, " continued Matilde, not heeding him, andbeginning to speak more rapidly. "You have no idea how very fond she isof you. When I spoke of the marriage, she seemed to think it the mostnatural thing in the world. She found arguments for it herself. "

"She?"

"Yes. She said--what I have said to you--that there was no man whom sheknew so well and liked so much as you, that of course she had neverthought of marrying you, nor, indeed, of being married at all, but that, at the same time, she should think that you would make a very goodhusband. She wished to think of it--that is as much as to say that shewill not even make any serious objections. You have no idea how younggirls feel about marriage, Bosio. How should you? You cannot comprehendthe horror a girl like Veronica feels of a stranger, of a man likeGianluca, even, whom she has met half a dozen times and talked with. Itseems so dreadful to think of spending a lifetime with a man about whomshe knows nothing, or next to nothing. And yet it is the custom, andmost of them accept it and are happy. But the idea of marrying some onewith whom she is really intimate, whom she really likes, who reallyunderstands her, places marriage in a new light for a young girl. Without knowing it, Veronica is half in love with you. It is no wonderthat she likes the thought of being your wife--apart from the fact thatyou are a very desirable husband. "

"I cannot believe that, " said Bosio. 

"That you are desirable as a husband? My dear Bosio, do not pretend tobe so absurdly modest! Any woman would be glad to marry you. But for me, you could have made the best match in Naples years ago--"

"Not even years ago. Much less now. But that was not what I meant. Icannot believe that Veronica is really inclined to marry me. It seems tome that she might be my daughter--"

"If you had been married at fifteen, " suggested Matilde, laughingsoftly. "Because you feel tired and harassed to-day, you feel a hundredyears old. It is no compliment to me to say so, for I am even a littleolder than you, I think. And you--you are young, you are handsome, youare talented, you have the manners that women love--"

"It is not many minutes since you were saying that we were both growingold--"

"No, no! I said that we could not always be young. That is verydifferent. And that we have lived our lives--our lives so long as theycan be lived together--that is what I meant. You are young! How many menmarry at fifty! And you are not forty yet. You have ten years of youthbefore you. That is not the question. So far as that is concerned, saythat you are old to-night, at dinner, and you shall see how Veronicawill laugh at you! But that you and I should part, Bosio--and yet, it isfar better, if you have the courage. "

"Have you?" he asked sadly. 

"Yes--I have, for your sake, since I see how you look at this. And youare right. I know you are, though I am only a woman, and cannot have aman's ideas about honour. For my own part--well, I am a woman, and Ihave loved you long. But you are the one to be thought of. You shall befree, as though I had never lived. You shall be able to say to yourselfthat in marrying Veronica you are not doing anything in the leastdishonourable. I shall not exist for you. I shall not feel that I havethe right to think of you and for you as I always have. I shall neverask you to do anything for me, lest you should feel that I wereasserting some claim to you, as though you were still mine. It will behard at first. But I can do it, and I will do it, in order that yourconscience may be free. You shall marry her, as though you had neverknown me, and hereafter I will always be the same. Only--" She fixed hereyes upon him with a look which, whether genuine or assumed, was fierceand tender--

"Only--if you are not true to her, Bosio--if you leave her and go aftersome other woman--then I will turn upon you!"

Bosio met her glance with a look of something like astonishment, wondering how in a few sentences she had got herself into a position tothreaten him with vengeance if he were unfaithful to Veronica. 

"We will not speak of that, " she exclaimed before he said anything inanswer or protest. "We have harder things to do than to imagine evil inthe future. Since we are decided--since it is to be the end--let it benow, quickly! You shall not have it on your mind that you belong to mein any way, from now. No--you are right--you must feel free. You mustfeel free, besides really being free. You must feel, when you speak toVeronica to-night or to-morrow, as she expects you to speak, that allour life together is utterly past and swept away, and that I only existhenceforth as a relative--as--as your wife's aunt, Bosio!"

She laughed, half-bitterly, half-nervously, at the idea, and turningaway her face she held out her hand to him. 

He took it, and held it, pressing it between both his own. 

"Do you mean this, Matilde?" he asked in a low voice. 

"Yes, I mean it, " she answered, speaking away from him with avertedface. 

He could not see, but she was biting her lip till it almost bled. In herown strange way she loved him with all her evil nature, and if she werebreaking with him now, it was to save herself from something worse thandeath. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. He hesitated: therewas the mean prompting of the spirit, to take her at her word and to sethimself free, since she offered him freedom, caring not whether shemight repent to-morrow; and there was the instinct of fidelity which inso much dishonour had remained with him through so many years. 

"Besides, " she said hoarsely, "I do not love you any more. I would notkeep you longer, if I could. Oh--we shall be friends! But the other--no!Good bye, Bosio--good bye. "

Something moved him, as she had not meant that anything should. 

"I do not believe you, " he said. "You love me still--I will not leaveyou!"

"No, no! I do not--but if you still care at all, save me. Say good bye, but do the rest also. You are free now. You are an honourable man again. Bosio, look at my hair. You used to love it. Would you have it cut offand cropped by the convict's shears? My hands that you areholding--dear--would you love them galled by the irons, riveted uponthem for years? Save me, Bosio! You are free now--save me, for the dearsake of all that has been!"

Still she turned her face away, and as Bosio saw the waving richness ofher brown hair and heard her words, he felt a desperate thrust of painin his heart. It was all so fearfully true and possible. 

"But do not say that you do not love me, " he pleaded, in low tones, bending to her ear. 

There was a moment's silence, and he thought he saw a convulsivemovement of her throat--he guessed it rather than saw it. 

"It is true!" she cried, with an effort, drawing her hands from him andturning her pale face fiercely. "If I loved you still, do you think Iwould give you to Veronica Serra, or to any living woman? Was that theway I loved you? Was that how you loved me?"

"Ah no! But now--"

She would not let him speak. 

"Do you think that if I loved you, as I have loved you--as I did once--Ishould be so ready to give you up? Do you know me so little? Do youthink that I have no pride?" asked Matilde Macomer, holding him at arm'slength from her with her strong hands and throwing back her head, whilethe lids half veiled her eyes, and her face grew paler still. 

The words that were so strange, spoken by such a woman, fell from herlips with force and earnest conviction, whether she truly believed thatthey had meaning for her, or not. Then her voice changed and softenedagain. 

"But your friend--yes, always, as you must be mine--that and nothingmore. We have said good bye to all the rest--now go, for I would ratherbe alone for a little while. Go, Bosio--please go!"

"As you will, " he answered. 

Then he kissed her hand and looked into her face for a moment, as thoughexpecting that she should speak again. But she only shook her head, andher hand gave his no pressure. He kissed it again. There were tears inhis eyes when he left the room. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Love is not the privilege of the virtuous, nor the exclusive right ofthe weak man and woman. The earth brings forth the good thing and thebad thing with equal strength to grow great and multiply side by side, and it is not the privilege of the good thing to live forever because itis good, nor is it the condemnation of the bad to die before its time, perishing in its own evil. 

A moment after Bosio had left the room, Matilde rose to her feet, verypale and unsteady, and locked the door. Then, as though she were gropingher way in darkness, she got back to the sofa, and falling upon it, buried her face in the cushions, and bit them, lest she should cry out. She felt that it would have been easier, after all, to have killedVeronica Serra, than it had been to part with the one thing she hadloved in her life. 

She had not loved him better than herself, perhaps, since it was to saveherself that she had driven him away. But it had not been to saveherself from so small and insignificant a thing as death, though she wasvital and loved life for its own sake. She had not realized, either, until it had been almost done, how necessary it was. Yesterday she hadbeen more cynical. Her own wickedness was teaching her the necessity ofsome good, and she saw now clearly that Bosio was one degree less basethan herself. She believed that he would now be willing to marryVeronica, but she understood that until now he would not have doneit--unless she had freed him from the galling remnant of his ownconscience, and had formally given him his liberty. To give him that, inorder that he might save her, she had torn out her heart by the roots. 

The bitterest of all was this, that he had scarcely struggled againsther will, when she had left him to himself. He had said a few words, indeed, but he could hardly have said less, if he had meant nothing. Sheknew well enough that at almost any point she could have brought himback, playing upon the fidelity of habit. At her voice, at her glance, for one word of her pleading, he would have come back to her feet, willing to remain. But there was no vital strength of passion in him tokeep him to her against her mere spoken will. Once or twice, in spite ofherself, her voice had softened; she had felt that her face betrayedher, and had turned it away; she had known that her hands were icy coldin his, and had hoped that he would not notice it and understand, andfeel, perhaps, that his accursed habit of fidelity would not let himtake the freedom she thrust upon him. He had not seen, he had not felt, he had noticed nothing; and he was gone, glad to be free from her atlast, willing to marry another woman, ready to forget what had held himby a thread which he respected, but not by a bond which he could notbreak. She had long guessed how it was; she knew it now--she had knownthe truth last night, when she had smoothed his soft hair with her handand had spoken softly to him, but had not got from him the promise thatmeant salvation to her and her husband. Then she had known what she mustdo. Once more she had tried to impose her strength upon his weakness, and had failed. Then, almost without an outward sign, she had made upher mind. And now--he was gone. That was all she knew, or remembered, for an hour, as she lay there on the sofa, biting the cushions. It wouldhave been far easier to kill Veronica, than to let him go. It was nother conscience that suffered, but her heart, and it could suffer still. 

It would have been worse, had that been possible, if she had known whatBosio felt at that moment. Happily for her, she never knew. For in themidst of the life-and-death terror of the situation, he was consciousthat he rejoiced at being unexpectedly free at last from the slavery ofher power. It was perhaps the satisfaction of an aspiration, good initself, of a long-smouldering revolt against the life of deception shehad imposed upon him; but in respect of his manhood, it was mean. Forgood is what men are, when they are doing good. It cannot be the gooditself, which, though it profit many, may be so done as to stab andwound the secret enemy of the man's own heart. The good such a man doesthe whole world is but the knife in his hand wherewith to hurt the one. But Bosio hurt only himself, and little, at that, for he was almost pasthurting; and Matilde never knew what he felt. And though he sufferedmost of all, perhaps, between the beginning and the end, there was noone moment of all his suffering which was like the agony of the strongand evil woman when she had driven him away, and was quite alone. Sheknew, now, what it meant to be alone. 

When she rose at last, her face was changed; there was a keen, famishedlook in her eyes, and her movements were steady and direct. Her naturewas very unlike Bosio's, for she was able to drive her will into action, as it were, and she could be sure that it would not turn and bend, anddisappoint her. But, for the present, she could do little more, and sheknew it. She could only hope that all things might go well, standingready at hand to throw her weight upon the scale-beam if fate alonewould not bear down the side that bore her safety. She had said allthat she could say to Veronica and to Bosio. Gregorio Macomer, herhusband, whom she hated and despised, but whom she was saving, or tryingto save, with herself, carried the effrontery of his sham-honest faceand cold manner through it all, unmoved, so far as she could see. Onlyonce or twice in the course of the day he had laughed suddenly andnervously, with a contraction of the face and a raising of the flatupper lip that showed his sharp yellow teeth. No one noticed it butMatilde, and it frightened her. But hitherto he had said nothing moresince he had first confided to her, as to his only possible helper, thenature of his danger. 

She had not reproached him with what he had done. The danger itself wastoo great for that, and perhaps she had suspected its approach too longto be surprised at his confession. She had paid very little attention tothe words he used; for, considering his nature, it was natural that heshould, even in such extremity, attempt to throw a side-light of dignityupon his misfortunes, and should call crimes by names which suggestedhonest dealing to the ordinary hearer, such as 'transference of title, ''reinvestment, ' 'realization, ' and the like; all of which, in plainlanguage, meant that he had taken what was not his, without the shadowof authorization from any one, in the quite indefensible way which thelaw calls 'stealing. '

Matilde had been amazed, however, at the impunity he had hithertoenjoyed. The mere fact that the estate had never been handed over by theguardians, of whom she was one and Cardinal Campodonico the third, wasprobably in itself actionable, had Veronica chosen to protest; and itwas an indubitable fact that Gregorio Macomer had taken large sums afterthe guardianship had legally expired. There had been none to hinder himand Lamberto Squarci from doing as they pleased. The cardinal was deeplyengaged in other matters, and was, moreover, not at all a man ofbusiness. He believed Gregorio to be honest, and now and then, when hetalked with Veronica, he applauded her wisdom in leaving the managementof her affairs in such experienced hands. 

Matilde unlocked her door when she felt that she was once more mistressof herself and able to face the world. A woman does not lead the lifeshe had led for years without at least knowing herself well andunderstanding exactly how far she can rely upon her face and voice. Sheknew when she rose from the sofa that she could go through the remainderof the day well enough; and though her eyes gleamed hungrily, there wasa cynical smile on her lips as she turned over the red cushion, on whichthere were marks where she had bitten it, and softly unlocked the door. She went into her dressing-room, beyond, for a moment, to smooth herhair. That was all, for there had been no tears in her eyes. 

When she returned, she was surprised to see her husband standing beforethe window, with his back to the broad sunshine, peacefully smoking acigarette. The smoke curled lazily about his grey head, in the quietair, as he allowed it to issue from his parted lips almost without thehelp of his breath. His face was like stone, but as he opened his mouthto let out the wreathing smoke, his lips smiled in an unnatural way. Matilde half unconsciously compared him to one of those grimacingChinese monsters of grey porcelain, made for burning incense andperfumes, from whose stony jaws the thick smoke comes out on the rightand left in slowly curling strings. His expression did not change whenhe saw her, and as he stood with his back to the light, his small eyeswere quite invisible in his face. 

"What news?" he asked calmly, as he closed the door and came forwardinto the room. "Is all going well?"

His breath, as he spoke, blew the clouds of smoke from his face in thinpuffs. 

"If you wish things to go well, " answered Matilde, "leave everything tome. Do not interfere. You have an unlucky hand. "

She sat down in the corner of the sofa, taking a book from the table, but not yet opening it. He smoked in silence for a moment. 

"Yes, " he said, presently. "I have been unfortunate. But I have greatconfidence in you, Matilde--great confidence. "

"That is fortunate, " replied his wife, coldly. "It would be hard, ifthere were no confidence on either side. "

"Yes. Of course, you have none in me?"

He laughed suddenly, and the sound was jarring and startling, like theunexpected breaking of plates in a quiet room. Matilde's lips quiveredand her brow contracted spasmodically. She hated his voice at all times, as she hated him and all that belonged to him and his being; but duringthe past twenty-four hours he had developed this strange laugh which sether teeth on edge every time she heard it. 

"What is the matter with you?" she asked impatiently. "Why do you laughin that way?"

"Did I laugh?" he inquired, by way of answer. "It was unconscious. Butmy voice was never musical. However, in the present state of our familyaffairs, a little laughter might divert our thoughts. Have you seenBosio to-day? Why did he not come to luncheon? I hope he is not ill, just at this moment. "

Matilda 'placed' her voice carefully, as a singer would do, before sheanswered. 

"He is not ill, " she said. "He was here an hour ago. I did not ask himwhy he did not come to luncheon, because it did not concern me. "

"Well? And the rest?"

"The rest? How anxious you are!" she exclaimed scornfully. "The rest isas well as ill can be. I think he will marry Veronica. "

"I should suppose so, if she will marry him, " observed Macomer. "Itwould be as sensible to doubt that a starving man would take bread, asto question whether a poor man will accept a fortune, especially in suchan agreeable shape. It is quite another matter, whether the fortune willgive itself to the poor man. What does Veronica say? Is she pleased withthe idea?"

"Moderately. She has not refused. She wishes to think about it. "

"I hope that she will not think too long. To-day is the tenth ofDecember. There are just three weeks. By the bye, Matilde, I hope youhave put the will in a safe place. Where is it?"

Matilde paused two seconds before she answered. Though she could notimagine in what way Gregorio could improve his desperate position bygetting the will out of her hands, nor by tampering with it, of whichshe knew him to be quite capable, yet, on general principles, shedistrusted him so wholly and profoundly that she determined to deceivehim as to the place in which she kept it. Being clever at concealingthings, she began by showing it to him. She rose, took a key from behinda photograph on the mantelpiece, and unlocked the drawer of herwriting-table. The will lay there, folded in a big envelope. 

"Here it is, " she said. "Do you wish to look over it again?"

She drew it half out of the cover and held it up before him. Herecognized the document and seemed satisfied. 

"Oh! no, " he answered. "I know it by heart. I only wished to know whereit was. "

"Very well; it is here, " said Matilde, putting it back and locking thedrawer again. "I generally carry the key about with me, " she addedcarelessly, "but I have no pocket in this gown, so I laid it behind thatphotograph. It is not a very good place for it, is it?"

She hesitated, holding the key in her hand, and looking about the roomwhile he watched her. The woman's enormous power of deception showeditself in the spontaneous facility with which she went through acomplicated little scene, quite improvised, in order to mislead herhusband. She knew that he himself would suggest some place for the keyto lie in. 

"Put it under the edge of the carpet in the corner near the door, " hesuggested. "You can easily turn the carpet up a little between therings. "

"That is a good idea, " she said. "It is as well that you should knowwhere it is, in case anything were to happen to me. "

She was already in the corner, and she thrust the key under the doublededge of the crimson carpet. 

"You are ingenious, " she observed drily, as she rose to her feet. "Ishould not have thought of that. It is a pity that you have not beenable to apply your ingenuity better in other ways, too. It has beenwasted. "

"I am not sure, " answered Macomer, thoughtfully. "If Bosio marriesVeronica, our position will be a very good one, considering themisfortunes through which we have passed. If he should not, and ifVeronica should die, it will be much better. I am not sure but that, ifI had no affection for the girl, I might prefer that she should die. "

Matilde glanced at him sideways, uneasily. 

"We will not speak of that, " she said, as though it were a disagreeablesubject. 

"No. "

Then, without warning, his jarring, crashing laughter filled the roomagain for a moment, and she started as she heard it, and looked roundnervously. 

"I really wish you would not laugh in that way, " she said, with a frown. "There is nothing to laugh at, I assure you. "

"I did not know that I laughed, " said Macomer, indifferently. "That isthe second time in a quarter of an hour. How odd it would be if I wereto laugh unconsciously in that way when--" He seemed to check the wordsthat were coming. 

"When, for instance?" asked Matilde, not guessing what was passing inhis mind. 

"At the funeral, " he answered shortly. Matilde started again, and lookedat him anxiously. She had resumed her seat after she had hidden the key, but she now rose and went to him. He was still standing before thewindow, though he had finished his cigarette and had thrown away the endof it. She stood before him a moment before she spoke, fixing her eyesseverely on his face. 

"Control yourself!" she said sternly. "I understand that you are nervousand over-strained. That is no reason for behaving like a fool. "

He also paused an instant before speaking. Then, all at once, hisfeatures assumed an expression of docility, not at all natural to him. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I will try. I think you are quite right. I reallyam very much over-strained in these days. "

Matilde was surprised by his change of manner, but was glad to find thatshe could control him so easily. 

"It will pass, " she said more gently. "You will be better in a day ortwo, when everything is settled. "

"Yes--when everything is settled. But meanwhile, my dear, perhaps itwould be better, if you should notice anything strange in my behaviour, like my laughing in this absurd way, for instance, just to look at mewithout saying anything--you understand--it will recall me to myself. Iam convinced that it is only absence of mind, brought on by greatanxiety. But people are spiteful, you know, and somebody might thinkthat I was losing my mind. "

"Yes, " she answered gravely. "If you laugh in that way, without anyreason, somebody might think so. I will try and call your attention toit, if I can. "

"Thank you, " said Macomer, with his unpleasant smile. "I think I will goand lie down now, for I feel tired. "

He turned from her, and made a few steps towards the door. He did notwalk like a man tired, for he held himself as erect as ever, with hishead thrown back, and his narrow shoulders high and square. Nevertheless, Matilde was anxious. 

"You do not feel ill, do you?" she asked, before he had reached thedoor. 

He stopped, half turning back. 

"No--oh, no! I do not feel ill. Pray do not be anxious, my dear. I willtake a little aconite for my heart, and then I will lie down for an houror two. "

"I did not know that you had been converted to homoeopathy, " saidMatilde, indifferently. "But, of course, if it does you good, take theaconite, by all means. "

"I do not take it in homoeopathic doses, " answered Gregorio. "It is thetincture, and I sometimes take as much as thirty or forty drops of it inwater. Of course, that would be too much for a person not used to takingit. But it is a very good medicine. Indeed, I should advise you to takeit, too, if you ever have any trouble with your heart. "

"How does it affect one?" asked Matilde, turning her face from him, andspeaking indifferently. 

"It lowers the action of the heart. Of course, one has to be careful. Isuppose that one or two hundred drops would stop the heart altogether, but a little of it is excellent for palpitations. Do you suffer fromthem? Should you like some? I have a large supply, for I always use it. I can give you a small bottle, if you like. "

"No, " answered Matilde, still looking away from him, towards thephotographs on the mantelpiece. "I am afraid of those things. They getinto the system, as arsenic does, and mercury, and such things. "

"Not at all, " said Macomer. "You are quite mistaken. That is thepeculiarity of those vegetable--those strong vegetable medicines. Theyare quite untraceable in the system, and altogether defy chemistry. "

Matilde was silent a moment. 

"Well, " she answered, with an air of indifference, "I have a tendency toa little palpitation of the heart, and if you will give me a bottle ofyour medicine, I will try it once. It can do no harm, I suppose. "

"Not in small quantities. I will bring it to you by and by. "

"Very well. "

He went out, and a moment later she heard his dreadful laugh outside. Inan instant she reached the door, opened it, and called after him:--

"Gregorio! Do not laugh!"

But he was gone, and there was no one in the passage. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Veronica did not appear at dinner that evening, but remained in herroom, sending word to the countess that she had a headache and wished tobe alone. Matilde thought it not unnatural that the girl should wish toreflect in solitude upon the grave problem which had been given her forconsideration. It would be wiser, too, not to disturb her, but to leaveher to herself to reach her own conclusions. Matilde knew that Veronicahad considerable gifts of contrariety, and that it would be a mistake topress her too closely for a definite answer. Besides, it was always atradition in such cases that a young girl should have, in name at least, perfect independence of action, and the ultimate right to refuse anoffer or accept it. 

It was hard to sit still at the dinner table and behave with anappearance of being reasonable, while knowing that the fate of thehousehold depended upon the answer of the young girl--from the personalliberty of two out of the three persons who sat at the meal, to thedisposal of the forks and spoons with which they were eating, and theroof over their heads. It was very hard even to make a pretence ofswallowing a little food, when all three knew the truth, and none daredto refer to it in any way lest the servants should guess at what wastaking place. They spent a terribly uncomfortable hour in one another'ssociety. The two men exchanged indifferent remarks. Matilde occasionallysaid something, but her mind ran constantly on absurd details, such asthe incident of the hiding of the will. As soon as her husband had lefther, she had taken it from the drawer, relocking the latter, and againplacing the key under the carpet. Then she had taken the will into herdressing-room and had hidden it temporarily in another drawer. Todistract her mind during dinner, she tried to think of a better placefor it, and at last determined to unscrew the wooden back of a large oldsilver mirror which stood on her dressing-table, and to lay the two opensheets of the document upon the back of the looking-glass. When it wasall screwed up again, it would not be easy to find Veronica's will. Matilde also thought of the aconite which Gregorio had recommended herto keep, and of where she could put it, out of the way of the servants. 

Once, towards the end of dinner, Gregorio's terrifying laugh broke outsuddenly, as the butler was offering him something. The man started backa little and stared, and the spoon and fork clattered to the ground overthe edge of the silver dish. Bosio started, too, but Matilde fixed hereyes sternly on Gregorio's face. He saw that she looked at him, and henodded, suddenly assuming the expression of docility she had noticed forthe first time in the afternoon. 

Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciatingstate of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation thathis brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or wordmust ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-shell. 

And all the while Veronica sat peacefully in her room, before her fire, wrapped in a loose soft dressing-gown, her little feet upon the fenderbefore her and a book in her hand. A lamp in an upright sliding standwas on one side of her, and on the other stood a small table. From timeto time her maid brought her something from dinner, of which she ate amouthful or two between two paragraphs of her novel. 

It was a great pleasure to her to dine in this way, alone, but it wasone she rarely had an opportunity of indulging. Even when her aunt anduncle dined out she generally had her dinner in the dining-room withBosio, who scarcely ever went into society at all. On such occasionsthey generally sat together half an hour after the meal was over, beforeseparating, and it was then that they really enjoyed each other'sconversation. It was very rarely that Veronica yielded to her wish tobe alone and pleaded a more or less imaginary indisposition in order tostay in her room. Even then, she was not quite sure of being alone forthe whole evening, for Matilde sometimes came in after dinner andremained with her for half an hour. It had always been the countess'shabit to show the greatest concern and consideration for her niece. Butto-night Veronica knew that she should not be disturbed; for sheunderstood that this was to be an important epoch in her life, uponwhich all the future must depend, and that, since she had asked time forconsideration, Matilde would not intrude upon her solitude. Knowing thatshe had as many hours before her as she pleased to take, she began thearduous task of self-examination by greedily reading a novel which Bosiohad given her two days earlier, and which she had not opened. Somehow, she fancied that while she was reading her mind would decide itself. Theimmediate question was not really whether she should accept Bosio ornot, but whether she should go again on the morrow to her friend BiancaCorleone, between eleven and, twelve o'clock. That Gianluca della Spinawould be there, she had not a doubt, and the idea of going there to meethim presented itself to her mind as a dangerous and mad adventure. Ifshe hesitated, however, it was not on account of meeting the man who wasdying of love for her, but rather for fear of what Taquisara mightthink of her if she thus answered his summons to the interview. He hadpromised that he would not be present, and this gave her courage; butBianca would see and understand, for Bianca had first spoken to her ofGianluca, that very morning, and as for Taquisara, he would, of course, soon know all about it from his friend. 

The arguments in favour of going were very strong, since she was askedto say, at short notice, whether she would marry Bosio Macomer or not. In all that Matilde had told Bosio the elder woman had been quite right. Veronica was strongly prejudiced in his favour, and what Taquisara hadmanaged to say in a few words about the interested nature of theproposal, not only had little weight with Veronica, but was the onlypoint which had not pleased her in her interview with the Sicilian. After all, he had attacked her only near relatives in hinting, and morethan hinting, that they wished to gain possession of her wealth. She wasreally ignorant of the fact that Cardinal Campodonico had so rarely evenmade a pretence of inquiring about the state of her fortune. She met himoccasionally, and he never failed to say something pleasant to her, which she afterwards remembered. Whenever Gregorio Macomer spoke to herof business, he used the cardinal's name to give weight to hisstatements, and Veronica naturally supposed that the princely prelatewas informed of all that took place, and approved of everything whichMacomer did. It was no wonder that she turned a deaf ear to Taquisara'swarning, which, as coming from Gianluca's friend, seemed calculatedpurposely to influence her against marrying Bosio. 

In reality, and apart from the little superficial argumentation withwhich Veronica had diverted her own mind during the late hours of theafternoon, she had made up her mind that before seriously consideringthe question of marrying Bosio, she would see Gianluca and give him justsuch an opportunity of speaking with her alone, as she had given hisfriend Taquisara. There was really much directness of understanding andpurpose in her young character, together with a fair share of tenacity;for, as Matilde had told Bosio, Veronica was a Serra, which was at leastequivalent to saying that she was not an insignificant person of weakwill and feeble intelligence. She was indeed the last of her name, butthe race had not decayed. It was by accident and by force ofcircumstances that it had come to be represented by the solitary younggirl who sat reading a novel over her fire on that evening, caring verylittle for the fact that she was a very great personage, related to manyroyal families, a Grandee of Spain and a Princess of the Holy RomanEmpire, all in her own right alone, as Veronica Serra--all of whichadvantages Taquisara had hastily recapitulated to her that morning. Solong as she should live, the race was certainly not extinct, nor wornout; for she had as much vitality as all the tribe of the Spina familytaken together. She was not, indeed, conscious of her untried strength, for she had never yet had any opportunity of using it; and in the matterof the will, which was the only one that had yet arisen in which shemight have tried herself, she had yielded in the simple desire to getrid of a perpetual importunity. Beyond that she had attached very littleimportance to it. Her aunt might be miserly, but Veronica, in her youthand health, could not think it even faintly probable that she should diebefore the elder woman and leave the latter her fortune. Taquisara'shasty counsel had therefore fallen in barren ground. She scouted theidea that Gregorio Macomer had ruined himself in speculations, for shebelieved him to be a man of extraordinary caution, and probablysomething of a miser. 

Taquisara had therefore not prejudiced her at all against Bosio, noragainst the idea of marrying the latter. And Matilde, as has been said, was quite right in supposing that Veronica would see much in favour ofthe marriage. 

Bosio was distinctly a desirable man for a husband. Nine women out often would have admitted this without hesitation. The strongest argumentagainst the statement seemed to lie in the fact that there were a fewfaintly grey streaks in his thick and silky hair. For the rest, whateverhe chose to say of himself, he was still within the limits of what onemay call second youth. He was only between fifteen and sixteen yearsolder than Veronica, and such a difference of age between man and wifedoes not generally begin to be felt as a disadvantage until the man isnearly sixty. He was not at all a worn-out dandy, with no illusions, andno constitution to speak of; for circumstances, as well as his own sobertastes, had caused him to lead a quiet and restful life, admirablyadapted to his sound but delicately organized nature. He was decidedlygood-looking, especially in a city where beauty is almost the exclusivedistinction of the other sex. His figure, though slightly inclined tostoutness, was still graceful, and he carried himself with a goodbearing and a quiet manner, which, might well pass for dignity. So muchfor his appearance. Intellectually, in Veronica's narrow experience ofthe world, he was quite beyond comparison with any one she knew. It istrue that she really knew hardly any one. But her own intelligenceenabled her to judge with tolerable fairness of his capacities, and shehad found these varied and broadly developed, precisely in the directionof her own tastes. 

Lastly, Matilde was right in counting upon the existing intimacy as afactor in the case. The idea of being suddenly betrothed to marry analmost total stranger was as strongly repugnant to Veronica as it seemsto be attractive to most girls of her age and class in Southern Italy. 

The fact is, perhaps, that the majority of such young girls learn tothink of themselves as being sure to lead hopeless and helpless lives, unless they are married; and as very few of them possess suchattractions or advantages as to make it a positive certainty that theycan marry well, they grow up with the idea that it is better to take thefirst chance than to risk waiting for a second, which may never come. Tothese, marriage is a very uncertain lottery; and if they draw a prize, they are not easily persuaded to throw it back into fate's bag, and playfor another. The very element of uncertainty lends excitement to thegame, and they readily attribute all sorts of perfections to theimaginary stranger who is to be the partner of their lives. 

But in this, Veronica's ideas were quite different. She had assuredly notbeen brought up in vanity and pride of station, and though naturallyproud, she was not at all vain. From her childhood, however, she hadreceived something of that sort of constant consideration which is theportion of those born to exalted fortunes. She had never had less of it, perhaps, than in her aunt's house; for the Countess Macomer was notonly of her own race and name, and therefore too near to her to show herany such little formalities of respect, but had also, as a matter ofpolicy and with considerable tact, managed to keep the dominant positionin her own house. She had shut out the little court of young friends whowould very probably have gathered round her niece--acquaintances ofVeronica's convent days, older than herself, but anxious enough to becalled her friends--and the tribe of men, old and young, who, in theextremely complicated relationships of the Neapolitan nobility, claimedsome right to be treated as cousins and connexions of the family. Allthese Matilde had strenuously kept away, isolating Veronica as much aspossible from young people of her own age, and proportionatelydiminishing both the girl's power to choose a husband for herself andher appreciation of her own right to make the choice. Nevertheless, Veronica knew that she had that right, and she intended to exercise it. Unconsciously, however, her judgment had been guided towards theselection of Bosio, so that she was now by no means so free an agent asshe supposed herself to be. She did not love him at all; but she likedhim very much, and admired him, and since it was time for her to bemarried, she was strongly inclined to choose for her husband the onlyman of her acquaintance whom she both admired and liked. 

These long and tedious explanations are necessary in order to explainhow it came about that Veronica Serra, with her great position and vastestates, seriously thought of uniting herself with such a comparativelyobscure personage as Count Bosio Macomer. Taquisara had very fairlydescribed the latter's position to her that morning as that of aninsignificant poor gentleman, in no point of name or fortune thesuperior of five hundred others, and who might naturally be supposed tocovet the dignities and the wealth which Veronica could confer uponhim. But Veronica had resented both the description and the suggestionswhich had accompanied it, which showed well enough, how strong herinclination really was. 

On the other side, there remained the impression made upon her by whatTaquisara had said for Gianluca, and last of all the impression madeupon her by Taquisara himself, as a man, and as a standard by which tomeasure other men in the future. 

With regard to Gianluca, Veronica was indeed curious, but she was alsosomewhat sceptical. She could not, of course, say surely that a youngman might not die of love for a girl whom he scarcely knew; and amongthe acquaintances of her family she remembered at least one case inconverse, where a morbid maiden of eighteen years had died because shewas not allowed to marry the man she loved. Even there, it had beenhinted that the girl had caught a bad cold which had fastened upon herdelicate lungs. It was doubtless a romantic story, and if anythingappealed to her for Gianluca, it was the romance in his case. Herreading had been very limited as yet, and the book she was reading soeagerly was a French translation of the Bride of Lammermoor. The romanceof it spoke directly to her imagination; but when the book was closedshe did not believe that she had a romantic disposition. It is anindisputable fact that the people to whom the strangest things happennever regard themselves as romantic characters, whatever others maythink of them. They are, indeed, more often active and daring people, towhom what others think extraordinary seems quite natural and easy. Theymake the events out of which humanity's appetite for romance is fed, andbecome, to humanity, themselves the unconscious embodiments of romanceitself. In her heart, therefore, Veronica was a little sceptical aboutthe reality of the terrific passion by which, according to Taquisara, his friend was consumed. She recalled his face distinctly, as she hadseen him half a dozen times in the world, and she thought the definitionof him which she had given Bianca Corleone a very just one. He remindedher of one of Perugino's angels--with a youthful beard. If angels hadbeards, she thought, without a smile, they would have beards likeGianluca della Spina's, very youthful, scanty, curling, and so fair asto be almost colourless. 

She remembered that he had looked at her rather sadly, and had spokenlittle and to no purpose, making futile remarks about juvenileamusements, and one or two harmless little jokes which she had quiteforgotten, but to which he had referred at the next short meeting, atsome other house, on the corner of some other similar sofa. That was allthat she could call up out of her memories. She had thought him insipid. Once she remembered distinctly that while he had been talking to her, she had been watching Bianca Corleone's handsome brother, Gianforte, whom she had seen only once before, and that when her companion hadasked her to agree with him, she had said 'yes, ' without having theleast idea of what he had been saying. He had produced only a veryslight and transparent shadow amongst the figures of her recollections. It was a severe tax on her credulity to try and believe that he wasdying for love of her. If it were true, she thought, why had he not hadthe courage to make her understand it? The fact that the offer made byhis family had not been communicated to her might have been hard toexplain, but she was not disturbed for want of an explanation. She didnot care for the man in the least, and there might be fifty reasons whyher aunt and uncle should think him undesirable. On the whole, shebelieved that Taquisara had enormously exaggerated the state of thecase. The Sicilian himself impressed her as singularly honest and bold, but she was much more ready to believe that the friend who had sent himmight have interested views, than that Bosio Macomer, whom she liked andadmired, was anxious to get possession of her fortune. 

Taquisara himself had struck her as something new in the way of a man, of a sort such as she had never seen nor dreamt of, and her mind dweltlong on the recollection of the interview. In some way which she couldnot explain, she vaguely connected him with the book she was nowreading--the Bride of Lammermoor; in other words, he appeared to her inthe light of a romantic character, and the first that had ever comewithin the circle of her experience. His recklessness of formalities, ofall the limits supposed to be set upon the conversation of mereacquaintance, of what she might or might not think of him individually, so long as she would listen to what he had to say for his friend, seemedto her to belong to a type of humanity with which she had never come incontact. He, and he only, as yet had stirred some thought of anotherexistence than the one which seemed to lie straight before her, --abroad, plain road, as the wife of Bosio. 

Of love, indeed, there was nothing in her heart, for any man. Within herall was yet dim and still as a sweet summer's night before the dawning. In her firmament still shone the myriad stars that were her maidenthoughts, not yet lost in the high twilight, to be forgotten when love'ssun should rise, in peace, or storm, as rise he must. Under her feet, low, virgin flowers still bloomed in dusk, such as she should find notagain in the rose gardens or the thorn-land that lay before her. Inmaidenhood's tender eyes the greater tenderness of woman awaited stillthe coming day. 

CHAPTER IX. 

The weather changed during the night, and when Veronica awoke in themorning the gusty southwest was driving the rain from the roof of theopposite house into a grey whirl of spray that struck across swiftly, toscourge the thick panes with a thousand lashes of watery lace. 

As Veronica watched her maid opening the heavy old-fashioned shutters, one by one, the sight of each wet window hurt her a little more, progressively, until, when all were visible, she could have cried out ofsheer disappointment. For she had unconsciously been looking forward toanother day like yesterday, calm and clear and peaceful with muchsunshine. But even in Naples it cannot always be spring inDecember--though it generally is in January. She had hoped for just suchanother day as the preceding one. She had remembered how she andTaquisara had stood in the sunlight by the marble steps in BiancaCorleone's garden, and she had expected to stand there again thismorning with Gianluca, to hear what he had to say. 

That was impossible, however, and while she was slowly dressing shetried to decide what she should do. It was easy enough to make up hermind that she must see Gianluca, but it was much more difficult todetermine exactly how she should find an excuse for going out alone onsuch a morning. It seemed probable that, whatever she might propose as areason, her aunt would immediately wish to accompany her. They had givenher the afternoon and the evening of the previous day in which to thinkover her answer, and Matilde might naturally enough expect to hear itthis morning. In any case she should not be able to order the carriageand slip out alone as she had done the first time. She had meant to goout on foot with her maid, and then to take a cab in the street anddrive to the villa. But in such weather as this she could not do such athing without exciting remark. It was a week-day, and there were nomasses to hear, as an excuse, by the time she was dressed. 

She watched herself in the glass, while her maid was doing her hair. Thedull light of the rainy morning made her own face look grey and sallow. She had not slept very well, and her eyes were heavy, she thought. Theglaring whiteness of the thing she had thrown over her shoulders whileher hair was being brushed made her look worse. She had little vanityabout her appearance, as a rule, but on that particular day she wouldhave been glad to look her best. 

Not that she at all believed that Gianluca was dying for her; but he wascertainly in love with her. Of that she felt sure, for she could notsuppose that Taquisara himself was not convinced of the fact. Nor hadshe the smallest beginning of a tender sentimentality about thefair-haired young man. Nevertheless, if she was to meet him, she did notwish to be positively ugly, as she seemed to be to herself when shelooked into the mirror, facing the dulness of the rain-beaten window. Whether she herself was ever to care for him or not, she somehow did notwish to disappoint him by her appearance, and the undefined fear lestshe might affected her spirits. Then, before she had quite finisheddressing, Matilde Macomer knocked at the door and came in. She waslooking far worse than Veronica, and from the absence of colour in herface, her eyes seemed to be more near together than ever. Her appearancemade Veronica feel a little more hopeful, and the young girl said toherself that after all the light of a rainy day was unbecoming to everyone, and much more so to a woman of forty than to a girl of twenty. 

She did not wish to be alone with her aunt if she could help it, and shepromptly invented several little things for her maid to do, in order tokeep the latter in the room. The maid was a thin, dark woman of middleage, from the mountains. She was a widow, and her husband had been anunder-steward on the Serra estate at Muro, who had been brutallymurdered five years earlier by half a dozen peasants whose rents hadbeen raised, when he endeavoured to exact payment. The rents had beenraised by Gregorio Macomer, and the woman knew it, and remembered. Butshe was very quiet and grave, and seemed to be satisfied with herposition. She was certainly devoted to Veronica. Matilde glanced at hertwo or three times, as though wishing her to go, but Veronica paid noattention to the hint. 

After exchanging a few words with her niece the countess began to walkup and down nervously and seeming to hesitate as to what she should say. She was horribly anxious, and very much afraid of betraying her anxiety. She knew how dangerous it might be to press Veronica for an answerbefore it was ready. And Veronica stood before a tall dressing-mirror, making disjointed remarks about the weather, between her instructions toher maid, while apparently altogether dissatisfied with her appearance. First she wished a little pin at her throat, and then she gave it backto the woman and told her to look for another which she well knew wouldbe hard to find. Then she quarrelled with a belt she wore, --for justthen belts were in fashion, as they are periodically without theslightest reason, --and she thought that perhaps she would not wear oneat all, and she asked Matilde's opinion. 

The countess forced herself to consider the matter with an appearance ofinterest. But she was not without resources, and she suddenly bethoughther of a belt of her own which Veronica might try, and sent the maid forit, apparently oblivious of the fact that, being fitted to her ownimposing figure, it would be far too long for her niece. As soon as thewoman had shut the door Matilde seized her opportunity. 

"Have you come to any conclusion, Veronica dear?" she asked, making hervoice full of a gentle preoccupation. 

"I have not seen Bosio, " answered the young girl. "How can I decide, until I have seen him?"

"I thought that you did not wish to see him last night--"

"No--not last night. I wished to be alone--but--one of these days, Ishould like to talk to him. "

"One of these days! To-day, dear. Why not? He is naturally anxious foryour answer--"

"Is he? It seems so strange! We have seen each other every day, for solong--and I never supposed--"

She broke off, not, apparently, from any shyness about going into thesubject, but because she was very much interested in the fastening ofthe second pin she had tried. 

"I suppose it is much better not to wear any jewelry at all, " she said, with exasperating indifference. 

"Until you are married!" answered Matilde, who was not to be kept fromthe matter in hand. "You see, everything turns upon that, " shecontinued, with a low laugh. "The sooner it is decided, the sooner youmay wear your jewels. No, " she went on rapidly. "Of course you neversuspected that Bosio loved you, and he would have been very wrong to letyou know it, until your uncle and I had given our permission. But he wasdiffident even about mentioning the matter to us. You cannot have knownhim so long without having discovered that he has great delicacy offeeling. He did not like to suggest the marriage. You will see when youtalk with him after this. I have very much doubt whether he will havethe boldness to speak very directly--"

"How absurd!" exclaimed Veronica. "As though we did not know each otherintimately!"

"Yes, but that is the man's nature, and I like it in him. You can easilymanage to let him understand at the first word what you have decided. But if you would tell me first, --especially if you mean to refuse, --itwould be better. I myself wish only the happiness of you both. You mustbe absolutely free in your decision. After all, I daresay that you willrefuse him. "

With great mastery of her tone and manner, she spoke in an indifferentway. She was trying the dangerous experiment of playing a little uponVeronica's contrariety. The young girl laughed. 

"That is not at all certain!" she answered. "Only I do not see why youshould all be in such a hurry. If Bosio has been in love with me so longas you say, he will remain in love long enough for me to think over thematter, will he not? If he has been in a state of anxiety for weeks, itwill not hurt him to be anxious for one day more--or a week more--oreven a month. After all, it is for all my life, you know, Aunt Matilde. I must see how the idea looks when I am used to it. I am not a child, and I am not foolishly frightened at the idea of being married, nor outof my mind with joy at it, either, like a girl of the people. "

"Of course not, " said Matilde, growing a little pale with sheernervousness. 

"I daresay that we should be very happy together, " continued Veronica. "But how can I possibly be sure of it? No--I suppose that one is neversure of anything until one has tried, but one may feel almost sure thatone is going to be sure; that is what I want, before I say 'yes. ' Do youwonder?"

"Oh, no!" answered the countess, quickly agreeing with her. "On thecontrary--"

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the return of themaid. The belt, as was to be expected, did not fit at all, and Veronicaput on her own again. The maid moved about the room, setting things inorder. 

"Give him a sign, if you wish him to speak when you meet, " said Matilde, in a low voice. "It will be so much easier for him. Wear a flower inyour frock to-night at dinner--any flower. May I tell him that?"

"Yes, " answered Veronica, for it seemed a charitable suggestion so faras Bosio was concerned. "I am going out, now, " she added suddenly. "MayI have the carriage?"

"Certainly. Shall we go together?"

"Oh, no! I do not want you at all!" cried the young girl, frankly andlaughing. "I have a secret. I will take Elettra with me. "

Elettra was the name of the maid. 

"Very well, " replied Matilde. "I suppose you will tell me the secretsome day. Is it connected with New Year's presents? There are threeweeks yet. You have plenty of time. "

Veronica laughed again, which was undoubtedly equivalent to admittingher aunt's explanation, and therefore not, in theory, perfectlytruthful. But she did not wish the countess to know that she was goingto Bianca Corleone's house, since Matilde would of course suppose, ifshe knew it, that she was going to consult Bianca about accepting Bosio, which was not true either. She laughed, therefore, and said nothing, having got the use of the carriage, which was all she wanted. 

"It is horrible weather, " observed Matilde, looking at the window, uponwhich the rain was beating like wet whips, making the panes rattle andshake. 

"Yes, but I want some air, " answered Veronica, in a tone of decision. 

At such a time it was not safe to irritate the girl even about thesmallest matter, and Matilde said nothing more, though under othercircumstances she would have made objections. As it was not yet time togo out, and in order to get rid of her aunt, Veronica bade Elettra takeout a ball gown which needed some change and improvement, Matildeunderstood well enough that it was useless to wait longer for the chanceof being again alone with her niece, and in a few minutes she went away. 

On the whole, she had the impression that the prospect was very good. But after she had closed the door, she turned in the outer room, stoodstill a moment and looked back, allowing her face for a moment to betraywhat she felt. The expression was a strange one; for it showed doubt, fear, conditional hatred, and potential vengeance--a complicated stateof mind, which the cleverest judge of human faces could hardly haveunderstood from Matilde's features. Then, with bent head, and closedhands hanging by her sides, she went on her way. 

An hour later Veronica and her maid were driving through the rainwestward, towards Bianca's villa. As they approached their destination, Veronica felt that she was by no means as calm and indifferent as shehad expected to be. Yesterday, it had seemed a very simple matter to goto the garden, to find Gianluca there, to walk ten or twenty paces withhim out of hearing of Bianca, and to listen to what he had to say. In amanner it had seemed, indeed, a wild and romantic adventure, which sheshould remember all her life. But it had looked easy to do, whereas now, all at once, it looked very hard. Again and again, on the way, she wason the point of stopping the carriage and returning. It all looked sodifferent, at the last minute, from what she had expected. 

It was raining, and she should find Bianca indoors. Probably she wouldbe sitting in her boudoir, beyond the drawing-room, and Pietro Ghisleriwould be with her. Veronica would have to give some little excuse orreason for coming, on his account, even though Bianca was her intimatefriend. Probably Gianluca would be there already, for it was past eleveno'clock, and Bianca would understand that his coming was the result ofwhat Taquisara had said to Veronica on the previous day. She would notshow that she understood, even to Veronica, because she was tactful, butVeronica knew that she was sure to blush, in spite of herself, at thethought that Bianca knew why she had come. Then, too, in thedrawing-room, or the boudoir, it would not be easy to be alone withGianluca. She could not get up and go and stare stupidly out of thewindow at the rain, taking him with her. 

She was naturally too obstinate to change her mind, and turn back; yetby the time the brougham drove into Bianca's gate, she really hoped thatGianluca might not come at all. But when she crossed the threshold ofthe house, she already hoped that he might be there. Her doubts weresoon set at rest by the sight of his thin face and almost colourlessbeard, in the distance, as the servant opened the door of thedrawing-room. Bianca was seated at the piano, and Gianluca was standingon one side of her, while Ghisleri bent over her on the other, lookingat the sheet of music before her. She rose, as Veronica entered, --aqueenly young figure, with a lovely, fateful face. To-day her eyes weredark and shadowy, and Veronica thought that she must have been crying inthe night. 

Gianluca had started visibly when Veronica had appeared, but she did notlook at him until she had kissed Bianca, and had spoken to Ghisleri, whonow, for the first time, understood the meaning of Gianluca's unexpectedmorning visit. Bianca had guessed it almost immediately, and hadpurposely sat down to the piano to look over the music. It would seemnatural, she thought, when Veronica came, that she should resume herseat, and play or sing, with Ghisleri to turn over the pages for her, while Veronica and Gianluca could talk. She was too loyal to her friend, and too discreet, to have given Ghisleri a hint, even had she been ableto do so after Gianluca had come. But events proved to her that she wasright. 

When Veronica, at last, spoke to the younger man, there was an evidentconstraint in her manner. He, on his part, blushed suddenly pink, andthen turned white again, almost in a moment. He put out his handnervously, and then withdrew it, not finding Veronica's, but before hehad quite taken it back, hers came forward, and hesitated in the air. Then he took it, and both smiled in momentary embarrassment over theincident, and a little at the thought of having shaken hands at all, forit is a custom reserved in the south for married women. 

"Do you mind if I go on trying this song?" asked Bianca, sitting down tothe piano again. "Talk as much as you please, " she added. "I do not knowit--I only wish to look it over. "

Veronica was surprised at the ease and simplicity with which matterswere arranged, and in a few seconds she found herself sitting besideGianluca, on a narrow sofa at some distance from Bianca and Ghisleri. Gianluca looked at her sideways, and then a moment later she looked athim; but their eyes did not meet. She had only glanced at him once, andfor an instant after they had sat down, side by side, but she had got agood view of his face in that one look. It was evident to her that hewas really ill, whatever might be the cause of his illness. The delicatefeatures were unnaturally thin and drawn, and there were blue shadows atthe temples such as consumptive men often have. The blue eyes were sunktoo deep, and there were hollows above the lids, under the brows. Hisfigure, too, though tall and well proportioned, had seemed frail to herwhen she had seen him standing by the piano, and his hands werepositively emaciated. 

She could not help pitying him. But it is only pity for sorrow, or fortrouble, that is akin to love, not pity for physical weakness; unless, perhaps, a woman is very certainly sure that such weakness is indeed theresult of love for herself, wearing the man out night and day--and thenthe pity she feels is instantly all but love itself and in fact oftenmore than love in deeds. But Veronica had no such certainty. She stillbelieved that Taquisara had overshot the mark of truth. She waited forGianluca to speak. 

"We have met--I have had the honour of meeting you--several timesalready, Donna Veronica, since you came from the convent, " he said atlast, after a little preliminary cough. 

"Oh yes!" answered Veronica, with a smile. "We have often met. I knowyou very well. "

"I was not quite sure whether you remembered me, " he said. 

He looked at her, and the blood rose and fell quickly in his cheeks, andhis hands moved uneasily as he clasped them upon one of his knees. 

"You must think that I have a very poor memory, " observed Veronica, still smiling, not intentionally, but because she was young enough, andtherefore cruel enough, to be amused by his embarrassment. "The lasttime I saw you was at the theatre, I think--at the opening night, lastweek--ten days ago--when was it?"

"Yes, " he answered quickly. "That was the last time I saw you; but thelast time we spoke was at the San Giuliano's. "

"Was it? I do not remember. We have often talked--a little--at differentplaces. "

"I remember very well, " said Gianluca, with a good deal of emphasis andlooking earnestly at her. 

Veronica tried to recall the conversation on the occasion to which hereferred, but could not remember a word of it. 

"Did I say anything especial, that time?" she asked, wondering whethershe had then unfortunately answered 'yes, ' in a fit of absence of mind, to some question of hidden import which he had perhaps addressed toher. 

"Oh yes!" he answered promptly. "You told me that you liked white rosesbetter than red ones. You see, I have a good memory. "

"That was a tremendously important statement. " Veronica laughed, somewhat relieved by the information. 

"I always remember everything you say, " said Gianluca. "I think I knowby heart all you have ever said to me. "

He spoke with a sort of grave and almost child-like conviction. 

"I shall remember everything you say to-day, " he added, after a moment'spause. 

"I hope not!" exclaimed Veronica. "I sometimes say very foolish things, not at all worth remembering, I assure you. "

"But what you say is worth everything to me, " he said, with anothersudden blush, and a quick glance, while his hands twitched. 

He was painfully shy and embarrassed, and was producing anything but afavourable impression upon Veronica. She was sorry for him, indeed, in asuperior sort of fashion, but she thought of Taquisara's bold eyes andstrong face, and of Bosio Macomer's quiet and refined assurance ofmanner, and Gianluca seemed to her slightly ridiculous. It was in herblood, and she could not help it. Some of her people had been bad, andsome good, but most of them had been strong, and she liked strength, asa natural consequence. Moreover, she had not enough experience of theworld to put Gianluca at his ease; and a sort of girlish feeling thatshe must not encourage him to say too much made her answer in such a wayas to throw him off his track. 

"It is very kind of you to say so, " she answered lightly. "But I am sureI do not recollect ever saying anything important enough for you toremember. Take what we are saying now, for instance--"

"I shall know it all, when you are gone, " interrupted Gianluca, harkingback again. "Indeed--I hope you will not think me rude orpresumptuous--but I thought that perhaps I might meet you here--if Icame often, I mean; for Taquisara--"

"Oh yes, " said Veronica, as he hesitated. "I met Baron Taquisara hereyesterday. I daresay that he told you so. "

As his embarrassment had increased, hers had completelydisappeared--which was a bad sign for him and his hopes. 

"Yes--yes. He told me--"

Gianluca leaned back suddenly in his seat, overcome with a sort of shameat the thought that Taquisara had spoken to her for him, and that hehimself could find nothing to say. His face pale and red, and his handstrembled. 

"I like your friend, " said Veronica, quietly, wondering whether he feltill. 

"Yes--I am glad, " answered Gianluca. "He is a true friend, a goodfriend. If you knew him as well as I do, you would like him stillbetter. "

Veronica thought this probable, but refrained from saying so, andremained silent. Bianca was touching gentle chords at the piano. Now andthen a few words, sung in deep, soft notes, sad as the south wind, floated through the room, and then she and Ghisleri talked about thesong, paying no attention whatever to the pair on the sofa. 

Gianluca sighed and caught his breath. Veronica glanced quickly at him, and then looked again at the top of Ghisleri's head, as the latter bentdown. She had not thought that she had expected so much of the meeting. She certainly had not the slightest personal feeling for the man besideher. And yet, somehow, she was dismally disappointed. If this was theman who was dying of love, she infinitely preferred Bosio Macomer. Gianluca was evidently in bad health. He looked as though he might be ina decline, and he was clearly very nervous and ill at ease. But he didnot speak at all as she supposed that a man would who was deeply inlove. Taquisara had spoken far better. He had seemed so much in earnestthat if he had suddenly substituted himself for Gianluca as the subjectof his phrases, Veronica could have believed him easily enough. 

"Then I may hope that you will forgive me for coming here, thinking thatI might meet you?" said the young man, with a question in his voice. 

"Why should you not come?" asked Veronica, not unkindly, but with theleast possible inflexion of impatience. 

"There can certainly be no reason, if you are not offended, " heanswered. "But if I thought that I had offended you, by coming, I shouldnever forgive myself. "

"But I should certainly forgive you, if you offended me unintentionally. Besides, there is no reason in the world why you should not come here tosee Bianca whenever you like, if she will receive you. She goes out verylittle. She is glad to see people. "

He was a man born to throw away opportunities, an older woman would havethought; but Veronica grew impatient at his insistence upon uselessthings, and his thin, nervous hands irritated her vaguely as, lookingdown, or in front of her, she could not help seeing them clasped uponhis knee. Once, too, she was aware that Bianca leaned to one side andlooked towards her, round the side of the sheet of music, as though tosee how matters were progressing. Veronica began to feel that she was ina ridiculous position. The hesitation and pauses and silences had madethe brief conversation already last nearly a quarter of an hour. In thattime Taquisara had said all he had to say. Veronica made a littlemovement, a very slight indication that she would presently leave herseat. Gianluca started and suddenly gazed earnestly into her face, sothat she turned her head and met his eyes. 

"Please do not go yet!" he cried in a low and earnest voice that hadreal entreaty in it. 

"No, " she answered quickly. "I am not going. But I must go soon. Icannot stay long, for I must go home to luncheon, and I have not talkedwith Bianca at all yet. "

"Yes--I know--and I must be going too, " he said nervously. "But if youknew what it is to me to sit here beside you for a few minutes--" Hestopped suddenly, and the colour rushed to his face. 

"In what way?" asked Veronica, with an impatient, womanly impulse tomake him speak and have done with it, in order that there might be nomore misunderstanding. 

"Because--because I love you, Donna Veronica!" He turned quite white ashe found words at last. "I must say it this once, even if you neverforgive me. This is the first happy moment I have had since I saw youthe last time. I love you--let me tell you so before I die, and I shalldie happy if you will forgive me, for I have dreamed of saying it, andlonged to say it, so often. You are my whole life, and my days andnights only have the hours of my thoughts of you to mark them. "

His words came confusedly and uncontrolled, but his voice had a longingpathetic ring in it, as of a very hopeless appeal. Veronica had beenstartled at first, and her eyes were wide and girlish as she looked athim. It was the first time that any man had ever told her that he lovedher, and for that reason it was to be memorable; but it did not seem tobe the first time. Taquisara's manly pleading and fervent voice when hehad spoken yesterday had left her ears dull to this real first time ofhearing love speeches, so that this seemed the second, and the words sheheard, after the first little shock of realizing what they were, touchedno chord that would respond. 

She did not answer at first, but half unconsciously she shook her head, as she turned from him and looked away once more. Perhaps that was themost unkind thing she could have done; for it was so natural, andsimple, and unaffected a refusal, that he could hardly be mistaken as toher meaning; and, after all, she had led him on to speak. She herselfwas shocked at her own heartlessness a moment later, and in one of thoseabsurd concatenations of ideas which run through the mind at importantmoments, she felt as though she had been giving a merchant an infinityof trouble to show his wares, only to buy nothing and go away. Then, the brutality of the involuntary simile distressed her, too, and shefelt that she ought to say something to destroy the effect of it on herown mind, as well as to comfort Gianluca. But she could not find much tosay. Very young women rarely do, under the circumstances. 

"I am very sorry, " she said gently. 

She felt that he might have a right to reproach her for coming there, and she was grateful to him for not doing so, having really very littleidea of the nature of the over-submissive and humble love which sappedhis manliness instead of rousing his courage. 

"Ah, I knew it!" he almost moaned, and resting his elbows upon his kneeshe covered his face with his delicate, white hands, that trembledspasmodically now and then. "I knew it, " he repeated in his brokenvoice. "You were kind to let me speak--I kiss your hands--for yourkindness--I thank you--"

His voice broke altogether. Veronica heard a smothered sob, and glancingat him nervously, saw the tears trickling down between his fingers. Shelooked up quickly to see whether Bianca had noticed anything, but thesweet, deep voice was singing softly to the subdued chords of the piano, and Veronica sat quite still, waiting for Gianluca to recover hisself-control. 

She felt that she pitied him, but at the same time considered him insome way an inferior being; and as the idea of marrying him crossed hermind again, her heart started in repugnance at the mere thought. 

CHAPTER X. 

Veronica left Bianca Corleone's house with a very painful sense ofdisappointment, and as she drove homeward through the wet streets, shecould not get rid of Gianluca's tearful blue eyes, which seemed tofollow her into the carriage; and in the rattling and jolting, she heardagain and again that one weak sob which had so disturbed her. At thatmoment she would rather have gone directly back to the convent in Rome, to stay there for the rest of her life, than have married such anunmanly man as she believed him to be. His words had left her cold, hisface had frozen her, his tears had disgusted her. She pitied him for hisweakness, not for his love of her, and she hoped that she might neveragain hear any man speak to her as he had spoken. Nevertheless there hadbeen in his tone, at the last, the doubt-splitting accent of a sharptruth that hurt him to tears. She wondered why he had not moved her atall. The day seemed more grey and wet and desolate than ever. Shethought that everybody in the street looked draggled and disappointed. Near Santa Lucia she passed a wretched vender of strung filberts anddoubtful cakes, mounting guard over his poor little handcart with adilapidated umbrella, under the half-shelter of a projecting balcony. Acouple of barefooted boys crouched on the wet pavement by thesea-stairs, with a piece of sacking drawn over both their headstogether, gnawing hard-tack, and as the rain struck the stones, itsplashed up in their faces under their sack. On the left, the coralshops showed their brilliant wares dimly through the rain-streaks, withclosed glass doors through which here and there the disconsolate face ofthe shopkeeper was visible, as he stood gazing out upon the dismal, dripping scene. A sailor man came out of the marine headquarters at theturning of the Strada dei Giganti, bending his flat cap against the rainand burying his ears in the blue linen collar of his shirt, which wasturned back over his thick jacket. The water splashed out from under hisheavy shoes, to the right and left, as he walked quickly up the hill. Beyond that, the Piazza San Ferdinando was deserted, and the broad wetpavement lay flat and darkly gleaming upward to the broad, watery skythat stretched grey and even, without shading, like a sheet of wetindia-rubber over all the city. Then the Toledo, where the gutters couldnot swallow the deluge, but sent their overflow in dark yellow streamsdown each side of the street--then the narrower, darker ways and lanesbetween the high houses and the low, black doorways, through the heartof old Naples, home at last to the Palazzo Macomer. 

Veronica was glad to get back to the fire in her own room, and to feeldry again--for seeing so much water had given her the sensation of beingdrenched. And she sat down to think over what had happened in themorning, trying to understand her own disappointment, because shebelieved that she had expected nothing, and therefore that she could notbe disappointed. She was very glad to get back to her own room. So faras she at all knew what a home meant, the Palazzo Macomer was home toher, and she had no distinct recollection of any other. Gregorio andMatilde and Bosio were her own family, so far as she had ever known whatto understand by the word. They were more familiar to her than any otherpeople in the world possibly could be, and if she felt that she hadlittle affection for her aunt and uncle, yet she knew that there was abond; and she was sincerely attached to Bosio for his own sake. 

She had photographs of all three on the mantelpiece, in silverframes, --that of her aunt standing in the middle, and one of the men oneither side. She looked at Bosio's, taking it down from its place. Shelooked at it critically, and seeing a speck of dust on the glass, justover the face, she passed her handkerchief over it, polishing thesurface, and looking at it again. From the photograph any one wouldhave said that Bosio was a handsome man, for he photographed well, asthe phrase goes. His clear, pale complexion, his well-cut, refinedfeatures, his smooth, thick, silky hair looked singularly well againstthe smoked background, and had at once the strength and the transparencywhich make a good photograph by adding an illusion of relief to theflatness of mere outline and light and shade. Probably the likeness wasflattered. But Veronica did not think so just then, coming as she didfrom a disillusionment which had affected her more strongly than sheknew. She compared Bosio with Gianluca, in appearance, and Gianlucalacked almost everything which could bear comparison. She compared Bosiowith Taquisara, and she preferred the quiet refinement of the one to thebold eyes and high aquiline features of the other. At least, she thoughtso. But she also preferred Taquisara to Gianluca, by many degrees ofpreference. Yet both these men were commonly spoken of as handsome. 

She thought of another point, too, and with her blood it was naturalthat she should think of it. If she married Bosio, he would take hername and titles; not she, his. She would rule the house and beindependent--not of him, exactly, for she was fond of him and had nodesire to be despotic over him, but of parents and elders and relationswho would think it their right to advise and guide. All this would bedifferent with Gianluca for her husband. The Della Spina were proud oftheir name and would expect her to bear it. They were numerous, too; theold father and mother would oppress and burden her life, and thebrothers and sisters of Gianluca would grow up to be more or less of aperpetual annoyance to their elder brother's wife. Of that side of lifeher aunt had given her more than one picture, intentionally exaggeratinga little, perhaps, for her own purposes. And from Bianca she had heardmany things of the same kind. Married to Bosio, she would be freealtogether from any one's interference in her household. 

She met them all at luncheon, and was struck by the fact that both men, as well as Matilde, looked pale and harassed, as though they had sleptlittle. For there was little sleep or rest, except for Veronica, duringthose days of gnawing anxiety. She was struck, too, and startled, byGregorio's hideous laugh, which broke out twice during the meal withoutany apparent reason. Even the servants seemed to shudder at it andlooked at him anxiously, and Matilde's dark eyes tried to control him. Indeed, when she looked at him, he seemed docile enough, except that hisface twitched very strangely as he nodded to her. 

But they all talked, with the evident intention of seeming at theirease; and in a measure they succeeded, for they were not weaklings likeGianluca. Bosio was by far the least strong in character, but his veryremarkable self-possession made him their equal in the present case. Onthe previous evening, when Veronica had not been present, they hadscarcely made an effort; but now that she was seated at table with them, they performed their parts conscientiously and not without success. 

They were encouraged, too, by Veronica's manner to Bosio. After herexperience in the morning it was a distinct pleasure to be again in hissociety, and she talked enthusiastically to him of the Bride ofLammermoor--the book he had given her and which she had begun to readduring her solitary dinner on the previous evening. She was sure of theresponse to what she said, before she said it, and it came surelyenough. She felt that he understood her, and that she should be glad totalk with him every day. Several days had passed since they had beenalone together for half an hour. 

She compared him with the photograph of him, too, and she came to theconclusion that the likeness was not so much flattered, after all. Hisunusual pallor to-day had something luminous in it, and the features, intwo days of suffering, had grown thinner with a sort of finely chiselledaccentuation of their natural refinement. To-day, he reminded her ofcertain portraits of Van Dyck. But when luncheon was over, she avoidedbeing alone with him, for she had not yet come to any decision. It wouldbe more true, perhaps, to say that she distrusted herself in thedecision she now seemed to have reached too suddenly. For in theexpansion of sympathy she enjoyed so much it all at once seemed to herthat she could never marry any one but Bosio, who understood her sowell, who anticipated what she was going to say, and knew beforehandwhat she thought upon almost any subject of conversation. 

She had never been exactly opposed to the idea, from the first; but nowit took possession of her strongly, as it had never done before, and shemight almost have taken her genuine affection for the man for love, ifshe had ever been taught to suppose that love was necessary beforemarriage. She had been far too carefully brought up in Italian ideas ofthe old school, however, to make any such self-examination necessary. She had been told that it was important that she should like and respectthe man she was to marry. She had no reason for not respecting Bosio, sofar as she knew, and she certainly liked him very much indeed. 

But she meant to wait until the evening, and give herself a chance tochange her mind once more. After luncheon there was the usualadjournment to another room for coffee, over which the two men smokedcigarettes. Veronica expected that Matilde would ask her by a gesture, or a word in a low tone, whether she were any nearer to a conclusionthan before, but the countess did nothing of the sort, for she was fartoo wise; and Veronica was grateful for being left entirely to her ownthoughts in the matter. Nor did Bosio bestow upon her any questioningglance, nor betray his anxiety in any way except by his pallor, which hecould not help, of course. Veronica thought that once or twice his eyesbrightened unnaturally, in the course of conversation; and in his mannertowards her she might have fancied that there was a shade more thanusual of that sort of affectionate deference which all women love, though they love it most in the strong, and it sometimes irritates thema little in the weak, for a passing moment, when their caprice wouldrather be ruled than flattered. Bosio made no attempt to be alone withher, and at the end of half an hour both he and his brother departed totheir own quarters. 

Even then, when she was alone with Veronica, Matilde did not return tothe subject which was uppermost and above all important in her mind. With amazing tact and self-control she talked pleasantly enough, thoughshe managed to place herself with her back to the light, so thatVeronica could not see her expression clearly. At last she rose and saidthat she must go out. The weather had improved a little, and she askedVeronica to go with her. But the young girl had no desire to be driventhrough Naples in a closed carriage a second time that day, and she wentaway to her own room, with the intention of spending a quiet afternoonby the fire with her novel. 

On the previous evening she had read a little over her dinner, and fromtime to time during the short evening she had returned to the book, feeling that it was easier to read than to think, and much moresatisfactory. She took the volume now, but she could not read at all. She was overcome by a wish which seemed wholly unaccountable, to sendfor Bosio to meet her in the drawing-room, and to tell him outright thatshe was willing to marry him. Nothing but maidenly self-respectprevented her from doing so at once, and the hours seemed very longbefore dinner. Many times she rose from her seat by the fire and movedabout her room in an objectless way, touching things uselessly andlooking for things which were not lost, which she did not want, butwhich she could not find. She wished that she had her great jewels. Shewould have tried them on before the mirror--anything to pass the time. But they were all safely stored in one of the safest banks. 

She grew more and more restless as the minutes passed and the dinnerhour approached. Looking at herself in the glass, she said that hercheeks were no longer sallow, as they had seemed to be in the morning. There was a fresh colour in them, and it was becoming to her and pleasedher. Her soft hair had fallen a little upon each side of her brows, andher eyes were brilliantly bright. She looked at them when the twilightwas coming on, and they seemed to shine, with wide pupils, having alight of their own. 

At last the time came. Before she rang for her maid, who had broughtlights and had gone away again, she stood a moment before the fire andlooked once more at Bosio's photograph, asking herself seriously for thelast time whether she should marry him or not. But the answer was therebefore the question, and she had made up her mind. 

At the last minute, she had forgotten the flower she had promised towear, and she sent her maid in haste to see whether she could find oneof any sort in the house. It was the middle of December, and it was notprobable that such a thing could be found in the Palazzo Macomer. Themaid came back empty-handed. Veronica told her to find an artificialone, and Elettra, after some searching, produced a very beautifulartificial gardenia, which Veronica pinned in her white bodice, with asmile. She glanced at herself once more, and saw that the colour wasstill in her cheeks, and she was satisfied with herself. 

When she entered the drawing-room, the other three were already there, and she saw the faces of Matilde and Bosio change as they caught sight ofthe flower. Gregorio apparently knew nothing of the arrangement--anotherinstance of Matilde's tact which pleased Veronica. Matilde herselfwas no longer pale. She had seen how desperate she looked and had puta little rouge upon her cheeks so deftly and artistically that the younggirl did not at first detect the deception. But her features had stillbeen drawn and weary. They relaxed suddenly in a genuine smile when shesaw the gardenia. But Bosio grew paler, Veronica thought, and lookedvery nervous. At table, he was opposite Veronica, and he reminded hermore than ever of Van Dyck's portraits, so that she wondered why shehad never before thought of the general resemblance. He talked less thanat luncheon, and sometimes his eyes rested on hers with an expressionwhich she could not understand. But there was admiration in it, as wellas something else. Veronica herself was animated, and had never lookedso well before, in the recollection of the other three. 

After dinner Gregorio disappeared almost immediately, and at the end ofa quarter of an hour Matilde left the room, merely observing that shewas going to write letters and would come back when she had finished. Bosio and Veronica were alone. 

To her, it seemed to have come suddenly at the end, and she did notquite realize how it was that she found herself standing on one side ofthe fireplace, while he stood on the other. 

They looked at each other a moment. Then Veronica smiled faintly, anddrew herself up--or lengthened herself--as slight young girls have a wayof doing when they are pleased, and she turned a little in the movement, and glanced at the clock, still faintly smiling. 

Bosio was watching her, and he could not help admiring her lithe figureand small, well-poised head, that had a sort of girlish royalty ofcarriage not at all connected with beauty; for she was not beautiful, and she herself knew that there were times when she was almost ugly. Hesaw and admired, and he cursed himself for what he meant to do. He wasnot sure, even now, that he could do it. 

There was no awkwardness in the silence, Veronica thought, for it seemedto her that he understood, and that words were hardly necessary. If shehad meant to refuse him, she would have done so through Matilde. Shesmiled, looking at the clock, and thinking about it all. Then sherealized that no word had been spoken on either side, and she turned herhead a little shyly, till she could just see his face, while the smilestill lingered on her lips. One hand rested on the mantelpiece, withthe other she touched the artificial gardenia in her bodice. 

"That is my answer, you know, " she said quietly, and her eyes waited forhis. 

But he only glanced at her face, and for a moment he did not move. Then, with a graceful inclination he took her hand and raised it to his lips. She noticed even then that his own hand was dry and burning. He did nottrust himself to speak. When he looked up, the room whirled with him, and he saw strange colours. He thought his teeth were chattering. 

"Are you glad?" she asked, wondering a little at his silence now, andthe room seemed strangely still all at once. 

"Is it quite of your own free will?" he asked, as though it cost him aneffort to say anything. 

"Yes--quite. Of course!" Her face grew bright as though she were happyin removing the one doubt he had. 

"I am very glad of that, " he said quietly. 

"Do you think that I would marry any one under pressure?" askedVeronica, with a soft laugh. "I will tell you something that willconvince you. It is a secret. You must not tell my aunt that I know. Icould have married Don Gianluca della Spina. Perhaps you know that. Didyou? I did; but I will not tell you how. Only, you see--I did not carefor him. "

Bosio had recovered his self-possession, which had been only momentarilyshaken. For there had been no surprise--he had known what to expect. 

"I only knew lately of the Spina's proposal, " he said. "But--shall Ithank you, Veronica? Or do you understand without words? We have knowneach other so long, that perhaps you may. "

"I think I understand, " she answered. 

She put out her hand again and pressed his, and again he kissed herfingers. The action was reverential, and had nothing in it of the manwho loves and is accepted. Her gentle hand, maidenly and innocent, wasstretched down into the hell of word and thought and deed in which hisreal self had its being, and he touched it with his lips, and in hisheart he knelt to kiss it, as something too holy to be in thisworld--just because it was innocent, and his own was not. For herself heset her on no pedestal, he did not worship her, he did not love her, headmired her with the cold judgment of a man of taste. It is the purityof the unblemished and unspotted victim that makes the outward holinessof the sacrifice. He thought of his own life and of hers, hitherto sideby side, and he thought of their joint life in, the future, she takinghim for what he was not, and he was ashamed. 

In the first moment he had a brave impulse to tell her everything and bea man, even if he ruined the woman he had loved so long, as well as thebrother who bore his name. It was only an impulse, and his lips remainedsealed and his face calm. 

"I do thank you, " he said in a low voice, when he had kissed her handthat second time. "I will do what I can to make you happy. "

Yet he knew now, from the strength of that passing impulse, that if shehad not spoken first, he would not have asked her directly to marry him. Twenty times during that long day, alone in his room, he had sworn thathe would not marry her, whatever happened. For it was not enough thatMatilde had set him free, and that he had rejoiced for one hour in hisliberty. That was not enough. Matilde could not undo the work of manyyears by a word and a gesture. His hell was already a desert withouther. But now, there was no drawing back. 

Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he hadtold Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra. And now, almoston the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serrathat he would do his best to make her happy. 

"I am sure you will, " she answered. 

"I should deserve evil things if I did not, " he said, passing his handover his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him. 

Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to bepassionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and sether far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of thelove-sick when the instant healing of response touches the faintingheart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, andheard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man'seloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he mustsay something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant, how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours--and therest. As he thought what he should say, love's phrase-book turned to agrim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears. But she expected it, of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he hadto save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, belowwhich there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had notloved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spokenthe truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weaknessof his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and forMatilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find--lies againsthimself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, evenwhile he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could notclothe--lies against love, against manhood, against God. 

"I have loved you long, Veronica, " he began. "I had not hoped to seethis day. "

The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent astrong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie hespoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, todeceive all living things to sin. 

He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on theshelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the firstsound of his words, wondering and thrilled. 

"Is it long? I do not know, " he continued. "It is more than a year, since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in mylife--little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, forall I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica, all of it--the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and diefor you, in trust and faith, and love of you. You wonder? Beloved--ifyou knew yourself, you would not wonder that I love you so! There is noman who could save himself, if he lived by your side, as I have lived. You smile at that? Well--you are too young to know yourself, but I amnot--I know--I know--I thought I knew too well, and must pay dear forknowing how one might love you and live. But it is not too well, now. It is life, not death. It is hope, not despair--it is all that life andjoy can mean, in the highest. "

He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying onthe shelf. Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light inher face, for she believed. And he, in his suffering within, was moved;as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truthand splendid passion on a stage, and the contrast that is between beingand seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will, born of certain despair. 

"I am glad, " said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her handstill lingered in his, and he went on. 

"It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the worldin his grasp--in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives. But you are making me believe it now--all that I did not dare to thinkof as even most dimly possible in my lonely life--that is why I thankyou, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as Ican never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that aman may love a woman. That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if Godwilled that I might!"

The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth. His hand burnedhers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in theterrible play of acted earnestness. Even his eyes brightened and filledthemselves, determined to lie with all of him that lied to her. 

Had he hated her, had it been a vengeance to make her love him inpayment of a past debt of wrong, it would have seemed less foully basein his own eyes. But he liked her. She had always trusted him and likedhim too, and there had been only kindness between them always. That madeit worse, and he knew it. But he could do the worst now, he thought, forhe had altogether given over his soul, to leave it in hell, withouthope. 

"I pray God that I may be worthy of your love, " said Veronica, gentlyand earnestly. 

He drew her towards him by her little hand, and himself came softlynearer to her, till his other hand was on her shoulder, drawing herstill. She yielded, not knowing what she should do. Quite close she was, and he held her, unresisting, and kissed her. She had known, but she hadnot realized. The scarlet blood leapt up in maiden shame, and shestarted back a little. But she thought that he had the right to do it. 

"Good night, " she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she couldnot stay to look at him. 

"Good night, love, " he whispered. 

He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing inhis place. The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet andpale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew thedepth of its meaning. 

He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could nothave done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands wereburning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders, palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, tothe end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He hadeven kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt. 

He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter ofan hour or more; but though he watched the clock's face, his eyes saw nomovement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room wasdark. 

Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearinglest Veronica might have come back--or her ghost, for he felt as thoughhe had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. Sheglanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone. 

"Well?" she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing, pale as death under her rouge. 

He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk. 

"It is all over" he said slowly. 

She started forward, not understanding him. 

"Over? Broken off?" she cried, in horror. 

"Oh no!" he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. "It is done. Itis agreed. She accepts me. "

Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for onemoment--she, who was so strong. 

"You almost killed me!" she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught thewords. 

Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face, blending with the tinge of the paint. He did not move, and she came andstood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning tohim. 

"You have saved me, " she said. "I thank you. "

Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spokesimply, as she looked at him. She had been almost terrible to look at afew moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks. Noone could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, asshe stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands whileher deep eyes melted in his. 

He knew the difference between her and Veronica, and he straightenedhimself, till he looked rigid, and an unnatural smile just wreathed hislips, half hidden in his silky beard. He told himself that he had fallenthe last fall, to the very depths; yet he knew that there was a depthbelow them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge inthe thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do. 

"I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon, " shesaid gently. "I meant it, you know--I meant it all. "

"I trust to Heaven you did!" answered Bosio. 

"Yes, dear, I meant it, " she said in a voice of gold and velvet. "I willtry to mean it still. But--Bosio--look at me!"

He turned his eyes, but not his face. 

"Yes?" His voice was not above his breath. 

"Yes--but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?"

"Yes, we must. " He spoke louder, with an effort. 

She drew nearer to him, strong and soft. 

"Yes? Well--but say goodbye--not as yesterday--not as though it weregood bye--one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss--one, dear--one--"

And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and shehad her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then hetrembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant laterhe was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as heleft her and went to the door without turning. 

He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his facewas livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but onethought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, andout upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in, till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stoppingthen, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, andhand and weapon. 

Before the woman's kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, BosioMacomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remoteroom. 

Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of AlmightyGod. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he wouldnot do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it, and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he casthimself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave. 

CHAPTER XI. 

It was still early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count BosioMacomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morningnewspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few venturedto guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that CountBosio's servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about nineo'clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master's roomlocked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had foundthe count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his ownrevolver lying beside him. 

That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave noidea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It containedno mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that thebrother of the deceased was overcome with grief. 

That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matildesuffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. Inthe overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind, but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till themorning. 

To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent anddoubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head tohide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one mightthink, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For sheunderstood, and she only, in all the household. 

Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all, the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in herconsciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things shefelt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for whathad been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow hadstruck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothingbut the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until themorning. 

It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in greatcandlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched hisstill face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had beenin her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon itstiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for shecould cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but herown eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. Aftershe had sat down, she did not move. 

Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had comeagain, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch onwhich his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as greyas a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he saidnothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat. When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and sheheard that he trod softly. In two hours he came back, knelt again, andagain repeated Latin words. She knew that he was doing it for a show ofsorrow, and she wished to kill him. Then, when he was softly gone again, she wondered how soon she herself was to die. There were two servants inthe room, behind her, keeping watch. They were relieved by two others, changing through the night. She heard them come and go, but did not turnher head. 

When the dawn forelightened, like the ghost of a buried day risen fromthe grave to see its past deeds, she was not yet dead. She had once readhow the murderers of Vittoria Accoramboni had been torn with red-hotpincers and otherwise grievously tortured, and how knives had beenthrust deep into their breasts just where the heart was not, but nearit, and how they had died hard, for they had lived more than half anhour with the knives in them, and at the last had been quartered alive. She had not believed what she had read, but now she knew that it wastrue. She envied them the searing, the tearing, and the knives which hadat last killed them, though they had died so hard. 

The wan dawn turned the dead man's face from waxen yellow to stone grey. The servants saw it, whispered, and closed the inner shutters, and theyellow candle-light shone again in the room. Any light is better thandaylight on a dead face. 

Matilde sat still, bowed and covered. Fixed in the world of grief, thehours of sorrow passed her by. There was neither night nor day in thedead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily. 

Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling, ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden. In that city, one may not lie inhis home more than one day after he is dead. They set down what theybore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioningfaces and heard them whispering. Then one of them, with some reverenceand gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyesbade another lift the feet. But Matilde rose then and came between themand the dead. They thought that she would look at him once more, andthey drew back, while she looked, for she bent over his face. But theshawl about her head fell about her, and they could not see that shekissed him. They waited. 

The great woman put her hands about him, and bowed herself, and liftedhim from the couch, and the men could not believe it when they saw herturn with him and lay him down in his coffin, alone, with no one to helpher. 

For she was very strong. She stood and looked down at him a long time, and once she stopped and moved one of his crossed hands, which touchedthe edge. And then she drew from her neck, from beneath the shawl, apiece of fine black lace, and laid it gently over and about his head. 

"Cover it, " she said to the men, and she stood waiting, lest they shouldtouch him with their hands. 

She had seen his face for the last time, and when they had covered him, they laid the coffin in another of lead which they had brought, and shestood quite still, watching the gleaming melted stuff that ran along theedges of the grey lead, like quicksilver, under the hot tool of copper. When that was done, with main strength they laid him in the third, whichwas covered with black velvet. And there were screws. 

At last they went away, and Matilde set the tall candlesticks on eachside of the velvet thing, and looked at it again. Then she, too, withstill covered head, went towards the door. But between the coffin andthe door, she stood still, swaying a little, till she fell to her fulllength backwards and straight, as a cypress tree falls when it is cutdown. But she was not dead, for she was too strong to die then. Theservants carried her away to her own room, calling others to help them, for she was heavy, and they had to take her down the stairs. It wasafternoon then, and when she came to herself and opened her eyes, shebitterly cursed the day, for it would have been good to die. But shenever went again to the room where she had watched. 

She lay still a long time, alone in silence. Then, from a room beyondhers, came the wild crash of her husband's laughter. She sat up. Herface was grim and terrible, ghastly and stained with rouge, as the shawlfell back upon her shoulders. She sat up and listened, and her smoothlips twisted themselves angrily, one against the other, as a tiger'ssometimes do, when there is blood in the air. She knew now that she wasreally alive, for she thought of Veronica. 

Veronica had not known in the night. Her rooms were at the farther endof the apartment in a quiet part of the house, and when she had leftBosio she had gone to bed immediately and had dismissed her maid. Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproarand confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death. Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds ofthe Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, andshe had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for herblood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one shoulddisturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pass to go tothe girl's room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, asshe hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolishwomen of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, twotogether, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. ButElettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning whenVeronica rang for her. 

"A terrible thing has happened in the night, " she said, when she hadopened the windows. 

Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim, dark fingers and looked again at Elettra. 

"It is a very terrible thing, " continued the woman, gravely. "Ithappened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let themdisturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He wasalready dead. He had shot himself. "

"Who?" asked Veronica, in instant horror. "Some one in the house? Aservant?"

Elettra shook her head. 

"No. I would not tell you--but you must know. It was Count Bosio. "

Veronica turned pale and started up. "Bosio? Bosio dead?" she cried in avoice that was almost a scream. 

The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time thehousehold was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else shouldcome to Veronica's room. 

But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterlyfor a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listenany more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almostforcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. ButElettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, andwhy; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a younggirl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica's tears flowed on. 

At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt toreason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions forthe dead man's sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in theevening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes atthe sound of Elettra's voice she had thought that she saw his eyesbefore her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened. She hadnot loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something whichwould have felt, by and by. And suddenly, he was gone. Why? It was sosudden. It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, intospace beneath, without warning. There was too much gone, all at once. She could only ask why. And there was no answer to that. 

Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn. It lay upon thedressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from herbodice. Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anythingmore. It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consentedto dress. 

Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so verystrange that he should have killed himself just after she had promisedto marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of thehappiness to come. 

"It was an accident, " she said at last, speaking to herself, as thoughshe had reached a conclusion. "He did not mean to do it. "

Elettra shook her head, but said nothing. Accident, or no accident, itwas the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdenedthem beyond their power to pay. 

She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, tryingto think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order. The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her. 

Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in theirserving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projectedmarriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning herbetrothed husband. But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crapeto put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourningthings quickly. 

The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness. Bosio Macomerwas in his coffin. The servants were exhausted, and there was no one todirect. Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and afrightened chambermaid said that he was going mad. Elettra had greatdifficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica'sroom with a glass of wine. 

The girl's first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, asthe hours went by. She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers forthe dead. When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt downand said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply;and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while. She tookthe artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she hadkissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed lastnight when Bosio kissed her that once--that only once that ever was tobe. And she took his photograph and looked at it, too. But she could notbear that yet--at least, not to look at it too closely. 

Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid. It seemed to her that she wasalways to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years. As she grewmore calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without thecompanionship of Bosio. That was what she should miss, for she was butlittle nearer to love than that. It all looked so blank and gloomy thatshe cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness. But of this shewas somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again. 

She did not like to leave her room, either. It seemed to her that deathwas outside, walking up and down throughout the rest of the house, untilpoor Bosio should be taken away. And again she wondered about Matildeand Gregorio, and what they were doing. She tried to read, but not thenovel Bosio had given her. She took up another book, and presently foundherself saying prayers over it. The day was very long and very sad. 

Before Elettra came back from her errands, a servant knocked atVeronica's door. He said that there was a priest who was asking for her, and begged her to receive him for a few moments. 

"It cannot be for me, " answered Veronica. "It must be a mistake. Hewishes to see my aunt, or the count. "

"He asked for the Princess of Acireale, " said the man. "I could not bemistaken, Excellency. "

"He does not know who I am, or he would not ask for me by that name. Does he look poor? It must be for charity. "

"So, so, Excellency. He had an old cloak, but his face is that of anhonest man. "

"Give him ten francs, " said Veronica, rising to get her pocket-book. "And tell him that I am sorry that I cannot receive him. "

The servant took the note, and disappeared. In three minutes he cameback. 

"He does not want money, Excellency, " he said. "He says he is theReverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency's church in Muro, and begs you earnestly to receive him. "

Veronica rose again. She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had oftenspoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend. It was forBosio's sake that he had come--that was clear. Veronica asked where heraunt was, and on hearing that Matilde had retired to her own room, shetold the servant to bring Don Teodoro to the yellow drawing-room. 

A moment later she followed. The tall priest was standing with bent headbefore the fireplace, on the very spot where so much had happened duringthe last two days. He held his three-cornered hat in one hand, and wasstretching out the other to warm it at the low flame. Veronica was alittle startled by his face and extraordinary features, but he looked ather clearly and steadily through his big silver spectacles, and he had avenerable air which she liked. She noticed that when she advancedtowards him, he bowed like a man of the world, and not at all like acountry priest. 

"I thank you for receiving me, princess, " he said, gravely. "I haveheard the sad news. I was Bosio's friend for many years. I spent an hourwith him only the day before yesterday, during which he told me muchabout himself and about you. If, before he died, he told you nothing ofwhat he told me, as I think probable, it is necessary for you to know itall from me as soon as possible. Forgive me for speaking hurriedly andabruptly. The case is urgent, and dangerous for you. Shall we beinterrupted here?"

"I think not, " said Veronica, considerably surprised by his manner. "Butof course--" she paused doubtingly. 

"Have you a room of your own, where you could receive me?" asked the oldman, without hesitation. 

"Yes--that is--I should not like to--"

"I am an old priest, princess, and this is a time of confusion in thehouse. You can risk something. It is important. Besides, I am in yourown service, " he added, with a quiet smile. "I am the chaplain of yourcastle at Muro. "

"Yes--that is true. " Veronica looked at him with a little curiosity, forshe had never been to Muro, and it was interesting to see one of herdependents of whom she had often heard. "Come, " she said suddenly. "Weshall meet no one, except my maid, perhaps--Elettra. Do you know her?Her husband was under-steward, and was killed. "

"I know of her--I buried him, " answered the priest. 

She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room whichserved her as dressing-room and boudoir. After all, as he had said, hewas a priest and an old man. She made him sit down beside her fire, inher own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, andshe felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was goingto say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of hiserrand. 

"Princess--" he began, and paused, choosing his words. 

"Do not call me that, " she said. "Nobody does. Call me Donna Veronica. "

"I am old fashioned, " he answered. "You are my princess and feudal liegelady. Never mind. It would be better for you if you were in your owncastle of Muro, with your own people about you, though it is a gloomyplace, and the scenery is sad. You would be safe there. "

"You speak as though we lived in the Middle Ages, " said the young girl, with a faint smile. 

"We live in the dark ages. You are not safe here. Do you know why mydear friend Bosio killed himself last night?"

"It was an accident! It must have been an accident!" Veronica's face wasvery sorrowful again. 

"I wish it had been, " said Don Teodoro. "They will say so, in charity, in order to give him Christian burial. But it was not an accident, princess. My friend told me all the truth, the day before yesterday. Itis very terrible. He killed himself in order not to be bound to marryyou. "

The round, silver-rimmed spectacles turned slowly to her face. 

"In order not to marry me! You must be mad, Don Teodoro! Or you do notknow the truth--that is it! You do not know the truth. It was only lastnight that he asked me to marry him--that is--it had been my aunt whohad asked me, and I gave him the answer. "

"You consented?"

"Yes. I consented--"

"That is why he killed himself, " said the priest, sadly. "I knew hewould, if it came to that. It is a terrible story. "

Veronica stared at him in silence, really believing that he was out ofhis mind, and beginning to feel very nervous in his presence. He shockedher unspeakably, too, by what he said about Bosio; for if the wound wasnot deep, perhaps, it was fresh, and his words were brine to it. He sawwhat she felt, and made haste to be plain. 

"I am sorry that I am obliged to tell you this, " he continued, after ashort pause. "I cannot help it. The only thing I can do for my deadfriend is to save you, if I can. I saw the account of his death in anewspaper an hour ago, and I came at once. Will you please not thinkthat I am mad, until you have heard me? I was his friend, and I haveeaten your bread these many years. I must speak. "

"Tell me your story, " said Veronica, leaning back in her chair andfolding her hands. 

He began at the beginning, and told her all, as Bosio had told him. Heomitted nothing, for he had the astonishing memory which sometimesbelongs to students, besides the desire to be perfectly accurate, andto exaggerate nothing. For he knew that she would find it hard tobelieve him. 

She listened; and as he went on, describing the struggle in poor Bosio'sheart between the desire to save the woman he loved and the horror ofsacrificing Veronica as a means to that end, she leaned forward again, drawing nearer to him, and watching his face keenly. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted a little; for whether true or not, the story wasterrible as he told it, and as he had said that it would be. 

"I do not know what he said to you last night, " he concluded. "I giveyou a dead man's words, as he spoke them to me; but I have no right tothose he spoke to you. This is true, that I have told you, as I hope forforgiveness of my own sins. If you stay in this house, by the truth ofGod, I believe that your life is not safe. "

"You believe it, I am sure, " said Veronica. "But I cannot. The most Ican believe is that poor Bosio was already mad when he told you this. Itmust be true. Even supposing that my uncle were the man you think, andhad ruined himself in speculations and had taken money of mine withoutmy knowledge, would it not be far more natural that he and my auntshould come to me and confess everything, and beg me to forgive and helpthem for the sake of their good name? Of course it would. You cannotdeny that. "

"It is what I told Bosio, " answered Don Teodoro, shaking his head; "buthe answered that they feared you, and that your death would be a saferway, because you might not be so kind. You might go to the cardinal andlay the case before him, and they would be lost. "

"I might. I probably should. " Veronica paused. "That is true, " shecontinued, "but whatever I did, I could not allow the matter to come toa prosecution--for the sake of my own name, if not for theirs. But I donot believe it--I do not believe it--indeed, I do not believe it at all. Poor Bosio was not in his right mind. That is why he killed himself. Hewas mad, even when he talked with you the day before yesterday--it isthe only possible explanation. "

"Nevertheless, something must be done, " said Don Teodoro. "Your safetymust be thought of first, princess. "

"I feel perfectly safe here, " answered Veronica. "All this is madness. The countess is my father's sister. I admit that I have not always likedher, but she has always been kind. You really cannot expect me tobelieve that she and my uncle would plot against my life--especiallynow, in this terrible trouble and sorrow! I have listened to you, DonTeodoro, and I am sure that you wish me well, but I never can believethat you are right. Really--with all respect to you--I must say it. Itis wildly absurd!"

And the longer she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed. The girlwas naturally both sensible and brave, and the whole tale was monstrousin her eyes, though while he had been telling it she had fallen underthe spell of its thrilling interest, forgetting that it was all aboutherself. She looked at the quiet old priest, with his extraordinary faceand quiet manner, and it was far easier to believe that a man with suchfeatures might be mad than that her Aunt Matilde meant to kill her. Hewas silent for a few moments. 

"There is a terrible logic in the absurdity, " he said at last. "Youraunt constrains you to make a will in her favour, Bosio knew that hisbrother is ruined and that several large mortgages expire on the firstof January. He knew that his brother has defrauded you in a way which iscriminal. If they can get control of your money within three weeks theyare saved. They persuaded Bosio and you to be betrothed. But Bosio killshimself. The main chance is gone. There remains the one with which thecountess threatened him if he would not marry you--your immediate death. Against that, stands the possibility of penal servitude in the galleysfor a man and woman of high rank and social position--only thepossibility, to be sure, but a possibility, nevertheless. Remember thatto those who know the whole extent and criminality of the count's fraudthe case appears very much worse than it does to you, who now hear ofit for the first time, in a general way, and who do not understand thenature of such transactions. I have been a confessor many years, princess. I know how few penitents can be made to believe that thosethey have injured will pardon them, if they frankly ask forgiveness. Itis human nature. The best of us have doubted God's willingness toforgive--how much more do we doubt man's! It is all very logical, princess, very logical--far too logical, whether you will believe it ornot. "

"If I believed the beginning, " said Veronica, "I might believe it all. But it is not proved that my uncle has defrauded me, and all the restseems absurd, if that is not true. "

"I beseech you at least to be careful!" answered the priest, earnestly. 

"In what way? I shall go on living here, just the same, unless we all gointo the country for the rest of the winter. Even if I thought myself indanger, I do not see what I could do. "

"Eat what the others eat. Drink what the others drink. Take nothingespecially prepared for you. Lock your door at night. If you will notleave the house, that is all you can do. "

He shook his head thoughtfully. 

It was true Italian advice--against poison and smothering. Veronicasmiled, even in her sadness. 

"I have no fear, " she said. "Let us say no more about it. Can I doanything for the people at Muro?" she asked, by way of preparing to sendhim away. 

"The people at Muro--the people at Muro, " he repeated dreamily. "Ohyes--they are all poor--almost all. Money would help them. The bestwould be to come and see us yourself, princess. But if you are notcareful, you will never come now, " he added, turning the big spectaclesslowly towards her and looking long into her face. "I have done what Icould to warn you, " he said, beginning to rise. "I will do anything Ican to watch over you--but it will be little. Good bye. God preserveyou. "

As she rose she rang the bell beside her that her maid might come andshow him the way out. She knew that by this time Elettra must havereturned from her errands. The afternoon light was already failing. 

She held out her hand, and he took it and kept it for a moment. 

"God preserve you, " he repeated earnestly. 

He turned just as Elettra opened the door. The woman recognized him atonce, came forward and kissed his hand, he having long been her parishpriest. Then she led the way out. Don Teodoro turned at the door andbowed again, and Veronica, standing by the fire, nodded and smiledkindly to him. She was sorry for him. She had never seen him before, and he seemed to be devoted to her, and yet she was sure that his mindwas feeble and unsettled. No sane person could believe the monstrousthings he had told her. 

Outside, he made a few steps and then stopped Elettra, laying hisemaciated hand upon her shoulder. He looked behind him and saw that theywere alone in the passage. 

"Take care of your mistress, my daughter, " he said. "Naples is not Muro, but it is no better. Let her eat what others eat, drink what othersdrink, and take no medicines except from you, and make her lock her doorat night. This is not a good house. "

The dark woman looked at him fixedly for several seconds, and thennodded twice. 

"It is well that you have told me, Father Curate, " she said in a lowvoice. "I understand. "

That was all, and she turned to lead him out. 

CHAPTER XII. 

After that, Elettra, unknown to Veronica, slept in the dressing-roomevery night. After her mistress had gone to bed in the inner chamber, the woman used to lock the outer door softly and then draw a short, light sofa across it; on this she lay as best she might. The nights werecold, after the fire had gone out, and she covered herself with a cloakof Veronica's. In itself, it was no great hardship for a tough woman ofthe mountains, as she was. But she slept little, for she fearedsomething. In the small hours she often thought she heard some onebreathing on the other side of the door, close to the lock, and once shewas quite sure that a single ray of light flashed through the keyhole, below the half-turned key. Yet this might have been her imagination. Andas for the breathing, there was a large Maltese cat in the house thatsometimes wandered about at night. It might be purring all aloneoutside, in the dark, and she might have taken the sound for that ofhuman breathing. No people are more suspicious and imaginative thanItalians, when they have been warned that there is danger; and this doesnot proceed from natural timidity, but from the enormous value they setupon life itself, as a good possession. 

As for what Veronica ate and drank, Elettra was wise, too. She felt surethat if any attempt were made to poison her, Matilde would manage itquite alone; and she seriously expected that such an attempt would bemade, after what Don Teodoro had told her. Veronica, like most Italiansin the south, never took any regular breakfast, beyond a cup of coffee, or tea, or chocolate, with a bit of bread or a biscuit, as soon as sheawoke. It was easy to be sure that such simple things had not beenwithin Matilde's reach, and it was Elettra's duty to go to the pantrywhere coffee was made, and to bring the little tray to Veronica's room. At night, the young girl had a glass of water and a biscuit set besideher, when she went to sleep, but she rarely touched either. Elettra nowbrought the biscuits herself and kept them in a cupboard in thedressing-room, and she herself drew the water every night to fill theglass. So far as any food and drink which came to her room wereconcerned, Veronica was perfectly safe. But Elettra could not controlwhat she ate in the dining-room. She would not communicate her fears toVeronica, either, for she knew her mistress well; and at the same timeshe did not know what or how much Don Teodoro had told her during hisvisit. Veronica was perfectly fearless, and was inclined to beimpatient, at any time, when any one insisted upon her taking anyprecautions, for any reason whatsoever--even against catching cold. Shewas not rash, however, for she had not been brought up in a way todevelop any such tendency. She was naturally courageous, and that wasall. She was unconscious of the quality, for she had not hitherto beenaware of ever being in any real danger. 

As for Don Teodoro's warning, she put it down as the result of somemental shock which had weakened his intelligence. Possibly Bosio'ssudden and terrible death had affected him in that way. At all events, she was enough of an Italian to know how often in Italy suchextraordinary ideas of fictitious treachery find their way into thebrains of timid people. On the face of it, the whole story seemed to herutterly absurd and foolish, from the tale of Macomer's ingenious fraudsupon her property, to the supposition that she was in danger of beingmurdered for her fortune. Murder was always found out in the end, shethought, and of course such people as her aunt and uncle, even if theyhad any real reason for wishing their niece out of the way, would neverreally think of doing anything at once so wicked and so unwise. But thewhole thing was absurd, she repeated to herself, and she found it easyto put it out of her thoughts. 

Meanwhile, the first days after the catastrophe passed in that sad, unmarked succession of objectless hours by which time moves in a housewhere such a death has taken place. It is not the custom among the upperclasses of Italians to attend the funerals of relations and friends. Theservants are sent, in deep mourning, to kneel before the catafalque inchurch during the first requiem mass. Occasionally some of the men of afamily are present at the short ceremony in the cemetery. But that isall. The family, as a rule, leaves the city at once. 

Veronica wondered why her aunt and uncle did not propose to go to thecountry. Macomer had a pretty place in the hills near Caserta, andthough it was winter the climate there was very pleasant. She did notknow that the house was already dismantled, in anticipation of theprobable foreclosure of a mortgage. Besides, in his desperate position, Gregorio would have feared to leave Naples for a day. As for making ajourney to some other city, he was positively reduced to the point ofhaving no ready money with which to go. Lamberto Squarci, the notary, positively refused to advance anything, and it was quite certain that noone else would. For Squarci, who was a wise villain in his way, and hadaided and abetted Macomer's frauds in order to enrich himself, had onlygiven his assistance so long as he was quite sure that he was acting asthe paid agent of Veronica's guardian. The responsibility was thenentirely theirs, and he merely obeyed their directions in preparing anynecessary legal documents. But as soon as the guardianship had expired, he knew that in order to be of use in helping Macomer to rob his ward, he should be obliged to artificially construct the instruments needed, in such a way as to appear legal to the world. In such business, forgerycould not be far off. The man had himself to think of as well as meremoney, and at the point where the smallest illegality of action on hispart would have begun, he stopped short, and refused to do anythingwhatever, leaving Macomer to grapple with his creditors as best hemight, and to take care of himself if he could. It was now the middle ofDecember, and the guardianship had expired, legally speaking, in theprevious month of March, when Macomer's debts had already reached a veryhigh figure. Macomer, after that, had presumed upon his authority andposition to draw Veronica's income for his own purposes. That was easy, as the revenues accrued almost entirely from the great landed estates, of which the various stewards were in the habit of sending the rents, when collected, directly to Macomer. It was clear that unless Veronicaherself protested, and until the authorities should discover that shewas being cheated, these men would naturally continue to send the rentsto the order of Gregorio Macomer. 

Feeling that he was near the end of his chances, he had desperatelyattempted to improve his position by using as much of the year's incomeas he could extract from the stewards, in a final speculation. This hadfailed. He had not been able to pay the interest on his mortgages, andthe ready money was all gone. A disastrous financial crisis hadsupervened, which had made itself felt throughout the country, and thebanks which held the mortgages had given notice that they wouldforeclose some of them, and not renew the others. If Gregorio Macomercould have laid hands, no matter how, on any sum of money worthmentioning, he would have fled, under an assumed name, to the ArgentineRepublic, the usual refuge of Italians in difficulties. But he hadexhausted all he could touch, had gambled, and had lost it. If he flednow, it must be as a penniless emigrant. As he had no taste for suchadventures, at his age, there was but one chance for him, and that layin somehow getting control of Veronica's fortune before the end of themonth. As for getting any more of the income, in time to be of any usein staving off the tidal wave of ruin that rose against him, there wasno chance of that. The farmers all over the country paid their quarter'srents on the first of January, or should do so, but there was oftendifficulty in collecting, and the money would not really get toMacomer's hands much before February. By that time all would be over;and it was not the idea of bankruptcy which frightened Gregorio; it wasthe certainty that a declaration of bankruptcy must lead to, andinvolve, a minute examination into his past transactions which had ledto it. 

Matilde knew all the truth, as has been shown. What she suffered inremaining in Naples, in going and coming through the familiar rooms, inspending her evenings in that room, of all others, in which she had lastseen Bosio alive, no one knew. She went about silently, and her facegrew daily paler and thinner. In her behaviour she was subdued andsilent, though she treated Veronica with greater consideration thanbefore. They had never spoken together of the possible reasons forBosio's death, but it had been publicly stated that he had been insane, and Matilde, to all appearances, accepted the explanation as sufficient. It was made the more reasonable by the evident fact that Gregorio's mindwas unsettled, and that he himself was in imminent danger of going mad. That, at least, was the impression produced upon the household. 

As the days went by, the gloom deepened in the Palazzo Macomer, and whenthe three met at their meals, or sat together for a short time in theevening, the silence was rarely broken. 

At first, it was congenial to Veronica; for if her grief was notpassionate nor destined to be everlasting, her sorrow was profoundlysincere. It was the companionship of Bosio that she missed most keenlyand constantly, through the long, empty hours. 

No one who called was received during those first days. It chanced thatCardinal Campodonico had gone to Rome to attend one of the consistoriesfor the creation of new cardinals, which are often held shortly beforeChristmas. Had he been in Naples, he would of course have been admitted. He wrote to Gregorio, and to Veronica, short, stiff, but sincere, letters of condolence. He was a man of a large heart, which was terriblytempered by a very narrow understanding; generous, rather thancharitable; sincere, more than expansive; tenacious, not sanguine; keenbeyond measure in ecclesiastical affairs, devoted to a cause, butunresponsive to the touch and contact of humanity; hot in strife, butcold in affection. 

Society came to the door of the palace and deposited cards, with apencilled abbreviation for a phrase of condolence, the very shortestshorthand of sympathy. Veronica looked through them. All the Della Spinapeople had come. She found also Taquisara's plain cards, --'SigismondoTaquisara, '--without so much as a title, and in the corner were theusual two letters in pencil, strong and clear, but just the same asthose on all the others. Somehow, she knew that she had looked throughthem all, in order to find his and Gianluca's. The letters on thelatter's bit of pasteboard were in a feminine hand--probably hismother's. Veronica's lip curled a little scornfully, but then she lookedsuddenly grave--perhaps he had been too ill to come himself, and if so, she was sorry for him and would not laugh at him. As for Taquisara, hewas so unlike other men, that she had unconsciously expected somethingdifferent to be visible on his card. 

The lonely girl spent as much of her time as possible in reading. But itwas very gloomy. It rained, too, for days together, which made it worse. Bianca Corleone came to see her, and they sat a long time together, butneither referred to Gianluca, and very little was said about poor Bosio. It was impossible to talk freely, so soon after his death, and Veronicawas not inclined to tell even her intimate friend of what had happenedon that last night. It had something of a sacred character for her, andshe said prayers nightly before the poor man's photograph, sometimeswith tears. 

Now and then Veronica felt so utterly desolate that she made Elettracome and sit in her dressing-room and sew, merely to feel that there wassomething human and alive near her. She enticed the Maltese cat to livein her rooms as much as possible, for its animal company. She did nottalk with her maid, but it was less lonely to have her sitting there, bythe window. 

She supposed that before long the first black cloud of mourning wouldlighten a little over the house, and she had been taught at the conventto be patient under difficulties and troubles. The memory of thatteaching was still near, and in her genuine sorrow, with the youthfullyfervent religious thoughts thereby re-enlivened, she was ready to bearsuch burdens and make such sacrifices as might come into her way, withthe assured belief that they were especially sent from heaven for theimprovement of her soul, by the restraint and mortification of her veryinnocent worldly desires. 

It could hardly have been otherwise. She had not yet loved Bosio, buther affection had been sincere and of long growth. On the last day ofhis life he had become her betrothed husband, and for one hour all herfuture living, as woman, wife, and mother, had been bound up with his, to have being only with him--to disappear in black darkness with histragic death, as though he had taken all motherhood and wifehood andwomanhood of hers to the grave forever. As for what Don Teodoro had saidof his having loved Matilde, she believed that less than all the rest, if possible; and the fact that the priest had said it proved beyond alldoubt to her that he was out of his mind. Beyond that, it had notprejudiced her against him, for there was a certain noble loftiness inher character which could largely forgive an unmeant wrong. 

In her great loneliness, in that dismal household, the reality of faith, hope, and charity as the body, mind, and spirit of the truest life, tookhold upon her thoughts, as the mere words and emblems of religion hadnot done in her first girlhood. She read for the first time theImitation of Christ and some of the meditations of Saint Bernard. Thetrue young soul, suddenly and tragically severed from the anticipationof womanly happiness, turned gladly to visions of saintly joy--simplyand without affectation of form or show--purely and without earthlyregret--humbly and without touch of taint from spiritual pride. She hadno burden to cast from her conscience, and she sought neither confessornor director for the guidance of her thinking or doing. Straight andundoubting, her thoughts went heavenwards, to lay before God's feet thesad, sweet offering of her own sorrow. 

Without, in those dark winter days, storm drove storm over the ancient, evil city, rain followed rain, and gloom changed watches with darknessby day and night for one whole week, while the moon waned from the lastquarter to the new. And within, Matilde Macomer went about the house, when she left her room at all, like a great, pale-faced, black shadow ofsomething terrible, passing words. And in the library, Gregorio's stonyfeatures were bent all day over papers and documents and books ofaccounts, seeking refuge from sure ruin, while now and then his facewas twisted into a curiously vacant grimace, and his maniac laughcracked and reverberated through the lonely, vaulted chamber. He oftensat there by himself until late into the night, for the end of the yearwas at hand, with all the destruction that a date can mean when a man isruined. 

It was a big, long room, with old bookcases ranged by the walls, notmore than five feet high, and closed by doors of brass wire nettinglined with dark green cotton. A polished table took up most of thelength between the door which led to the hall at the one end, and thesingle high window at the other. There was no fireplace, and the counthad the place warmed by means of a big brass brazier filled with woodcoals. At night, he had two large lamps with green glass shades. 

Matilde sometimes came in and sat with him during the evening. Shelooked at him, and wished he were dead. But she was drawn there by thepower which brings together two persons menaced by a common danger, inthe hope that something may suddenly change, and turn peril into safety. He sat at one end of the table with his papers, and she took the placeopposite to him, the lamp being a little on one side, so that they couldsee each other. They were a gloomy couple, in their black clothes, underthe green light, with harassed, mask-like faces. 

One night, Matilde came in very late. She trod softly on the polishedfloor, wearing felt slippers. 

"Elettra sleeps in her dressing-room, " she said in a low voice. 

Macomer looked up, and the twitching of his face began instantly, asthough he were going to laugh. Matilde brought the palm of her hand downsharply upon the bare table, fixing her eyes upon him. 

"Stop that!" she cried in a tone of command. "It is very well for theservants. You are learning to do it very well. It is of no use with me. "

He looked at her steadily for a moment. Then he laughed, but naturallyand low. 

"I might have known that you would find me out, " he said. "But it isbecoming a habit. It may serve us in the end. How do you know that thewoman sleeps in Veronica's dressing-room?"

"I was wandering about, just now, " answered Matilde, looking away fromhim. "I saw the door of Elettra's room ajar. I pushed it open and lookedin, and I saw that her bed was not disturbed. Then I stood outside thedoor of Veronica's dressing-room, and listened. Something moved once, and I was sure that I heard breathing. "

Gregorio watched her gravely while she was speaking, but in the silencethat followed, his small eyes wandered uneasily. 

"The girl is lonely, " he said at last. "She makes Elettra sleep in theroom next to hers, because she is nervous. "

Matilde seemed to be thinking over what she had said. Some time passedbefore she answered, and then it was by a vague question. 

"Well?"

Again they looked at each other. 

"That is certainly bad, " said Macomer, thoughtfully. "What are we to do?Speak to her about it? You can say that you found Elettra's door open, at this hour. "

"It would do no good, " answered Matilde. "We could not prevent her fromhaving her maid there, if she wishes it. "

"After all, " observed Macomer, absently, "it is only a woman. "

"Only a woman?" Matilde's lip curled. "I am only a woman. "

Macomer nodded slowly, as though realizing what that meant, but he saidnothing in answer. With his hands under the table he slipped low down inhis chair, his head bent forward upon his breast, in deep thought. 

"Can you not suggest anything?" asked Matilde, at last, gazing at himsomewhat scornfully. "After all, this is your fault. You have dragged meinto this ruin with you. "

"I know, I know, " he repeated in a low voice. "But we cannot do itnow--with that woman there. "

"No. It is impossible now. " Matilde's tones sank to a whisper. 

She looked down at her strong hands that had grown thinner during thepast days, but were strong still. Gregorio waited a few moments and thenroused himself and bent over his papers again. 

"You cannot see any way out of it, can you?" asked his wife at last. "Isthere no possibility of keeping afloat until things go better?"

"No, " answered Macomer, not looking up. "There is nothing to go better. You know it all. There is only that one way. Failing that, I must gomad. One can recover from madness, you know. "

"Yes, " said Matilde, thoughtfully. "But it is a very difficult thing todo well. They have expert doctors, who know the real thing from theimitation. "

Gregorio looked up suddenly. 

"She could not go mad, could she?" he asked, a quiver of cunningintelligence making his stony mask quiver. "Are there not things--isthere not something--you know--something that produces that? What is allthis talk, nowadays, about hypnotic suggestion?"

"Fairy tales!" exclaimed Matilde, incredulously. "The other is sure. This is no time for experiments. There are thirteen days left in thisyear. If we are to do it at all, we must do it quickly. "

"I do not like the idea of the pillow, " said Macomer, speaking very lowagain. 

Matilde's shoulders moved uneasily, as though she were chilly, but herface did not change. 

"It is of no use to talk of such things, " she answered. "Besides, " sheadded, "you are dull. Only remember that you have just thirteen daysmore, after to-day. "

"Remember!" his voice told all his terror of the limit. 

Then Matilde did not speak again. She rested her elbows on the table, and her chin upon her hands, staring at him as though she did not seehim, evidently in deep thought. He bent over his papers, but was awarethat her eyes were on him. He glanced up nervously. 

"Please do not look at me in that way. You make me nervous, " he said. 

With a scornful half-laugh she rose from her seat. 

"Good night, " she said indifferently, and in her soft felt slippers shenoiselessly went away. 

She had not come in the expectation of help from her husband inanything that was to be done. But besides the bond of fear by which theywere drawn together, there was the feeling that his presence, especiallyin that room, brought before her vividly the necessity for action. Under such pressure, an idea might come to her which would be worthhaving. It had come to-night, but it was of a nature which made it wisernot to tell Gregorio about it. Such things, being complicated anddelicate, and difficult of execution, were best kept to herself, atleast until her plans were matured and ready. But this time, shebelieved that she had at last what she wanted. The scheme flashed uponher all at once, complete and feasible, and perfectly safe, but sheresolved to think it over for twenty-four hours before finally decidingto adopt it. 

And while such things were being said and done in the lonely night, anddeeply pondered through the long, silent days, Veronica came and wentpeacefully, with sad but not unhappy eyes, her thoughts fixed upon thenew path by which her single sorrow was to lead her up to the eternityof all celestial joys. 

In those days she determined to lead a holy life, in the memory of thedead betrothed, and perhaps in the thought that by the outpouring ofmuch good around her, she might yet obtain mercy for the soul of oneself-slain. She meant not to cut herself off from all mankind, devotingher maidenhood to heaven and her body to the servitude of slowsuffering, whereby some say that the spirit may be saved mostcertainly--in the hard rule of daily dying, and daily rising again oneday nearer to death. That was not what she meant to do; that depth ofgodly dreaming was too cold and still a depth for her. There must bemotion and life in her means of grace, since she had the power to makeothers move and live. Marriage, wifehood, motherhood, should not be forher, she said; but there was all the rest. There were the manyhundreds--the thousands, indeed, had she known it--of men and women andpoor children, toiling against the impossible with hands that had longlearned to labour in vain, save for the bare bread of life. To them all, in many quarters of the land, she would be a mother, to help them, tofeed them, and to heal them; to work for them and their welfare, as theyhad worked and toiled for the greatness of her dim, great ancestors, repaying to humanity, in one lifetime, what humanity had been forced togive them through many generations. 

She would lead a holy life, for she would pray continually, when therewas nothing else that she could do. When she could not be thinking outsome good thing for her people, she would meditate upon higher thingsfor the good of her own soul. But first and foremost should be thedoing, the helping, the giving of life to the far spent, and of hope tothe helpless. 

There in that room, where she dwelt continually in those days, she madeno vow, she registered no resolution, she imposed no one self uponanother self within her to thrust out evil and implant good. She had noneed of that. It was all as simply natural as the growth of a flower, effortless, rising heavenward by its own instinct life. 

In one thing only she made a determination of her will. She decided thatwith the new year she would at last take over her fortune and estatesinto her own management. Until she did that, she could not know what shehad, nor where she should begin her good work. That was absolutelynecessary, and of course, thought she, it presented no difficulty atall. Possibly her own indolence about it, and her distaste for goinginto the question of money and accounts, was a fault with which sheshould have reproached herself, because she might have begun to do goodsooner, had she chosen. But she did not think of that. She would beginwith the new year. 

As though a good destiny had anticipated her desire, the first call forher help came suddenly, on the day after the last recorded conversationbetween Gregorio and Matilde. 

It was still early in the morning when Elettra brought her a letter, bearing the postmark of the city, and addressed in one of those small, clear handwritings which seem naturally to belong to scholars andstudents. It was from Don Teodoro, and Veronica read it while she drankher tea and Elettra was making a fire in the next room. 

The old priest did not refer to the strange story he had told her tendays earlier. But he recalled her question concerning the people at Muroand their condition. They were indeed desperately poor, he said, and thewinter was a hard one in the mountains. There were many sick, and therewas no hospital, --not so much as a room in which a dying beggar mightlie out of the cold. It was a very pitiful tale, told carefully andaccurately. And at the end the good man humbly begged that the mostExcellent Princess would deign to allow his stipend to be paid inadvance, in order that he might do something to help his poor. 

Veronica read the letter twice, and judged it. Then she determined to dosomething at once, for she knew that the man had written the truth. Sheshould have liked to send for him, and talk with him of what should bedone; but she could not forget the things he had said about Bosio, andfor that reason she did not wish to see him again--at least, not yet. His mind was unbalanced about that matter; but charity was a differentthing. 

His address in Naples was in the letter. She wrote a note in answer, begging him to tell her how much money he should need to hire a vacanthouse, since there was no time to build one, and to fit it decently withwhat he thought necessary, in order that it might serve as a refuge andhospital for the very poor. She sent Elettra with the letter. 

It was raining again, and by good fortune Don Teodoro was at home, though it was still before noon. While the maid waited, he wrote hisanswer. His thanks were heartfelt on behalf of his parish, but shortlyexpressed. He said that in order to do what Veronica proposed sogenerously, at least two thousand francs would be necessary. He brieflyexplained why the charity would need what he looked upon as a large sum, and he begged pardon for being so frank. 

Again Veronica read the letter carefully over, and she put it into thedesk. Half an hour later she went to luncheon. The meal was as silentand gloomy as usual, and scarcely half a dozen words were said. Afterwards the three came back to the yellow drawing-room for theircoffee. When the servant was gone, Veronica, stirring the sugar in hercup, turned to her uncle. 

"Will you please give me three thousand francs, Uncle Gregorio?" sheasked quietly. "I want it this afternoon, if you please. "

Gregorio Macomer grew slowly white to the tips of his ears. Matildesipped her coffee, and turned her back to the light. 

"Three thousand francs!" repeated Macomer, slowly recovering a littleself-control. "My dear child! What can you want of so much money?". 

"Is it so very much?" asked Veronica, innocently surprised. "You havetold me that I have more than eight hundred thousand a year. It is forcharity. The people at Muro have no hospital. I shall be glad if youwill give it to me before four o'clock; I wish to send it at once. "

Macomer had barely a thousand francs in the house, and he knew thatthere was not a man of business in Naples who would have lent him halfthe little sum for which Veronica was asking. 

"I shall certainly not give you money for any such absurd purpose, " saidGregorio, with sudden, assumed sternness. 

Veronica raised her eyes in quiet astonishment, offended, but notdisconcerted. 

"Really, Uncle Gregorio, " she said, "as I am of age and mistress ofwhatever is mine, I think I have a right to my little charities. Besides, you know, it is not giving, since you are no longer my guardianin reality. It is merely a case of sending to the bank for the money, ifyou have not got it in the house. I should like it before four o'clock, if you please, Uncle Gregorio. "

In his terror the man lost his temper. 

"I shall certainly not let you have it, " he answered, with coldirritation. "It is absurd!"

If Veronica had wanted the money to spend it on herself, she might havewaited until he was cool again, in the evening, before insisting. Buther blood rose, for she felt that it was for her poor people, starving, sick, frozen, shelterless, in distant Muro. She knew perfectly wellwhat her rights were, and she asserted them then and there with a calmyoung dignity of purpose which terrified Gregorio more and more. 

"This is very strange, " she said. "I do not wish to say disagreeablethings, Uncle Gregorio; we should both regret them. But you know that Iam entitled to spend all my income as I please, and I must really begyou to get me this money at once. It is for a good purpose. The case isurgent. I am the proper judge of whether it is needed or not, and I havedecided that I will give it. There is nothing more to be said. "

"Except that I entirely refuse to listen to such words from my ward!"answered Gregorio, angrily. 

"I appeal to you, Aunt Matilde, " said Veronica, setting down her coffeecup upon the table and turning to the countess. 

But Matilde knew well enough that her husband could not get the money. She shook her head gravely and said nothing. 

By this time Veronica was thoroughly determined to have her way. 

"Very well, " she answered calmly. "I shall telegraph to the cardinal. Iunderstand that he is in Rome. "

Gregorio turned away, and he felt that his knees were shaking under him. He knew well enough what the result would be if the cardinal'ssuspicions were aroused. Matilde saw the danger and interfered. 

"I think you are pushing such a small matter to the verge of a quarrel, Gregorio, " she said sweetly. "Since Veronica insists, you must give herthe money. After all, it is hers, as she says. "

Macomer turned and stared at his wife in amazement. 

"I am going out at once, " she continued. "If you like, I will go to thebank and get the money for you. Yes, dear, " she added, turning toVeronica, "I shall be back before four o'clock, and you shall have it inplenty of time. Did you say four thousand or five thousand?"

"Only three, " answered the young girl, rapidly pacified. "Threethousand, if you please. Thank you very much, Aunt Matilde! A womanalways understands a woman in questions of charity. One wishes to act atonce. Thank you. "

And in order to end an unpleasant situation, she nodded and left theroom. Husband and wife waited a moment after the door was closed. ThenMatilde, before Gregorio could speak, went and opened it suddenly andlooked out, but there was no one there. 

"She would not listen at the door!" exclaimed Gregorio, with somecontempt for his wife's caution. 

"She? No! But I distrust that woman she has. "

"And how do you propose to get this money?" asked the count. 

"Have I no diamonds?" inquired Matilde. "She would have ruined us. Orderthe carriage, and I will go to a jeweller at once. "

"Yes, " said Macomer. "You are very wise. I thought there was going to betrouble. It was clever of you to restore her confidence by offering hermore. But--" he lowered his voice--"something must be done at once. "

"Yes, " answered Matilde, looking behind her. "It shall be done at once. "

He went out half an hour later, and before four o'clock Veronicadespatched Elettra to Don Teodoro with three thousand francs in banknotes. But the diamonds which Matilde had left at the jeweller's wereworth far more than that, and she had got more than that for them. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Veronica was well satisfied, and slept peacefully, dreaming of thepleasure she had given the old priest, and of the good which he could dowith her money. And then in her dream, the scene of his first visit wasacted over, and suddenly Veronica started up awake in the dark. She musthave uttered an unconscious exclamation, just as she awoke, for in amoment the door opened and she heard Elettra's voice asking her if sheneeded anything, but in a tone so anxious and changed that it seemed toVeronica to belong to her dream rather than to any reality. 

"Are you there?" she asked, in the darkness, surprised that the womanshould have come in so unexpectedly. 

"Yes, " answered Elettra, briefly, and she groped for the matches on thelittle table beside the bed. 

She struck a light and lit a candle. Veronica saw that her face was verypale, and that she was half dressed, wearing a black skirt and a whitecotton jacket. As the young girl looked at her she realized how strangeit was that she should have appeared at the slightest sound. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked, with a little smile. "What time isit?" She looked at the watch, holding it up to the flame of the candle. "Three o'clock! What is the matter, Elettra? Why have you come?"

Elettra looked down, in real or pretended confusion. 

"Excellency, " she said in a humble tone, "my room is very cold and dampin this rainy weather. For some nights I have slept on the sofa in thedressing-room. I hope your Excellency will pardon me. And I heard youcry out, just now. Then, forgetting that I ought not to have beensleeping there, I got up and came. "

"Oh! Did I cry out? Yes--I woke up suddenly. I was dreaming of DonTeodoro and of--" She checked herself. "Why did you not tell me thatyour room is damp? You shall have another. "

"Excellency, if you will forgive me, it would give trouble at this time. If you will allow me to sleep on the sofa until the weather is fineagain. I will make no noise. You have seen--in the morning no one wouldknow it, and I am very well there. "

Veronica looked at her and hesitated a moment. In the stillness sheheard a soft sound. 

"What is that?" she asked quickly. 

"It is the cat, " answered the maid, peering down below the level of thecandle-light. 

"It did not sound like the cat, " said Veronica, pushing her dark, brownhair back with her slim hand, and looking down over the edge of the bed. "It was more like a footstep, " she added, with a little laugh. 

But at that moment she caught sight of the Maltese cat's green eyes inshadow. The creature came forward from the door, sprang instantly uponthe foot of the bed and lay down, purring, its forepaws doubled underit, and its eyes shut. 

"It is a heavy cat, " said Elettra, thoughtfully. "It is so fat. One canhear it when it walks across the room. "

She scratched its head gently, and it purred more loudly under her hand. 

"Excellency, you will allow me to sleep in the dressing-room, just forthese days, " she said presently. 

"Oh yes--if you like, " answered Veronica, laying her head down upon thepillow, sleepy again. 

The maid bent over her and drew the things up about her neck in ahalf-tender, motherly way, looking at the girl's face. Then shehesitated before putting out the light. 

"Excellency, " she said, "let us go to Muro. The air of this house is notgood for you. It is damp, and you are pale in these days. In themountains the colour will come back. The people will make a feast whenyou come. It will amuse you. Excellency, let us go. "

Veronica laughed sleepily. 

"You are dreaming, Elettra. Go away. I want to go to sleep. "

The woman sighed softly, extinguished the light, and groped her way tothe door in the dark. Veronica was very sleepy, as she said, but somehowafter her maid had gone away, she became wakeful again for a time. Thecat had remained on the foot of the bed, and its soft purring disturbedher a little, because she was accustomed to absolute silence. There hadbeen a curious cross-fitting of her dream and of the little realities ofElettra's entrance. She had dreamt over again the priest's earnestwarning that her life was in danger, and she had imagined that she hearda footstep of a person coming up quickly behind her. Then, somehow, inthe same instant, recalling what Don Teodoro had told her about heruncle's frauds, she had seemed to know that he had refused the money inthe afternoon because there was no more to take, nor to be given to her. Waking suddenly, she had heard Elettra's anxious voice, giving thestrong impression that she was really in present peril. Then she hadreally thought that she heard another footstep, somewhere, while Elettrawas standing still beside her. It had only been the cat, of course. Itwas such a very fat cat, as Elettra said, and the floors were of theold-fashioned sort, laid on wooden beams, and trembled very easily, asthey do in old Italian houses. But each detail had fitted with another, into a sort of whole which was a reflexion of the priest's story. Someof it all at once looked true, and instead of going to sleep at once, Veronica's eyes were wide open, and she turned uneasily on her pillow. 

Of course, it was absurd, for she had received the money when she hadinsisted upon having it, and if Elettra's room was damp, that quiteexplained her presence. Besides, Elettra could not be supposed to knowwhat Don Teodoro had said to Veronica. And then, there was the rest ofthe story, all that connected Bosio and Matilde. She absolutely refusedto think of believing that. She would not even admit that there mighthave been some little foundation for it in the past. 

Instinctively driving away the thought, she began to say certain prayersfor the poor man, and little by little, repeating the words often, hermind grew calm, and she fell asleep once more. Yet in her sleep theneedle of doubt ran through the little bits of memories, one by one, threading them in one continuous string. There was Bianca Corleone'slook of blank surprise when Veronica had first spoken of a possiblemarriage with Bosio, and there was Taquisara's bold assertion, tallyingwith the priest's, that the Macomer wanted her fortune, and there wasvery vividly before her the gnawing anxiety she had seen in Matilde'sface until the latter had caught sight of the artificial flower on thatmemorable evening. And the string on which the beads of memory werethreaded was her long-repressed but profound distrust of GregorioMacomer. It had seemed a wicked prejudice, a gratuitously falsejudgment, based upon something in his face, and she had always foughtagainst it as unworthy, besides being irrational. Then, too, there wasthe will she had signed a fortnight since, for the sake of peace. Ifthere was nothing in what the priest had said, why had they been soterribly anxious to get the document executed without delay? It wasscarcely natural. And there were fifty other details, turns of phrases, changes of expression, little words of Gregorio's spoken in an enigmatictone to his wife, which Veronica had not understood, but which she hadtherefore remembered, and which could mean that he was on the verge ofruin, and in great trouble of mind about his affairs. Amidst the wildlyshifting scenery of dreams, the little doll figures of abiding facts outof memory joined hands in procession, showing their faces one by one andtheir likeness to one another more and more clearly. Even in her dream, it flashed upon her that it might all be true except that one part of itwhich said that Bosio had loved Matilde and not herself. That was nottrue. He had loved her, Veronica; they had known it, and had takenadvantage of it. She did not blame them for that. She had been so fondof him, --she knew that she should soon have loved him, --and the dreamswung back upon itself, and she was again standing beside the fire inthe yellow room, with him so near to her. And after she awoke, she shedtears. 

On that morning, after eleven o'clock, Matilde came to Veronica's room, bringing a piece of needlework with her, and she sat down to stay awhile. They talked idly about dull subjects, and from time to timeMatilde looked up and smiled sadly. She sat so that she could not seeBosio's photograph on the mantelpiece. After she had been there half anhour, she started, suddenly remembering something. 

"I have done such a stupid thing!" she exclaimed, with an expression ofannoyance. "I believe I am losing my memory!"

"What is it?" asked Veronica, naturally. 

"I sent my maid out, just before I came to you, with a number of errandsto do, and I forgot two things that I wanted very much. There was somemedicine which I was to take before luncheon, and some jet beads that Ineeded. I do not care so much about the beads, but I need the medicine. I feel so horribly tired and weak, all the time. "

"Send one of the men, " suggested Veronica. 

"A man could not buy jet things, " objected Matilde. "You could not letElettra go out for me, could you? It is a fine morning, for a wonder, and she need not be gone more than half an hour. "

"Certainly, " answered Veronica, promptly. "She has nothing to do, andthe walk will be good for her. "

She rose and rang for her maid. 

"I will go and get the recipe, " said Matilde, rising, too. "It is an oldone, given me by our poor doctor who died last year, and I kept itbecause it did me so much good. They will make it up in ten minutes. Shecan go and buy the jet, and stop for it on the way back. Will you tellher that she may go?"

Elettra had entered the room, and Veronica explained to her what she wasto do. 

"Put on your hat, Elettra, " said Matilde, "and then please come to myroom, and I will give you the recipe. I must find it among my things. Iwill be back presently, dear, " she said to Veronica. 

She went out, followed by the maid, who did as she was bidden and thenwent to Matilde's room. The countess explained exactly what sort of jetshe wanted, and then gave her the recipe. 

"Tell the chemist that this is only for two doses, " she said, "but thatI wish him to make up twenty doses, because I am going to take itregularly. Say that it is for me, and go to Casadio for it, where we geteverything. Have it put down on the bill. Do you understand? Here aretwenty francs for the jet, but you will not need so much. Youunderstand, do you?"

"Yes, Excellency. "

Elettra stuck the little slip of paper, on which the recipe was written, into her shabby pocket-book without looking at it. She could read andwrite fairly well, and had been used to helping her husband theunder-steward with his accounts at Muro, but even if she had looked atthe recipe she would have understood nothing of the doctor'shieroglyphics and abbreviated Latin words. The prescription was for apreparation of arsenic, which Matilde had formerly taken for some time. The chemist would not make any difficulty about preparing twenty dosesof it for the Countess Macomer, though the whole quantity of arseniccontained in so many would probably be sufficient to kill one notaccustomed to the medicine, if taken all at once. 

But though Matilde was so anxious to have the stuff before luncheon, shehad a number of doses of it put away in a drawer, which she took out andcounted, after Elettra had gone. She opened one of the little foldedpapers and looked at the fine white powder it contained, took a littleon the end of her finger and tasted it. Then, from the same drawer, shetook a package done up in coarser paper, and opened it likewise, lookedat it, smelt it, and touched it with the tip of her tongue verycautiously indeed. It was white, too, but coarser than the medicine. She was very careful in tasting it, and she immediately rinsed her mouthwith water, before she tied up the package again, shut the drawer, andput the key into her pocket. 

By and by Elettra came back and brought her the jet and the medicine, returning her the change without any remark. Matilde thanked her, andlaid the package of twenty doses upon her dressing-table, before themirror. 

At luncheon, she persuaded Veronica to go out with her for a drive inthe afternoon. She said that she felt ill and tired, and did not like togo alone. Gregorio said that he was too busy to accompany her, and itwould not have been easy for Veronica to refuse. While it was stillearly, they drove out, past Bianca Corleone's house, over the hill, anddown to Posilippo, on the other side. They talked very little, butVeronica enjoyed the bright afternoon air, after the long spell of badweather. There was no dust, for the road was not yet dry, and a gentleland breeze just roughed the surface of the calm sea to a deeper blue. When they turned to drive home, there was already a purple mist aboutVesuvius, and the great Sant' Angelo's crest was black against the sky, for these were the shortest days, and the sun set far to southward. Itwas almost dark when they got back to the city. 

"Shall we have tea in your room?" asked Matilde as they went up thestairs together. "It is so dreary in the drawing-room. "

"Certainly, " answered Veronica, readily. "Yes--the rest of the house ishorribly gloomy, now. " Matilde was behind her on the stairs, evidentlyfatigued, but as the young girl spoke, a look of detestation flashedacross her worn face. She hated Veronica, now that Bosio was dead. Butfor Veronica, Bosio would still have been alive. There was more than themere desperate determination to save herself, and her husband with her, in what Matilde did after that. But when they entered the hall, the lookwas quite gone from her face. She had been very gentle, all that morningand afternoon. They had talked a little of the incident that hadoccurred on the previous day, of Gregorio's feeling about not lettingVeronica spend money uselessly. He was so conscientious, Matilde hadsaid. Though the guardianship had expired, he still felt it his duty towatch his former ward's expenditure. And he was not charitable--no, ithad always been a cause of regret to Matilde that Gregorio, with all hisgood qualities, was hard to poor people. Bosio had been different. Ah--poor Bosio!

She spoke gently, and sometimes there was a true ring in her voice whichVeronica heard and understood, for it was quite genuine. And now, sheseemed tired and weak--she who was so strong. 

So they went to Veronica's room, and Elettra brought the tea things, andMatilde made tea, and they both drank it, and talked a little more, andgave the Maltese cat milk in a saucer, on the lower shelf of the littletwo-storied tea-table. 

Afterwards, Matilde went away to her room, and Veronica remained aloneafter Elettra had taken away the things. 

Before dinner, Elettra came and told her mistress that the countess wassuddenly taken very ill, and was crying aloud with the pain shesuffered. Veronica hastily went to her aunt, and found that a doctor hadalready come and was making her swallow olive oil out of a full tumbler. A servant followed her into the room with a plate full of raw eggs, andthe doctor was asking for magnesia. Gregorio Macomer was standing by, shaking his head, and occasionally supporting his wife with one hand, when her strength seemed to be failing. Veronica took the other side, and the doctor stood before the sick woman. 

"What is it, Doctor?" asked Veronica, after a moment. "What is thematter with her?"

The physician looked over his shoulder and saw that there was no servantin the room. "It is arsenic, " he answered in a low voice. "She has beenpoisoned. But there was not enough to kill her--she will be quite wellto-morrow. "

"Poisoned!" exclaimed Veronica, in horrified surprise. "By whom?" Shelooked at Gregorio, addressing the question to him. 

He gravely raised his high shoulders and shook his head. Veronicaexpected to hear his awful laugh; but though his face twitchednervously, it did not come. He knew that the doctor might afterwards bean excellent witness to his peculiarities, in case he wished to provehimself insane; but on the other hand, had he shown any signs ofinsanity now, the doctor might have suspected him of having poisoned hiswife. That would have been very unfortunate. 

As the physician had foreseen, Matilde was soon better, and by bed-timeshe felt no ill effects from what had happened to her, beyond greatweakness and lassitude. The doctor had asked many questions and hadelicited the fact that Matilde had a preparation of arsenic in powders, which she took according to prescription, and which she showed him afterthe first spasms were passed. She assured him, however, that she hadonly taken one on that day, and had taken it just before luncheon. Therest of the powders were intact and still lay upon her toilet table. Sheshowed them also. He took the next one, on the top of the pile, and saidthat he would examine it and ascertain whether the chemist had made anymistake. Then he went away, promising to come in the morning. 

At last Matilde was alone with her husband. Veronica had gone to bed, and Gregorio waited for an opportunity of questioning his wife. 

"Whom do you suspect?" he asked, sitting down by her bedside. 

"No one, " she answered. "I took it on purpose. You need not be anxious. I pretended to suffer more than I did, and I do not mind the pain atall. "

He stared at her, trying to fathom her thoughts, but he altogetherfailed to understand her. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked, drawing the lids close together over hissmall eyes. 

"You are so dull!" she answered. "You shall see. I cannot explain now. Ihave been really poisoned and I feel ill and weak. Do not go outto-morrow before I see you. "

He left her, but she did not sleep all night. In spite of what she hadgone through on that evening and of all the mental suffering of manydays, she was stronger still than any one knew. It was between two andthree in the morning when she lighted a candle, wrapped herself in adressing-gown and began to make certain preparations for the day. 

In the first place she locked both her doors very softly, and arranged astocking over each keyhole, twisting it round the keys themselves. Thenshe got some stiff writing-paper, and a heavy ivory paper-knife, andfrom the locked drawers she took that other package which was done upin coarse paper. 

From this she took some of the rough, half-pulverized white stuff, laidit upon the marble top of the chest of drawers, and with the ivorypaper-knife, pressing heavily, she little by little crushed it as fineas dust. 

She then took nine of the eighteen little papers containing the arsenic, which were left, opened each one at the end and poured out the contentsapart, into a little heap quite separate from the other. And of theother, she took a pinch for each little paper and dropped it in--aboutas much in quantity as she had taken out. Then she closed each of thepapers, carefully slipping one folded end into the other as chemists do;when they were all closed, she made a tiny hole in each with the pointof a needle, so that she should know the bad from the good, ifnecessary. This was only a precaution, and could do no harm. Then shearranged the good and the bad in their little packages of five, each ina tiny india-rubber band, laying bad ones and good ones alternately. When this was done, she put all the packages into the original paper, loosely opened, and laid them once more before her looking-glass, uponthe toilet table. Her large white hands were exceedingly skilful, and itwould have needed sharp eyes to see that the papers of medicine had beentampered with. 

After this, she cut a sheet of the writing-paper into four squarepieces, and very neatly made out of three of them three very small openboxes, for moulds, each of the size of a large lump of sugar, and sheset them up side by side in a row. One was larger than the other two. 

They had brought her powdered sugar, with the juice of a lemon in aglass and a decanter of water; she had said that if she were thirsty shewould make herself a glass of lemonade in the night. She had also abottle of ordinary sticking gum. 

She took the sugar and mixed a very little with some of the stuff shehad pulverized, and with a few drops of the gum, till it was a stiff, hard paste, and with the end of the paper-knife she carefully filled thelargest of her three moulds with it. She was sure that it would be dryand hard by the next day, and it would have the size, the appearance, and somewhat the taste of a lump of sugar. 

Then she halved the little heap of arsenic medicine as exactly as shecould. There were nine powders in all. To produce the symptoms ofpoisoning in herself, she had taken four from her old supply, thatevening. Half of nine would be four and a half, and that would not betoo much. She mixed enough wet sugar and gum with each little pile tofill one of each of the smaller moulds, pressing the sticky mass firmlyinto the paper. 

When all was finished, she carefully cleaned the marble top of thechest of drawers, and threw what little of the coarser powder remainedinto the ashes of the fire, in which a few coals still glowed. The heatwould consume the powder immediately. 

Having done this, she set the three little moulds on the warm marblehearthstone to dry, took the remainder of the package of coarser powder, twisted the stiff paper closely, so that it should not open, took thestockings from the keyholes, and, candle in hand, left the room, lockingthe door softly behind her. She made no noise as she traversed the dimrooms, in her felt slippers; but she avoided the yellow drawing-room andpassed through a passage behind it. Her nerves were singularly good, butsince Bosio's death she did not like to be alone in that room at night. Bosio had been fond of dabbling in spiritism and such things, and theyhad often talked about the possibility of coming back after death, inthat very room, promising each other that, if it were possible, the onewho died first would try to communicate with the other. Matilde turnedaside from the room in which they had said those things to each other. 

She walked more and more cautiously as she came to the other end of thelong apartment, where Veronica lived, and she stopped in a dark corridorbefore the door of Elettra's room. It was not ajar this time, butclosed. Matilde did not hesitate, and began to turn the handle veryslowly. Then she pushed the door and looked in, shading her candle withher hand, from her eyes, so as to look over it. She had determined, ifshe found the woman in bed, to wake her boldly, to say that she felt illagain and to tell her to go and heat some water. That would have takensome time. But Elettra was not there, and the bed, as usual of late, wasuntouched. 

Matilde looked about her hastily, at the same time extracting thepackage from the wide pocket of her dressing-gown. The furniture wasscant and simple--the bed, a table covered with things belonging toVeronica, beside which lay sewing-materials, two chairs, a shabby chestof drawers, a deal washstand--that was all. Italian servants are notaccustomed to very luxurious quarters. A couple of coarse, uncolouredprints of saints were tacked to the wall over the bed, and a bit of adusty olive branch, from the last Palm Sunday, nine months ago, wasstuck behind one of them. 

Matilde looked about her, and hesitated a moment. Then, setting thecandlestick down, she knelt upon the floor, and thrust the package asfar as she could under the chest of drawers. Of all the things she hadto do, in the course of that night and the following day, this was theonly one with which any danger was connected, for at any moment Elettramight have come from Veronica's room to her own. The thing was possible, but not probable, between three and four o'clock in the morning. It didnot happen, and when Matilde left the room and softly closed the doorbehind her, all was safe. 

Before she went to bed, she entered the dining-room, poured herself outa glass of strong Sicilian wine from a decanter on the sideboard anddrank it at a draught, for she was very tired. She left the decanter andthe glass on the table, so that any one might see them. If by any remotepossibility some wakeful person had chanced to hear her moving about inthe night, she would say that she had felt ill, and had left her room inorder to find the stimulant. She thought of every possible detail whichcould in any way hereafter be brought up in evidence. 

At last she went back to her room, unlocked the door, and locked herselfin. 

Her plan was simple, though the details of it were complicated, so faras the preparation was concerned. It was an extremely bold plan, but onenot at all likely to fail in the execution. Almost all the difficultyhad lain in the preparations, and she had spared no pains and nosuffering for herself, in the preliminaries. 

She knew the story of Elettra's husband very well, and of how he hadbeen murdered by peasants near Muro in trying to collect the exorbitantrents Macomer had attempted to exact. She was a good enough judge ofcharacter to see that Elettra had the revengeful disposition common tomany of the southern hill people, and the woman's dark complexion, sombre eyes, and thin frame would all help to strengthen the impressionin the mind of an unprejudiced judge. 

She intended to make it appear that Elettra had poisoned the wholefamily, beginning with Matilde herself, out of revenge for her deadhusband. Veronica was to die, but Gregorio and Matilde herself wouldonly suffer a certain amount of pain for a few hours, and then recover. She had begun by half poisoning herself, both to remove all suspicion, and as a sort of experiment, to be sure that she was giving herself andher husband a sufficient amount to produce the real symptoms ofpoisoning by arsenic. No half measures, no mere acting, would be of anyavail. 

The stuff in the package wrapped in coarse paper was an almost pure saltof arsenic, sold by grocers as rat-poison. 

The two small lumps of sugar and arsenic medicine were for herself andher husband; the large lump of almost pure poison was for Veronica. 

In the examination which would follow upon the deed, the package ofrat-poison would be found under the chest of drawers in the maid's room, half empty. It would be discovered that every alternate paper ofMatilde's medicine had been tampered with, and it would be supposedthat Matilde had at the first time taken one of those containing poison, whereas the doctor who had attended her had taken the next, which wasuntouched and only had medicine in it. 

She intended to make tea on the following afternoon in Veronica's room. She could easily find an excuse for bringing in Gregorio who, like manymodern Italians, had acquired the habit of drinking tea every day. Sheherself would make the tea, and put in the sugar and cream. Elettrawould, as usual, have brought in the tea-tray with the silver urn, forVeronica always preferred being served by her maid when she had anythingin her own room. It would go hard, if Matilde could not divertVeronica's attention for one moment while she dropped the lumps into thecups, having concealed them in her handkerchief beforehand. There wouldbe no servant in the room, for Elettra would have gone out. Gregoriowould know beforehand what was to be done and would help to divertVeronica at the right moment. Arsenic had little or no taste, andVeronica would drink her cup readily like the rest. 

She would die before the next morning. That was certain. Everythingwould tend to throw the suspicion of having attempted to commit ahorrible wholesale murder, upon Elettra. The will could be kept backuntil the first uproar and excitement should be over. Then Matildewould have the fortune, Gregorio would be saved, and Elettra would becondemned to penal servitude for life. 

It was certainly a very bold plan, and Matilde did not see where itcould fail. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Matilde received on the following morning a curious letter whichsurprised and startled her. She had risen at last, grey and weary offace, with heavy eyes and drawn lips, to face the deed she meant to do. The sky was overcast, but it was not raining yet, though it soon would. She had risen before ringing for her maid, and had carefully removed thepaper from the three little cakes of white stuff which she had made. Ithad to be done cleverly, for the smaller ones seemed likely to crumble;but the large one was quite consistent. She had hidden them all in thedrawer she kept locked; then she had unfastened her door and had rungthe bell. It was past nine o'clock, and her maid had brought her aletter with her coffee. 

It was very short, but the few words it contained were exceedinglydisquieting. It was accompanied by a card on which Matilde read'Giuditta Astarita, Sonnambula, ' and the address was below, in onecorner. The few words of the letter, written in a subtle, sloping, feminine handwriting, correctly spelt and grammatically well expressed, ran as follows:--

"The spirit of B. M. Wishes to make you an important communication andtorments me continually. I pray you to come to me soon, on any daybetween ten and three o'clock. In order that you may be assured that itis really the spirit of B. M. , and not a deceiving spirit, I am to remindyou that on the evening of the ninth of this month, when you and he werealone together in a room which is all yellow, you laid your hand uponhis head and stroked his hair and said: 'It is to save me. ' The spirittells me that you will remember this and understand it, and know that heis not a deceiving spirit. "

Matilde read the short letter many times over, and her hands trembledwhen she at last folded it and returned it to its envelope. A sensationof curiosity and of ghastly horror ran through her hair, more than once, like a cool breeze, and with it came the infinite desire for some oneword of truth out of the black beyond, from the one being whom she hadloved so fiercely. 

But in such things she was sceptical, and she sought to make some theorywhich should explain the writer of the letter into a common impostor. She could find none. She remembered the act and the words that had gonewith it. Only she and Bosio had known, and he was dead--he had diedfour-and-twenty hours after she had touched his hair and had said: 'Itis to save me. ' And she knew him well. He was not, under anycircumstances, a man to speak of such things to a third person. Then, how did this Giuditta Astarita know what Matilde had said and done? Itwas not natural, and not natural meant supernatural--supernatural meantthe possibility of communication, and she had loved the dead man withall her big, sinful soul. 

It would be long before the time came for the deed, in the lateafternoon, and the terrible day must be disposed of in some way orother. She was not afraid of going mad, nor of losing her nerve, nor ofmaking a mistake at the last moment, but even to her courage andstrength the hours before her were hours of fear. 

She planned her day. The doctor would come, in the first place, at aboutten o'clock. He would recommend her to be quiet, to take a little brothfor luncheon, and a little more broth for dinner. She smiled grimly, asshe thought of his probable instructions, and she knew what she could doand bear at pinch of pressing need. He would also tell her that thepowder contained only just the right quantity of medicine, and that shemust have been poisoned in some other way. She knew that. 

Afterwards, Gregorio would need his instructions. He was to be at homein the afternoon, and to come and drink his tea in Veronica's room whenMatilde sent for him. Just when Matilde was pouring out the tea, he wasto distract Veronica's attention from the tea-table for a moment. Shewould not tell him that she intended to half poison him, too, for he wasa coward, and at the last minute, dreading pain, he would not drink fromhis cup. She knew that well enough. She would tell him when he began tosuffer the effects, and assure him that he was not going to die. Againshe smiled grimly, and chancing to be just then before the mirror, shesaw that her face had all at once grown old since yesterday. And inspite of her strength of body and will, she felt weak and exhausted, andhated the hours that were to be between. 

But when she had spoken to Gregorio, she would go out alone, on foot. And she knew that she should find the address given on GiudittaAstarita's card, and enter the house and see the woman who had writtento her, and hear the message that was promised. If she left her ownhouse, her feet must take her that way, whether she would or not. 

And so it all happened just as she foresaw. But she had not known thatin threading the intricate, dark streets she would almost forget whatshe was to do that day, in the mad hope of the one more word frombeyond. She had not known that at the thought her eyes would brighteneagerly, the colour would come back to her cheeks, and the strength toher limbs as she walked. After all, the strongest thing that had everbeen in her, or ever could be, was that passionate, dominating, despotic devotion to one being; and the merest suggestion that he mightnot be gone quite beyond the reach of spiritual touch had power to veilthe awful future of the day, when her hand was already uplifted to kill. She was not a woman to hesitate at the last moment, unstrung andwomanishly trembling because the victim was young, and smiled, and hadinnocent eyes. And yet, perhaps, had she not gone that day to answer thespirit-seer's summons and to catch at the straw thrown to her frombeyond the grave, she might have seen a reason for changing her mind, and all might have happened very differently. But Fate does not sleep, though she seems sometimes to nod and forget to kill. 

Matilde came to the house as the clock struck eleven, and entered by thedark, arched door, and went up the damp, stone steps, as Bosio had donea fortnight earlier. She was admitted by the decent woman whose one eyewas of a china blue, and she waited for Giuditta in the same smallsitting-room, of which the one heavily curtained window looked out uponan inner court. She did not know that Bosio had ever been there, but inher thoughts of him she felt his presence, and turned, with a shiverunder her hair, to look behind her as she stood waiting before thewindow, just where he had stood. The day was dark, and the room was alldim and cold, with its stiff, ugly furniture and its bare, tiled floor. The corners were shadowy, and her eyes searched in them uneasily, andshe would not turn her back upon them again and look out of the windows. Then the door opened noiselessly, and Giuditta Astarita entered, in herloose black silk gown, with her little bunch of charms against the evileye, hanging by a chain from a button hole. 

The china blue eyes looked steadily at Matilde, out of the unhealthyface, but the woman gave no sign to show that she knew who her visitorwas. Her hoarse voice pronounced the usual words: "You wish to consultme?"

"You wrote to me. I am the Countess Macomer, " answered Matilde, liftingher veil, which was a thick one. 

The expression in the woman's eyes did not change, but she still lookedsteadily at Matilde for three or four seconds. 

"Yes, " she said. "I thought so. I am glad that you have come, for I havesuffered much on your account. "

She looked as though she were suffering, Matilde thought. Then she placedthe chairs, made the countess sit down, and drew the curtains, just asshe had done for Bosio. 

Then, in the dark, there was silence. It seemed to Matilde a long time, and she grew nervous, and moved uneasily. Then, without warning, sheheard that other voice, clear, deep, and bell-like, which Bosio hadheard, and she trembled. 

"I see a name written on your breast, --Bosio Macomer. "

The darkness, the voice, the shiver of anticipation, unnerved the strongwoman. 

"What does he say to me?" she asked unsteadily. 

Again there was a long silence, longer than the first, and by manydegrees more disturbing to Matilda, as she waited for the answer. 

"Bosio loves you, " said the voice. "He is watching over you. He tellsyou to remember what you promised each other in the room that is allyellow, long ago, --that the one that should die first would visit theother. He tells you that it is possible, and that he has kept hispromise. He loves you always, and you will be spirits together. "

Matilde felt that in the darkness she was horribly pale, but she was nolonger frightened. 

"Will he come to me when I am alone?" she asked, and her voice did notshake. 

"I will ask him, " answered the clear voice, and again there was silence, but only for a few seconds. "This is his answer, " continued the voice. "He cannot come to you when you are alone, as yet. By and by he willcome. But he watches over you. For the present he can only speak withyou through Giuditta Astarita, who is now asleep. "

"Is she asleep?" asked Matilde. 

"She is in a trance, " the voice replied. "I speak through her, but whenshe awakes, she will not know what I have said. The spirits come to herdirectly sometimes, when she is awake, and they torment her. Bosio hasbeen coming to her often, and has made her suffer, until she wrote toyou. The spirits themselves suffer when they wish to communicate withthe living, and cannot. "

"What are you?" inquired Matilda. 

"I am Giuditta's familiar. The spirits generally speak, through me, toher, when she is in the trance. "

"And she knows nothing of what you say?"

"Nothing, after she is awake. "

"Is Bosio suffering now?" asked Matilde, gravely but eagerly, after amoment's pause. 

"I will ask him. " And another brief pause followed. "Yes, " continued thevoice. "He is suffering because he has left you. He suffers remorse. Hecannot be happy unless he can communicate with you. "

"Can you see him? Can you see his face?"

"Yes, " replied the voice, without hesitation. "He is very pale. His hairis soft, brown, and silky, with a few grey streaks in it. His eyes aregentle and tender, and his beard is like his hair, soft and like silk. He is as you last saw him alive, when you kissed him by the fireplace inthe room that is yellow, just before he died. He loves you, as he didthen. "

Such evidence of unnatural knowledge might have convinced a moresceptical mind than Matilde's of the fact that the somnambulist could atleast read her thoughts and memories from her mind as from a book. Itwas impossible that any one but herself could know how, and in whatroom, she had kissed him for the last time, a few minutes before hisend. Again the cold shiver ran under her hair, and she could not speakagain for a few moments. 

"Does he know what I am going to do to-day?" she asked at last, in avery low voice. 

"I will ask him. "

The silence which followed was the longest of all that there had been. 

"I cannot see him any more, " said the voice, speaking more faintly. "Heis gone. He will communicate with you again. I cannot find him. Giudittais tired--she will--" The last words were hardly audible, and the voicedied away altogether. 

In the dark, Matilde heard something like a yawn, as of a person wakingfrom sleep. Then Giuditta's croaking voice spoke to her. 

"I am tired, " she said. "The spirits have kept me a long time. Did youhear anything that you wished to hear?"

"Yes. I heard much. "

While Matilde was speaking, the woman drew the curtain back, and thedull steel light of the gloomy day filled the small room. But after thedarkness it was almost dazzling. Matilde looked at Giuditta's face, andsaw the same staring, china eyes, and the same listless expression inthe unhealthy features. She had felt a sensation of relief when thevoice had been unable to answer the last question she had asked; for shestill thought that there might be a doubt as to Giuditta's totalforgetfulness on waking. But that doubt was greatly diminished by thewoman's indifferent and weary look. 

"I hope that he will not torment me so much after this, " said Giuditta. "I have lost my sleep for several nights. "

Matilde, believing that the somnambulist was one person when awake andquite another when asleep, did not care to enter into conversation withher in her present state. The vivid, terrible future of the day returnedto her mind, too. She had been momentarily unstrung and was in haste tobe gone and to be alone. She had her purse in her hand, and stood stilla moment, hesitating. 

"I generally ask twenty-five francs for a consultation, " said Giuditta. "But I am so much obliged to you for coming to free me from thisobsession, that I shall not charge anything to-day. "

"No, " answered Matilde, quietly. "I am not accustomed to receivinganything without paying for it. But I thank you. "

She laid the money upon the polished table, beside the volumes in theirgilt bindings. 

"Very well, " said Giuditta. "If you desire it, I thank you. If youshould wish to come again, I am always to be found between ten and threeo'clock. "

"I will come again, " answered Matilde. 

She passed through the door while Giuditta held it open for her, and inthe passage she was met by the one-eyed woman. But she was more unnervedand less observant than Bosio had been, and she did not notice theextraordinary resemblance between the colour of the woman's one eye andthat of Giuditta's two. She descended the stairs slowly, feeling dizzyat the turnings, but steadying herself as she went down each straightflight. She made her way quickly to the nearest large thoroughfare andtook the first passing cab to get home, for she felt that she had notstrength left to walk much more on that day. 

She had a moment of weakness and doubt, as she went up her own stairs, knowing that in half an hour she must sit down to table with Gregorioand with Veronica. It would be the last time, for Veronica would neversit down with them again. She had not realized exactly how it was to be. Henceforth, at that table, two places were to be vacant, of two personsdead within a fortnight, the one by his own hand, the other by hers; andfrom that day, when she and her husband sat there, the shadows of thosetwo would be between them always. 

She paused on the staircase, and steadied herself with her hand againstthe wall. She knew that from now until it was done, she should have nomoment in which she could allow herself the pitiful luxury of feelingweak. And as she stood there, and thought of the strange messages shehad but now received from beyond the grave, she felt the terror of whatthe dead man's spirit might say to her when all was done, and Veronicalay dead in her own room upstairs--in this coming night. 

The fear followed her up the steps like a living thing, its hand on hershoulder, its cold lips close to her ears, breathing fright andwhispering terror. And it went in with her to her own room, and keptfreezing company with her throughout a long half-hour of mental agony. It could not bend her, but it almost broke her. If she could stand andwalk and see, she would go to Veronica's room that afternoon and killher. She hated her, too. She hated her all the more bitterly because shefelt afraid to kill her, and knew that she must conquer her fear beforeshe could do it. She hated her most savagely because, but for her, BosioMacomer would still have been alive. As though she had been herselfabout to die, the great pictures of her own past rose in fierce colours, and faced her with vivid life in the very midst of death. And with themcame the clear echo of that bell-like voice she had heard speakingmessage for message between her and the man she had lost. 

Her soul was not in the balance, for the die was cast and the deed wasto be done. But she suffered then, as though she had still been free tochoose. She was not. The atrocious vision of an infamous disgrace stoodbetween her and all possibility of relenting. She saw again the coarsestriped clothes, the cropped hair, the hands and feet shackled in irons, the hideous faces of women murderers and thieves around her. Well, thatwas the alternative, if she let Veronica live--all that, or death. 

Of course, in such a case she would have chosen death. But it wascharacteristic of her that from beginning to end she never thought oftaking her own life. She was too vital by nature. She had loved lifelong and well; she loved it even now that it was not worth living. Shenever even asked herself the question, whether it would not be betterand easier to end all and leave Gregorio to his fate. Gregorio! Hersmooth lip curled in contempt. A coward, a thief, a fool--why should shecare what became of him? Coldly and sincerely she wished that she weregoing to kill him, and not Veronica. She despised the one, and hated theother; of the two, she would rather have let the hated one live. But todie herself seemed absurd to her, because she really feared death withall her heart, and clung to life with all her strong, vital nature. Ifthe lives of all Naples could have saved her own, death should have hadthem all, rather than take hers. To live was a passion of itself--evento live lonely, with a despicable and hated companion in theconsciousness of the enormous and irrevocable crime by which that livingwas to be secured to her. 

There was a common, straight-backed chair in the room, between the chestof drawers and the wall. Through that interminable half-hour she satupright upon it, her hands folded upon her knees, quite cold andmotionless, her eyes closed, and her lips parted in an expression ofbodily pain. Then she rose suddenly, all straight at once, tall andunbending, and stood still while one might have counted ten, and sheopened and shut her eyes slowly, two or three times, as though she werecomparing the outer world with that within her. So Clytemnestra mighthave stood, before she laid her hands to the axe. 

She did not mean to be alone again until all was over. It would beeasier then. She would have her own bodily pain to bear. There would beconfusion in the house--doctors--screaming women--tremblingmen-servants--her husband's groans; for he was a coward, and would bearill the little suffering which would help to save him. Then they wouldtell her that Veronica was dead; and then--then she could sleep forhours, nights, days, calmly, and at rest. 

She bathed her tired face in cold water, and went to face them atluncheon. With iron will, she ate and drank and talked, bearing herselfbravely, as some great actresses have acted out their parts, while deathwaited for them at the stage door. 

Had the weather been fine, she would have persuaded Veronica to drivewith her, as on the previous day. But it was dark and gloomy, and therewould be rain before night. She talked with the young girl, and began tomake plans with her for going away. Gregorio ate nothing, and looked on, uttering a monosyllable now and then, and laughing frantically, two orthree times. Nobody paid any attention to his laughter, now, for thehousehold had grown used to it. It might break out just when a servantwas handing him something; the man would merely draw back a step, andwait until the count was quiet again, before offering the dish. 

Over their coffee, Matilde read fragments of news from the day's paper, and made comments on what was happening in the world. Veronica thoughther unnaturally talkative and excited, but put it down to the reactionafter the poisoning of the previous night. Matilde drank two cups ofcoffee instead of one. Macomer smoked one cigarette after another, andsent for a sweet liqueur, of which he swallowed two glasses. He did notlook at Veronica, when he could avoid doing so. 

At last Matilde rose and asked Veronica to allow her to bring her workand sit with her in her room, to which the young girl of courseassented. 

"By and by, we will have tea there, " said Matilde. "Perhaps you will letyour uncle come and have a cup with us--he always drinks tea in theafternoon. "

"Certainly, " answered Veronica, quietly. "Will you come at four o'clock, Uncle Gregorio? Or is that too early?"

"Thank you. I will come at four, my dear, " said Gregorio; and Matildesaw that his knees shook as he moved. 

In Veronica's room the two women sat through the early part of theafternoon, and still Matilde talked almost continuously. That was theonly outward sign that she was not in her usual state, and Veronicascarcely noticed it, for as the time wore on, she spoke less excitedly, and more often waited for an answer to what she said. Of course, theconversation turned for some time upon what had occurred on thepreceding evening. Matilde scouted the idea that any one had attemptedto poison her. It was perfectly clear, she said, that, although thepaper which the doctor had carried away to examine only containedexactly the right amount of medicine, the one from which Matilda hadtaken her dose must have had too much in it. She was quite out of thehabit of taking arsenic, too, and a very slight overdose would alwaysproduce the symptoms of poisoning. Veronica could see that she had feltno serious ill effects from the accident. As for thinking that any onehad given her poison intentionally, it was utterly and entirely absurd. Matilde refused to entertain the idea even for a moment, and presentlyshe went on to speak of other things, and soon fell back upon makingplans for the winter. She did not allow the conversation to flag, forshe feared lest Veronica should be tired of sitting in her room andsuddenly propose to go somewhere else, just for the sake of the change. It was essential to Matilde's plan that Elettra should bring the thingsfor tea. 

She did not allow herself to think, and she succeeded in staving offsilence. Now that the deed was so near, it seemed unreal. Once shetouched her handkerchief in her pocket, and felt the three preparedlumps concealed in it, to assure herself that she was not imagining allshe had done, and meant to do. Then, suddenly, she felt that her browwas moist, a thing she could hardly remember having noticed before inher life. But the moisture disappeared almost instantly, and her skinwas dry and burning. 

Then the time came, and it was four o'clock. 

Elettra opened the door and brought in the tea things on a large silvertray, set them down, and went to get the little tea-table, that was madewith a shelf below, between the four legs, as a table with two stories. 

"Let me make it, " said Matilde, cheerfully; "I like to do it. "

She laid down her work, and Elettra set the table before her knees, withits high silver urn, and all the necessary little implements. Veronicafound herself on the other side of it, for Matilde had carefully chosenher seat when she had first come, placing herself in such a way withregard to Veronica as to make the present result almost inevitableunless the girl moved into a very inconvenient position. 

The big grey Maltese cat came in through the still open door, in thehope of cream at the tea hour, as usual. The creature rubbed itselfalong Elettra's skirt while she was lighting the spirit lamp under theurn, which contained water already almost boiling. 

"Will you kindly call the count?" said Matilde, addressing the maid. 

Elettra left the room, and Matilde settled herself to make the tea, aswomen do, raising her elbow a little on each side and then dropping themagain, bending her face down to see whether the lamp were burning well, opening the teapot, pouring a little hot water into it, opening andshutting the tea-caddy, and settling each spoon in each saucer in adainty and utterly futile way. 

The cat rubbed its grey sides against Veronica's skirt and against herlittle slipper, as she sat there, one knee crossed over the other. Theyoung girl bent down and stroked it, and hesitated, looking at thetea-table, and not wishing to disturb the things to take a saucer forthe cat until the tea was made. As she bent down, Matilde took herhandkerchief quietly from her pocket and laid it quite naturally in herlap. Veronica, being on the other side of the table and the urn, couldnot possibly see what she did. 

Gregorio came in. Elettra had opened the door from without, for him topass. She stood on the threshold a moment, and looked towards the table, to see whether anything had been forgotten. Then she closed the door, and went away, leaving the three together. The water boiled almostimmediately; and Gregorio was just sitting down when Matilde poured thewater out of the teapot, and part in the tea. She filled the pot, andleaned back in her chair to allow it to draw a few moments. 

The silence was intense during several seconds. Only the purring of thecat was heard, as Veronica, letting her arm hang down without stooping, gently rubbed its broad head. It pushed itself under her hand, bendingits back to her caress, turned quickly, and pushed its head under herhand once more, doing the same thing again and again. 

Matilde sat upright, lifted the cover of the teapot an instant, and thenbegan to move the cups. Veronica, whose thoughts were intent upon theanimal she was touching, and which, as she knew, was begging for cream, immediately leaned forward, and took from under the silver cream jug asaucer which Elettra had especially brought for the purpose. She poureda little cream into it, and, bending down, placed it on the lower shelfof the tea-table, and gently pushed the cat towards it. 

Matilde saw her opportunity, while Veronica was stooping; and in thatmoment she distributed the three lumps from her handkerchief in thethree cups before her, and at once began to pour tea into the onecontaining the largest lump. The cat, for some reason, wished the saucerto be set upon the floor; and Veronica still bent down, until it spranglightly upon the lower shelf, and began the slow and dainty operation oflapping the cream. 

During all this, Gregorio, anxious to seem unaware of anythingextraordinary, and not really knowing how his wife meant to put thepoison into the tea, was nervously looking away from her, sometimestowards the window, at the fast-fading light of the grey afternoon onthe opposite house, and sometimes at Veronica's head as she bent down. When she looked up, Matilde was holding out her cup to her, having putsome cream into it and a lump of real sugar to really sweeten the tea. 

Veronica thanked her, drew a little nearer to the table, held her cup onher knee, and took a thin slice of bread and butter, which she proceededto eat, stirring the tea slowly with her left hand. 

Matilde meanwhile filled the other two cups, and handed one to herhusband, who took it in silence, unsuspectingly. 

"I can never understand why the tea we make here is better than mine, "she said, smiling. "It is the same tea, of course. But it certainly isbetter in your room. "

"Is it?" asked Veronica, carelessly and looking down at the cup she heldon her knee, while she slowly stirred the contents. 

As though to verify Matilde's assertion, she bent a little, raised thecup, and tasted the liquid. It was still too hot to drink, and shestirred it again on her knee. She noticed that although it had beensweet enough to her taste, there was a lump of sugar, not yet dissolved, still in the cup: she never took but one piece, and her aunt hadevidently put in two. 

Still holding the cup on her knee, where Matilde could not possibly seeit, she quietly fished the superfluous piece of sugar out with herteaspoon, and bending down again she deposited it in the saucer fromwhich the cat was lapping the last drops of cream. She noticed that itwas only dissolved at the corners, but she had observed before that onesometimes finds a lump of sugar which remains hard a long time. The catwould eat it, for it liked sugar, as some cats do. 

Then she filled the cat's saucer again. By that time what she had wascooler, and she drank some of it. 

"It is certainly very good tea, " she said thoughtfully. "I think youprobably make it better than I do. "

As she drank again, Gregorio's unearthly laugh cracked and jarred in theroom. But neither he nor his wife had seen what Veronica had done. Theywere staring hard at each other, and for the second time Matilde feltthat her brow was moist. 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Maltese cat died before six o'clock. The poor creature sufferedhorribly, and Elettra carried it off to her room that Veronica might notsee its agony. But Veronica followed her maid. Elettra had laid thebeast upon a folded rug on the floor and knelt beside it. It seemed halfparalyzed already, but when Veronica knelt down, too, and tried tocaress it, the cat sprang from them both in sudden terror. It stoodstill an instant, wagging its head while its shoulders contractedviolently. Then it glided under the chest of drawers to die alone, ifpossible, after the manner of animals of prey. The girl and her maidheard its rattling breathing and its convulsions: its body thumpedagainst the lower drawer. Then, while Veronica listened and Elettrabent, candle in hand, till her face touched the floor, to see it and getit out, all at once it was quiet. 

"Get up, " said Veronica, nervously, for she was fond of the creature. "Help me to move the chest of drawers out. Then we can get it out. "

"It is dead, " answered Elettra, still on the floor, and thrusting herlong, thin arm under the piece of furniture. "But I cannot pull himout, " she added. "He is so big!"

She got upon her feet, and together, without much difficulty, the twodragged the chest of drawers away from the wall, and then bent downbehind it, with the candle, to look at the dead animal. 

"It is quite dead, " said Elettra. "Poor beast! What can have happened toit?" Veronica was really sorry, but of the two the maid had been themore fond of the cat. "It must have eaten something. "

Elettra looked up, suspiciously, and Veronica drew back a step, halfstraightening herself. Her foot touched something close to the wall. Shestooped again and picked up the package of rat-poison which Matilda hadhidden under the chest of drawers on the previous night. She looked atit closely. It had evidently not lain long where she had found it, forthere was no dust on it, and the coarse paper had an unmistakably freshlook. The indication of the contents was written upon it in ink, inilliterate characters. 

"It is rat-poison!" exclaimed Veronica. "The cat must have eaten some ofit! How did it come here?"

She looked at her maid curiously. 

"The cat could not have wrapped it up and folded in the ends of thepaper, " observed Elettra. 

"That is true. "

They looked at each other, in considerable astonishment. Then theytalked about it. Veronica asked whether Elettra had complained thatthere were mice in her room, and whether some stupid servant, having apackage of rat-poison at hand, had not stuck it under the chest ofdrawers, not even thinking of opening the paper. Elettra was suspicious. 

"At all events, Excellency, " she said, "remember that you found it, andthat it was carefully closed. "

Suddenly, as they were speaking together, Veronica's face changed, andshe grasped the corner of the piece of furniture convulsively. Thoughshe had taken the poisoned lump from her cup in time to save her life, enough had been dissolved already to make her very ill. 

Again there was dire confusion and fear in the Palazzo Macomer, bynight. It was a wholesale poisoning. Veronica, Matilde, and Gregoriowere all seized nearly at the same time. 

Several of the servants left the house within half an hour after it wasknown that their masters were all poisoned. Within a fortnight, BosioMacomer had killed himself and there had been two poisonings. Matilde'smaid and a housemaid, the cook, and the butler went quietly to theirseveral rooms, took the most valuable of their own possessions, andslipped out. They felt that the house was doomed, with every one in it. But some one had gone for the doctor, and he arrived in a short time. Matilde, to whom all the proper antidotes had been given on the previousday, might have taken them at once, but in the first place, weak andstill suffering the consequence of the first dangerous experiment, shewas almost unconscious with pain, and secondly, if she had taken anantidote herself, it would have seemed strange that she should notadminister it to Veronica, or at least send some one to the young girlto do so. Gregorio lay howling with pain in his room. But Matilde hadwarned him that it would come, after they had left Veronica's roomtogether, and he knew that everything depended on his not hinting at thetruth. 

The doctor came to Matilde first. Far away, at the other end of thehouse, Elettra was with Veronica. She had known what they had done forthe countess on the preceding evening, and while the servants werescreaming and running hither and thither through the apartments, likescared sheep, the woman had quietly got oil and warm water, and wasgiving both to her mistress. She knew that a footman had gone for thedoctor. When Veronica had first been seized with pain, Elettra hadthrust the package of poison into her own pocket, and it was stillthere. 

By the time the antidote began to act, Elettra believed that the doctormust be in the house. Not wishing to leave Veronica even for a moment, she rang the bell. But no one came. The woman suspected that the doctorhad gone first to Matilde, and she decided in a moment that it wasbetter to leave her mistress alone for two or three minutes than not tohave the physician's assistance at once. She hastened to Matilde's room. As she passed a half-open door the package of poison in her pocketstruck against the door-post and reminded her of its presence, if sheneeded reminding. 

The doctor was bending over Matilde, who seemed very weak. As Elettraentered, she saw that there was no one else in the room. A drawer in apiece of furniture stood open as Matilde had left it, and as Elettrapassed, she dropped the package in, and with a movement of her handcovered it with some folded handkerchiefs, from a little heap, shuttingthe drawer with a quick push. Neither Matilde nor the doctor saw her doit. As Elettra spoke to the doctor, the countess started at the sound ofher voice. She thought the maid had come to say that Veronica was dead. Almost violently the woman dragged the physician away with her, andMatilde smiled in the midst of her sufferings. 

It would be useless to chronicle the details of the night and of thefollowing morning. The three poisoned persons were almost recoveredwithin twelve hours. Of the servants who had fled, Matilde's maid wasthe first to come back when she learned that no one was dead. 

As the night wore on towards dawn, and the countess learned thatVeronica was alive and not at all likely to die, she silently turned herface to the wall and tore her pocket-handkerchief slowly with her teeth. In the morning, when the doctor was there, the maid was alone in theroom, arranging things as quickly as she could, and hoping that in theconfusion of the previous night, her absence might not have beenobserved. In the drawer, amongst the handkerchiefs and other things, shecame upon the package, looked at it in surprise, turned it round andround, and read the words written on it. Then, thinking that she haddiscovered the clue to the attempted wholesale murder, and that shemight obtain pardon for her defection, she came to the bedside and heldit up to the doctor. He, too, looked at it, and read the words. Matilde's heavy eyes opened, and then stared as she recognized thepackage. She thought that of course it had been found in Elettra's room, and was sure of the answer, when she put the question to her maid. 

"Where did you find it?" she asked faintly. 

"In the drawer, here, Excellency. "

"In the drawer!" cried Matilde, starting up, and leaning on her elbow, as though electrified. "In the drawer? Here, in my room? Why--it was--"

Her head sank back, and her eyes closed. She had nearly betrayedherself, for she was very weak. 

"It was not there yesterday--I am sure of it, " she said feebly. 

"Give it to me, " said the doctor, sternly, and he put it into hispocket. 

All that day Matilde lay in her room. Gregorio had recovered. He came toher, and when they were alone, he reproached her bitterly and upbraidedher in unmeasured language for her failure. Veronica was alive, and histerror of the ruin before him grew stronger with the physical weakness. He was a coward always, but he was now half mad with fear. He laughedhideously, and his face twitched. He sawed the air with extraordinarygestures while he walked up and down in his wife's room, speakingexcitedly in a low tone. Matilde turned to the wall and answerednothing. For she could not have found anything to say. 

From time to time, during the day, she had news of Veronica. Elettranever left her mistress but once, shortly before twelve o'clock. Shewent out for a quarter of an hour, and came back bringing fresh eggs, bread, and wine, which she had bought herself. 

"It is poor fare, Excellency, " she said, as she boiled the eggs in thetea-urn, "but it is safe. If you are strong enough this afternoon, wewill go away. This is not a good house. I do not understand what wasdone; but it was done to kill you and not to hurt them. "

"I think it was, " said Veronica. "I am not frightened, but I do notthink that I am safe here. "

After she had eaten a little and drunk some wine, she felt stronger andwrote a line to the Princess Corleone, asking the latter to receive herfor a few days, as she was in trouble. In an hour she had an answer. Bianca, of course, was ready for her whenever she might come. Elettraquickly began to pack such things as her mistress might needimmediately. 

Veronica lay still, listening to Elettra's movements in the next room. In a flash she had guessed half the truth, and reflexion now brought hermost of the rest. She remembered Don Teodoro's earnest face and thequiet eyes that had looked at her through the silver spectacles while hehad been speaking. There had been conviction in them, and even then shehad felt that he believed the truth of what he said, however mistaken hemight be. And now she felt that it was not he who had spoken, but Bosio, through him, that the warning came from beyond the grave, and that shehad risked her life in disregarding it. She believed that Bosio had beena truthful man, and each detail of what had happened fitted itself tothe next, to make up the whole story which the priest had told her. Allbut Bosio's love for Matilde, and in that Don Teodoro had misunderstoodhim. He might have loved her in the past. That was possible, and to theyoung girl's mind, in comparison with all that had recently happened, the wrong of that love dwindled to an insignificant detail. She had notbeen near enough to loving the man herself to be jealous of his past. And she was glad that he had not told Don Teodoro of his love forherself. 

The rest all grew to distinctness and to the coincidence of the factwith the warning. She was brave enough to face danger as well as a man, but there was no reason why she should stay where she was, waiting to bemurdered. She had a right to save herself without despising herself as acoward. She therefore said nothing to stop Elettra in her preparations, and the maid silently went on with her work in the other room. 

She still felt ill and terribly shaken, but she rose softly, to try herstrength, and she found that after the first moment's dizziness shecould stand and walk alone. She looked at her hands, and she thoughtthat they had shrunk and were thinner than ever. Then she lay down againand called Elettra, and bade her prepare her own belongings and thencome and dress her, when she should have finished. 

"Yes, Excellency. "

That was almost all that the woman had said, since she had boiled theeggs for her mistress's luncheon, and Veronica herself did not speakexcept to give an order about some detail of the packing. It would havebeen impossible to talk of what had happened without speaking clearlyabout Matilde, and Veronica did not wish to do that, though Elettra wasof her own people and devotedly attached to her. 

Elettra had been careful that no one in the household should learn hermistress's intention of leaving the palace. Veronica intended to go awayin a cab, and it would be the question of a moment only to call one. When all was ready, Elettra went out for that purpose herself, andVeronica went without hesitation to Matilde's room. When she entered, the countess was alone, propped with pillows on a low couch near thefire. Her large white hands lay listlessly upon the dark shawl that wasdrawn over her, and she had thrown a piece of thick black lace over herhead. It was nearly four o'clock, and the light was already waning, sothat, as she lay with her back to the window, Veronica could hardly seeher face. She raised her head slowly and wearily as the young girlentered, and then started visibly, as she recognized her. 

"It is I, " said Veronica, when she had closed the door. 

She came and stood beside the couch on which her aunt lay, and shelooked down at the reclining woman. Matilde's listless hands suddenlyclasped each other. 

"Yes, " she answered, with an effort. "Are you going out? Are you wellenough to go out?" she asked, adding the last question quickly. 

"I should go if I were much more ill than I have been, " Veronicareplied. "I am not coming back. "

"Not coming back?" Surprise brought energy into Matilde's voice. 

"No. I am not coming back. Do not be astonished. I understand what hashappened, and I am going to a safer place. "

"What? How? I do not understand. " Matilde spoke rapidly and unsteadily. "You must stay here--Gregorio is going to send for the chief ofpolice--there will be an inquiry, and you must answer questions--wesuspect one of the servants, who has a grudge against your uncle, andwho has tried to murder us all in revenge--"

"Yes, " said Veronica, calmly. "It was well arranged, I am sure. If I hadnot found the rat-poison under the chest of drawers in Elettra's room, you might have thrown suspicion upon her, because her husband wasmurdered at Muro. If I had not found my tea too sweet, I should not havetaken out the second piece and given it to the cat. The taste I had ofit almost killed me--you have explained the rest to me now. But I knewall that I needed to know. "

Matilde put her feet to the ground and slowly rose to her feet whileVeronica was speaking. Then she laid her two hands upon the girl'sshoulders and stared into her face. 

"Do you dare to accuse me of trying to poison you?" she asked in a low, fierce voice. 

"Take your hands from me!" cried Veronica, thrusting her back. "Callyour husband. I will accuse you both--you and him. "

They were women of the same race and name, and both brave. But the elderand stronger felt her nerves growing weak in her when she heard theother's voice. Perhaps courageous people recognize courage andconviction in others more easily than cowards can. Matilde hesitated. 

"Call him!" repeated Veronica, in a tone of command. "I insist upon it. He shall hear what I have to say. "

"I will call him, that he may see for himself that you are quite mad, "answered Matilde. "That is, " she added, "if he is well enough to comehere from his room. " And she moved slowly towards the door. 

"If I am alive, he is well enough to hear me speak, " said the younggirl. 

Matilde stopped, turned, and faced her a moment, as though about tospeak angrily. Then she went on. It was best, on the whole, to call herhusband, she thought, though her reasoning was confused and uncertain. In her view of matters, the burden of the crime she had tried to commitall fell upon him, and she was willing that he should face Veronica, andrealize what he had done. At the same time she believed herself so safeas still to be able to throw the suspicion entirely upon Elettra, thoughVeronica would protect her. Moreover, though she would not have admittedthe fact, her strength was momentarily so broken that she felt it easierto obey the young girl than to visit her and fight out the interviewalone. 

Veronica did not move while she was gone, but stood quite still, watching the door. She was very pale, with illness and rising anger, butshe was not weak, as Matilde was. She had not gone through half so much. Presently Matilde returned, followed by Macomer, wrapped in a darkvelvet dressing-gown, his face white and twitching, his usually smoothgrey beard unbrushed, and his grey hair in disorder. With drawn lids helooked at Veronica, and in his terror he tried to smile, but there wassomething at once cowardly and insolent in the expression--there wassomething else, too, which the young girl did not understand, a sort ofvacancy of the brow and unnatural weakness of the mouth. 

"I am glad that you have come, " she said, when the door was shut. "Ihave not much to say, and I wish you to hear it. "

They were all standing. Gregorio steadied himself by the head of thecouch, and was as erect as ever. 

"I will tell you something which you do not know, " said Veronica, fixingher eyes on him. "Before Bosio died he told the whole truth to DonTeodoro Maresca, his friend. And the day after his death, Don Teodorocame and told it all to me. "

"Bosio!" exclaimed Gregorio, his knees shaking. "Bosio told--"

"What did Bosio tell?" asked Matilde, interrupting her husband in a loudvoice to cover any mistake he might be about to make. 

But Veronica had seen Macomer's face and had heard his tone of dread. Whatever doubts she still had, disappeared for the last time. 

"He told his friend the whole truth about your management of myfortune, " she answered steadily. "He told how you had lost your own inspeculation and had taken everything of mine upon which you could layhands--all my income and much more, so long as you were still myguardian--you and Lamberto Squarci, helping each other. And Iunderstand now why you would not give me that money the other day. Youhad not got it to give me. My aunt must have borrowed it. And Bosio toldDon Teodoro, that unless he was married to me, you meant to kill me, because I had signed a will leaving you everything. There was nothingthat Bosio did not tell, and Don Teodoro repeated every word of it tome. I thought him mad. But now I know that he was not. I have been savedby a miracle, but you shall not try to murder me again--so I am goingaway. "

Macomer had listened to the end, his face working horribly and his handsgrasping the head of the couch. When Veronica paused, his head fellforward as he stood. Even Matilde could not speak, for a moment. Therevelation that Bosio had told all before he died, and that Veronicaknew it, fell upon her like a blow, with stunning force. The first wordscame from Gregorio. 

"Bosio!" he exclaimed in a loud voice. "The devil take his soul!"

"God will have mercy upon the soul that was lost through your deeds, "said the young girl, solemnly. "Amongst you, you drove him tomadness--it was not his fault. But for his soul you shall answer, aswell as for your deeds--and that is much to answer for, to Heaven and tome. You neither of you have the strength to deny one word of what Bosiosaid--"

"He was mad!" Matilde broke in. "You are mad, too--"

"Oh no!" interrupted Veronica, with contempt. "You cannot fasten thatupon me. I am not mad at all, and I will show you what it is to be sane, for I know that every word of what Bosio told Don Teodoro was true. Iwas foolish not to believe it at once--it almost cost my life to believeyou better than you are. "

"He was quite insane, " muttered Gregorio, in almost imbecile repetitionof what his wife had said. 

Matilde made another great effort to impose her remaining strength uponthe young girl. 

"Whether you are mad or not, you shall not stand there accusing me ofmonstrous crimes!" she cried, moving a step towards Veronica, andraising her hand with a menacing gesture. 

"Shall not?" repeated Veronica, proudly, and instead of retreating sheadvanced calmly to meet her aunt. 

"Would you not rather that I accused you here, and proved you guilty andlet you go free, than that I should do as much in a court of justice?You know what the end of that would be--penal servitude for youboth--and unless--" she paused, for she was growing hot and she wishedto speak with coolness. 

"Unless?" Matilde uttered the one word scornfully, still facing her. 

"Unless you will confess the truth, here, before I leave the house, Iwill do what I can to have you both convicted, " said Veronica. "That isyour only chance. That or the galleys. Choose. You are thieves andmurderers. Choose. "

She spoke like a man to those who would have murdered her and hadfailed, but who had robbed her with impunity for years. GregorioMacomer's face was all distorted. All at once his maniac laugh brokeout. But it stopped suddenly and unexpectedly, and it changed to anothersort of laughter--low and not unpleasant to hear, but a little vacant. Matilde turned her head slowly and gazed at him. He was bending now andresting his elbows on the head of the couch, instead of his hands, andhe held his hands themselves opposite to each other, crooking first onefinger and then another, and making one finger bow to the other, aschildren sometimes do, and laughing vacantly to himself, with a queerlittle chuckle of enjoyment. Veronica stared. Matilde held her breath. Still he laughed softly. 

"Marionettes, " he said, looking up at his wife, his little eyes wideopen. "Do you see the marionettes? This is Pulcinella. This is his wife. Do you see how they quarrel? Is it not pretty? I always like to see themarionettes in the streets. Ha! ha! ha! see them!"

And he played with his fingers and made them bob and bow, like littledolls. 

"He is ill, " said Matilde, in a low, uneasy voice. "Pay no attention tohim. "

He had always intended to save himself by pretending to go mad, but evenMatilde was amazed at his power of acting. 

"He will recover, " answered Veronica, coldly. "You can still understandme, at all events, even if he cannot. You have your choice. If you tellme the truth, I will not allow any inquiry. I will take over my fortune, if you have left me any, and for the sake of my father's name, I willnot bring you to justice, even if you have ruined me. But I warnyou--and it is the last time, for I am going--if you still try to denywhat I know to be the truth, the prosecution shall begin to-morrow. Youwill not be able to murder me, for I shall be protected, and with allyour abominable courage you are not brave enough to try and kill mehere, before I leave this room. No--you are not. I am not afraid of you. But you have reason to be afraid. You will be convicted. Nothing cansave you. Though people do not know me as they knew my father, --though Iam only a girl and came to you, straight from the convent, --I know thatI have power, and I shall use it. I am not poor Elettra, whom youintended to accuse. I am the Princess of Acireale; I have been yourward; you and your husband have robbed me, and you have tried to murderme. Though I am only a girl, justice will move more quickly for me thanit would for you, even if you could call it to help you. Now choose, andwaste no time. "

While she had been speaking, Macomer had stared at her with anexpression of genuine childish amusement. 

"Poor Pulcinella!" he exclaimed softly. "How your wife can talk, whenshe is angry! Poor fellow!"

The tone was so natural that Matilde again looked at him uneasily, andmoved nearer to him, not answering Veronica. 

"Come, Gregorio, " she said, "you are ill. Come to your room--you mustnot stay here. "

"I am sorry you do not like the marionettes, " he said gravely. "Theyalways amuse me. Stay a little longer. "

Veronica supposed that he was ill from the effects of the poisoning andthat he was in some sort of delirium. But she did not pity him, and wasrelentless. She moved nearer to her aunt. 

"Answer me!" she said sternly. "This is the last time. If you deny thetruth now, I will go to the chief of police at once. "

"Oh! poor old Pulcinella!" cried Macomer, laughing gently. "How shegives it to him!"

Matilde was almost distracted. 

"You will be arrested at once, " said Veronica, pitilessly. 

"Never mind, Pulcinella!" exclaimed Macomer. "Courage, my friend! Youknow you always get away from the policeman! Ha! ha! ha!"

Matilde saw Veronica moving to go to the door. She straightened herselfand pointed to her husband. 

"Yes, " she said. "He did it--and he is mad. "

Her voice was firm and clear, for the die was cast. When she had spoken, she turned from them both towards the fireplace, and hid her face in herhands. If he could act his madness out, she, at least, would still befree and alive. Veronica stood still a moment longer, looking back. 

"That is the other piece, " said Macomer, thoughtfully. "Pulcinella doesnot go mad in this one. The man has forgotten the parts. It is apity--it was so amusing. "

There was silence for a moment. Matilde did not look round. 

"I think he will recover, " said Veronica. "But I am glad you have toldthe truth. I promise that you shall be safe. "

In a moment she was gone. 

"Just so, " said Macomer, speaking to himself. "He forgot the words ofthe piece, and so he made it end rather abruptly. Let us go home, Matilde, since it is over. "

"It is of no use to go on acting insanity before me, " answered Matilde, with a bitter sigh, as she raised her face from her hands and movedaway from the fireplace, not looking at him. 

"That is the reason why Pulcinella's wife disappeared so suddenly, " hereplied. "You see, there are two pieces which the marionettes act. Inthe one which begins with the quarrel--"

"I tell you it is of no use to do that!" cried Matilde, angrily, andbeginning to walk up and down the room, still keeping her eyes from theface she hated. 

"How nervous you are!" he exclaimed, with irritation. "I was only tryingto explain--"

"Oh, I know! I know! Keep this acting for the doctors! You will drive mereally mad!"

"The doctors?" He stared at her and smiled childishly. "Oh no!" heexclaimed. "The doctor is in the other piece--I was going to explain--"

She turned with a fierce exclamation upon him and grasped his arm, shaking him savagely, as though to rouse him. To her horror, he burstinto tears. 

"You hurt!" he whined. "You hurt me! Oh, poor little Gregorio!"

He was really mad, and there was no more acting for him, as the tearsstreamed down his vacant face, which no longer twitched at all. 

His mind had broken down under Veronica's relentless accusation andthreat of vengeance. 

The miserable woman's strength was all but gone, when she sat down, alone in the room with her mad husband, and once more buried her face inher hands. 

He whined and cried a little while to himself, and rubbed his arm whereshe had taken hold so roughly; but presently his tears dried again, andhe leaned over the end of the couch on his elbow, and above her bowed, veiled head he crooked his fingers at each other, and made his hands nodand bob to each other, like little dolls, laughing gently, with achuckle now and then, at the funny things he heard Pulcinella saying tohis wife. 

That was the end of the attempt to murder Veronica Serra, and that wasthe end of the old life at the Palazzo Macomer. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Veronica was not only merciful but generous to Matilde, when she finallyset her own fortune in order. Through Pietro Ghisleri she found anhonest and discreet man of business, whose fortune and good name placedhim above suspicion, and who arranged matters to her satisfaction, andas far to her advantage as was possible under the circumstances. 

Bosio had possessed a competency, which, as he died intestate, becamethe inheritance of his brother. But the latter, owing to the timerequired for the legal formalities, had not been able to get possessionof the money before he became insane, and was placed in an asylum atAversa, where he was probably to remain until he died. Bosio's littlefortune remained intact, and the use of it reverted to Matilde Macomer. Veronica paid Gregorio's expenses at the asylum. 

As for the Macomer property, she found herself obliged to raise money tomeet the mortgages which were due on the first of January after thefinal catastrophe, since Macomer had used up her income and left hermomentarily in difficulties. The banker who was managing matters forher advanced the sums necessary out of his private fortune, and theestate at Caserta, together with the Palazzo Macomer in Naples, becamethe property of Veronica Serra. By the estimates made they were worthmore than the money raised upon them by mortgage, and by the deeds ofsale the balance was to be paid to Matilde. This, with Bosio's property, was enough to make her independent, and, for the time being, Veronicaallowed her to live in the house. 

Lamberto Squarci was called in constantly, as having been Macomer'sagent. By agreement, Veronica caused the accounts of the estate to bebalanced from Macomer's books, so that everything appeared to be inorder, and she formally took over her fortune from Matilde and CardinalCampodonico, who knew nothing of the true state of affairs. SinceVeronica knew everything and was satisfied, it was not necessary that heshould be informed of what had taken place, and this secrecy was thekeeping of Veronica's promise that Matilde should be safe. 

When all was settled upon a permanent basis, Veronica found herselfstill exceedingly rich. Matilde was provided for. Gregorio was in theinsane asylum. The cardinal and the world at large were in totalignorance of all the truth except the facts which could not beconcealed; namely, that Bosio Macomer had killed himself and that hisbrother was mad. The latter fact explained the former; for everybodysaid that there was insanity in the family, and that Bosio had been mad, too. 

Veronica's first, chiefest, and most immediate difficulty lay in findinga reason which she could give Bianca and the cardinal for refusing tolive any longer with her aunt. She cared very little what society mightsay, for she was at once too inexperienced to attach the true measure ofimportance to its opinion, or to understand that the unhappy PrincessCorleone was not in a position to socially take the place of a chaperon;and, at the same time, she was too great a personage to be easilyintimidated by the fear of gossip. Bianca was her friend, and to her shewent unhesitatingly, feeling quite sure that she was doing right. 

There were people, however, who thought differently; first among whomwere the cardinal and the Duchessa della Spina, Gianluca's mother. Thecardinal did not return from Rome until after the first of January, butthe duchessa came to see Veronica at Bianca's villa within a few daysafter Veronica had left her aunt. 

The good lady implored her to return to the countess, in the name ofsociety or of religion, but Veronica was not quite sure which sheinvoked, for her language was not very coherent. She was not more thanfive-and-forty years of age, but she seemed to be already an old woman. Her hair was grey, she had lost many teeth, and she dressed, asVeronica wickedly said to Bianca, like the devil's grandmother. Shespoke affectionately, as well as reprovingly, however, having known bothVeronica's parents, and as having been a third cousin of her mother; andshe begged the young girl to come and stay as long as she pleased at theDella Spina palace, as her guest. 

Veronica thanked her, but declined to change her quarters. It was clearthat the Duchessa wished her to marry Gianluca, and had by no meansgiven up all hopes of the match. It was all the more clear, because shenever mentioned him, though Veronica knew that he was no better; andVeronica herself, though sorry for him, asked no questions, lest anyinquiry should be taken for a sign of an inclination which she did notfeel. The Duchessa smiled reprovingly and shook her head when she wentaway. It would have been quite impossible for her to explain to Veronicawhy she should not remain longer than necessary under Bianca's roof. And, indeed, the matter might not have been easy to explain. Veronicawas glad when she was gone. 

The cardinal was not so easy to deal with. He was a man of singularintensity of opinion, so to speak, when he held any fixed opinion atall, and he was displeased when he learned that Veronica was with hisniece. On the other hand, the fact that Bianca was his brother'sdaughter gave Veronica a weapon against him. Why should she not spend amonth or two with the niece of her former guardian, her old friend, thecompanion of her convent school days in Rome? Would his Eminence tellher why not? His Eminence replied by saying that he had never approvedof Bianca's marriage; that Prince Corleone was, in his opinion, as greata good-for-nothing as ever had appeared in Neapolitan society, and wasat present known to be leading a dissipated life in Paris and London. Veronica answered that all these things were to the discredit ofCorleone, but that Bianca was to be pitied, since she had been sounlucky as to marry a scoundrel, and that, on the whole, it was betterthat Corleone should stay away from her, if he could not behave decentlyat home. The cardinal retorted that no young girl should stay two monthsin the house of any woman who was practically separated from herhusband, for whatever reason; and he said that this was an acceptedtradition in society, and that society was not to be despised. He wasnot prepared for the answer he received. 

"I am Veronica Serra, " said the young girl, with a smile. "Society issociety. When we need each other, we will try and agree. "

This was somewhat enigmatic, to say the least of it, and the cardinalwas not quite sure whether he understood it. He should be very sorry, hesaid, to think that his old friend's daughter meant to cut herself offfrom the world in which she had so important a part to play. Of course, he had no longer any actual authority by which to direct her actions. She was of age, and if she chose to live alone, without so much as anelderly companion, no one could hinder her. To this Veronica promptlyanswered that she had come to Bianca's house in order not to be alone. 

"And why, " inquired the cardinal, watching her face keenly, "have youdetermined that you will no longer live with your aunt Macomer, who isyour only near relative and your natural companion?"

This was the real question, and Veronica had hoped that he would not askit; but being a good diplomatist, and knowing how hard it would be toanswer, the wise prelate had kept it back as a hammer with which todrive the wedges he had previously inserted one by one. 

"I had understood that you were always the best of friends, " he added, while she was silent for a moment. 

"We have not agreed so well lately, " said Veronica. "Besides, you couldhardly expect me to be happy in a house where such horrible things havelately happened. "

"You could live somewhere else, and have your aunt with you, " suggestedthe cardinal. 

"You do not understand!" Veronica smiled. "That would be quiteimpossible. She has always been accustomed to being mistress in thehouse, and if she lived with me, she would be my guest. She would notlike to accept that position. Just imagine! I would not even let herorder dinner. "

"You might let her do that, by way of a compromise, my child. "

"Oh--but she does it abominably! That is one reason for not living withher!"

The cardinal could not help laughing at Veronica's statement of thecase. 

"I see, " he said. "She poisoned you!" And he laughed again. 

"Yes, " answered Veronica. "That was exactly it. She poisoned us all. "

She smiled to herself at the terrible truth of the words which so muchamused the cardinal; but she continued to talk in the same strain, giving him the infinity of small reasons, under which a clever womanwill hide her chief one, confusing a man's impression of the whole byher superior handling of its parts, exaggerating the one detail andbelittling the next, until all proportion and true perspective are lost, and the man leaves her with the sensation of having been delicatelytaken to pieces, and put together again with his face turned backwards, over his shoulders. 

When, on leaving him, Veronica deposited the traditional and perfunctorykiss upon his sapphire ring, Cardinal Campodonico felt that his lateward had been a match for him at all points, and that after all it wasnot such a great thing to be a man, if one could not do better than hehad done. If he consoled himself with the fact that Eve had out-arguedAdam, he was mentally confronted by the reflexion that Adam had been alayman, and had not been called upon to sustain the dignity of acardinal and an archbishop. He determined, however, that he would renewthe attempt before long. If Veronica would not leave Bianca's villa, andlive in some other way, he would oblige his niece to cut the situationshort and go away for a journey. 

But Veronica had no intention of quartering herself upon her friend forany great length of time; and perhaps, under the circumstances, she didthe best thing she could in going directly to her. Bianca was discreet, and lived very quietly, receiving few people and going very little intothe world. The villa itself was at some distance from the centre ofNeapolitan life, so that the average idle man or woman thought twicebefore calling, without a distinct object, and merely for a cup of teaand a cup-of-tea's worth of gossip. There was not that constant comingand going of visitors in every degree of intimacy which might have beenexpected in the house of a woman of Bianca Corleone's beauty andposition. The world is easily tired of unhappy people, and men soonweary of worshipping a goddess who never smiles upon them. As for thefact that Pietro Ghisleri was frequently at the villa, society refrainedfrom throwing stones, in consideration of the extreme brittleness of itsown glass dwelling. Ghisleri was disliked in Naples, because he was aTuscan; but Bianca, as a Roman, might have been more popular. 

It need hardly be said that she preferred the isolation she enjoyed to agayer existence. To Veronica it seemed as though she herself had neverbefore known what liberty was. The whole mode of life was different fromanything to which she had been accustomed. The villa was near thecountry, and its own grounds were not small. Bianca was passionatelyfond of dogs and horses, for her father bred horses on his lands in theRoman Campagna, and she had been accustomed to animals from herchildhood. She taught Veronica to ride, and the fearless young girl wasa good pupil. They rode out together early in the morning, westward, towards Baiae, and up to the king's preserves, and often through somelands of Veronica's which lay in the rich Falernian district within aneasy distance. A groom followed them. Ghisleri very rarely joined theparty. 

Bianca Corleone had another accomplishment which was very unusual atthat time, and is still uncommon, among Italian women. She could fence, and was fond of the exercise. She had been a delicate child, and it hadlong been feared that her lungs were weak, so that she had beenencouraged from her earliest youth in everything which could contributetowards increasing her strength. Her brother, Gianforte, had even as aboy been a good fencer. He was devotedly attached to his only sister, and as she had not gone to the convent school until she had been fifteenyears old, they had been constantly together until then, he being only acouple of years older than she. One day she had taken up one of hisfoils, laughing at the idea, and had made him show her how to hold it;and he had forthwith amused her by teaching her to fence, on rainy daysin Rome, when she could not ride. It had seemed to do her good, and herfather had allowed her to have regular lessons, until she could handle afoil very fairly, for a girl. She herself liked it, but she rarelyalluded to it, regarding it as a rather unfeminine amusement, and being, at the same time, a most womanly woman. 

But in her villa she had a large empty room, admirably adapted forfencing, and three times weekly a famous master came and gave herlessons. To her surprise Veronica had shown an irresistible desire tolearn also, and had insisted upon being properly taught by thefencing-master. The young girl had soon shown that she had far morenatural ability and aptitude for the skilled exercise than Bianca hadpossessed when she had first begun. Her lean young figure, long arms, and unusual quickness gave her every advantage with a foil, and herextraordinary tenacity and determination to do well at it helped her toprogress rapidly. Before she had practised two months, though by nomeans yet as good as Bianca, she had been able to sustain a long boutwith her very creditably indeed. 

Bianca had a very different temperament and organization. She was neverreally strong, though exercise had developed her strength to the utmost. She did many things well, but did nothing with that sort of conviction, so to say, which proceeds from conscious inward vigour. When she was notactually riding or fencing, or doing something of the sort, there was alanguor in her movements and her manner which told that she had no greatvital force upon which to draw. Those who already know something of herstory, will remember that her life was short as well as sad. 

She watched Veronica with interest, noting how suddenly the girl changedand developed in her new liberty. She had never suspected her of manytastes and inclinations which now showed themselves for the first time. She found that a certain simplicity of view and judgment which she hadset down to girlish innocence, was, in reality, the natural bent ofVeronica's character. There was a fearless directness in the girl'sways, which delighted Bianca Corleone. 

The two young women were alone one afternoon, not long after Veronicahad come, when Taquisara and Gianluca appeared together. It was a partof Bianca's way of showing her indifference to the world, to receive anyone who came, whenever she was at home. No one should ever be able tosay that he or she had not been admitted when Bianca was in the villa. 

At the door of the drawing-room, Veronica could see that Gianluca triedto make his friend enter before him, and that Taquisara pushed himforward, with a little friendly laugh of encouragement. It happened thatshe was seated just opposite to the door. Gianluca came on, and wentdirectly towards Bianca. He was thinner and more transparent than ever. Veronica could almost fancy that she could see the light through hisface. She thought he was slightly lame; or, at least, that he walkedwith a little difficulty. 

Bianca looked up kindly, as she gave him her hand, for she had alwaysliked him. Taquisara came to her a moment later, and both men turned toVeronica. Gianluca evidently did not wish to sit down by Veronica, whereas Taquisara, in order to oblige him to do so, took a chair on theother side of Bianca, and spoke to her at once. Gianluca seated himselfupon a chair half-way between Bianca and Veronica. 

Possibly Bianca resented the Sicilian's cool way of forcing her to talkwith him, as though he knew that she should prefer to do so. For manyreasons she was unduly sensitive to the slightest appearance of anythingeven faintly resembling a liberty. She answered what he said, and made aremark in her turn; but, without waiting for his reply, she looked roundat Gianluca and spoke to him, interrupting something which he was tryingto say to Veronica. In almost any situation, such a proceeding wouldhave been tactless; but Bianca had seen the result of the meetingbetween Gianluca and Veronica on the former occasion, and she guessedrightly that if they were forced into the necessity of exchangingcommonplaces, there would be an even more complete failure now thanthere had been before. Taquisara had thrust him upon Veronica in anexcess of friendly zeal for his interests. He kept his place for a fewmoments, and then, seeing Bianca's intention, rose and went toVeronica's other side. Gianluca immediately drew his chair nearer toBianca. 

Veronica did not remember afterwards how the Sicilian opened theconversation, nor what she herself at first said. In spite of the strongimpression he had produced upon her when they had met in the gardenthree or four weeks earlier, she now looked away from him, watching theother two as they talked. 

She saw at a glance that Gianluca's manner with Bianca was not at allwhat it was with herself. He looked ill and worn; but his face hadbrightened, his tone was light and cheerful, and he was evidently sayingamusing things, for Bianca laughed audibly, which was rare with her, even when she and Veronica were alone together. He was at his ease;instead of seeming awkward he had an especial grace, beyond that ofordinary men; instead of being visibly disturbed by the sound of his ownvoice, he appeared to be almost as sure of himself and of what he wasgoing to say as Taquisara. 

Veronica wondered why she had never noticed him before, except when hewas talking with her. He was ill and weak, but he was undeniably anoticeable man. She remembered all that his friend had said of him, andher own disappointment after her last meeting with him, and she all atonce realized that she had only seen the man at his worst. She watchedhim narrowly. He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned withoutapparent reason, and met them. Instantly the blood mounted to the rootsof his hair, and he looked away again, and stumbled and hesitated in theanswer he gave to what Bianca had last said. 

But Veronica remembered very distinctly his speeches to her, and sherecalled in contrast the words Bosio had spoken to her just before hedied. Then she turned her head, and listened to Taquisara. 

"What did you say?" she asked. 

"I have not the slightest idea, " replied the Sicilian, with a littlelaugh. "I suppose it must have been a compliment, and I did not expectany answer, of course. "

"I should have thanked you, if I had heard it, " answered Veronica, smiling rather absently, for she was still thinking of Gianluca. 

"A man never expects thanks from a woman, " said Taquisara. "Shall youstay long with the Princess Corleone?"

"I do not know. I have not decided. Why do you ask?"

"Was I indiscreet?"

"No. Of course not. I thought you might have some reason for asking. "

"A general reason, perhaps, " answered Taquisara. "You have been introuble. I suppose that you have been unhappy, and that you will changeyour life in some way--so I asked what you were going to do. "

"As for staying here or not, I have not yet decided. But what I mean todo would not interest you at all. Before very long, I shall probably goto Muro. "

"To Muro! I have often wished to see the place where they murdered QueenJoanna. "

"I have never been there myself, though it belongs to me, " answeredVeronica. "Her ghost has it all to itself now. They say that she sitsat the head of the grand staircase, once a year, at midnight, andshrieks. If you wish to see Muro, you had better go before I am there, "she added, with a smile. "I shall be there alone, and I could notpossibly receive you, as I could not even offer you a cup of tea, youknow. "

"What an absurd institution society is, " observed Taquisara, withcontempt. "The priest says, 'Ego conjungo vos'; and you are licensed tosnap your fingers at everything that has bound you until that moment, asthough the law of your marriage were your divorce from law. "

"That sounds clever, " said Veronica; "but I do not believe it is. "

He laughed, indifferently; and after a moment or two, she looked at him, and smiled. 

"I did not mean to be so rude, " she said. 

So they talked in small, objectless remarks, and questions, and answers, neither witty nor quite witless; but Veronica did not refer to Gianluca, and Taquisara knew that for the present he had better let matters alone. Presently Bianca spoke across to Veronica, and the conversation becamegeneral. In the course of it, Gianluca spoke to Veronica, and sheanswered him, and then asked him a question. She was surprised to findthat, so long as the others were joining in whatever was said, he seemedquite at his ease, though his colour came and went frequently. On thewhole, she had a much better impression of him this time than she hadretained after the former meeting, when he had seemed so utterlyhelpless and shy in her presence. But when both men rose to go away shecould not help comparing them again. 

Even then, it seemed to her that the comparison was less unfavourable toGianluca than she had expected that it must be. He was tall andwell-proportioned, and in spite of the slight difficulty in walking, which she had to-day noticed for the first time, he was graceful and ofeasy carriage. His extreme languor in moving was, perhaps, whatdispleased her the most. When he had entered the room, she had beenannoyed at his coming; but now she was rather sorry, than otherwise, that he was going away so soon. Possibly, as she had expected nothing, she was the more easily satisfied. Taquisara, too, had disappointed her. He had talked very much like any one else, and not at all as he hadtalked at that first meeting. Veronica felt that she was indifferent. Bosio's untimely death had terribly changed the face of the world forher, she thought. 

A cold listlessness, unfamiliar to her nature, came over her when thetwo men were gone. Before long Ghisleri appeared, and there was tea andmore conversation. He was thought to be an agreeable man, and peoplesaid that he talked well. Veronica wondered vaguely what Bianca saw inhim that made her like him so much. But it struck her that the questionhad not presented itself to her before that day, and that, on the whole, she liked her friend's friend very well. 

Presently she left them to themselves in the drawing-room and went toher own room to write a long letter to Don Teodoro, who was now in Muro, and actively engaged in carrying out her wishes for improving thecondition of the poor there. As she wrote, her interest in life revived, after having been unaccountably suspended for half an hour, and she feltagain all her enthusiasm for the chief object she now had in view. 

Soon after this, too, she began to examine the state of the big farmsthrough which she often rode with Bianca, asking questions of the peopleand entering into conversation with the local under-steward when shechanced to meet him. As was to be expected, the news that the youngprincess now took an active interest in the administration of herestates soon went abroad amongst the peasants. They soon knew her bysight and were only too ready to come and stand at her stirrup and pourout the tale of their woes, since she was condescending enough tolisten. Sometimes, if she found a case of anything like oppression, sheinterfered. Sometimes, and this was what more often happened, she helpedsome poor man with money--in order that he might be able to pay his rentto herself. Bianca laughed once at a charity of this kind, but Veronicaheld her own. 

"The rule is for everybody, " she said. "They must pay their rents, orgo. If I choose to help those who have had trouble, that is my affair, and not the business of the under-steward with whom they have to do. Besides, if the rent is remitted this year, they will expect the samething in the future, whereas they know that a little money is a passingcharity on which they cannot count with certainty. The less publicitythere is about charity, the more of self-respect remains to those whoprofit by it. "

Bianca glanced sideways at Veronica's face as the latter finishedspeaking, and she felt that the girl was not cast in the same mould asherself. 

"I wonder whether you will ever marry, " she said thoughtfully, after ashort pause. 

"Why? What has that to do with it?" asked Veronica. 

"Your husband will find that it has a great deal to do with it, mydear, " Bianca answered, with a smile, and speculating upon the possiblefate of the Princess of Acireale's future husband. 

"Oh, --of course, I should not let him interfere in anything of thiskind, " said Veronica, gravely. "He should not come between me and mypeople. "

She sat very straight on her horse, and the girl's small head andaquiline features had a dominating expression. A struggling man, withsuch a look, is a man who means to win, and generally does, whateverthe nature of the race may be. 

"But I shall never marry, " Veronica added presently, and her facesoftened as she thought of the dead betrothed. "There is plenty to do inthe world, without marrying, if one will only do it. "

"If you do not, there will be one free man more in the world, " answeredBianca. 

Veronica laughed a little. 

"I daresay I should have my own way, " she said. 

The longer Veronica stayed with her, the more thoroughly was Biancaconvinced of this, and she wondered why it should have taken her so longto discover that the quiet, sallow-faced, gentle-mannered little girl, whom she had first known at the convent school, was developing acharacter which might some day astonish every one who should attempt tooppose her. It had been a growth of strength, with an accentuation ofwilfulness, and it had not been at all apparent at first. 

So they lived quietly together, in spite of the Cardinal Campodonico'sobjections and arguments, and, little by little, Veronica became quiteused to her absolute independence of plan and action, and the idea oftaking an elderly gentlewoman for a companion grew more and moredistasteful to her. 

Meanwhile her aunt was living all alone at the Palazzo Macomer. Manycommunications passed between the two, about matters of business, duringthe earlier weeks after their final separation, but they did not meet. As neither of them ever went into the world, it was extremely improbablethat they should meet at all, except by agreement. 

Gianluca came to the villa again, ten days after the visit last spokenof. And after that he came often, at irregular intervals, generally onceor twice a week. The first disappointing impression, which Veronica hadretained so long, gradually wore away, and she liked him very muchbetter than she had ever thought possible. Bianca never left the twoalone together. She felt more than ever responsible for Veronica, now, and bound to observe the customs and traditions in which both had beenbrought up. She was wise enough to know, too, that after such an unluckybeginning, it would be better for Gianluca if a long time passed beforehe had another chance of pouring out his heart to the young girl. Thingsmight go by contraries, she thought. Contempt might turn to familiarity, familiarity to friendship, and friendship to love. The first change hadalready taken place, and the others might come in time. 

Before the spring came, Veronica knew that Taquisara had not been guiltyof exaggeration in describing his friend's character. Gianluca was allthat his friend had painted him, and perhaps more. Unfortunately, hewas not at all the kind of man whom Veronica would ever be inclined tofancy for a husband. It was easy for her to respect him, as she came toknow him better; it would have been hard not to like him, but it seemedimpossible to her that she should ever love him. 

Taquisara came very rarely--not more than three or four times in thecourse of the winter. He came alone, and did not stay long. Veronica sawthat he avoided her on those few occasions, and preferred to talk withBianca, though she was sometimes aware that he was looking at herearnestly, when her eyes were half turned from him. 

Gianluca seemed to grow a little stronger towards the spring. At least, he was less transparently thin; but the difficulty he had in walking wasmore apparent than before. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

As Gianluca's spirits revived, and he began to take courage again andfind new hope that Veronica might marry him after all, her position as apermanent guest in Bianca's house became a subject of especialdispleasure to the Della Spina family. They wished to renew theirproposals for a marriage, and they found themselves stopped by the factthat Veronica was no longer under the charge of any relative to whomthey could have communicated their offer. 

No one knew exactly what had happened before Christmas at the PalazzoMacomer excepting the persons concerned; but there is inevitably acertain amount of publicity about all business transactions connectedwith real estate, and somehow a story had filtered from the financial tothe social world, which more or less explained Veronica's conduct. Itwas said that Gregorio, whom most people had detested, had mismanagedher fortune, though nothing was hinted about any great fraud; and peopleadded that when the day of reckoning had come he had found himselfruined, and had lost his mind; Matilde, as guardian, had incurred theyoung princess's displeasure, but the latter had treated her generously, allowing her to live in the palace, which was now undoubtedly Veronica'sproperty. Some persons told a story of an attempt made by a servant topoison the Macomer household, but the majority laughed at the tale, andsaid that Gregorio had been too poor, or too stingy, to have his coppersaucepans properly tinned, and that a grain of verdigris would poisonhalf a regiment, as every Italian knows. 

However that might be, no one was responsible for Veronica, but Veronicaherself, unless Cardinal Campodonico still had some authority over her, which seemed more than doubtful. The old Duca made him a formal visit, and a formal proposition. His Eminence smiled, looked grave, smiledagain, and replied that in a long and varied experience of the world hecould not remember to have met with just such a case; that so far as hecould understand, the young Princess of Acireale was her own mistress, and would make her own choice, if she made any; but that she had beenheard to say that she would never marry at all. This, however, thecardinal thought impossible. 

"Then, " said the Duca della Spina, "you advise me to go directly to theyoung lady and ask her whether she will marry my son. "

"My friend, " replied the cardinal, "this is a case in which I wouldrather not give advice. I have no doubt that whatever you do will bewell done, and I wish you all possible success. "

The old Duca shuffled out of the cardinal's study, more puzzled thanever, and went home to tell his wife and Gianluca and Taquisara theresult of the interview. Taquisara was in the confidence of the family, and spent much of his time with his friend. 

"I am at my wits' end, " concluded the old nobleman, shaking his head, and looking sorrowfully at his son. "If you wish it, I will go to DonnaVeronica myself. It would be--well--very informal, to say the least. Poor Gianluca! My poor boy! If you would only be satisfied to marry yourcousin Vittoria, it would be a question of days! Of course--Iunderstand--her complexion is an obstacle, " he added reflectively. "Itwill probably improve, however. "

No one answered him, Taquisara broke the silence, after a pause. 

"You must either speak to the Princess Corleone, " he said, "or Gianlucamust speak to Donna Veronica for himself. "

Gianluca said nothing to him, but by a glance he reminded his friend ofhis former attempt. So they came to no conclusion, though it was clearthat Veronica now liked Gianluca quite enough, in their opinion, tomarry him at once. But he himself, remembering his discomfiture, knewthat the time had not yet come, though he had hopes that it might notbe far off. On that very day he went to Bianca's villa, and stayed anunreasonably long time, in the hope that Ghisleri might appear, for hefound Bianca and Veronica alone. Pietro would have talked with Bianca, and he himself would have had a chance, perhaps, to judge of his actualposition. He was no longer shy and awkward, now, when he was with theyoung girl. But Ghisleri did not come, and Gianluca went home, disappointed and disconsolate. 

"I suppose that if we were in Sicily, " he said to Taquisara on thefollowing morning, "you would propose to carry her off by force. Youonce advised me to do something of the sort. "

"That is a proceeding which needs the consent of the lady, " answered theSicilian. "The 'force' is employed against the relations. Now DonnaVeronica has none to speak of so far as I can see. It is a case forpersuasion. "

Gianluca sighed. Matters were at a deadlock, and Veronica had announcedher intention of going to Muro alone, before long. Once establishedthere, she might stay in the mountains until the following autumn, unapproachable in her maiden solitude, as she had told Taquisara. Gianluca might knock at her gate, there, but he would certainly not beadmitted. 

"You despise me, " he said to his friend. "You think me weak andhelpless, and you fancy that if you were in my place you could dobetter. But I do not believe you could. "

"No, " replied the other. "I do not believe so, either. And I do not atall despise you. You have only one chance--to make her love you. No manis to be despised because a woman does not love him. It is not hisfault. "

"I feel as though it were, " said Gianluca. "I am sure that if I couldchange, if I could make myself different in some way--but that isabsurd, of course. "

"One cannot suddenly become some one else. " For himself, without vanity, Taquisara was probably glad of the fact, but he was sincerely sorry forhis friend. "You might write to her, " he suggested. 

"Love-letters--to Donna Veronica?" Gianluca smiled incredulously. "Youdo not know her!"

"I know her a little, " replied Taquisara. "All women like to receiveletters from men who love them, if they are well expressed and sincere. "

"How horribly practical you are sometimes!" exclaimed the younger man, unaccountably irritated at his friend's generalizations. 

Taquisara laughed and knocked the ashes from his long black cigar. 

"You came to me for advice, not for sentiment, " he observed presently. "Perhaps I am a bad adviser, but that is the worst you can say of me. Idaresay I do not understand women. I have known a few pretty well, butthat is all. I am not a lady killer, and I certainly never wished tomarry. You must not expect much of me--but what little there is toexpect will be practical. Perhaps Ghisleri could advise you better thanI. He is a queer fellow. If he ever cuts his throat, he will not die ofit--his heart and his head will go on living separately, just as they donow. "

Gianluca smiled again, for the description of the man was keen and true, as men knew him. 

"No, " he answered; "I shall not consult Ghisleri. You and I aredifferent enough to understand each other. He and I are not, though heis a good friend of mine. "

"I should not say that you resemble Ghisleri in any way, " observedTaquisara, bluntly. 

"You may not see it, but I feel it. It is not easy to explain. He and Ifeel about many things in the same way, but we look at ourselvesdifferently. "

"That sounds like a woman's speech!" said Taquisara. "But you are alwaysmaking fine distinctions which I cannot understand. What do you meanwhen you say that you look at yourselves differently? How do you look atyourselves?"

"Do you never think about yourself, as though you were another person, and were judging yourself like a man you knew?"

"No, " said Taquisara, thoughtfully. "I never thought of doing that. "

"But what does self-examination mean, then?" asked Gianluca. 

"I have not the slightest idea. I am myself. I know myself. I know whatI want and do not want. It seems to me that I know enough. What in theworld should I examine? You would be much better if you could get rid ofall that romance about conscience and self-examination and such trash. Aman knows perfectly well whether he is faithful to the woman he loves ornot, whether he is betraying his friend or standing by him--what else doyou want? I believe that theology and philosophy and self-examination, and all that, were invented in early times for heathen people who didnot know whether they were doing right or wrong, because they were justconverted. "

At this extraordinary view of church history Gianluca laughed. 

"You may laugh, " answered the Sicilian. "You will never make me believethat old Tancred sat up all night examining his conscience before hewent to the Holy Land--any more than he fasted and prayed before he hadhis daughter's lover murdered. "

"No--perhaps not!" Gianluca laughed again. 

"He did what struck him as right and natural, " said Taquisara, gravely. "Besides, he was sovereign prince in his own land, and it was not amurder at all, but an execution. For a princess, his daughter behavedoutrageously. I should have done the same thing, in his place. He hadthe right and the power, and he used it. But that is not the point. Asfor Ghisleri, he would have cut the boy's head off in a rage, and thenhe would have spent a year on his knees in a monastery. You would haveprayed yourself into a good humour, and the fellow would have got off. "

"Unless I had asked your advice, " suggested Gianluca. 

"And if you had, you would not have acted upon it--any more than youwill write to Donna Veronica now, though I tell you that all women liketo receive love-letters. It is natural. A woman is not satisfied withbeing told once a week that she is loved. She likes to know it all thetime--the oftener, the better. Two letters of one page are better thanone of two pages. Twenty notes a day, of a line or two each, will make awoman perfectly happy--provided that you do not make a mistake and sendone less on the day following. They like repetition, provided it is inthe same pitch. If you have begun high, you must not let the stringsslacken. Women are curious creatures. In religion, they can believefifty times as much as any man. In love, they only believe while theysee you and hear you. As soon as your back is turned--even if they havesent you away--they scream and cry out that you have abandoned them. Before you come, they want you. When you are there, you weary them. When you are gone, you have betrayed them. And they wonder that a mancannot bear that sort of thing forever! Do you call me practical forspeaking in this way? Very well, then--I am practical. I tell you what Iknow. "

Gianluca was amused, but he thought over what Taquisara had advised himto do, and the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was tofollow the advice. Not that he regarded the writing of letters toVeronica at all as a hopeful means of moving her; but he felt that hemight write her much which he would not say. He loved her with thedeepest sincerity, and with an almost morbid passion, and the idea ofapproaching her in any way was irresistible. He had not realized beforenow that he could at least try the experiment of writing. She knew thathe loved her, and at the worst, she might tell him not to write again. He remembered his terrible awkwardness and hesitation when he had firsttold her of his love, and his humiliation afterwards, when he hadreflected upon the poor figure he had made. There would be nohumiliation, now. He was sure of that. He could rely upon his pen andhis wits, though he could not trust to his wits with only his tongue tohelp them. 

The chief objection to this method of wooing was that, in his class, itwas untraditional. And this had some weight with him, for he had beenbrought up rigidly in the practices and customs of an exclusive caste. On the other hand, he had never thought of plunging rashly intolove-phrases, from the first. He wished to establish a correspondencewith Veronica, and then by subtle tact and delicate degrees to acquirethe right of speaking to her, by his letters, of what he felt, making noreference to them when he met her, until she should at last give somesign that she would listen favourably. 

The plan was wise and far sighted, but it had not been the result ofwisdom nor of diplomatic instinct. He adopted it out of delicacy, andout of respect for the woman he loved, and in the hope of reaching herheart without ever jarring upon her sensibilities. 

By nature and talent, as well as by cultivation, Gianluca was admirablygifted for such a correspondence as he now attempted to begin. In othercircumstances of fortune he might have become eminent as a man ofletters. Without possessing any of that practical, masculine knowledgeof women, which Taquisara so roughly expressed, Gianluca had a keen andsure understanding of the feminine mind. There is no contradiction inthat, for the men who know something of women's hearts by instinct andexperience are by no means always those who are in intellectual sympathywith them. Very young women are sometimes surprised when they discoverthis fact, but men generally know it of one another; and the man of whomother men are jealous is rarely the one who prides himself upon knowingand sympathizing with the feminine point of view on things in general, from literature to dress. 

Gianluca had talked with Veronica about all sorts of subjects, and shehad often asked him questions which he had not been able to answer onthe spur of the moment. It was easy for him, in his first letter, tohark back to one of those idle questions of hers, and to make his replyto it an excuse for a letter. Such a communication would need noacknowledgment beyond a spoken word of thanks, which she would bestowupon him the next time they met. It should contain nothing warmer thanthe assurance of his anxiety to be of service to her, in anything sheundertook, and a protestation of respectful friendship at the end. 

He wrote that first letter over twice and read it carefully before hesent it. It referred to an historical question connected with the houseof Anjou, from which her castle of Muro had come to the Serra by amarriage, several centuries ago, and by which marriage Veronica tracedher descent on one side to the kings of France. The castle itself hadbeen twice the scene of royal murders, and there were many strangetraditions connected with it. Gianluca got the information he neededfrom the library downstairs, and he found ample material for a letterof some length. 

But it was not dry and uninteresting, a mere copy of notes taken fromhistories and chronicles. The man had an undeveloped literary talent, ashas been said, and he instinctively found light and graceful expressionsfor hard facts. He was himself discovering that he had a gift forwriting, and the pleasure of the discovery enhanced the delight ofwriting to the woman he loved. The man of letters who has first foundout his own facility in the course of daily writing to a dearly lovedwoman alone knows the sort of pleasure that Gianluca enjoyed, when hefound that it was his pen that helped him, and not he that was drivinghis pen. 

He sent what he had written, and determined that on the following day hewould go to the villa again. To his surprise and joy, he received a notefrom Veronica in the morning, thanking him warmly for the pains he hadtaken, and asking another question. It came through the post; and withhis insight into feminine ways, he guessed that she had not wished tosend a messenger to him, --a servant, who would have at once told otherservants of the correspondence. 

Veronica had been pleased by the letter. She was beginning to like himfor himself, and to forget how very foolish he had seemed to be when hewas declaring his passion for her. But his letter showed him all atonce in an entirely new light, and was at once a pleasure and asurprise. She thought it natural to write him a few words of thanks. Indeed, it would have seemed rude not to do so. 

In the liberty she was enjoying in Bianca's house, she was rapidlyforgetting that she was only a young girl, and that society would beshocked if it knew that she was exchanging letters with Gianluca dellaSpina. There is nothing which a girl learns so easily and all at once asindependence of that social kind. What grey-haired man of the world hasnot at one time or another been amazed at the full-grown assurance ofsome bride of eighteen or nineteen summers? A month is enough--withproper advantages--to make a drawing-room queen and a society tyrant ofa schoolgirl. And that sort of independence is not alone the result ofmarriage. In Veronica's case, a slowly developed strength had beensuddenly set free to act, by an accidental emancipation from allsemblance of restraint; and the emancipation was so complete that evenin the widest interpretation of the law, no one could have now claimed aright to control or direct her actions. 

She was nearly twenty-two years of age; she had a great position in herown right, and she was immensely rich. It was not until long afterwardsthat she learned how many offers of marriage had been refused for herby her aunt and uncle. For the present, the fathers and mothers ofmarriageable sons were waiting until three or four months should haveelapsed, for they generally guessed that there had been a catastrophe ofsome sort at the Palazzo Macomer after Bosio's death; and, moreover, ashas been seen, it was impossible to ascertain the proper person to whomto address any such proposal. 

The consequence of it all was, that Veronica was absolutely her ownmistress, and free to go and come, and to do what seemed right in herown eyes. As she had told the cardinal, when she and society shoulddiscover that they needed each other, they would try and agree. In caseof a disagreement, it was probable that, of the two, society would yieldto Veronica Serra. Meanwhile she would correspond with Gianluca, if shepleased. During the arrangement of her affairs, she had constantlywritten to men, about business, under the advice of the bankers to whomshe had confided the whole matter. Gianluca was merely a few yearsyounger, and happened to belong to her own class. That was all. Whyshould he and she not write to each other? Yet it was not long since theidea of meeting Gianluca at Bianca's house, by agreement, had seemed adangerous adventure, about entering upon which she had really hesitated. To-day, for any reasonable cause, she would have walked through Napleswith him in the face of the world, at the hour when every one was in thestreets. 

He came to the villa in the afternoon, after receiving her note ofthanks, and she was glad to see him, and spoke with pleasure of hisletter, before Bianca, who seemed surprised, but said nothing at thetime. He was wise enough not to stay too long, and he went awayexceedingly elated by his first success. 

"What is the matter with him?" asked Veronica, of her friend, just afterhe had left them. "He seems so much better--but he is growing very lame. Did you notice how he walked to-day? He seems to drag his feet afterhim. "

"He must have hurt his foot, " said Bianca, calmly. "By the by, what isthis, about letters? Do you mean to say that he writes to you?"

"Yes--and I write to him, " answered Veronica, with perfect calm. "Yousee, as I have nobody to ask, I ask nobody. It is more simple. "

"But, my dear child--a young girl--"

"Do not call me a child, and do not call me a young girl, Bianca, " saidVeronica. "I am neither, in the sense of being a thing to be kept undera glass case and fed on rose leaves. I am a woman, and as I do not thinkthat I shall ever marry, I refuse to be chaperoned all the way toold-maidhood. I know that you feel responsible for me, in a sort ofway, because you are married, and I am not. It is really absurd, dear. Iam much better able to take care of myself than you are. "

"No doubt, in a way. You are more energetic. But as for writing toGianluca--I hardly know--I wish you would not. "

"He writes very well, " answered Veronica. "I will show you his letter. Besides, so far as your responsibility goes, it will not last muchlonger. I shall go to Muro next month. "

"Alone?"

"Alone--yes. I always mean to live alone. Don Teodoro will come and dinewith me every evening, and we will talk about the people, and what weare doing for them. I shall have horses to ride. If you will come, wewill fence together. I shall miss the fencing dreadfully. Could you notcome, Bianca dear?"

"I believe that you will miss the fencing more than me, dear, " answeredBianca, rather sadly. 

Veronica was more to her than she could ever be to Veronica, and sheknew it. 

"Bianca!" exclaimed the young girl. "How can you say such things!Because I spoke of fencing first? You know that I did not mean it inthat way! I want you for yourself--but it will be nice to have the foilsin the morning, all the same. You see, I could not even have afencing-master out there. It is so far! Do come. "

Bianca shook her head. 

"We will have glorious days together, " continued Veronica. "We will doall sorts of things together. They do say that it rains a good deal inthose mountains--well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri, while I write to Don Gianluca. "

Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautifulface grew paler, until it was almost wan. Veronica thought she was likea passion flower, just then. A short silence followed. 

"Veronica, " said Bianca, at last, "why do you not marry Gianluca, sinceyou have grown to liking him so much?"

"I like him for a friend, " answered Veronica, quietly. "I do not want ahusband. Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps--some day, if youwill come to Muro, dear. Think about it. "

She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to thesubject again. She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of notasking questions. Confidence given for the asking, however readily, isbut the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidenceunasked. 

In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again, about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation;and Veronica's short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found thatshe, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward towriting them, as well as to receiving his. And his came oftener, untilshe had one almost every day. 

But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarelyspoke of their correspondence. Somehow it had come to be a bond linkingcertain sides of their natures which they did not show to each otherwhen they met and talked. They never could talk as freely as they wrote, even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemedperfectly at his ease in conversation. There was a sort of undefinedrestraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they wouldwrite what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand eachother far better than by spoken words. 

In Gianluca's case such a condition of things was natural enough. Hefelt that she understood friendship when he meant love, and he was awarethat he was progressing slowly but surely towards the freedom to saywhat was always in his heart, while his success must depend upon hiswisdom and tact in not surprising her with a declaration of passion, inthe midst of a discussion upon church history or modern systems ofcharity. Compared with what he had felt in their former relations, hewas happy, now, beyond his utmost expectations; and, in the relativehappiness he had found, he was willing to be patient, rather than torisk anything prematurely. 

It was more strange, perhaps, that Veronica should regard this growingintimacy as she did, for she had no under-thought of a future change tosomething else, as he had, and she was naturally simple in reasoning anddirect in action. Yet she could not but be aware that there was a sortof duality in their friendship, and she never confused the ideas theyexchanged when in the one state--that is to say, when writing--withthose about which they talked when an actual meeting brought them intothe other. The one state already was an intimacy; the other was hardlyyet more than a pleasant acquaintance, with the memory of a disagreeablebeginning. Such curiosities of human intercourse are more easilyunderstood by those who have met with them in life than explained tothose who have not. The facts were plain. When Veronica and Gianlucawere together in Bianca's drawing-room, they said nothing which mightnot have been heard with indifference by all Naples. When they wrote toeach other they spoke of themselves, of their real thoughts about thingsand people, of their belief, and, to some extent, of their feelings. 

Veronica did not perhaps acknowledge that, little by little, Gianluca'sletters were beginning to fill the place of poor Bosio's conversation informer times. But that was what was taking place. She was more lonely inmind than in heart, and without making the slightest pretence to talentor unusual cultivation, she craved a mental companionship of some sortto take up the thread where it had been broken. She had found itunexpectedly in her new friend's letters, and she recognized it andclung to it, as to something almost necessary in her existence. When shewas ready to go up to Muro, she knew that without those letters life insuch a solitude would be well nigh unsupportable, whereas, being able tolook forward to them, and to answering them, her hours of idleness werealready a foretasted pleasure. 

She had not even told the cardinal that she was going, and she was goingalone. In Naples this seemed so incredible that after she was gone, people spontaneously invented a companion for her and assured oneanother that she had sent for a distant and elderly old-maid cousin as achaperon and protectress. Even the cardinal believed it, taking italmost for granted. 

On the afternoon of the day before her departure Gianluca came, walkingwith difficulty and excusing himself for bringing his stick with himinto the drawing-room. He was very pale, and looked more ill than for along time past. But he spoke calmly enough, though saying little morethan was required, while Bianca and Veronica kept up the conversation. Veronica was in good spirits and was evidently looking forward to thejourney with pleasure and curiosity. 

Then Ghisleri appeared, followed shortly by Taquisara, who had calledvery rarely during the winter. Veronica thought that he had grown verycold and silent. He slowly stirred a cup of tea which he did not drink, and he scarcely joined in the conversation at all. He lookedoccasionally at one or another of the party, and once or twice his eyesfixed themselves on Veronica's face. She could not understand why hispresence chilled her, but she was aware that she spoke more coldly thanusual to Gianluca. 

At the end of half an hour, the latter rose to go, glancing at Veronicaas he did so. Taquisara, on pretence of setting down his tea-cup, rosealso and managed to place himself in front of Bianca, and said somethingto which Ghisleri gave an answer, just as Veronica and Gianluca werestanding close together. 

"May I go on writing to you?" asked Gianluca, in a low tone and quickly. 

Veronica looked up at him with a startled expression. 

"Oh please--please!" she answered anxiously. "As often as you can--Icount on it! Of course!"

Gianluca's thin, pale face brightened suddenly as he heard her vehementrequest and the anxiety in her tone. 

"Thank you, " he said. "Good-bye. "

He shook hands with Bianca, nodded to the two men, and turned awaytowards the door. He had not reached it, walking a little less painfullyin his excitement, when he was aware that he had left his stick leaningagainst the chair in which he had sat. He stopped and looked back to besure that it was there, before returning to get it. Veronica waswatching him, saw what he had done, picked up the stick and carried itswiftly to him before he could come for it. 

Taquisara had seen her movement and had tried to get the stick beforeshe could, to take it to his friend. He had been too far out of reach, and she had been before him. But he followed her, and he saw that as shehanded Gianluca his property, she looked up into his face and smiledvery kindly. Gianluca thanked her, smiling too, and the impression anyone would have had was that they thoroughly understood each other. Hebowed again and went out. Veronica turned to come back to the tea-tableand found herself facing Taquisara's fiery eyes. She was surprised, andlooked into his face, very near to him, and waiting for him to standaside. 

"You are playing with him, " he said in a low and angry voice. 

The room was long, and Bianca and Ghisleri were at the other end of it. After he had spoken, Veronica stared at him a moment, in genuineamazement at his words and manner. Then her eyes gleamed, too, and thedelicate nostrils quivered. 

"You are insolent, " she said coldly, and turning a little to the right, she passed him. 

"No. I am his friend, " he answered, scarcely above a whisper, as shewent by. 

He came back, shook hands with Bianca, bowed coldly to Veronica, andleft the room within two minutes after Gianluca. 

"What is the matter with Taquisara?" asked Ghisleri, carelessly. "Heseems irritable. "

Bianca looked at Veronica. 

"Does he? I suppose he is anxious about Don Gianluca. "

Veronica was still pale when she spoke, but the tone was cold andindifferent. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Veronica had felt herself mortally insulted by Taquisara's manner, muchmore than by his words, though they had been offensive enough. Herimpression of the man was completely changed, in a moment, and she hopedthat she might never see him again, so long as she lived. It had beenone thing to praise Gianluca to her, and to press his suit for him; itwas quite another to lie in wait for her, as it were, at the end of adrawing-room and to reproach her brutally and angrily with wishing tobreak Gianluca's heart. As she thought of his eyes, and his face, andhis low voice, she grew pale with anger herself, at the mere memory ofhis insolence. 

It did not strike her that there could be any truth in his accusation. Gianluca was old enough to take care of himself. Was Taquisara hisnurse, his keeper, his doctor? Gianluca was not making love to her inhis letters, nor was she, in hers, encouraging him to do so. She wasangry at the thought that the Sicilian should know anything of theircorrespondence, as it seemed evident that he must. It was true that herown friend, Bianca, knew something about it. She could forgiveGianluca, if he had confided too much in Taquisara, but she could notforgive Taquisara for having been the recipient of the confidence, andshe would neither forgive nor forget the way in which he had shown herhow much he knew. 

For the first time in her life, Veronica longed to be a man, that shemight not only resent the insult, but have satisfaction of the man whohad insulted her. She felt that she was emphatically not playing withGianluca, as Taquisara had expressed it. She had told him frankly, several months earlier, that she could not love him, --she had shaken herhead and had said that she was sorry, --and neither he nor any one elsehad a right to suppose that she was now changing her mind. SinceGianluca was apparently willing to accept the position and to be herfriend, it was nobody's affair but his and hers. She felt that she hadbeen fully justified in what she had said to Taquisara. At the same timeshe was half conscious of being disappointed in the man, and of beingwounded by the disappointment. 

She left Bianca's house early, and as she drove away to the railwaystation alone with Elettra, she felt that her life was only now reallybeginning. The months of independence she had enjoyed had prepared herfor this final move. In the course of setting her affairs in order, shehad been brought face to face with a side of the world which few womenever see or understand, and her character had hardened singularly tomeet the difficulties she had found in her path. She probablyoverestimated the strength she had now acquired; for more than once, onthe way to the station, she felt a momentary reaction of timidity and alonging to go back and stay a few days more with Bianca. She laughedbravely at herself for her weakness, and told herself that she was goingto her own place, to be surrounded by her own people, that she wastwo-and-twenty years of age and had been through troubles during thepast months which had proved her strength. Nevertheless, the factremained that she was a very young, unmarried woman, that she was goingto live alone, and that she was breaking through the whole hard shell offossilized social tradition. Even Elettra, born a peasant of themountains, thought her mistress's decision amazingly bold, though sheapproved of it in her heart, and had been ready to go to Muro withVeronica long ago. 

"What would your father, blessed soul, have said, Excellency?" sheasked, when they were seated together in the train which was to takethem to Eboli, beyond Salerno. 

"Shall I send for the Countess Macomer?" asked Veronica, with a smile. 

"Heaven preserve us from her!" exclaimed Elettra, and she crossedherself hastily, and then made the sign of the horns with her fingers, against the evil eye, and with her other hand touched a coral charmwhich she had in her pocket. 

Veronica had long been in correspondence with Don Teodoro about thearrangements for her coming. He had expected that she would bring astaff of servants from Naples with all the paraphernalia of a greatestablishment. She had replied that she intended to employ only her ownpeople, and meant to live very simply. He suggested that she should senda quantity of new furniture, as the apartments in the castle had notbeen inhabited for nearly twenty years, but Veronica answered that sheneeded no luxuries, and repeated that she meant to live very simplyindeed. She sent her saddle horse and two pairs of strong cobs with twocountry carriages and a coachman--a very young man, who had served inGianluca's regiment and had been his man. He was to find a man in Muroto help him in the stables, and he was the only servant, not a native, whom she meant to employ. Don Teodoro had kept ten people at work for amonth in cleaning the vast old place. Veronica had sent also a box ofbooks, some linen and silver, and her fencing things--for she stillhoped that Bianca would pay her a visit. 

The journey by rail occupied between four and five hours, but it did notseem so long to her. She was surprised at the excitement she felt, asshe passed station after station and watched the changing sights andthe mountains that loomed up in the foreground, while those behind herdwindled in the distance. She had travelled very little in her life, since she had come back from Rome. 

On the platform of the little station at Eboli, Don Teodoro was waitingfor her. His tall bent figure and enormous nose made him conspicuous ata distance, and she could see the big silver spectacles anxiouslysearching for her along the row of carriage windows. As the door wasopened for her she waved her handkerchief to the old priest, with alittle gesture of happy enthusiasm, high above her head, and he saw herimmediately and came forward, three-cornered hat in hand. She suddenlyloved the smile with which he greeted her. 

"You, at least, do not think that I am mad to come to Muro, do you?" sheasked, standing beside him on the platform while Elettra was handing outher smaller belongings. 

"Not at all, " answered the old man. "You are coming to take care of yourown people, and it is a good deed. Good deeds generally seem eccentricto society--and considering their rarity, that is not extraordinary. "

He smiled again, and Veronica laughed. 

"Your carriage is here, " said Don Teodoro. "May I take you to it? Willyou give me the tickets, Elettra? They take them at the gate. "

Veronica felt a new thrill of joyous freedom and independence, as forthe first time in her life she set her little foot upon the step of herown carriage, and glanced at the simple, well-appointed turnout. Thecoachman sat alone in the middle of the box, a broad-shouldered, clean-shaven young fellow of six-and-twenty, in a dull green livery withwhite facings--the colours of the Serra. 

"You would not even have a footman, " observed Don Teodoro. 

"No--not I!" she laughed, still standing in the carriage. "How are thehorses doing, Giovanni?" she asked of the coachman. "Are they strongenough for the work?"

"They are good horses, Excellency, " the man answered. "They need work. "

"And how is Sultana?" inquired the young girl, who had not seen the marefor several days. 

"The mare is well, Excellency. "

Veronica made Don Teodoro sit beside her, and Elettra installed herselfopposite them, with her mistress's bags and other things. The luggagewas piled on a cart which was to follow, and they drove away. 

"I sent the carriage down yesterday, " observed Don Teodoro. "I came bythe coach this morning. "

"Is it so far?" asked Veronica, whose ideas about the position of herproperty were still uncertain, for it had never struck Elettra that hermistress did not know how far it was from Eboli to Muro. 

"It is over thirty miles, " answered the priest, with a smile. "We arebeyond civilization in Muro--we are in the province of Basilicata. Butthere are little towns on the way, and you must stop to rest the horsesand to eat something. It will be almost dark when you get home. "

"Home!" repeated Veronica, thoughtfully. 

A confused vision rose in her mind, of an imaginary room, looking downfrom a height upon a town below--a room in which she would livealtogether, with her books and her favourite objects and thecompanionship of her favourite ideas and plans, all of which were to berealized and executed in the course of time. She fancied herself gazingdown from the wide window upon what was almost all hers, upon thedwellings of people who lived upon her land, who pastured her flocks anddrove her cattle, living, moving, and having being as integral animateparts of her great inheritance; children of men and women whose fathers'fathers had laboured in old days that she might have and enjoy thefruits of so much toil, who had given much and from whom had often beentaken even that which they had not been bound fairly to give; who hadreceived nothing in return for generations of blood and bone worn out, dried up, and consumed to dust in the service of the great house ofSerra. They had a right to her, as she had a right to the lands onwhich they lived. There was much talk of rights, Veronica thought, nowadays, and those who had none were privileged to speak the loudestand to be heard first. But those who, having right on their side, wereblinded and smitten dumb by the enormous despotism of their self-styledbetters--by the glare and noise of blatant power in possession--theywere the ones who really had rights, and if she could give any of them asingle hundredth part of what was their due, she should be glad that shehad lived. Wealth, she thought, should not be an accumulation, but adistribution, of goods. Charity should no longer mean alms, nor shouldpoverty be pauperism. In the young, whole-hearted simplicity of herdesire to do good, it seemed likely that she might soon be a specimen ofthe strangest of all modern anomalies--the princely socialist. It wascertainly in her power to try almost any experiment which suggesteditself, and on a scale which might ultimately prove something to herselfand others. 

It was not that she meant to study political economy, or socialism, norto give the name of an experiment to anything she did. She had beenstruck by the practical necessity for doing something, when Don Teodorohad first written to her about the condition of the people in Muro, andher own observations made on her farms in the Falernian district--oneof the richest corners of vine land in all Italy--had convinced her thatsome sort of action was urgently necessary. And if, in the midst of suchriches, the Falernian peasants were half starved, what must be the stateof the people on her lands in the Basilicata? Don Teodoro had drawn heran accurate picture, full of those plain details which carry more thanthe weight of their mere words. Something should be done at once. Shehad given him power and money to help the very poorest, before she came;but her common sense told her that the evil lay too deep in the soil tobe reached by a light shower of silver--or even by a storm of gold rain. 

Inventors, great or small, are rarely theorists; the invention must besuited to the necessity, before all things, and the theory may comeafterwards if anybody cares for it. For a theory is nothing but anattempted explanation, and the fact must exist before it can possiblyneed explaining. Bread is a great invention against hunger, and a manneeds to know nothing about the gastric juices to save himself fromstarvation when the loaf is in his hand. Veronica meant to put theloaves where they were needed, within reach of those who needed them. 

As she was driven through the rugged country on that May afternoon, shefelt that she had a future before her, that she was going into action, and leaving stagnation behind, and that her own life, which was to beher very own, was just beginning. It was to be a life quite differentfrom the existence of any one she knew, for, unlike the lives of herfriends, hers was to have an integral, independent existence of its own, with one determined object for all its activity. 

The months she had passed in Bianca's house had rather strengthened thanweakened the unformulated resolution which she had first vaguely reachedin the dark days after Bosio's death. There had been much solitude, andmany rides and drives into the country with her beautiful, silentfriend; and there had been very little contact with the world to disturbthe onward current of her thoughts. More than all, the first breath ofliberty after long restraint had enlarged and widened her determinationto be always free, in spite of the world, and society, and the drone ofthe busy-bodies' gossip. In her heart, the memory of Bosio had grown indignity, till it was solemn and imposing out of all proportion with whatthe man himself had been, even as Veronica had known him. To know thetruth of what his real life had been would have shaken her own to itsfoundations. But there was no fear of that; and now, her chief companionwas to be the priest who had loved him as a friend. Possibly that lastfact had even influenced her a little in her final determination tolive at Muro, rather than in any other of four or five equally habitableor uninhabitable places which she owned, and where she might have begunher work under circumstances quite as favourable to success. 

She had thought very little of any need she might feel for relaxationand amusement, and she was very far from realizing what that solitudemeant, which she was seeking with so much enthusiasm. She had never yetbeen as much alone as she should have liked to be, and she could notimagine that she might possibly become tired of playing the princess inthe tower for months together, with only the company of one learned oldecclesiastic as her sole diversion. The vision of home which she evokedwas always the same, but she did not even know whether the castle had aroom which looked down upon the little town. She imagined but a singleroom; the rest was all a blank. She had been told that it was a greatold fortress, with towers and halls and courts, gloomy, grand, andhaunted by the ghosts of murdered kings and queens; but the slightdescriptions she had heard produced no prevision of the reality ascompared with what she really wanted and was sure that she should find. 

She thought of Gianluca, as the carriage rolled along through the lowerhills, and she looked forward with pleasure to writing about what shesaw and expected to see. It seemed probable that she would write evenlonger letters to him, now that she was to be quite alone, and she hopedthat his would be as interesting as ever. She thought again with angerof Taquisara's extraordinary conduct, for she was positively sure thatshe was not playing with his friend in any sense of the word. The verysuggestion would have been insulting, if he had made it in the mostcarefully guarded and tactful language. As he had put it, it had beennothing short of outrageous. 

Gianluca must be blind indeed, she assured herself, if he fancied thatshe meant more than friendship by the constant exchange of letters withhim. It might be eccentric; it might be looked upon as utterly andunpardonably unconventional, but it could never be regarded as aflirtation by letter. The proof of that, Veronica argued to herself, wasthat both of them knew that it was nothing of the sort, a manner ofbegging the question familiar to those who wish to do as they pleasewithout hindrance from within or without. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The roads were good, for it was the month of May. In winter, evenVeronica's strong horses could hardly have dragged the light carriage toits destination in one day. It was but little after ten o'clock in themorning when Veronica got out upon the platform of the railway stationat Eboli; it was sunset, and the full moon was rising, when her carriagestopped at the entrance of the mountain town. 

It had been a very long day, and she had seen much that was quite new toher, and different from what she had expected. At first, indeed, she wasamazed at the richness of the country beyond Eboli, as she was drivenfor nearly an hour through what was literally a forest of ancient olivetrees, interrupted only here and there by a broad field of vines, cutlow and trained upon short stakes; and from the rising ground beyondCarpella, where the road winds up the first hill, she looked back andsaw the shimmering grey-green light of the olive leaves, lying like adelicate mantle over the flat country and in the great hollow, fromEboli to the deep gorge wherein the ancient city of Campania lies as ina nest. A part of the olive land was hers; and as she drove along, themidday breeze blew some of the tiny, star-like olive blossoms into herlap. She took one in her fingers and looked at it closely and could justsmell its very faint, aromatic odour. 

"It is the first greeting from what is yours, " said Don Teodoro, with asmile. 

"The wind brings me my own flowers, " answered Veronica, and she laughedsoftly and happily. 

Up steep hills and down into deep valleys, across high, arched stonebridges, beneath which the water of the Sele was streaming fast andclear amid white limestone boulders and over broad reaches of whitepebbles that were dazzling in the sun--and the olive trees were leftbehind, and here and there were patches of big timber, oaks to which theold, brown leaves still clung in the spring, and many poplars straightand feathery with leaves but yet half grown. But the land was by degreesless rich and less cultivated, till gradually it changed to a rough andstony country, and even from far off Veronica could see the littleflocks of sheep dark brown and white, and small herds of cloud-greycattle, pasturing and moving slowly on the hillsides above and below thewinding road. 

She looked at the shepherds when they were near enough for her to seethem. As she had left Eboli, she had seen one, driving a flock of sheepalong the high road, and she had wondered whether there were many of hiskind. He was a magnificently handsome young fellow of two or three andtwenty, dressed in loose brown velveteens, with a belted jacket and aspotless shirt, strong, well-made shoes, leathern gaiters, and a flatcap, and he carried the traditional hatchet of the southern shepherd. Hestrode along with a light and easy gait, and looked more like a younggentleman in a rather eccentric but well-made shooting-dress, than likea herdsman. But he was from Eboli itself, and a native would have toldher that the people of Eboli were "exceedingly fanatic about dress. " Themen and the clothes she now saw were very different; tall, grim figuresin vast and often ragged brown cloaks that reached almost to their feet;small, battered, pointed hats; rough, muddy hose that should have oncebeen white; shoes that loaded their steps like lead; and they movedslowly, with bent heads, rough, long-unshaven faces, eyes too hollow, horny hands too lean--wild, half-fed creatures, worse off than theflocks they drove, by all the degrees of the inverse ratio between man, who needs man's help, and beast, that needs only nature. 

There was that same grimness--there is no other word--in the faces ofalmost all the people Veronica now met, as the road wound higher andthen descended through Oliveto, the first of the mountain villages. There was in them all the look of men and women who know that thestruggle is hopeless, but who will not, or cannot, die and be at rest. There was the expression of those who will no longer make any effortexcept for the bare, hard bread that keeps them above ground, and who, having toiled through the terrible daylight that is their crueltask-master, lie down as they are, when work is done, to forget daylightand life if they can, in a mercifully heavy sleep. But before theirbones are half rested, the pitiless day is upon them, and drives themout to labour again till they are stupid with weariness and only notfaint enough to faint and forget. 

The people sometimes stood still and stared at the young princess as shedrove by, with the old priest beside her. But the majority went on, indifferent and far beyond anything like interest or curiosity. Only theshepherds' great cur dogs, of all breeds and colours, but always big andfierce, barked furiously at the carriage and plunged furiously after it, pulling up suddenly and turning back with a growl when they had followedit for half a minute. The women, in ragged black or dark, checkedskirts, with torn red woollen shawls hanging from their heads, glancedsidelong at Veronica, when they were still young; but the older oneswent by without giving her a look, their leathern, Sibylline faces set, their old lids wrinkled by everlasting effort till they almost hid thesmall dark eyes. The most of them carried something in theirhands, --faggots, covered baskets, small sacks of potatoes, or corn, orbeans; and when the load was heavy they walked with a sharp, jerkingturn of the hips to right and left that was almost like a dislocation, and the wrinkles in the faces of these heavy-laden ones were deep folds, as in the hide of a loose-skinned beast. For in that country to bestrong is to be cursed; it means double work and double burden, whereeverything that breathes and moves and can be found to labour is drivento the very breaking point of strain. 

But as Veronica drove on, there were fewer men and women in the road, and only once in an hour or so, a huge cart, piled up with wine barrels, lumbered along, drawn by four or five deathly-looking mules thatstumbled when they had to stop or start--shadowy creatures, the ghostsof their kind, as it were. 

The villages were worse than the open country, for in them the appallingpoverty was gathered together in its muddiest colours and set in fixedpictures which Veronica never forgot. In the May weather, the doors oflow dwellings were open, and the black and white pigs wanderedunhindered from the filthy street without to the misery within, fattening on the poor waste of the desperately poor, fattening in thesun that drove their wretched betters to the daily fight withstarvation, fattening in the vile filth to which starvation was dullyindifferent, since cleanliness meant labour that brought no bread. 

To the right and left the barren mountains reared their enormousbaldness to the sun, deserts raised up broadside, as it were, and set onend, that their bareness might be the better seen and known to the worldaround. Here and there, from their bases, dark wooded spurs ran outacross the rising valley, and the road wound round them, in and out, andup and down, and over stone bridges big and little, and then up interribly steep ascent, southeastwards to high Laviano, looking towardsthe pass by which the highway leads from Ciliento to Basilicata. 

In Laviano, facing the wretched houses, stood the grand beginning of awretchedly unfinished building, one of those utter failures of greathopes, which trace the track of invading liberty through the south. Itcame, it saw, and it began many things--but it did not conquer and itcompleted very little. In the first wild enthusiasm of the Garibaldianrevolution, even poor, hill-perched, filth-stricken, pig-breedingLaviano was to be a city, and forthwith, in the general stye, the wallsof a great municipal building, from which lofty destinies were to beguided and controlled in the path to greatness, began to rise, withstrength of stone masonry, and arches of well-hewn basalt, and divisionswithin for halls and stairways, and many offices. But the beams of thefirst story were never laid across the lower walls. There was no moremoney, and what had been built was a palace for the pigs. Laviano hadspent its little all, and gone into debt, to be great, and had failed;and though the people had earned some of their own money back as wagesin the building, more than half of it slipped into the pockets ofarchitects, who went away smiling, jeering, and happy, to prey upon thenext foolish village that would be great and could not. And above, froma hill on the mountain's spur outside the village, still frowned intactthe heavy four-towered castle, complete and sound as when it had beenbuilt, the lasting monument of those hard warriors of a sterner time, who could not only take, but hold--and they held long and cruelly. 

Veronica looked up backwards at the towers, as the horses stood a whileto breathe after the steep ascent, and she asked Don Teodoro to whom thecastle belonged. 

"It is yours, " he answered. "The castle is yours, the village is yours, the hills are yours. Your steward lives in the castle. You have muchproperty here, more miles of good and bad land than I can tell. "

"And is it all like this? Are the people all like these?"

"No. There are poorer people in the hills. "

The happy laugh that had come when the wind had blown the olive blossomsof Eboli upon her lap had long been silent now. Her face was grave andsorrowful, and she drew in her lips as though something hurt her. Somehalf-naked children stood shyly watching her from a little distance. Pigs grunted and rubbed themselves against the wheels of the carriage, and the coachman lashed backwards at them with his whip. But the cruelday was not yet over, and the people had not come back from their toil, so that the place was almost deserted still. There was an evil smell inthe air, and the children's faces were pale and swollen and dirty. 

Veronica wondered how any people could be poorer than these, and herface grew still more sad. She tried to speak to the children, but theycould not understand her. She got some little coins from her purse, butthey were too much frightened to come forward and take them. They werenot afraid of the priest, however, and Don Teodoro got out of thecarriage and put the money into their horrible little hands, and theyran away with strange small cries and wild, half-noiseless laughter--iflaughter can be anything but noisy. Let such words pass as come; for nowords of our tongue can quite tell all Veronica saw and heard on thatday. The great Italian myth survives in foreign nations; it has evenmore life, perhaps, in Italy itself, north of the Roman line; but onlythose know what Italy is, who have trudged on foot, and ridden bymountain paths, and driven by southern highways, through hill and valleyand mountain and plain, from house to house, where there are neitherinns nor taverns, throughout that vast region which is the half of thewhole country, or more, and where the abomination of desolation reignssupreme in broad day. 

That Italy has done what she has done in thirty years, to be a poweramong nations, is a marvel, a wonder, and almost a miracle. That sheshould have done it at all, is the greatest mistake ever committed by acivilized nation, and it is irrevocable, as its results are to be fataland lasting. But upon the good reality of unity, the deadly dream ofmilitary greatness descended as a killing blight, and the evil vision ofpolitical power has blasted the common sense of a whole people. It isone thing to be one, as a united family, each working for the good ofeach and all; it is another thing, and a worse thing, to be one as avast and idle army, sitting down to besiege its own storehouses, eacheating something of the whole and doing nothing to increase that whole, till all is gone, and the vision fades in the awakening from the dream, leaving the bare nakedness of desolation to tell the story of a hugemistake. 

Even Veronica's strong horses were well nigh tired out when they reachedthe dismal solitude of the high pass above Laviano; and she herself waswearied and faint with the gloom, and the poverty, and the barrenness ofso much that was hers. But her mouth was set and firm, and she meantthat something should be done before many days, which should begin avast and lasting change. She did not know what she was undertaking, norhow far she might be led in the attempt to do good against great odds ofevil on all sides; but she was not discouraged, and she had no intentionof drawing back. 

It was a very long day. As the hours wore on, the three ate somethingfrom time to time, from a basket of provisions which Elettra hadbrought, and at which Veronica had laughed. But the air of the mountainswas keen, and there was not too much in the basket, after all. 

Then, in the shadow below the sun-line cut by the mountains across theearth, she saw a sharp peak, grey and regular as a pyramid, rising inthe midst of the high valley, and then beyond it, as the carriage rolledalong, there was a misty landscape of a far, low valley--and then, allat once, the brown, tiled roofs of her own Muro were at her feet, andfar to the left, out of the houses, rose the round grey keep of thefortress. The setting sun was behind the mountains, and the moon, nearto the full, hung, round and white, just above the tower, in the paleeastern sky. From the second turning of the steep descent, Veronicacould see a huge bastion of the castle above the roofs, jutting out likean independent round fort. 

Many of the people knew that she was coming, and some had hastened fromtheir work to see her as soon as she arrived. Curious, silent, pale, dirty, they thronged about the carriage. An old woman touched Veronica'sskirt, and then brought her hand back to her lips and kissed it. Thenanother did the same--a thin, dark-browed girl with a ragged red shawlon her head. The uncouth men stood shoulder to shoulder, staring withunwinking eyes. A tall, pale shepherd youth was erect and motionless ina tattered hat and a brown cloak, overtopping the others by his head andthin throat, and there was something Sphinx-like in the expression ofhis still, sad face. 

On Veronica's right, as the carriage halted, was the public fountain. Twenty or thirty tall, thin girls in short black frocks, displayinggrimy stockings and coarse shoes, or bare legs and muddy red feet, werewaiting their turns to fill the long wooden casks they carried on theirheads. The fountain had but two little streams of water, and it took along time to fill a cask. At the sound of the carriage wheels, most ofthe girls turned slowly round to see the sight, their empty barrelsbalanced cross-wise on their heads. They did not even lift a hand tosteady their burdens as they changed their positions. They staredsteadily. Veronica looked to the right and left and tried to smile, toshow that she was pleased. But the visible, jagged edges of theiroutward misery cut cruelly at her heart, for they were her people;nominally, by old feudal right, they were all her people, and herfather's father had held right of justice and of life and death overthem all; and in actual fact they were almost all her people, since theylived in her houses, worked on her lands, and ate a portion of herbread, though it was such a very little one as could barely keep themalive. 

She tried to smile, and some of the girls held out their fingers towardsher and then kissed them, as though they had touched her dress, as theold woman had done. But the men stared stolidly from under the low brimsof their battered hats. Only the fever-struck shepherd smiled in asickly way and lost his Sphinx-like look all at once. 

A man in a white shirt came forward, leading Veronica's mare, allsaddled for her to mount. 

"The carriage cannot go through the streets, " said Don Teodoro, inexplanation. "They are too narrow and too rough. "

"No, " answered Veronica, as she stepped from the carriage upon themuddy stones. "I will walk. If the streets are good enough for mypeople, they are good enough for me. "

Even to the good priest this seemed a little exaggeration on her part. But she had seen much that day of which she had never dreamed, and inher generous heart there was a sort of fierce wrath against so muchmisery, with a strong impulse to share it or cure it, to face the devilon his own ground, and beat him to death, hand to hand. It was perhapsfoolish of her to walk to her own gate, but there was nothing to beashamed of in the feeling which prompted her to do it. 

Don Teodoro walked beside her on the left, and Elettra pressed close toher on the right, as they threaded the foul black lanes towards thecastle. The moment she had left the carriage, men and women and childrenhad seized eagerly upon her belongings, to carry the bags and rugs andlittle packages, and now they followed her in a compact crowd, alltalking together in harsh undertones; and from the dark doorways, as shewent by, old women and old men came out, and more children, half clothedin rags, and cripples four or five. The pigs that were out in the laneswere caught in the press and struggled desperately to get out of it, upsetting even strong men with their heavy bodies as they chargedthrough the crowd, grunting and squealing. A few people coming from theopposite direction, too, flattened themselves against the black wallsand low, greasy doors, but there was not room even there, and they alsowere taken up by the throng and driven before, till the small crowd grewto a little multitude of miserable, curious, hungry, scramblinghumanity, squeezing along the narrow way to get sight of the lady beforeshe should reach the castle gate. 

From time to time the tall old priest turned mildly and protested, trying to get more air and elbow room for Veronica. 

"Gently, gently, my children!" he called to them. "You will see yourprincess often, for she is come to stay with you. "

"Eh, uncle priest!" cried a rough young voice. "That is fair and good, but who believes it?"

"Eh, who believes it?" echoed a dozen voices, young and old. 

Veronica laid her hand upon Don Teodoro's arm to steady herself as shetrod upon the slimy stones. She could not have stopped, for the crowd, extending far behind her in the dim street, would have pushed her down, but she turned her head as she walked and spoke in the direction of thepeople. Her voice rang high and clear over their heads. 

"I have come to live with you, " she said, and they heard her even faroff. "It is true. You shall see. "

"God render it you!" said a woman's voice. "May God make it true!"

"More than one of them are saying that to themselves, " observed DonTeodoro, as Veronica looked before her again, and walked on. 

Suddenly she came out upon a broader, cleaner way, which led out beyondthe houses and up, by a sweep, to the low gate of the castle; closebefore her was the great lower bastion which she had seen from adistance. She saw now that there was a trellis high up, all over it, onwhich grew a vine; but the leaves were scarcely budding yet. She had nottime to see much, for the crowd would not let her stop, and as the waywidened, many ran before her, up to the gate, where they stopped short, for there were half a dozen men there in dark green coats, and silverbuttons, foresters of the estate, who kept them back. 

Veronica would have turned once more, to nod to the people and smile atthe poor women who pressed close upon her, but the crowd was so greatthat as the foresters made way for her, she found herself driven almostviolently into her own gate, and in the rush, Elettra nearly fell to herknees as they got in. The gate clanged behind her, and she heard thegreat bolts sliding into their sockets, as it was made fast. Her men hadknown well enough what to expect from the curiosity of the people. Theyopened a little postern and let in the few who carried her things, andwho had been shut out with the crowd. 

She drew a long breath and looked upward, before her. It was very unlikewhat she had expected. She was in the dark, vaulted way, scarcely eightfeet broad, and paved with flagstones, which led up to the first smallcourt. The masonry was rough, enormous, damp, and blackened withdampness and age. From the building around the little enclosure small, dark windows looked down upon her. A narrow door was on her right. Onthe left, rough stone steps led up to the keep, and to the eastern sideof the castle. The door stood open, and there was a lamp in the smallentry. Before entering, she glanced up at the lintel and saw that theancient arms of the Serra were roughly sculptured in the old marble, andshe knew that she was on the threshold of her home. 

It was more like a gloomy dungeon than the princely castle of which shehad dreamed. That, indeed, was what it had been through many ages, andnothing else. She wondered where the great staircase could be where thepoor ghost of Queen Joanna sat and shrieked at midnight on the twelfthof May. It was near the day, and not being at all timid, she smiled atthe thought, as she went in. Three or four decently clad women in blackcame forward into the vaulted passage, and smiled and nodded awkwardly. They were the people Don Teodoro had engaged for her service. She had aword for each and patted them on the shoulder, and they led the way, two and two, carrying a light between them, for it was very dark within, though there was still broad daylight without. 

Then, all at once, she scarcely knew how, Veronica was standing upon alittle balcony. Behind her, the walls of the embrasure were fullyfifteen feet thick. Before her, under the glow of the sunset on the onehand, and the first pale moonlight on the other, lay a great valley, deep and long and broadening fan-like from below her to the fardistance, where the evening mists were beginning to gather the whitelight of the moon, while the great mountains of the southeast were stillred with the last blood of the dying day--a view of matchless peace andsurpassing beauty, such as she had never yet seen. Just then, she lookeddown, and there, at her feet, were the brown roofs of Muro. Her dreamseemed to be suddenly realized, and she had found the room of which shehad so often made the picture in her imagination. But it was far morebeautiful than she had dared to imagine or dream. The lofty fortress wasbuilt lengthwise along the rock, facing the southwest, to meet thewinter sun from morning till night; and forever before it lay the wideBasilicata, the peace of the valley, the height of the huge mountains, the infinite tenderness of a distance that is seen from a vastheight--in which even what would be near in one plane, is already far bydepth. 

Veronica looked out in silence for a long time, and the day faded atlast in the sky, while the moon's light whitened and strewed blacknessacross the twilight shadows. The old priest stood beside her, histhree-cornered hat in his hand. But the silver spectacles haddisappeared. He could feel what was before him without seeing itdistinctly. 

"I knew that I should find it, " said Veronica, at last. "I always knewthat it was here. I shall live in this room. "

"It is a good room, " said Don Teodoro, quietly, and not at allunderstanding what she meant. 

"And I have an idea that I shall die in this room, " added the younggirl, in a dreamy tone, not caring whether he heard or not. "I am thelast of them, you know. They all came from here in the beginning, everso long ago. It would be natural that the last of them should die here. "

"For Heaven's sake, let us not talk of such sad things!" cried thepriest, protesting against the mere mention of death, as almost everyItalian will. 

"Have they made it a sitting-room?" asked Veronica, turning from thebalcony into the deep embrasure. 

She had scarcely glanced at the furniture, for she had made straight forthe window on entering. She looked about her now. There were darktapestries on the walls. There was a big polished table in the middle, and a dozen or more carved chairs, covered with faded brocade, werearranged in regular order on the three sides away from the windows. Thehigh vault was roughly painted in fresco, with cherubs and garlands offlowers in the barbarous manner of Italian art fifty years ago. Therewas a low marble mantelpiece, and on it stood six brass candlesticks atprecisely even distances, one from another, the six candles being alllighted. But there was a lamp on the table. Veronica smiled. 

"You must forgive me if I have not known what to do, " said Don Teodoro, humbly, but smiling also. "I have seen something of civilization in mywanderings, but I never attempted to arrange a house before. This is avery large house, if one calls such a place a house at all. "

"I suppose there are thirty or forty rooms?"

"There are three hundred and sixty-five altogether, " answered thepriest, his smile broadening. "They are all named in the inventory. There is a legend about the place to the effect that there is a threehundred and sixty-sixth, which no one can find. Of course the inventoryincludes every roofed space between walls, from the dungeon at the topof the keep to the dark room under the trap-door in the last hall onthis lower story. But you will be surprised, to-morrow, if you go overthe place. It is much bigger than seems possible, because you can neverreally see it from outside unless you go down into the plain. "

"And where do you think that other room is?" asked Veronica, who wasyoung enough to take interest in the mystery. 

"Heaven knows! Perhaps it does not exist at all. But as I was saying, mydear princess, I found it hard to arrange an apartment for you, notknowing how you might choose to select your quarters. So I had thetapestries cleaned and hung up, and the chairs dusted and the tablespolished, and some lights got ready on this floor, and your bedroom isthe last. "

"The one with the trap-door?" asked Veronica. "That is very amusing!"

"I had the dark room below well cleaned, and the trap has been screweddown, " said Don Teodoro. "I thought that there might be rats there. Elettra has the room before yours. But you are tired, and you must behungry. It is my fault for not leaving you at once. "

"But you will dine with me? To-night and every night, Don Teodoro--thatis understood. "

Half an hour later, they sat down to table in the light of the lamp andthe six candles, in the room from which Veronica had looked out upon thevalley. But they were both too tired to talk, though they made faintattempts at conversation, and as soon as the meal was over, the oldpriest begged leave to go home. 

"Do not be afraid, " he said, as he bade Veronica good night. "There areseveral men in the house. You are not all alone with your five women. The foresters have their headquarters here. "

Veronica was anything but timid or nervous, but when she was in bed inher own room at the south corner of the castle, watching the shadowscast up by the flickering night light upon the ancient tapestries, sherealized that she was very lonely indeed, she and scarcely a dozenservants, in the vast fortress wherein a thousand men had once foundample room to live. Brave as she was, she glanced once or twice at thecorner of the room where the trap-door was placed. There was a carpetover it, and a table stood there which Elettra had arranged hastily forthe toilet table. Veronica wondered what end that dark place below hadserved in ancient days, and whether she were not perhaps lying in thevery room in which Queen Joanna had been smothered by the two Hungariansoldiers. It seemed probable. 

But she was very tired, and she fell asleep before long, fancying thatshe was looking out from the balcony again, with the brown roofs of herpeople's houses at her feet. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Veronica was awake early in the May morning, and looked out again uponthe great valley she had seen at sunset. It was all mist and light, without distinct outline. A fresh breeze blew into her face as she stoodat the open window, and the sun was yet on the southeast wall, so thatshe stood in the clear, bluish shadow which high buildings cast only inthe morning. 

She had slept soundly without dreams, and she wondered how she couldhave ever glanced last night towards the place in the corner where thetrap-door was hidden under her toilet table, or how she could have feltherself lonely and not quite safe, in her own castle, with a dozen ofher own people, when she had never been afraid in the Palazzo Macomer. She pushed back her brown hair, a little impatiently, and laughed as sheturned to Elettra. 

"We are well here, Excellency, " said the maid, with a smile ofsatisfaction. 

She rarely spoke unless Veronica addressed her, and was never a woman ofmany words. 

"And you saw no ghosts?" Veronica laughed. 

"I am afraid of ghosts that wear felt slippers, " answered Elettra. 

An hour later Veronica sent for Don Teodoro, and they went over thecastle together. He led her first to the high dungeon on the north side. The natural rock sprang up at that end, and some of the steps were cutin it. At the top, the tower was round, with a high parapet, and anextension on one side, all filled with earth and planted with cabbagesand other green things. 

"The under-steward had a little vegetable garden here, " said DonTeodoro. "I suppose that you will plant flowers. Will you look over theparapet on that side?"

Veronica trod the soft earth daintily and reached the wall. She glancedover it, and then drew a deep breath of surprise. Below her was a sheerfall of a thousand feet, to the bottom of a desolate ravine that ran upto northward in an incredibly steep ascent. 

Then they went into the ancient prison, which was a round, vaultedchamber, shaped like the inside of the sharp end of an eggshell, withone small grated window, three times a man's height from the stonefloor. The little iron door had huge bolts and locks, and might havebeen four or five hundred years old. On the stone walls, men who hadbeen imprisoned there had chipped out little crosses, and made initials, and rough dates in the fruitless attempts to commemorate their obscuresuffering. 

Veronica and Don Teodoro descended again, and he led her through manystrange places, dimly lighted by small windows piercing ten feet ofmasonry, and through the enormous hall which had been the guard-room orbarrack in old days, and had served as a granary since then, and up anddown dark stairs, through narrow ways, out upon jutting bastions, downand up, backwards and forwards, as it seemed to her, till she could onlyguess at the direction in which she was going, by the glimpses ofdistant mountain and valley as she passed the irregularly placedwindows. Several of her people followed her, and one went before with ahuge bunch of ancient keys, opening and shutting all manner of big andlittle doors before her and after her. Now and then one of the men ingreen coats lighted a lantern and showed her where steep black steps leddown into dark cellars, and vaults, and underground places. 

She saw it all, but she was glad to get back to the room she alreadyloved best, from which the balcony outside the windows looked down uponthe valley. 

And there she began at once to install herself, causing her books to beunpacked and arranged, as well as the few objects familiar to her eyes, which she had brought with her. Among these was the photograph of BosioMacomer. Those of Gregorio and Matilde had disappeared. She hesitated, as she held the picture in her hand, as to whether she should keep it inher bedroom, or in the sitting-room, in which she meant chiefly to live, and she looked at it with sad eyes. She decided that it should be in thesitting-room. Where everything was hers, she had a right to show whathad been all but quite hers at the last. The six brass candlesticks weretaken away, and Bosio's photograph was set upon the long, lowmantelpiece. His death had after all been more a surprise, a horror, adisappointment, than the wound it might have been if she had reallyloved him, and it is only the wound that leaves a scar. The momentaryshock is presently forgotten when the young nerves are rested and thevision of a great moment fades to the half-tone of the general past. Between her present, too, and the night of Bosio's death, had come theattempt upon her own life, and all the sudden change that had followedthe catastrophe. She was too brave to realize, even now, that she mighthave died at Matilde's hands. She had to go over the facts to makeherself believe that she had been almost killed. But the whole affairhad brought a revolution into her life, since Bosio had been gone. 

Another companionship had taken the place of his, so that she hardlymissed him now. She would miss Gianluca's letters far more than Bosio, if they should suddenly stop, and the mere thought that thecorrespondence might be broken off gave her a sharp little pain. Theidea crossed her mind while she was arranging her writing-table near herfavourite window, for all writing seemed to be connected with Gianluca, so that she could not imagine passing more than a day or two withoutsetting down something on paper which he was to read, and to answer. Tolose that close intimacy of thought would be to lose much. 

But Gianluca had written on the morning of her departure, and beforeVeronica had half finished what she was doing, one of her women broughther his letter, for the post came in at about midday. It came alone, forBianca had not written yet, and Veronica's correspondence was not large. She had not even thought of ordering a newspaper to be sent to her. Herwork and occupation were to be in Muro, and she cared very little aboutwhat might happen anywhere else. She broke the seal and read the lettereagerly. 

It was like most of his letters at first, being full of matters aboutwhich he had talked with her, and written in the graceful way which wasespecially his and which had so much charm for her. But towards the endhis courage must have failed him a little, for there were sad words andone or two phrases that had in them something touching and tender towhich she was not accustomed. He did not tell her that he was ill andthat he feared lest he might never see her again, for he was far toocareful as yet of hinting at the truth she would not understand. Theywere very little things that told her of his sadness--an unfinishedsentence ending in a dash, the fall of half a dozen harmonious wordsthat were like a beautiful verse and vaguely reminded her of Leopardi'spoetry--small touches here and there which had either never slipped fromhis pen before, or which she had never noticed. 

They pleased her. She would not have been a human woman if she had notbeen a little glad to be missed for herself, even though the writing wasto continue. She read the last part of the letter over three times, therest only twice, and then she laid it in an empty drawer of her table, rather tenderly, to be the first of many. That should be Gianluca'sespecial place. 

Amidst her first arrangements for her own comfort, she did not forgetwhat she looked upon as her chief work, and before that day was over shehad begun what was to be a systematic improvement of Muro. Direct andpractical, with a sense beyond her years, she did not hesitate. Thefirst step was to clean the little town and pave the streets. The nextto visit and examine the dwellings. 

"The place shall be clean, " said Veronica to the steward, who stoodbefore her table, receiving her orders. 

"But, Excellency, how can it be clean when there are pigs everywhere?"inquired the man, astonished at her audacity. 

"There shall be no more pigs in Muro, " answered the young princess. "Thepeople shall choose as many trustworthy old men and boys as arenecessary to look after the creatures. They shall be kept at night insome barn or old building a mile or two from here, and they shall be fedthere, or pastured there. I will pay what it costs. "

"Excellency, it is impossible! There will be a revolution!" The stewardheld up his hands in amazement. 

"Very well, then. Let us have a revolution. But do not tell me that whatI order is impossible. I will have no impossibilities. The town belongsto me, and it shall be inhabited by human beings, and not by pigs. Ifyou make difficulties, you may go. I can find people to carry out myorders. Begin and clean the streets to-day. Take as many hands as youneed and pay them full labourer's wages, but see that they work. Make alist of the pigs and their owners. Decide where you will keep them. Hirethe swineherds. If I find one pig in Muro a week from to-day, and if, infine weather, I cannot walk dry shod where I please, I will take anothersteward. I intend to remit a quarter of all the rents this year. You maytell the people so. You may go and see about these things at once, butlet me hear no more of impossibilities. Only children say that thingsare impossible. "

The man understood that the old order had departed and that VeronicaSerra meant to be obeyed without question, and he never again raised hisvoice to suggest that there might be what he called a revolution if herorders were carried out. 

As for the people of Muro, they were dumb with astonishment. They had amunicipality, of course, a syndic, and a secretary, and certain headmen, to whose authority they were accustomed to appeal ineverything--generally against the extortion of the stewards who hadobeyed Gregorio Macomer. But before Veronica had been in Muro ten days, the municipality was nothing more than the shadow of a name. The syndicwas her tenant, and bowed down to her, and the rest of the illiterateofficials followed his lead. It was natural enough; for they allbenefited by the lowering of the rents, and they were quick to see thatshe meant to spend money in the place, which would be to the advantageof every one before long. 

It was she who made the revolution, and not they. Before the first weekwas out the pigs were gone, and she walked dry shod over the stones fromthe castle to the entrance of the village. In less than a month theprincipal way was levelled and half paved, and masons were everywhere atwork repairing those of the houses which were in most immediate need ofimprovement. 

"You are Christians, " she said to a little crowd that gathered round herone day, while she was watching the setting-up of a new door. "You shalllive like Christians. When you have been clean for a month, you willnever wish to be dirty again. "

"That is true, " answered an old man, shaking his head thoughtfully. "But, in the name of God, who has ever thought of these things? Itneeded this angel from Paradise. "

Veronica laughed. They were docile people, and they soon found out thatthe young princess was as absolute a despot in character as everterrorized Rome or ruled the Russias. At the merest suggestion ofopposition, the small aquiline nose seemed to quiver, the little headwas thrown back, the brown eyes gleamed, the delicate gloved hand eitherclosed upon itself quickly or went out in a gesture of command. 

But then, they sometimes saw another look in her face, though not often, and perhaps it was less natural to her though not less true to hernature. They had seen the brown eyes soften wonderfully and the smallhands do very tender things, now and then, for poor children andsuffering women when, no one else was at hand to give aid. Yet, at mosttimes, she was quiet, cheerful, natural, for it happened more and morerarely that any one opposed her will. 

She became to them the very incarnation of power on earth. She wouldhave been thought rich in any country; to their utter wretchedness herwealth was fabulous beyond bounds of fairy tale. Most persons would haveadmitted that she was wonderfully practical and showed a great deal ofcommon sense in what she did; to her own people she seemedpreternaturally wise, only to be compared with Providence for herforesight, and much more occupied with their especial welfare thanProvidence could be expected to be, considering the extent of the world. She was endlessly charitable to women and children and old men, but tothose who could work she was inexorable. She paid well, but she insistedthat the work should be done honestly. Some of the younger ones murmuredat her hardness when they had tried to deceive her. 

"Would you take false money from me?" she asked. "Why should I takefalse work from you? You have good work to sell, and I have good moneyto give you for it. I do not cheat you. Do not try to cheat me. "

They laughed shamefacedly and worked better the next time, for they werenot without common sense, either. Doubtless, she attempted and expectedmore than was possible at first, but she had Don Teodoro at her elbow, and he was able to direct her energy, though he could not havemoderated it. He found it hard, indeed, to keep pace with her swiftadvances towards the civilization of Muro, and he was quite incapable ofentering into the boldness of some of her generalizations, which, totell the truth, were youthful enough when she first expressed her ideasto him. But while one of his two great passions was learning, the otherwas charity, in that simple form which gives all it has to any one whoseems to be in trouble--the charity that is universal, and easilyimposed upon, and that exists spontaneously and, as it were, for its ownsake, in certain warm-hearted people--an indiscriminate love of givingto the poor, the overflow of a heart so full of kindness that it wouldbe kind to a withering flower or a half-dead tree, rather than notexpend itself at all. And so, seeing the great things that were done byVeronica in Muro, and secretly giving of his very little where she gavevery much, Don Teodoro grew daily to be more and more happy in thesatisfaction of his strongest instinct; and little by little he, also, came to look upon his princess as the incarnation of a good power cometo illuminate his darkness and to lift his people out of degradation tohuman estate. 

Veronica was happy too. There is a sort of exhilaration and dailysurprise in the first use of real power in any degree, and she enjoyedher own sensations to the fullest extent. When she was alone, she wroteabout them to Gianluca, giving him what was almost a daily chronicle ofher new life, and waiting anxiously for the answers to her letters whichcame with almost perfect regularity for some time after her own arrivalat Muro. 

They pleased her, too, though the note of sadness was more accentuatedin them, as time went on and spring ran into summer. He had hoped, perhaps, that she might tire of her solitude and come down to Naples, ifonly for a few days; or at least, that something might happen to breakwhat promised to be a long separation. He longed for a sight of her, andsaid so now and then, for letter-writing could not fill up the achingemptiness she had left in his already empty life. He had not heroccupations and interests to absorb his days and make each hour seem tooshort, and, moreover, he loved her, whereas she was not at all in lovewith him. 

Then, a little later, there was a tone of complaint in what he wrote, which suddenly irritated her. He told her that his life was dreary andtiresome, and that the people about him did not understand him. Sheanswered that he should occupy himself, that he should find something todo and do it, and that she herself never had time enough in the day forall she undertook. It was the sort of letter which a very young womanwill sometimes write to a man whose existence she does not understand, a little patronizing in tone and superior with the self-assurance ofsuccessful and unfeeling youth. She even pointed out to him that therewere several things which he did not know, but which he might learn ifhe chose, all of which was undoubtedly true, though it was not at allwhat he wanted. For him, however, the whole letter was redeemed by achance phrase at the end of it. She carelessly wrote that she wished hewere at Muro to see what she had done in a short time. He knew that thewords meant nothing, but he lived on them for a time, because she hadwritten them to him. His next letter was more cheerful. He repeated herown words, as though wishing her to see how much he valued them, sayingthat he wished indeed that he were at Muro, to see what she hadaccomplished. To some extent, he added, the fulfilment of the wish onlydepended on herself, for in the following week he was going with hisfather and mother and all the family to spend a month in a place theyhad not far from Avellino, and that, as she knew, was not at animpossible distance from Muro. But of course he could not intrude aloneupon her solitude. 

When she next wrote, Veronica made no reference to this hint of his. Theman was not the same person to her as the correspondent, and she verymuch preferred exchanging letters with him to any conversation. She didnot forget what he had said, however, and when she supposed that theDella Spina family had gone to the country she addressed her letters tohim near Avellino. He had not yet gone, however, and he soon wrote fromNaples complaining that he had no news from her. 

On the following day Veronica was surprised to receive a letteraddressed in a hand she did not know. It was from Taquisara, and shefrowned a little angrily as she glanced at the signature before readingthe contents. It began in the formal Italian manner, --"Most gentlePrincess, "--and it ended with an equally formal assurance of respectfuldevotion. But the matter of the letter showed little formality. 

"I have hesitated long before writing to you"--it said--"both because Ioffended you at our last meeting and because I have not been sure, untilto-day, about the principal matter of which I have to speak. In thefirst place, I beg you to forgive me for having spoken to you as I didat the Princess Corleone's house. I am not skilful at sayingdisagreeable things gracefully. I was in earnest, and I meant what Isaid, but I am sincerely sorry that I should have said it rudely. Iearnestly beg you to pardon the form which my intention took. 

"Secondly, I wish very much that I might see you. I fear that you wouldnot receive me, and from the ordinary point of view of society you wouldbe acting quite rightly, since you are really living alone. The world, however, is quite sure that you have a companion, an elderly gentlewomanwho is a distant relation of yours. It will never be persuaded that thisgood lady does not exist, because it cannot possibly believe that youwould have the audacity to live alone in your own house. 

"I wish to see you, because my friend Gianluca cannot live much longer. You may remember that he walked with difficulty, and even used a stick, before you left Naples. He can now hardly walk at all. According to thedoctors, he has a mortal disease of the spine and cannot live more thantwo or three months. Perhaps I am telling you this very roughly, but itcannot pain you as much as it does me, and you ought to know it. He isnot the man to let any one tell you of his state, and I have taken itupon myself to write to you without asking his opinion. I told you oncewhat you were to him. All that I told you is ten times more true, now. Between you and life, he would not choose, if he could; but he is losingboth. As a Christian woman, in commonest kindness, if you can see himbefore he dies, do so. And you can, if you will. He was to have beenmoved to the place near Avellino a few days ago, but he was too ill. They all leave next week, unless he should be worse. You are strong andwell, and it would not be much for you to make that short journey, considering Gianluca's condition. 

"I shall not tell him that I have written to you, and I leave to you tolet him know of my writing, or not, as you think fit. "

Here followed the little final phrase and the signature. Veronica letthe sheet fall upon her table, and gazed long and steadily at thetapestry on the wall opposite her. Her hands clasped each other suddenlyand then fell apart loosely and lay idle before her. Her head sankforward a little, but her eyes still held the point on which they werelooking. 

In the first shock of knowing that Gianluca was to die, she felt asthough she had lost a part of him already, and something she dearlyvalued seemed to go out of her life. Her instinct was not to go to himand see him while she could, but to look forward to the blankness thatwould be before her when he should be gone. Something of him was anintegral part of her life. But there was something of him for which shefelt that she hardly cared at all. 

She was probably selfish in the common sense of that ill-used word. Itis generally applied to persons who do not love those that love them, but are glad of their existence, as it were, for the sake of somethingthey receive and perhaps return--as Veronica did. But she did not askherself questions, for she had never had the smallest inclination toanalysis or introspection. It was as clear to her as ever that she didnot love Gianluca in the least, but that she should find it hard to behappy without him. She had been nearer to loving poor Bosio thanGianluca, though the truth was that she had never loved any one yet. 

But she pitied Gianluca with all her heart. That was the most she coulddo for that part of him which was nothing to her, and her face grew verysad as she thought of what he might be suffering, and of how hard itmust be to die so young, with all the world before one. She could notimagine herself as ever dying. 

She sat still a long time and tried to think of what she should do. Buther thoughts wandered, and presently she found that she was askingherself whether it were her destiny to be fatal to those who loved her. But the mere idea of fatality displeased her as something which couldoppose her, and perhaps defy her. After all, Gianluca might not die. Shelooked over Taquisara's letter again. 

He was a man who meant what he said, and he wrote in earnest. There wassomething in him that appealed to her, as like to like. He had been rudeand had spoken almost insolently, and even now he dared to write that hemeant what he had said and only regretted the words he had used. Forthem, indeed, his apology was sufficient--for the rest, she wasundecided. She went on to what referred to Gianluca, and her face grewgrave and sad again. It must be true. 

She laid the letter in the drawer where she kept Gianluca's, but in aseparate corner, by itself. Then she took up her pen to write toGianluca, intending to take up the daily written conversation at thepoint where she had last broken off, on the previous evening. With aneffort, she wrote a few words, and then stopped short and leaned back inher chair, staring at the tapestry. It was a grim farce to write abouther streets and her houses and her charities to a man who was dying--andwho loved her. Yet she could not speak of his illness without lettinghim know that Taquisara had informed her of it. She tried to go on, andstopped again. Poor Gianluca--he was so young! All at once her pityoverflowed unexpectedly, and she felt the tears in her eyes and on hercheeks. She brushed them away, and left her letter unfinished. 

Half an hour later she was with Don Teodoro, busy about her usualoccupations and plans. But she was absent-minded, and matters did not gowell. She left him earlier than usual and shut herself up in her ownroom. She had not been there a quarter of an hour, however, before shefelt stifled and oppressed by the close solitude, and she came out againand climbed to the top of the dungeon tower, where the little plot ofcabbages had been converted into a tiny flower garden, and the roseswere all in bloom. 

With the rising of her pity had come the desire to see Gianluca and talkwith him. She could not tell why she wished it so much, after havingfelt so horribly indifferent at first, but the wish was there, and likeall her wishes, now, it must be satisfied without delay. She wassupremely powerful in her little mountain town, and on the whole she wasusing her power very wisely. But her dominant character was rapidlygrowing despotic, and it irritated her strangely to want anything whichshe could not have. She had almost forgotten that society had anygeneral claims upon people who chance to belong to it, and the suddenrecollection that if she went down to Naples, she could not go and seeGianluca, even under his father's and mother's roof, and talk with himif she pleased, was indescribably offensive to her over-grown sense ofindependence. Nor could she invite herself to Avellino to pay a visit toGianluca's mother. She understood enough of the customs of the worldwith which she had really lived so little, to know that such a thing wasimpossible. 

If she could not see him in Naples and could not go to see him at hisfather's place, he must come to Muro. It flashed upon her that she had aright to ask the whole Della Spina family to spend a week with her ifshe chose. They might think it extraordinary if they pleased--it wouldbe an invitation, after all, and the worst that could happen would bethat the old Duchessa might refuse it. But Veronica never anticipatedrefusals. 

As for Gianluca, if he were well enough to be taken to Avellino, hecould be brought to Muro. A journey by carriage was no more tiring thanone by railway, and the change and excitement would perhaps do him good. The more she thought of the possibility of her plan as compared with theimpracticable nature of any other which suggested itself, the more shelooked forward with pleasure to seeing him--and the more clearly itseemed to her an act of kindness to give him an opportunity of seeingher. 

And between her reflexions, strengthening her intention and hasteningher action, there returned the real and deep sorrow she felt at thethought of losing her best friend, and the genuine pity she now felt forhim, apart from the selfish consideration which had come first. 

In the singular and anomalous position she had created for herself, there was no one whom she could consult. As for asking Don Teodoro'sopinion, it never entered her head, for it would have been impossible todo so without confiding to him the nature of her friendship withGianluca. She would not do that now. She had first told Bianca Corleonefrankly enough of the exchange of letters, but she herself had not thenknown what that secret friendship was to mean in her life, nor how sheand Gianluca would almost conceal it from each other. Besides, she wasaccustomed now to impose her will upon the old priest as she imposed itupon every one in her surroundings. When she asked his advice, it wasabout matters of expediency, and that happened every day, but she wouldnot have thought of taking counsel with him about any action whichconcerned herself. If society chanced to be in opposition to her, society must either give way or make the best of it, or break with her. But it was certainly within the bounds of social tradition and customthat she should ask such of her friends as she chose, to stay with herunder her own roof. 

One small practical difficulty met her, and it was characteristic of herthat it was the only one to which she paid any attention after she hadmade up her mind. She could have found fifty rooms for guests in thecastle, but there were certainly not three which were now sufficientlyfurnished to be habitable as bedrooms. She had changed the face of thetown in three months, but she had not at all improved her ownestablishment. There were foresters and men occupied upon the estateswho came and went as their work required, and there were generally fouror five of them in the house; but she was served by women, and there wasnot a man-servant in the place. She had only five horses in her stable. She glanced at the black frock she wore and smiled, realizing for thefirst time what Elettra had meant by protesting against her wearing itany longer. 

But none of the details were of a nature to check such a woman inanything she really wished. If she chose to be waited on by women and towear old clothes, that was her affair and concerned no one else. As fora little furniture more or less, she could get all she wanted fromNaples in three or four days. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Veronica had little doubt but that her invitation would be accepted bythe Della Spina. Had she been as worldly wise, as she was practical inmost things, she would have had no doubts at all, though she would havehesitated long before writing to the Duchessa. For, of two things, oneor the other must happen. Gianluca must either die, or not die; in thefirst case the least which his family could do would be to give him theopportunity of seeing the woman he loved, before his death, and, in thesecond, such an invitation on Veronica's part was almost equivalent toconsenting to marry him if he recovered. To every one except Veronicaherself, the marriage would have seemed in every way as desirable as anythat could be proposed to her, both for herself and for Gianluca. 

Her invitation was received with mingled astonishment and delight andwas duly communicated to Gianluca himself. Veronica had written to himat the same time, and he had already read her letter telling him of herplan, when his father and mother entered the room where he was lyingnear his open window, towards evening. They were good people, andsimple, according to their lights, and they were devotedly attached totheir eldest son. The love of Italians for their children often goes tolengths which would amaze northern people. It may be that where thereare few love-matches, as in the old Italian society, the natural ties ofblood are stronger than in countries where men leave everything for thewomen they love. 

The Duchessa's chief preoccupation and anxiety concerned her son'sstrength to bear the journey. From day to day the family had been on thepoint of moving to Avellino, and the departure had been put off becauseGianluca's condition seemed altogether too precarious. It would be aneven more serious matter to convey him safely to Muro; and between herextreme anxiety for his health, and her wish that he might be able togo, the Duchessa was almost distracted. But neither she nor her husbandknew that the doctors despaired of his life. The truth had been keptfrom them, and Taquisara had extracted it from one of the physicianswith considerable difficulty, having more than half guessed it duringthe past two months. 

At the mere suggestion of going to Muro, Gianluca had revived, readingVeronica's letter alone to himself in his room. When he heard that theinvitation had actually come, he seemed suddenly so much better thatthe tears started to the old Duca's weak eyes. 

"We must go, " said the old gentleman to his wife, as they left Gianlucato consult together. "What is the use of denying it? It is passion. Ifhe does not marry that girl, he will die of it. "

"Of course she means to marry him, " answered the Duchessa, her voicetremulous with nervous delight. "It is not imaginable that she shouldask us to visit her, unless she means that she has changed her mind! Itwould be an outrage--an insult--it would be nothing short of anabominable action--I would strangle her with these hands!"

The prematurely old woman shook her weak fingers in the air, and herpassionate love for her son lent her feeble features the momentarydignity of righteous anger. 

"I should hardly doubt that she would marry him after this, " said theDuca, thoughtfully. "And besides--where could she find a better husband?It is passion that has made him ill. "

But it was not. In what they said of Veronica's probable intention theywere not altogether wrong, however, from their point of view. They werein complete ignorance of the long-continued correspondence between herand Gianluca, and had they known of it, they could not possibly haveunderstood her way of looking at the matter. Such a character as herswas altogether beyond their comprehension, and they practically knewnothing of the circumstances that had lately developed it so quickly. Asfor her mode of life, they believed, as most people did, that she had acompanion in the person of an elderly gentlewoman whom she had chosenfor the purpose among her distant relations. 

Even Taquisara thought substantially as they did, and he was a mansingularly regardless of conventions. It was true that he was almost asignorant of the state of affairs as Gianluca's father and mother. Afterthe first exchange of letters Gianluca had grown suddenly reticent. Solong as Veronica had seemed altogether beyond his reach he had nothesitated to confide in the brave and honourable man who was such adevoted friend to him; but as soon as he began to feel himself growingintimate with Veronica, he ceased to speak of her except in generalterms. Taquisara, if he had ever felt the need of confidence, would havestopped at the same point, or earlier, and he understood, and did notpress Gianluca with questions. The latter had said that from time totime Donna Veronica had been kind enough to write to him--but that wasall, and he never said it again. When the Sicilian heard of theinvitation to Muro, however, he felt that he had a right to expresshimself, since the matter was an open one and concerned the wholefamily. He felt, too, an immense satisfaction in having produced sogreat a result by his letter. 

He had written to Veronica what the doctor had told him about thegeneral verdict after the last consultation. For himself, his faith indoctors was not by any means blind, and he was not without some hopethat Gianluca might recover. At all events, it was his duty to cheer theman as far as he could, and he imagined nothing more likely to produce agood effect than the now reasonable suggestion that Veronica mightpossibly change her mind. 

"Of course, " he said to Gianluca, "the whole situation is extraordinarybeyond anything I ever knew. But since Donna Veronica has left her aunt, no one can dispute her right to do as she pleases. An invitation to youand your family means a reopening of the question of the marriage. Therecan be no doubt of that. In my opinion, she has reconsidered the matterand means to accept you, after all. "

Gianluca smiled, and his sunken eyes brightened. But he would not admitthat he really had any hopes. 

"I wish I were as sanguine as you, " he answered. 

"If you had my temperament, you would not be where you are, my dearfriend, " replied Taquisara, with a dry laugh. "I look at the worlddifferently. My life may not be worth much, but it is mine, and I wouldnot let a man take it from me with his hands, nor a woman with hereyes--without fighting for it, if I had the chance. "

"How can a man fight against a woman?" laughed Gianluca, for he was veryhappy. 

"You fight a man by facing him, and a woman by turning your back onher, " said Taquisara. "There are more women in the world than there aremen to love them, after all. For one that will not have you, there arethree who will. Take one of the three. "

"What do you know about it? You always say that you were never really inlove. How can you tell what you would do?"

"I suppose I cannot be quite sure. But then--the thing is ridiculous! Aman must be half a poet, he must have sensibilities, ideals, visions, anervous heart, an exaggerating eye and a mind sensitized like aphotographer's plate to receive impressions! Do you see me provided withall that stuff?"

He laughed again, somewhat intentionally, for he meant to amuseGianluca. 

"Nor myself either, " answered the latter. "I am much simpler than youimagine. "

"Are you? So much the better. But it makes very little difference, sinceyou are to be happy, after all. Seriously, I do not believe that thisinvitation can mean anything else. If it does--if she is not inearnest--" he checked himself. 

Gianluca looked at him and did not understand his expression. 

"What were you going to say?" asked the younger man, with somecuriosity. 

"Then take one of the other three!" said Taquisara, roughly, and he rosefrom his seat and walked to the window. 

The Duchessa's answer to Veronica was dignified and friendly. Afterexpressing her cordial thanks for the invitation, she went on to saythat besides the pleasure it would give her and her son to spend a fewdays under Veronica's hospitable roof, she was too well acquainted byhearsay with the splendid climate and situation of Muro to refuse anoffer, by accepting which she might contribute much to Gianluca'srecovery, and she went on to speak of the high mountain air and thesunshine of the Basilicata. There was truth in what she said, of course, and she was too proud not to make the most of it, entirely passing overmore personal matters in order to give it the greatest possibleprominence. As for Taquisara, though she guessed that he was almostindispensable to Gianluca in Naples, she made no mention of him. Itwould have been easy for her to suggest that he also might be invited, but she suspected that her son could do without him well enough whenprivileged to see Veronica every day; moreover, he would be in the way, and would probably himself fall in love with his young hostess, who, inher turn, might take a sudden fancy to the handsome Sicilian. 

It was not until the things which Veronica hastily ordered from Naplesarrived in huge carts from Eboli that she began to reflect seriouslyupon what she had done under a sudden impulse. The Duchessa wrote thatshe should require four or five days to reach Muro, by easy stages, andthere was plenty of time to make preparations for receiving the party. After the letter had come, Veronica spoke to Don Teodoro, who hadnoticed her extreme preoccupation and was wondering what could havehappened. 

"I think I understand, " he said, looking at her quietly. "It isright--you are young, but the years pass very quickly. "

"What do you mean?" asked Veronica, whose sad face still puzzled him. 

"What can their coming mean?" he asked, in reply, with a smile. 

"What? It is I who do not understand--or you--or both of us. DonGianluca and I are friends. He is very, very ill. The doctors say thathe cannot live many months, and unless I see him now, I shall never seehim again. "

The old priest gazed at her in distressed surprise, and for a long timehe found nothing to say. Veronica remained silent, scarcely conscious ofhis presence, leaning back in her chair, with folded hands and sorrowfuleyes. The thought that Gianluca was to die was becoming more and moreunceasingly painful, day by day. The fact that he wrote regularly toher, and yet never spoke of his condition, made it worse; for it provedto her that he could be brave rather than knowingly increase heranxiety, and the suffering of a brave man gets more true sympathy fromwomen than the cruel death of many cowards. 

"I think you are very rash, " said Don Teodoro, gravely, breaking thesilence at last. 

Veronica turned upon him instantly, with wide and gleaming eyes, amazedat the slightest sign of opposition, criticism, or advice. 

"Rash!" she exclaimed. "Why? Have I not the right to ask whom I please, and will, to stay under my own roof? Who has authority over me, to saythat I shall have this one for a friend, or that one, old or young? Am Ia free woman, or a schoolgirl, or a puppet doll, to which the world cantie strings to make me dance to its silly music? Rash! What rashness isthere in asking my friend and his father and mother here? My dear DonTeodoro, you will be telling me before long that I should take somebroken-down old lady for a companion!"

"I have sometimes wondered that you do not send for one of yourrelations, " said the priest, who, mild as he was, could not easily bedaunted when he believed himself right. 

"I will make my house a refuge, or a hospital if need be, for our poorpeople, " answered Veronica, "but not for my relations, whom I have neverseen. I send them money sometimes, but they shall not come here to beg. That would be too much. I had enough of those I knew. I am willing tofeed anything that needs food except vultures. I have chosen to livealone, and alone I will live. The world may scream itself mad and crackwith horror at my doings, if it is so sensitive. It cannot hurt me, andif I choose to shut my gates, it cannot get in. Besides, they arecoming, the Duca, the Duchessa, and Don Gianluca, and that ends thematter. "

"Nevertheless--" began Don Teodoro, still obstinately unwilling toretract his word. 

"Dear friend, " interrupted Veronica, with sudden gentleness, for she wasfond of him, "I like you very much. I respect you immensely. I could notdo half I am doing without you. But you do not quite understand me. I amsorry that you should think me rash, if the idea of rashness isunpleasant to you--I will make any other concession in reason ratherthan quarrel with you. But please do not argue with me when I have madeup my mind. I am quite sure that I shall have my own way in the end, and when the end comes, you will be very glad that you could not hinderme, because I am altogether right. Now we understand each other, do wenot?"

Don Teodoro could not help smiling in a hopeless sort of way, and helifted his hands a moment, spreading out the palms as though to expressthat he cleared his conscience of all possible responsibility. So theyparted good friends, without further words. 

But when Veronica was alone, she began to realize that Don Teodoro wasnot so altogether in the wrong as she believed herself to be in theright. People might certainly be found whom she could not class with theworld she so frankly despised, and who would say that if Gianlucarecovered she should marry him, after extending such an invitation tohim and his people, and that, if she did not, she would deserve to becalled a heartless flirt--from their point of view. Gianluca's fatherand mother might say so. 

He himself, at least, must know her better than that, she thought. Andthen, there was the terrible earnestness of Taquisara's letter, thesober statement of his best friend, next to herself, and a statementwhich it must have cost the man something to make, since it wasnecessarily accompanied by an apology. After all, though he hadinsulted her, she liked Taquisara for the whole-hearted way in which hetook Gianluca's part in everything. There was that statement, and shefelt that it was a true one. Gianluca was more to her than any one sheknew, in a way which no one could understand, and she had a right to seehim before he died. If, by any happy chance, he should live, peoplemight perhaps talk. She should not care, for she should have done right. That was the way in which she accounted to herself for her action; butthe consciousness that Don Teodoro was not quite wrong was there. Sheremembered it afterwards, when the fatality that was quietly lying inwait for her raised its head from ambush and stared her in the face. Butthen, at the first beginning, she was angry with the old priest fortrying to oppose her. 

There was not more than time to finish the preparations, after all, forshe received a note from the Duchessa, written from Eboli, saying thatthey would arrive a day earlier than they had expected, as the heat inthe plain was intense, and they were anxious to get Gianluca to a coolerregion of the mountains as soon as possible. Veronica had written, too, placing the castle at Laviano at their disposal, as a resting-place, soas to break the journey more easily for the invalid, and she sent menover to see that all was in order and to take a few necessary things forthe guests. 

It was a sort of caravan that at last halted before the fountain ofMuro, at the entrance to the village. Veronica had been warned of theirnear approach, and was there to meet them, with Don Teodoro by her side. 

First came the Duca and Duchessa together in a huge carriage drawn byfour horses, with three servants, two men and a maid. Veronica could notsee past the vehicle, as it blocked the way, and she stopped beside itto greet the couple. 

"My dear child!" cried the Duchessa. "We shall never forget yourkindness, and all the trouble you have taken! Gianluca is in the nextcarriage. I think you have saved his life!"

There was a sort of inoffensive motherliness in her tone which surprisedVeronica--a suggestion of possession that irritated her. But she smiled, said a few words, and ordered the carriage to move on, --an operationwhich, though difficult in such a narrow way, was possible since she hadimproved and paved the streets. A couple of her men walked before thehorses to clear the way of the women and children and the few men whowere not away at work, for the news of the arrival had spread, and thepeople flocked together to see whether the visitors would bearcomparison with their princess. 

As the carriage rolled into the street, Veronica went up to meet thenext. It was a very long landau, and in it Gianluca was almost lyingdown, his pale face and golden beard in strong relief against a darkbrown silk cushion. To Veronica's amazement, Taquisara sat beside him, calmly smoking one of those long black cigars which he preferred to allothers. He threw it away, when he saw her. She shook hands frankly withGianluca. 

"I am very glad you are here, " she said kindly and cheerfully. "You willget well here. How do you do?" she added, turning to Taquisara asnaturally as though she had expected him, for she supposed that theremust have been some misunderstanding. 

He explained his coming in a few words, before Gianluca could finish thesentence he began. 

"He hates strangers, " he said, "and I came up with him, to be of use onthe journey. I am going back at once. "

"You will not go back this evening, at all events, " answered Veronica, with a little hospitable smile. 

She was grateful to him for Gianluca's sake, both for his letter and forhaving accompanied his friend. For what had gone before, he hadapologized and was forgiven. 

"I beg your pardon, " he answered. "I think I shall be obliged to go backthis afternoon. "

"Has he any engagement that obliges him to return?" asked Veronica ofGianluca. 

As she turned to him, she met his deep blue eyes, fixed on her facewith a strange look, half happy, half hungry, half appealing. 

"He has no engagement that I know of, " he answered. 

"Then you will stay, " she said to Taquisara. "Go on!" she added to thecoachman, without giving time for any further answer. 

There was a note in her short speech which the Sicilian had never heardbefore then. It was the tone of command--not of the drill-sergeant, butof the conqueror. He almost laughed to himself as the carriage movedslowly on, while Veronica and Don Teodoro followed on foot. 

"You must stay, if she wishes it, " said Gianluca, in a low voice. 

"I am not used to being ordered to quarters in that way, " answeredTaquisara, smiling in genuine amusement. "I can be of no more use to youwhen I have got you up to your room, and I think I shall go back as Iintended. "

"I would not, if I were you. After all, it is a hospitable invitation, and you cannot invent any reasonable excuse for refusing to stay atleast one night. The horses are worn out, too. You have no pretext. "

"Perhaps not. I will see. "

The carriages moved at a foot pace. As Veronica walked along she noddedand spoke to many of the poor people, who drew back into their doorsfrom the narrow way. Behind her came two more carriages laden withluggage, and one of her own men on horseback closed the procession. Byurging his stout beast up all the short cuts, he had accomplished thefeat of keeping up with the vehicles. 

When they reached the castle gate, the Della Spina's two men-servantsjumped down and got a sort of sedan chair from amongst the luggage, butGianluca would not have it. 

"I can walk to-day, " he said. "Help me, Taquisara. Have you got mystick? Thank you. No, do not lift me. Let me get out alone! I am surethat I can do it. "

Pale as he was, he blushed with annoyance at his feeble state, when hesaw Veronica's anxious eyes watching his movements. 

It was early yet, but the August sun sank behind the lofty heights towestward, as he set his foot upon the ground. Taquisara's arm was aroundhim, and the Sicilian's face was quiet and unconcerned, but Veronica sawthe straining of the brown hand that supported the tall invalid, and sheknew that Gianluca could not have stood alone. But he would not let theservants come near him. The old Duca and his wife touched his sleeve andasked him nervous, futile questions, and begged him to allow himself tobe carried. Veronica stood in front, ready to lead the way. 

"No, no!" exclaimed Gianluca, answering his mother. "You see. I can walkvery well to-day, with scarcely any help. "

But his first step was unsteady, and the next was slow. Veronica heardthe uncertain footfall on the flagstones and turned again. 

"Will you take my arm on this side?" she asked gently, placing herselfon his right, away from Taquisara. 

He hesitated, smiled, and then laid his hand upon her arm, and she andTaquisara led him in together, the old couple following, and looking ateach other in silence from time to time. Through the dark, inclined way, they all went up slowly into the courtyard and under the low door, darkeven on that summer's afternoon, slowly, stopping at every dozen pacesand then moving on again. Taquisara almost carrying his friend with hisright arm, while Veronica steadied him on the other side, till they cameout at last into a room which had been furnished as a sort ofsitting-room and library, especially for Gianluca's use. He sank downinto a deep chair facing the window, and drew breath, as he soughtVeronica's eyes. 

"You are very kind, " he said faintly. "But you see how much better Iam, " he added at once, in a more cheerful tone. "It is the first walk Ihave taken for several days, Donna Veronica. I have really been ill, youknow. "

"I know you have, " she said, and she turned quickly away, for she feltmore than she cared to show just then. 

Possibly the Duca and his wife were too much preoccupied about theirson's condition to think seriously of what was taking place, but it wasstrange enough in its way, and Taquisara thought so as he looked on, andwondered what Neapolitan society would think if it could stand, as oneman, in his place, and see with his eyes, knowing what he knew. But hehad not much time for reflexion. Veronica's women had brought Gianlucawine, and his mother was giving him certain drops of a stimulant in aglass of fragrant old malvoisie, while his father bent over himanxiously, still asking useless questions. Veronica beckoned Taquisaraaside, and they stood together behind Gianluca's chair. 

"That is his bedroom, " she said, pointing to one of the doors, "and thatis yours, " she added, pointing to one opposite. 

"Mine? But you did not expect me--"

"I naturally supposed that he would have a man with him, to take care ofhim, " she answered. "If you are really his friend as you say you are, stay with him. You see that he cannot get about without you. If eitherof you need anything, ask for it, " she added, before he could reply. 

"I would rather not stay, " said Taquisara, looking gravely into herface. 

"Have you a good reason? What is it?" Her features hardened a little. 

"I cannot tell you my reason. It concerns myself. "

"Then try and forget yourself, for you are needed here, " she answeredalmost sternly. 

For two or three seconds they looked into each other's eyes, neitheryielding. Then Taquisara gave way. 

"I will stay, " he said shortly, and he turned his face from her with asort of effort. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked, looking towards thegroup of persons who stood around Gianluca. 

"Yes--a good one, whom I have lately brought. Shall I send for him? Doyou think he is worse?" She asked the question anxiously. 

"No. No doctors can do him any good--but if he should be suddenly worse, after the long journey--"

"Do you think it is likely?" asked Veronica, interrupting him in a toneof increasing anxiety. 

He turned to her again, and watched her face, curiously, wonderingwhether she loved the man, after all. 

"I hope not, " he answered quietly. "But it was a fatiguing drive, and hehardly slept at all last night. I suppose that the excitement kept himawake. He should rest as soon as possible. "

"Very well, " said Veronica. "I will take his father and mother away andgive them tea. Stay with him and make him lie down and sleep, ifpossible. Dinner is at half-past seven. Let me know if we are to waitfor him. "

She went to Gianluca's side and spoke to the Duchessa. 

"Shall I show you your rooms?" she asked. "Then we can have tea. DonGianluca must be tired, and he should have quiet and rest beforedinner--or if he prefers it, we will not expect him to-night. Sleepfirst, and decide afterwards, " she added, addressing Gianluca himself, and her tone grew suddenly gentle as she spoke to him. 

"You are very wise for your age, my dear child!" answered the Duchessa, in the motherly tone that irritated Veronica. 

The old gentleman nodded gravely, being quite too much preoccupied andsurprised to judge at all of his hostess's wisdom, but delighted withthe effect which the change of air seemed already to have produced uponGianluca. 

They went away together, leaving the invalid with Taquisara and his ownservant. Veronica led them to her favourite room, then showed them theirown, and went back to wait for them, while Elettra brought the tea, justas she had done of old in the Palazzo Macomer. Veronica watched herwhile she was arranging the tea-table. Elettra, who rarely spokeunbidden, ventured to make a remark. 

"Their Excellencies will be surprised at being waited on by women, " shesaid; for though she hated all men-servants, she had pride for the greatold house her fathers had served. 

"They will be surprised at so many things that they will not notice it, "answered her mistress, thoughtfully. 

Elettra glanced at her quickly, but said nothing and went away, leavingher alone. She sat quite still, and did not move until the old couplecame back, ten minutes later. She moved chairs forward for them to sitin, and poured out a cup of tea for each. Meanwhile they all three madelittle idle observations about the weather and the place. 

The Duchessa, holding her cup in her hand, looked at the door from timeto time, as though expecting some one to come in. At last she couldcontain her curiosity no longer. 

"And where is your companion, my dear?" she asked suddenly. 

"In the imagination of society, Duchessa, " answered Veronica. "I havenone. I live alone. "

The Duchessa almost dropped her cup. 

"Alone?" she cried, in amazement. "You live alone? In such a place asthis!" She could not believe her ears. 

"Yes, " said Veronica, smiling. "Does it seem so very terrible to you? Ilive alone--and I am waited on only by women. I daresay that surprisesyou, too. "

"Alone?" The Duca had got his breath, and sat open-mouthed, holding histea-cup low between his knees, in both hands. "Alone! At your age! Ayoung girl! But the world--society? What will it think?"

"Unless it thinks as I do, I do not care to know, " answered Veronica, indifferently. "Let me give you some bread and butter, Duca. "

"Bread and butter? No--no thank you--no--I--I am very much astonished! Iam stupefied! It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!"

"Of course everybody thinks that you have an elderly companion--" chimedin the Duchessa. 

"One of your Spanish relations, " said the Duca, with anxious eyes. "Surely, she was here--"

"And is away just now, " suggested his wife. "That accounts for--"

"Not at all, " said Veronica, almost laughing. "She never existed. I camehere alone, I live here alone, and I mean to live here alone as long asI please. The world may say what it pleases. I shall be three-and-twentyyears of age on my next birthday. Ask Don Teodoro whether I am not ableto take care of myself--and of Muro, too, for that matter!"

"Who is Don Teodoro?" asked the Duchessa, nervously, and stillaltogether horrified. 

"The parish priest, " said Veronica. "A very learned and charitable oldman. He dines with me every evening. "

"Then, " replied the Duchessa, with a beginning of relief, "then you, andyour good priest, and your woman, make a sort of--of what shall I say--asort of little religious community here? Is that it?"

"We are not irreligious, " Veronica replied, still at the point oflaughter. "Most of us hear mass every morning--the church is close bythe gate, on the other side of the great tower, you know--and we do noteat meat on fast days--"

"Yes, yes, I understand!" interrupted the Duchessa, grasping at anystraw by which she could drag the extraordinary young princess withinconceivable distance of what she herself considered socially proper. "And you spend your time in good works, in the village, of course, andin edifying conversation with Don Teodoro. Yes--I see! As you put it atfirst, it was a little startling, but I understand it better now. Youunderstand it, Pompeo, do you not? It is quite clear, now. "

The Duca rejoiced in the baptismal name of Pompey, like many of hisclass in the south, whereas the name of Caesar is more common aboutRome. 

"I have at least done something for the village, " said Veronica. "It wasin a bad state when I came here. "

"It is a very clean village, " observed the Duca, whose eyes still had apuzzled look in them, though his jaw had slowly recovered from its fallof amazement. "I saw no pigs in the streets. One generally sees a greatmany pigs in these mountain towns. "

"I turned them out, " said Veronica. 

She went on to give a little account of the improvements she hadintroduced, not in vanity, but to keep them from returning to thesubject of her living alone. They listened with profound interest, andwith almost as much astonishment as they had shown at first. 

"But do you find no opposition here?" asked the Duca. "You seem to dojust as you please. "

"Of course, " answered Veronica. "The place belongs to me. Why should Inot do as I like? There are a few tolerably well-to-do people here, whoown a little property. Everything I do is to their advantage as well asto that of the poor peasants, so that they all side with me. No, " sheconcluded thoughtfully, "I do not think that any one would oppose me inMuro. But if any one should, I have decided what to do!"

"And what should you do?" asked the Duchessa, rather nervously. 

"I should send the whole family to America, with a little money intheir pockets. They are always glad to emigrate, and the oppositionwould be quite out of the way in the Argentine Republic. " Veronicalaughed quietly. 

When the Duca and his wife went to dress for dinner they had some verydisturbing ideas concerning the character of the young Princess ofAcireale. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Taquisara, almost for the first time in his life, did not know how toact, but in accepting Veronica's invitation he felt that he could reallybe of use to Gianluca, and he saw how unbendingly determined the youngprincess was that he should stay. He had very good reasons for notstaying, but they were of such a nature that he could not explain themto her. He had the power, he thought, to leave Muro at a moment'snotice, and in yielding to Veronica's insistence, he was onlysubmitting, as a gentleman should, in small matters, rather than engagein a contest of will with a woman. Yet he knew the matter was neithersmall nor indifferent, when he gave way to her, and afterwards. 

Gianluca appeared at the dinner hour and reached the dining-room withhis friend's help. He was placed on Veronica's left, in consideration ofbeing an invalid, though Taquisara should have been there, according toItalian laws of precedence. Veronica had insisted that Don Teodoroshould come, at all events on this first evening. She did not choosethat the learned old priest should be merely the companion of herloneliness; and besides, she knew that his presence would probablyprevent the Duca and Duchessa from returning to the question of hersolitary mode of life. She was also willing to let them see that thehumble curate was a man of the world. 

It was a day of surprises for the old couple, and their manners werehard put to it to conceal their astonishment at the way in whichVeronica dined. They were, indeed, accustomed to a singular simplicityin the country, and to country dishes, as almost all the moreold-fashioned Italians are, but in the whole course of their highly andrigidly aristocratic lives they had never been waited on by two women inplain black frocks and white aprons. The Duca, indeed, found someconsolation in the delicious mountain trout, the tender lamb, theperfect salad, and the fine old malvoisie, for he liked good things andappreciated them; but the Duchessa's nature was more austerelyindifferent to the taste of what she ate, while her love of establishedlaw insisted with equal austerity that any food, good or bad, should bebrought before her in a certain way, by a certain number of men, arrayedin coats of a certain cut, and shaven till their faces shone likemarble. In a measure, it was a slight upon her dignity, she thought, that Veronica should let her be served by waitresses. On the other hand, she reflected upon the conversation which had taken place at tea, andwas forced to admit that she had then discovered the only theory onwhich she could accept Veronica's anomalous position, andconscientiously remain in the house. Either she must look upon thecastle of Muro and its inhabitants as a sort of semi-religious communityof women, or else, in her duty to the world, and the station to whichshe had always belonged, she must raise her voice in protests, loud andmany. For many reasons, she did not wish to insist too much, and she didher best to seem indifferent, keeping her arguments before her mindwhile she ate. The chief of them was, indeed, that she clung desperatelyto the hope of a marriage; but in her heart there was something else, and she knew that she was afraid of Veronica. It seemed ridiculous, butit was true. And her husband was even more afraid of the dominatingyoung princess than she. They never acknowledged the fact to each other, when they exchanged moralities, and discussed Veronica, but each wasafraid, and suspected the other of similar cowardice. 

The Duchessa did her best to seem indifferent; but now and then, whenone of the women changed her plate, or poured something into her glass, she could not help slowly looking round, with an air of bewilderment, asthough expecting to see a man in livery at her elbow. 

As for Gianluca, Veronica had described in her letters the way in whichshe lived; and Taquisara's face more often betrayed amusement thansurprise at what he saw in the world. On the present occasion, havingaccepted the situation into which his affection for his friend had ledhim, he had accepted it altogether, and behaved as though he were at adinner party in Naples, cheerfully making conversation, telling amazingstories of brigandage in Sicily, asking Veronica questions about thesurrounding country, and giving such scraps of news about mutual friendsas his letters had recently brought him. 

Veronica had never seen the man under such circumstances, and she wassurprised by his readiness and by his ability to help her in a ratherdifficult situation. He said nothing which she could compare with whatGianluca wrote. He never spoke of himself, and she did not afterwardsremember that he had made any very brilliant observation; and yet, whendinner was over, she wished to hear him talk more, just as she had oncelonged to hear him say again the things he had said to her forGianluca's sake in Bianca's garden. She had never met any one who seemedto have such a decided personality, without the slightest apparentdesire to assert it. Instinctively, as women know such things, she feltthat he was a very manly man, very simple and brave, and vain, if atall, with the sort of vanity which well becomes a soldierlycharacter--the little touch of willing recklessness that easily stirswoman's admiration. What women hate most, next to cowardice, is, perhaps, the caution of the very experienced brave man--and they hate itall the more because they cannot despise it with any show of reason. 

Gianluca was silently happy, perfectly satisfied to hear Veronica'svoice, to watch the face he loved, and to feel that between her and himthere was something which no one knew. When they spoke, there was alittle constraint on both sides; but when they were silent, the bond wasinstantly renewed. In silence and in imagination, they were writing toeach other the impressions of which they would not speak. Gianluca wastelling her how grateful he was to her for insisting that Taquisarashould stay, after all, and was pointing out to her that his friend wasbravely bearing the burden of a conversation which kept his father andmother from prosing about the necessity of a companion for Veronica. Veronica was replying that Taquisara was more agreeable than she hadexpected, but that if he had been as silent as the Sphinx, or as noisyas Alexander the Coppersmith, she would have pressed him to stay becausehe was her friend's friend. There was a good deal about Taquisara intheir imaginary correspondence. 

But both felt a little more constraint, when they talked, than they hadever felt before, for both knew that on the morrow, or on the next day, at the latest, they were sure to be alone together, --quite alone, --forthe first time; and they wondered whether the curious duality of theiracquaintance and intimacy by word and by letter could be maintainedhereafter, or whether it would suddenly resolve itself into a unity inthe shape of a friendship in which they should speak to each other asthey wrote. 

They knew that something of the sort must happen. The Duca and his wifewould certainly not stand sentry from morning till night over the youngpeople, when they themselves so ardently desired the marriage; andTaquisara was not the man to be in the way when he was not wanted. Itwould be in Veronica's power to put off the meeting, if she chose to doso; but she knew, and Gianluca guessed, that she would not. Whateversociety might say about it, she had assumed the position and theindependence of a married woman, and had gone further than married womenof her age would generally have the courage to go. To hesitate now, andto draw back from the possibility of being left alone with any one ofher guests, would be absurd. She would not seek the interview, nor shewould not do anything to avoid it. But she did not wish to be forcedinto the necessity of talking alone with Taquisara, if it could behelped. She was sure, though she had forgiven him, and liked him betterthan before, that she should certainly quarrel with him, though she didnot know why there should be any further disagreement between them. 

Possibly she recognized in him a will less despotic than her own, butquite as unbending when he chose to exercise it. The certainty of strongopposition, which is fear in cowards, becomes combativeness in bravepeople, and the fighting instinct takes the place of the inclination torun away. But Veronica had no further reason for quarrelling withTaquisara; and because she liked him, she determined to avoid him asmuch as possible, lest at the very first point of difference inconversation there should be war between them about some insignificantmatter perfectly indifferent to both. 

Her guests went to bed early. While Gianluca was before her, Veronicahad not retained the impression she had received from Taquisara, thather friend was a doomed man. Her own vitality lent the sure certainty oflife, in her imagination, to those about her. He was faint and tiredfrom the journey, of course, but he was by no means the utterly helplessinvalid she had expected to see, and she had not believed, so long asshe could watch him, that he was in mortal danger. But when she was inher own room, his face came back to her, a pale shade out of darkshadow, and she saw the hollows about his deep blue eyes, his thin, bluish temples, his transparent features, and his emaciated throat, thatseemed to have fallen away under his white ears. She was so suddenlyand violently disturbed by the recollection that she spoke to Elettra ofhim. The woman had seen him go by when the party had arrived. 

"Do you think that Don Gianluca looks very ill?" Veronica asked. 

"Excellency--" the maid hesitated. "I wish that all may live--but heseems a dead man. "

Veronica said nothing, but it was long before she got to sleep thatnight, and the vision of his face came again and again to her, pale, haggard, haunting, distressing her exceedingly. She rose even earlierthan usual. 

She did not mean that the presence of her guests should interfere withwhat had now become a connected work, to interrupt which would be aninjury to the whole and an injustice to the people who had learned toexpect it of her, looking for more, as she gave them more, and turningto her in every difficulty. But for the arrival of the party on theprevious afternoon she would have gone down to an outlying farm in thevalley, where the farmhouse needed repairs and there was a question ofcutting down a number of olive trees so old that they hardly bore anyfruit. She had ordered her mare at half-past seven in the morning, andshe rode down the long, winding road, saw, judged, and gave orders, galloped most of the way up, and exchanged her riding-habit for hermorning frock before the clock struck ten. 

One after another, her guests appeared, and everything happened as shehad foreseen. The old couple said that they were accustomed to take alittle walk before the midday meal, for the sake of their appetite;Taquisara disappeared when he had helped Gianluca to a big chair in abalcony, in the shade, outside the drawing-room, and Gianluca was leftalone with her, as she had expected. She established herself opposite tohim, for the balcony was so narrow that two chairs could not be placedupon it side by side. 

It was a magnificent summer's day, one of those days in which the wholeglory of the south fills heaven and earth and air, and the stupendoustide of universal life pours into every sense, to very overflowing, asthe ocean fills its world-wide bed. And the world was ripe and ripening, the corn and wheat, and olive and vine, and fruit and flower and tree, from the rich valley below, up the rough hills, as far as sun and soiland rain could draw the dress of beauty over the mountains' grand barestrength. Down there, in the vast garden, the hot air quivered withsheer living; above, the solemn peaks faced God in the still sun. Thebreath of the high breeze, between earth and heaven, blew uponVeronica's cheek. 

They looked at each other and sat silent, and looked again and smiled, both happy in those ever-written, never-spoken thoughts which weretheirs together, both fearing speech as a common thing which must jarand shake them rudely back to their other selves, which were formal, andconstrained, and not at all intimate. 

Gianluca lay quite still in his deep chair, his white hands motionlessupon the edge of the grey shawl which was thrown over his knees. Suddenly, Veronica, sitting close and opposite to him, bent far forwardand gently laid her hand upon one of his. She smiled. 

"I am glad that you are here, " she said simply, looking into his face. 

His own brightened, and the blue eyes grew dark and tender, while herhand lingered a second. 

"How good you are to me!" he exclaimed, in a low voice. "How endlesslygood!"

She was still smiling as she withdrew her hand and leaned back in herchair once more. A little pause followed, during which both were quitehappy, in different ways--he, perhaps, in all ways at once, and she, because she felt she had broken through something like a sheet of ice bya mere gesture and half a dozen words, when it had seemed so hard to do. 

"No, " she said thoughtfully, at last. "It is not a question of goodness. I am natural--that is all. I do not believe that many people are. And wehad got into an absurd position, you and I!" She laughed, looking athim. "We could write, but we could not speak. We each knew what theother was thinking of, and yet, somehow, neither of us could say what wethought. Was it not as I say?"

"Yes. " Gianluca laughed, too, very faintly because he was weak, thoughhe was so happy. 

"It could not last, " Veronica continued, "and I am glad it is over. Forit is over, is it not? We can talk quite frankly now. Last night, forinstance. I am sure I know what you were thinking about. "

"About Taquisara? At dinner?"

"Of course. He is so much more agreeable than I expected, and I am soglad that I made him stay. And then, last night, too--did you see howyour mother looked at the serving-woman, expecting to see the butler? Itwas so natural. It was just what I should have done in her place, and Icould hardly keep from laughing. "

"My dear old mother is not used to such surprises, " answered Gianluca. "Of course I saw it, and knew that you did. "

"Yes--but do you not think that I am quite right?" asked Veronica, hertone changing suddenly as she seemed to appeal to him for support--she, who needed so little from anybody. 

"Of course you are, " he answered promptly. 

He felt unaccountably flattered and pleased by the mere fact of herasking him the question. He felt instinctively that she had never askedany one's opinion about her conduct, and that she really desired hisapproval. She, on her part, was perhaps glad to speak freely at lastabout the position she had assumed. If he had called her rash just then, she would not have answered him as she had answered Don Teodoro when hehad used the same word. 

"You see, " she said, "I am not like other women. I was brought up in aconvent, like most of them, but the rest of my life has been quitedifferent. Well--you know, if any one does. I used to write you allabout what I meant to do while I was still living with Bianca, and youknow that I have begun to carry out most of my ideas. Yesterdayafternoon, while you were resting, your father and mother and I had teatogether, and she found out for the first time that I had no companion. You should have seen her face! And then, when I tried to explain, shegot the impression at once that I meant to live here in a sort ofamateur convent, surrounded by women. I think she rather liked the idea. It seemed to settle her disturbed prejudices a little. Of course--itmust seem stranger to people who all live in the same way as she does. Oh! how glad I am that we can talk about it, you and I!"

Again she laughed happily. To Gianluca, as his eyes met hers, it seemedas though a great wave of the huge, exuberant life that filled thefull-blossoming world that day had rolled up out of the broad valley tohis feet and were lifting him and penetrating him and sweeping its hottide through the ebb of his failing blood. 

"Yes, " he answered her. "To be able to talk at last--at last, after somuch waiting, that was only half talking. "

He sighed gently, and his hand stroked the grey shawl on his knees, smoothing it first in one way and then backwards in the other. Shewatched him, and thought that she had never seen a hand so thin. 

"We shall never go back to the old way, shall we?" he asked, before shespoke again. 

"I hope not!" she answered. "It was so absurd, sometimes. Do youremember at Bianca's house--"

"The night before you left? When I forgot my stick?"

"Yes; but before that. You seemed to think that there was to be no morewriting because I was coming here. "

"Of course--that is, I supposed that it might make a difference--"

"And then you asked me. You should have seen your face! I can rememberit now. It changed all at once. "

"It is no wonder. You changed the whole future with one word. Youseemed really to want my letters much more than I had imagined that youdid. "

As by the quick lifting of a dividing veil, all the awkward littleincidents and memories of constraint had suddenly become parts of themuch larger and more pleasant recollection of their semi-secretintimacy, and in blending with the broader picture the little onessomehow ceased to have anything disagreeable in them, and instead, therewas a touch of humour and a suggestion of laughter each time that theycompared what they had said and done with what they had written andfelt. It was no wonder that the fascination grew on Gianluca with everydancing beat of the happy man's pulse. 

They talked on, and in the way she talked Veronica showed that while hercharacter had grown in three-quarters of a year from girlhood towomanhood, and from womanhood to the half-imperial masculinity of adictatress, her heart was younger than the youngest, was as unsuspiciousof itself as a child's, ready to give itself in an innocent generositywhich could not conceive that giving might mean being taken, or be aslike it as to deceive such a willing, love-sick man as poor Gianluca. She did not say that she loved him, she did not love him, she did notwish him to think that she could love him. Why should he think that shedid? Surely, that he loved her, or thought so, could make no difference. 

She was so very young, under her armour of despotism, that she mightalmost have loved him, as she had all but loved Bosio, had there beenanything to love. But there was not. Gianluca was a shadow, anunmaterial being, a thought--anything ethereal, but not a man. 

The dream-driven ghost of her dead betrothed was ten times more humanand real than Gianluca was to her now, with his white angel's face andmisty hands that seemed to hang weightless in the air before him when hemoved them. There was more of living humanity in the fast fainting echoof Bosio's last words to her than in Gianluca's clear, sweet tones. Ifhe should tell her that he loved her now, she should perhaps not evenblush; for his whole being was sifted and refined and distilled, as thevery spirit of star dust, in which there was nothing left of that sweet, earthly living, breathing, dying, loving flesh and blood without whichlove itself is but a scholar's word, and passion means but a vague, spiritual suffering, in which there is neither hope of joy to come normemory of any past. 

Yet Gianluca breathed, and was a human man, and loved her, and he wouldhave been strangely surprised had he suddenly seen into her heart andunderstood that she looked upon him as though he were a being out ofanother world. The moment when she had first laid her hand upon his hadbeen the supremest of his life yet lived, and all the moments since hadbeen as supremely happy. It was something which he had not dared tohope--to hear her speaking as though there had never been that veilbetween them, against which he had so often struggled, to feel her warmtouch, to see the happy light in her young eyes as she sat there lookingat him, to be sure at last, beyond the half assurance of uncertainwritten words. 

But he was wise, and he bridled back the words that most readily of allothers would have come to his lips. Perhaps even in the midst of his newhappiness, there was the unacknowledged fear of evil chance if he shouldspeak too soon and put the beautiful gold to the touch while the magictransmutation was still so dazzlingly fresh. The present was soimmeasurably better than the past, so near a perfection of its own, thathe could wait in it a while before he opened wide his arms to take inthe very whole of happiness itself, wherewith the beautiful future stoodfull laden before him. 

As they talked, they went over and over much that they had written toeach other during the long months of their correspondence, and at lastVeronica came back to the question she had at first asked him. 

"So you think that I am sensible in living as I do, " she said. "I amglad. I value your opinion, you know. "

She had perhaps never said as much as that to any one. 

"You have made it what it is, " he answered. 

"How do you mean?" she asked quickly. 

"You cannot do wrong, " he replied, with his faint, far-off laugh. "If Ihad read in a book, of an imaginary person, all that you have written meof yourself, I should have said that most of it was absolutelyimpossible, or wildly rash, or foolishly unwise. You know how we are allbrought up. We are nursed in the arms of tradition, we are fed on ideasof custom--we are taken to walk, as children, by incarnate prejudice fora nursery maid, and taught to see things that used to be, where modernthings are. What can you expect? We have not much originality by thetime we grow up. "

"Yes--you know that I was educated in a convent. "

"That is better than being educated at home by a priest. " Gianlucasmiled again. "Besides, you are different. That is why I say that if Ihave an opinion, you have made it for me. You are doing all those thingswhich I could not have believed in a book, and they are turning outwell. If society could see you here, it would not find it necessary toinvent a duenna to chaperon you. But it is not everybody who could dowhat you have done, and succeed. I do not wonder that my mother isastonished, and my father, too. But at the same time, since you can dosuch things, it seems to me that you would have made a great mistake indoing anything else--as great a mistake as Julius Caesar would have madeif he had chosen to remain a fashionable lawyer instead of mixing inpolitics, or Achilles, if he had taken a necklace or a bracelet and leftthe sword in Ulysses' basket. You would have found your mythical duennaa nuisance in real life. "

Veronica laughed. 

"At the end of the first week I should have locked her up in the dungeontower, to get rid of her, " she said. 

"I have no doubt that you would, and your people would have thought itthe most natural thing in the world. You could do anything you pleasedin this place, I fancy. They would not think it strange if you tried andcondemned a cheating steward and had him executed in that gloomycourtyard we passed through when we came in yesterday. "

"The law might find fault with my vivacity, " said Veronica. "But mypeople would say that I had done right if the man had really cheatedthem. It is quite true, I think. I could do almost anything here. I hada man locked up in the municipal prison the other day for forty-eighthours, because he was tipsy and swore at Don Teodoro in the street. Ofcourse, it is nominally the syndic who does that sort of thing; but hebelongs to me, like everything else here, and I do as I please, just asmy grandfather did, when he really had power of life and death in Muro, including the privilege of torture. The first article mentioned in theold inventory was forty palms of stout rope for giving the cord, as theycalled it. They did it under the main gate, --that is why it camefirst, --and they used to pull them up to the vault and then drop themwith a jerk to within two feet of the ground. The ring is still there, just inside the gate. "

"My mother's uncle--the old Marchese di Rionero--once hanged a ruffianfor mutilating one of his horses out of spite. And they say that Italyhas not progressed! There is no hanging, not even for murder, nowadays. "

"Yes, " answered Veronica, thoughtfully, "we have progressed, in a way. That is our trouble--we have progressed too fast and improved toolittle, I think. "

"That sounds paradoxical. "

"Oh no! It is common sense, as I mean it. Progress costs money, improvement brings it. Progress means wearing clothes like other people, having splendid cities like other nations, keeping up armies and navieslike other great powers. Improvement means helping poor people to earnmore wages and to live better--giving them a possibility of happiness, instead of taking the little they have in order to give ourselves theappearance of greatness. That is why I say that in Italy we have toomuch progress and too little improvement. "

"Yes--how well you put it!" Gianluca looked at her with quickadmiration. 

"Do I? It is because you understand easily. Should you call mepatriotic? I think I am. I am an Italian before anything else, beforebeing a Serra, a woman, a member of society--anything! I feel as thoughI should like to give my heart for my people and my life for ourcountry, if it would do any good. Of course, if it really came to makingany great sacrifice, I suppose my courage would shrivel up and I shouldbehave just like any one else. "

"No--you would not, " said Gianluca, gravely. "There have been women--thegreat Countess, and Saint Catherine of Siena--"

"Yes!" Veronica laughed. "And there were also my good ancestors, whotore Italy to pieces, joined hands with German Emperors, upset Popes, seized everything they could lay hands upon, and turned the country intoa sort of perpetual gladiator's show. That is a proud and promisinginheritance for an aspiring patriot, is it not? The less you and I talkof patriotism, the better--seeing what our people have done in historyto make patriotism necessary in our time. "

"Perhaps so. Doing is better than talking, and you have begun by doinggood and trying to make people happy. You have succeeded in one case, already. "

She looked at him with a glance of inquiry. 

"What case?" she asked. 

"I mean myself--of course. You have made me perfectly happy to-day. "

"I am glad, " she answered. "I wish you to be always happy. "

She spoke thoughtfully, gravely, and gently, and then turned from him alittle, and looked through the iron railing of the balcony, down at thedeep distance of the valley. She was wondering, and justly, whetherduring the past hour she had not made a mistake, very cruel to him, inbreaking down all at once the barrier of excessive formality whichhitherto had stood between them when they met. Words rose to her lips, which with the utmost gentleness should quickly undeceive him, if he hadbeen deceived; but when she looked at him and saw his happy, appealingeyes and his transparent face, her courage was not ready. Perhaps he wasdying, as she had been told. She turned again and watched the mistydepths. 

"Don Gianluca--" she began, with a little hesitation. But as she spokethere was a footfall in the embrasure. 

"What were you going to say?" asked Gianluca, knowing from her tone thatshe had meant to speak of some grave matter. 

"Nothing!" she answered with a little sharpness. "Pray take my chair, Duchessa, " she said, turning to the good lady, who had come slowlyforward till she stood with her head just out in the air. "It is timefor luncheon, " she added, as she made the Duchessa sit down, noddedquickly to Gianluca, and went in. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, andcontributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about theirson and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation. They wereboth too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage uponVeronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel thatthey were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they toldeach other, in the privacy of the Duchessa's dressing-room, that afterwhat Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, tomarry him. That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted;for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far asthe prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy ofbelief. He had certainly been much better since they had brought him toMuro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they wereuntil the autumn. 

On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking veryplainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must notbe deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had nointention of ever marrying at all. But she had been interrupted by thecoming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the firstopportunity, she did not purposely create another at once. She was notskilful in such situations. When her directness came into conflict withher sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious mattersshe instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could behard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time ratherbe over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most peoplecall tact. The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in aglacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to knowcertainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of any one of them, nor how far it may lead. The little strengths of weak people are likejagged rocks jutting up in shifting sands and changing tide, the moredangerous to the unwary because they are few and unexpected, and no onecan tell where they lie, just below the surface. Many a brave enterprisehas gone to pieces upon the stupid, unforeseen obstinacy of a despisedweakling. 

Veronica, like other people, even the very strongest, had weak points, or moments when some points of her character were weak, which comes tothe same thing in result. She dreaded to hurt Gianluca, and since theoccasion had passed when she might have made everything clear, andwould have done so, she found it hard to decide how to act. 

Taquisara had told her that the man was dying. If that were true, itcould make no difference, whether he believed that she would marry himor not. The thought of his death was terribly painful, and she thrust itfrom her; for she was not heartless, and in the days that followed theirconversation on the balcony, her affection grew to be as real and deepas it could possibly have been for a most dearly loved brother. For her, there had been none of those ties in which such affections live and growand become parts of life itself. Fatherless, motherless, withoutbrother, or sisters, the girl had grown up not knowing what she had togive, and giving scarcely anything at all of what was best in her. Shewas reticent and proud, and could never be attached to many people. Bianca had been her friend, in a way, but Bianca's life was mysteriousto her, and Pietro Ghisleri had come between the two. 

And now, through many months, by the intimacy of correspondence whichhad suddenly turned to an intimacy of real converse in which she had notbeen disappointed, she had grown--for it was a true growth--to the powerof a most devoted friendship, capable of great and lasting sacrifice. Itwas a friendship, too, that was, as it were, pre-sanctified by therising shadow of near death, fore-hallowed by the sure suffering of itscoming end. It would be hard indeed to cut from Gianluca's heart the oneflower of his loving belief. 

But then, when she sat beside him on the balcony in the shady hours, andthe great wave of life came up to her from the southern valley, shecould not believe that he was really to die. And then, she hesitated, and she wished to do what was right and true by him, pain or no pain. Sometimes there was a little colour in his face, and often the deep bluelight came into his beautiful eyes. He was to live, then, and she feltthat she was cruel, and base, and cowardly to let his thoughts of hergrow. 

Those were the good days. There were worse ones, when he lay like a deadangel before her, and only in his eyes there was a little life. Thenmore than once, she gave him the magic of her touch, laid one handsoftly upon one of his, or smoothed his silk pillow and arranged theshawl about him. Perhaps she was wrong to do such things, just becauseshe was so young; but when she did them he breathed freely again, andthe faint false dawn of a new day that might never brighten rose in thealabaster cheeks. 

Once, Taquisara, standing on the great round bastion below, unnoticed bythem both under the spreading vine, turned suddenly by chance and lookedup through the leaves, and he saw how Veronica was bending forwardtowards his friend and touching one hand of his--for it was not far tosee. Taquisara did not look again, but presently he went in, and therewas less of unconcern in his handsome bronze face that day, and his darkeyes were harder and colder than they were wont to be. 

Veronica liked him, and forgot altogether the unpleasantness which therehad been between them. He was as gentle as a woman with Gianluca. Heseemed to be strong, too, for on the bad days when his friend could notwalk at all, he carried him like a child from room to room. Veronica sawhow necessary he was, and he knew it himself, for after his firstprotest he made no attempt to go away. Gianluca, naturally sensitive andabnormally impressionable, hated to be touched by servants, as someinvalids do, and Taquisara's constant presence saved him much suffering, none the less acute because it was imaginary. 

At luncheon, at dinner, whenever the Duca and Duchessa were present, Taquisara did his best to help the conversation and always seemedcheerful, unconcerned, and hopeful for Gianluca's recovery. It was onrare occasions, when Veronica found herself alone with him for a fewmoments, or together with him and Don Teodoro, that the man appeared toher silent, morose, and sometimes almost ill-tempered. He did not againspeak rudely in her presence, but she guessed that the unspoken thoughtwas constantly in his mind--that, and something else which she could notunderstand. Daily, hourly perhaps, he was inwardly accusing her ofplaying with Gianluca, as he had expressed it. 

Strange to say, she began to care for his opinion and to wish that hecould understand her better; and because he could not, she resented theopinion which she thought he held of her. When she was with him, shefelt something which she did not recognize in herself--a desire toattack him, for no reason whatever, and at the same time a wish that hemight like her better. Even in her childhood she had never cared verymuch whether people liked her or not. 

One day it rained, --for it was in August, --and from time to time theenormous thunder-storms rolled up out of the valley and crashed andsplit themselves upon the sharp peak above Muro, and rumbled away tonorthward up the pass, while the deluge of cold rain descended in theirtrack. 

It was afternoon. The windows were all shut, the Duca and Duchessa haddisappeared for their daily sleep, as they always did, and Veronica andTaquisara kept Gianluca company in one of the big rooms. He was betterthan usual, but Veronica found it hard to amuse him, and tried toimagine some diversion for the long hours. 

"Can you fence?" she asked suddenly, of Taquisara. 

"Of course--after a fashion, " he answered, with a laugh of surprise atthe question, which seemed absurd to him. 

"Will you fence with me?"

"I? Oh--I remember hearing that you took fencing lessons at the PrincessCorleone's. If it amuses you, of course I will. "

"I have all my things here, " said Veronica. "There are any number offoils, and I got two men's jackets and masks, just in the hope that theymight be wanted some day. I am very fond of it, you know. We can movethe table away from the middle of the room--it will be something to do. It is dull, when it rains, and Don Gianluca can watch us and tell mewhen I make mistakes. It will amuse us all. "

"Gianluca could give us both lessons, " said Taquisara. "He fencesbeautifully. "

"Ah--if I only could!" exclaimed Gianluca, in a tone that hurt Veronica. 

The invalid looked down at his long, thin legs and emaciated hands, andhe tried to smile bravely. 

"You would rather not see us--we will not do it, " said Veronica, gently, bending a little to see his face, as she stood near him. 

"Oh no! Please do!" he answered. "I have never seen a woman fence--Icannot imagine how you could. It would amuse me very much. Please sendfor the foils. "

The things were brought, the tables and chairs were moved away, Taquisara drew Gianluca's big easy-chair, with him in it, towards thewindow, and Veronica put on her leathern jacket and glove, and stoodholding her mask in her hand, as she bent over the foils looking for herfavourite one. She found it, and came forward, carrying both mask andfoil, while Taquisara got ready. Gianluca looked at her and smiled. There was something defiant and warlike about the small, well-poisedhead, the aquiline features, and the bright eyes. With one foot a littlein advance she stood up, straight and daring, in the middle of the room, waiting for her adversary. The grey light of the rainy afternoon gleamedcoldly along the steel. 

Taquisara took the one of the two masks which fitted him the better, andpicked out a foil. He did not think of putting on a jacket to fence witha woman. 

"No jacket?" asked Veronica, with a short laugh, as she slipped her maskover her head. 

He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course, and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil. She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were tofence a bout for a prize. Taquisara did the same. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard. "Are you left-handed?"

"Yes--did you never notice it?" She laughed again, as her foil playedupon his for a second. "Now then!" she cried. 

Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent verylittle time in the study of the art. He was bold, quick, and somewhatreckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men ofhis society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he hadwounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his ownsafety, than by any superior skill. He had expected that Veronica wouldmake a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sportin a few minutes. To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she couldreally fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her agreat advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary. He had ofcourse intended and expected only to defend himself without ever reallyattacking, as men generally do when they fence with women. But he wasmistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted. 

She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way. Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that waslike a man's, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foilbent nearly double, with the button full on his breast. She steppedback, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca's, andhe laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted. 

"I took you by surprise, " she said. "You had better put on a jacket--itis just as well. "

"Oh no--but you can really fence! I had no idea. I shall be morecareful. Try again!"

They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious. His defence did notcompare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest. He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently shetouched him on the arm. 

"Why do you not attack me?" she asked impatiently. "You need not beafraid--I can defend myself pretty well. "

He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with aman, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage. She felt anunaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitementshe uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did morethan once. She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, andshe was glad that she should do better against him than against Biancaor her fencing-master. There was a strange delight in it. He, on hispart, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a realattack. He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failedutterly. Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and shewas left-handed. 

It was rather wild play, but it was amusing to watch, and Gianlucalooked on with delighted appreciation. She was so slight and graceful, and yet so quick and strong. As for Taquisara, he was glad when she drewback, took her mask from her face, and said that it was enough. 

"You ought to know that you can hardly ever disarm a left-handed personwhen you are engaged in carte, " observed Gianluca, looking at Taquisara. 

Though he had never been in a quarrel in his life, he had beenpassionately fond of fencing, and in his real interest in what he hadseen he did not even think of complimenting Veronica. She was keenenough to feel that his scientific remark was better than any flattery. 

Taquisara shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

"Donna Veronica fences like a man, " he said. "And I am not very good atit either. She would have killed me two or three times!"

"You never really attacked me, " she answered, flushed and happy. "By theby, " she added, seeing that he was looking over the other foils, "one ofthose is sharp--the one with the green hilt--be careful not to take itby mistake if we fence again, for you might really kill me. "

"How did it come here?" he asked, taking up the one she indicated. 

"It was lying about at the Princess Corleone's. I took it by mistake, Isuppose, with my things. I believe that Signor Ghisleri brought it toshow her, one day. I think he said it had been used. "

She threw off her leathern jacket, and tossed the other things aside. 

"Let us fence a little every day, " she said. "That is, if you willreally fence, instead of playing with me. "

"I am certainly not able to play with you, " he answered. "And I shallwear a jacket next time. "

"You are wonderful, " said Gianluca, still watching her with admiration. 

The storm had passed, and the rain was over. Before long the Duca andDuchessa would appear for tea, and Taquisara said that he would go for awalk. Veronica rang and had the room set in order again, and sat down byGianluca. The exercise had done her good, and she still felt that fiercelittle satisfaction at having fought with Taquisara. There was anunwonted colour in her cheeks, and her brown hair had been somewhatruffled by the mask. Her hands were warm, and tingled, and she feltintensely alive. It had been pleasant, for once, to put out all herenergy in something like a real struggle. 

Little by little her sensations wore off, and she was quite quiet again, but the recollection of them remained and made her wish to renew themevery day. 

"You are wonderful, " Gianluca repeated, when they had talked of otherthings for a while. "Taquisara is not a fencing-master, but he is asgood as most men, and better than many. You gave him trouble, I couldsee. It was all he could do to defend himself against you, sometimes. "

"Did it amuse you to watch us?" asked Veronica. 

"Yes--of course!"

"Then we will do it again, every day. I am glad of a little practice, and it will not hurt him either. A descendant of Tancred ought to fencebetter than that! I suppose that your mother would be horrified. "

"She might be a little surprised. "

"Shall we tell her?"

"Not unless we are obliged to, " answered Gianluca, with a smile. "We donot tell her everything. "

"No, " said Veronica, acquiescing rather thoughtfully. 

Gianluca was in that state in which there is a delight in having little, harmless secrets from the world in common with one much loved, but notyet wholly won, and each small secrecy was to the bond that held himwhat the silver threads are to Damascus steel, welded into the wholethat the blade may bend double without breaking. But to Veronica it wasdifferent; for she guessed instinctively how he looked upon suchtrifles, and she did not wish them to multiply unduly. Each one was asting to her conscience. 

"I hate secrets, " she said gravely, after a pause. "Let us tell her. Itis much better. "

"As you like, " answered Gianluca, with a little disappointment, whichshe did not fail to notice. 

"You think that she will be scandalized? And that we shall not fence anymore? Why? I am sure, if she could see us, she would think it veryproper. It is not improper, is it?" She asked the last questionanxiously, as though in an after-thought. 

"Improper? No! How absurd! If everything that is unusual were to beconsidered improper, our writing to each other would be improper, too. But we kept it a secret, all the same. I cannot imagine talking aboutit. For me--everything that belongs to you is a secret. "

Veronica leaned back in her chair, and her face grew still more grave, but she did not answer. The struggle had begun again, and thehesitation. Should she tell him, once for all, that she really nevercould love him? Should she leave him the illusion he loved so well? Washe to die, or was he to live? The answer to each question seemed to liein the query of the next. He spoke again before she broke the silence. 

"Do you not feel that--a little--not as I do, but just a little, aboutme?" he asked in a voice not timid, but very soft. 

"No, " she answered sadly. "Not as you do. No; it is quite different. "

She did not look at him at once, for she was almost afraid to meet hiseyes, but she heard him catch his breath, as though to strangle a sighby main force, and his head moved on the cushion. 

She had begun to hurt him. 

"I thought you might, " he said, faintly but steadily. "I almost thoughtyou did. "

"No, " she repeated, with ever-increasing gentleness. "No. Do not thinkthat--please do not!"

He said nothing, but again he moved his head. Then, seeing that themoment had come, and that she must face it with truth or lie to himwhile he lived, she turned her face bravely towards him, to tell him allher heart. 

"You are the only real friend I have in the world, " she said. "But I cannever love you--never, Gianluca--never. It is not in me. There is no onein the whole world for whom I care as I do for you. I cannot imagineanything that I could not do for your sake. But not love--not love. Thatis something else. I do not know what it means. You could make meunderstand anything but that. Oh--why must I say it, when it is so hardto say?"

His face seemed cut, as a mask of pain, in alabaster, and the appealing, hungry eyes waited for each fresh hurt. 

"You made me think that you might love me, " he said, the slow wordshardly forming themselves on his dry lips. 

"Then God forgive me!" she cried, clasping her hands and bending herface over them. "And yet--and yet I knew it. I felt it. I meant to tellyou, if you did not know! I only wished not to hurt you--it is so hardto say. "

"Yes, " he answered, scarcely above his breath. "I see it is, " he added, after a long time. 

As he lay in the deep chair, he turned his face from her, on thecushion, till she could not see his eyes, and then was quite still. Itwould have been easier if he had reproached her vehemently, if he hadturned and tried to win her again, and poured out his heart full oflove. But he lay there, like a dead angel, with his face turned fromher, hardly breathing. 

"I have been cowardly, and base, and bad!" she cried, bending over herclasped hands, and speaking to herself. "I should have said it--I saidit long ago, at Bianca's, and I should have said it again--but I wasafraid--afraid--oh! afraid!"

Her low voice trembled in anger against herself, in pity for him, insorrow for them both. She looked up and saw him still motionless. Itwas as though she had killed him and were sitting beside his body. Buthe still lived, and might live. For one instant she felt a mad impulseto give him her life, to marry him, not loving him, to save him if shecould, to atone for what she had done. But a horrible under-thought toldher that it would be but gambling for her freedom with his existence, and that if she did it, she should do it because she felt that he mustsurely die. Even her simplicity seemed gone. She looked again; he hadnot moved. 

She threw herself upon her knees, beside his great chair, her claspedhands on his thin shoulder, in a sort of agony of despair. 

"Speak to me!" she cried. "Forgive me--say that I have not killedyou--Gianluca--dear!"

One shadowy hand of his was lifted, and touched hers. It was as cold asthough it had lain dead in the dew. She took it quickly and held itfast. He did not turn his head. 

"It has been my life, " he said, "my whole life. "

He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would. There was still magic in her touch. 

"Forgive me!" she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm ofthe chair. "Forgive me!"

At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silkcushion, and looked at her bent head. Instinctively she raised her hoteyes. 

"Forgive you?" He spoke very sorrowfully. "I love you. What is there toforgive? It is not your fault--"

"It is--it is!" she cried, speaking into his sad eyes for forgiveness, with all her soul. 

"I shall die--but it is not your fault, " he answered, and he sank back, for he had raised himself a little. "It is not your fault, " he repeated. "Do not ask me to forgive you. Perhaps I should have lived longer--I donot know, for I only lived for you. No--I am quiet now. I can speakbetter than I could. You must not think that you have killed me, if Idie. Men live through worse, but not men like me, perhaps. Somethingelse is killing me slowly, but they will not tell me what it is. Nevermind. It will do as well without a name, and if I get well, it needsnone. After all, I am not dead yet, and while I am alive, I can loveyou. You have been all to me. If you had loved me, I should have hadmore than all the world, and that would have been too much. If Ideceived myself, loving you as I did, --as I do, --it is not your fault, Veronica. It is not your fault. There was a time last year, when I wouldhave done anything, given everything, life and all, for one of athousand words you have written and said to me since then--when I wouldhave committed crimes for the touch of this little hand. Do you see? Itis all my fault. That is what I wanted you to understand. "

He had said all he could, and his breath came with an effort at thelast. But his lips smiled bravely as he looked at her, still kneeling byhis side. Then he seemed to realize that she should not be there. 

"Get up, dear, " he said, with failing voice. "You must not kneel--someone might come--they would think--that you meant--something. "

His lids quivered and closed, and his lips trembled oddly. She felt hishand relax, and she thought that he was gone. Instantly she sprang toher feet beside him, and lifted his head, her face full of the horrorthat goes before the wave of pain for those one loves. But he had noteven fainted. He opened his eyes, and smiled, and tried to speak again, but could not. 

Veronica's lips moved, too, as she stood there, supporting him a littlewith her arm and stiffened with terror for his life. But she could notspeak either. She watched his face with most intense anxiety. Again andagain, he opened his eyes, and saw her, and he felt her arm under him. 

"It is nothing, " he said suddenly. "I was a little faint. "

She drew away her arm with a deep breath of relief, and he sighed whenit was gone. But neither of them spoke. Veronica rang, and sent for hisfavourite wine, and he drank a little of it. Then she sat down besidehim, where she had sat before, and the room was very still. 

It was hot, too, for no one had opened the window since it had stoppedraining. Veronica rose and undid the fastenings and threw back theglass, and the cool air rushed in, laden with the sweet smell of the wetearth. As she came back, she saw that his eyes followed all hermovements, gravely, as a sick child watches its nurse moving about itsroom. There was no reproach in their look, but they were still fixed onher, when she sat down again by his side. 

"Veronica, " said the faint, far voice, presently. "May I ask you onequestion, that I have no right to ask?"

"Anything, " she answered. "And you have the right to ask anything. "

"No--not this. Do you love another man?"

The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness. 

"No, Gianluca. No--by the truth of God--no living man!"

"Nor one dead?" His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyeswere wide for her answer. 

A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflectedfrom an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seenit. 

"There was Bosio, " she said softly. "He spoke to me the night hedied--I could have married him--I should have loved him--perhaps. "

If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemedrather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning, one by one, and word by word--and finding, wondered at what had oncebeen true. 

And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closedpeacefully and naturally, opening again with another look. He was tooweak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some wordshe had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, thatshe had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living. And Hope, that is ever last to leave a breaking heart, nestled back intoher own sweet place, breathing soft things of love, and life, and goldenyears to be. 

"Thank you, " he said. "I should not have asked you. It was kind toanswer. "

They did not speak again, and presently the door opened. The old Ducaheld it back with a stately bow, and the Duchessa swept into the roomwith that sort of uncertain swaying motion, which is all that weaknessleaves of grace. And the Duca shuffled in after her, and closed the doormost precisely, for he was a precise old man. 

"I thought it was time for tea, my dear, " said the Duchessa. "We havehad such a good sleep!"

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Though Gianluca had seemed to gain strength during the first week of hisstay at Muro, he appeared to lose it even more rapidly after thatmemorable afternoon. It was not that he lost heart and control ofcourage; on the contrary, he spoke all at once more hopefully, and grewmost particular in the carrying out of each detail of the day, preciselyin the manner prescribed by the doctors. He forced himself to eat, hedid his best to sleep a certain number of hours, he made Taquisara carryhim out into the air and back again at fixed times, in order that theextreme regularity of his life might help his recovery if possible. Butall this was of no use. It had seemed inconceivable that he should growmore thin, and yet his face and throat and hands shrunk day by day. Hecould not use his legs at all, now, and he told no one that he hadhardly any sensation in them. 

The Duchessa prayed for her son, always in her own room and sometimes inthe church, whither she went often alone in the afternoon, and sometimesaccompanied by her husband. She even curtailed her daily siesta in orderto have more time for prayer. No doubt, she would have given anythingin the world for Gianluca, but she had very little else to give, beyondthat sacrifice, which did not seem small or laughable to her. The Ducasaid little, but often shook his head, unexpectedly, and his weak eyeswere watery. He sometimes walked twenty-five times round the top of thebig lower bastion, under the vines that grew upon the trellis over it, before the midday breakfast, while the Duchessa was at her devotions. Atevery round, when he came to the point fronting the valley he paused amoment and repeated very much the same words each time. 

"My poor son! My poor Gianluca!" he said, and then shuffled round thebastion again. 

Taquisara scarcely left the sick man's side except when Gianluca couldbe alone with Veronica. He was evidently very anxious, though his facebetrayed little of what he felt. He knew it, and was glad that naturehad given him that bronze-like colour, which could hardly change at all. When the whole party were together, he talked; he talked when he wasalone with Gianluca; but when he was with Gianluca and Veronica he spokein monosyllables. Once she noticed that he was biting his lip nervously, just as he turned away his face. 

Though Gianluca was worse, without doubt, he insisted that there shouldbe no change in his way of spending the day. To amuse him, Veronica andTaquisara fenced a little of an afternoon. But the Sicilian had no heartin it, and evidently did not care whether Veronica touched him or not, and his indifference annoyed her, so that she sometimes worked herselfinto little furies of attack, and he, rather than really attack her inreturn and oppose his strength, broke ground and let himself be drivenback across the room. 

"Some day I shall take the foil with the green hilt, " laughed Veronica. "Then you will really take the trouble to fight me. "

The foil with the green hilt was the sharp one which had got among theothers by mistake. Taquisara smiled indifferently. 

"My life is at your service, " he said, in a tone that seemed a littlesarcastic. 

"Keep it for those who need it, " she answered, laughing again, andglancing at Gianluca. 

Her tone was a little scornful, too, and Gianluca watched them both withsome surprise. Almost any one would have thought that they disliked eachother, but such a possibility had never struck him before. He would haveadmitted that Veronica might not like Taquisara, but that any one in theworld should not like Veronica was beyond his comprehension. He spoke tohis friend about it when they were alone. 

"What is the matter between you and Donna Veronica?" he asked thatevening, before dinner. 

"Nothing, " answered Taquisara, stopping in his walk. "What do you mean. "

"I think you dislike her, " said Gianluca. 

"I?" The Sicilian's strong voice rang in the room. "No, " he addedquietly, and recovering instantly from his astonishment. "I do notdislike her. What makes you think that I do?"

"Little things. You seem so silent and out of temper when she is in theroom. To-day when she was laughing about the pointed foil you answeredher sarcastically. Many little things make me think that you do not likeher. "

"You are mistaken, " said Taquisara, gravely. "I like Donna Veronica verymuch. Indeed, I always did, ever since I first saw her. I am sorry thatmy manner should have given you a wrong impression. I always feel that Iam in the way when I am with you two. "

"You are never in the way, " answered Gianluca. 

After that, Taquisara was very careful, but more than ever he did hisbest not to remain as a third when the Duca and Duchessa were away, andVeronica and Gianluca could be together. The fencing alone wasinevitable, and he hated it, though he went through it with a good gracealmost every day, since Veronica seemed so unreasonably fond of theexercise. 

She and Gianluca did not refer to what had happened, and to what hadbeen said, when she had told him the truth. She, on her part, felt thatshe had done right, and that it was the sort of right which need not bedone again. But he, poor man, was not so wholly undeceived as shethought him to be. Since she loved no one else, he could still hope thatshe might love him. 

Yet he felt his life slipping from him, and he made desperate efforts toget well, insisting upon every detail of his invalid existence as thougheach several minute of the day had a healing virtue which he must notlose. He was sure that his chance of winning the woman he loved lay inliving to win her, and he grappled his soul to his frail body with everythrill of energy that his dying nerve had left, with all the tense moralgrip that love and despair can give. And yet it seemed hopeless, for hisstrength sank daily. At last he could not even sit up at table, andremained lying in his low chair, while the others ate their mealshastily in order not to leave him long alone. 

The doctor came, a clever young man, whom Veronica had procured for thegood of the village. He shook his head, though he tried to speakcheerfully to Gianluca's father and mother. But he advised them to sendfor the great authority whom they had consulted in Naples, and underwhom he himself had studied. Veronica spoke with him in an outer room. 

"I fear that he cannot live, but I am not infallible, " he said. 

"How long will he live, if he is going to die?" asked Veronica, pale andquiet. 

"Do not ask me--it is guess-work, " answered the young doctor. "I thinkhe may live a fortnight. He is practically paralyzed from his waistdownwards--it is almost complete. What he eats does not nourish him. "

"What has caused this?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, smiled faintly, and made a gesturewhich in the south signifies the inevitable. 

"It is a decayed race, " he said; "a family too old--there is no moreblood in them--what shall I say?"

"I do not believe that has anything to do with it, " replied Veronica, rather proudly. "The Serra are as old as they. Did you see thatgentleman who is Don Gianluca's friend? He is descended from Tancred. "

"It is other blood, " said the doctor. 

He went away, and the great physician who lived in Naples was sent forat once. A carriage went down to Eboli to meet him. He came, looked, asked questions, and shook his head, very much as his pupil had done. Hestayed a night, and when it was late, Veronica and Taquisara were alonewith him. He was a fat man, with enormous shoulders and very shortlegs, and a round face and dreamy eyes set too low for proportion offeature. Taquisara thought that he was like a turtle standing on itshind flippers, preternaturally endowed with a hemispherical blackstomach, and a large watch chain; but the idea did not seem comic tohim, for he was in no humour to be amused at anything. 

The professor--for he was one--talked long and learnedly, using a numberof Latin words with edifying terminations. In spite of this, however, hewas not without common sense. 

"I have known people to recover when they seemed to have no chance atall, " he said. 

"But you do not expect him to live?" asked Taquisara, pressing him. 

"It is a desperate case, " answered the physician. 

Being very fat, and having travelled all day, he went to bed. Veronicaremained alone in the drawing-room with Taquisara. The latter slowlywalked up and down between two opposite doors. Veronica kept her seat, her head bent, listening to his regular footsteps. 

"Donna Veronica--" he stopped. 

"Yes, " she answered, not looking up, but starting slightly at the soundof his voice. "What do you wish to say?"

"You know that I have not always been fortunate in what I have said toyou, and that makes me hesitate to speak now. But it seems to me that, as Gianluca is really in the care of us two--"

"Well?" Still she did not turn to him, though he paused awkwardly, andbegan to walk again. 

"Gianluca asked me the other day whether I disliked you, " he said. 

"Well? Do you?" Her tone was unnaturally cold, even to her own ears. 

He stood still on the other side of the table, looking towards her. 

"No, " he said, as though he were making an effort. "If he asked me thequestion, it must be that I have behaved rudely to you before him. HaveI?"

"I have not noticed it, " answered Veronica, as coldly as before. 

"It would certainly not have been intentional, if there had beenanything to notice. If I speak of it now, it is because Gianluca spoketo me, and because, if we are to talk about him, the way must be clear. You say that it is? May I go on?"

Veronica did not answer at once. Then she rose slowly, turned, and stoodbefore the low, long chimneypiece. 

"Why should we talk about him at all?" she asked, at length determiningwhat to say. "We shall not agree, and we can only repeat what we haveboth said before now. It can be of no use. "

"I have something more to say, " replied Taquisara. 

"Yes. There may be more to be said, that may be better not said. I knowwhat it is. You once accused me of playing with him. You said it rudelyand roughly, but I have forgiven you for saying it. You would have morereason for saying it now than you had then, and I should be less angry. You have a better right to speak, and I have less right to defendmyself. But I will speak for you. I am not afraid. "

"No. That is the last thing any one could say of you!"

"Or of you, perhaps, " she said, more kindly, and it was the first wordof appreciation she had ever given him. "We are neither of us cowards. That is why I am willing to tell you what I think of myself. It isalmost what you think of me--that I have done a thousand things whichmight make Don Gianluca, and his father and mother, too, believe that ifhe recovers I mean to marry him. But you think me a heartless woman. Iam not. There are things which you neither know, nor could understand ifyou knew them. I will ask you only one question. Is there any imaginablereason why I should wish to hurt him?"

"None that I can guess, " answered Taquisara, looking into her eyes. 

"Then you must understand what I have done. Out of too much friendshipI have made a great mistake. What you can never understand, I suppose, is, that I can feel for him what you do--just that, and no more--or moreof that, perhaps, and nothing else. A woman can be a man's friend, aswell as a man can. I never played with him--as you call it--though youhave enough right to say it. I told him from the first that I couldnever marry him. I told him so again on the day when we had firstfenced, and you went to walk after the rain. "

"That is why he has been worse, since then. It began that very evening. "

"Yes. I know it. Do you think I do not reproach myself for having goneso far that I had to speak? Indeed, indeed, I do, more than you know. But what am I to do? He cannot go away, ill as he is. I cannot leave youall here. And then, I would not leave him, if I could. He is more to methan I can ever tell you--I would give my right hand for his life. Wouldyou have me marry him, knowing that I can never love him? Is that whatyou would have me do?"

Taquisara was silent for a moment, looking earnestly at her, and he bithis lip a little. 

"Yes, " he said. "That is what you should do. It is all you can do, totry and save his life. "

The moment he had spoken he turned from her and began to walk up anddown again. 

"Do you know what you are asking?" Veronica followed him with her eyes. 

"It is a sacrifice, " he said, pursuing his walk and not glancing at her. "It is to give your life for his. I know it. But you can hardly give himmore than he has given you--or you have taken from him. Yes--I know whatthe doctors say, that it is a disease which is known and understood. Nodoubt it is. But diseases of that sort may remain latent for a lifetime, unless something determines them. Until they have gone too far, they maybe overcome. If he had not lived for weeks in a state of nervous tensionthat would almost make a strong man ill, he would not be in such acondition now. If he had never known you, he might have been as well ashe ever was--he might have been well for twenty or thirty years, beforeit attacked him. It is not all your fault, but a part of it is. Takeyour friendship, and your mistakes, together--your wish that he maylive, and your responsibility if he dies--two motives are better thanone, when the one is not strong enough. You have two, and good ones. Marry him, Donna Veronica--marry him and save his life, if you can, andyour own remorse if he dies. Let me go to him now--he is not asleep--letme tell him that you have changed your mind, or made up your mind--thatyou love him, after all--"

"Please do not go on, " said Veronica, drawing back a little, till sheleaned against the mantelpiece. 

He had placed himself in front of her before he had finished speaking. He was excited, vehement, and not eloquent--like a man driven to bay bya crowd to argue a question in which he had no conviction, but whichconcerns his life. He stopped speaking when she interrupted him, and heseemed to be waiting for her to say more. She had drawn herself up alittle proudly, with her head high. 

"You hurt me, " she said, breaking the silence, and hardly knowing whyshe said the words. 

"Do you think it costs me nothing?" he asked, in a low voice. 

His eyes burned strangely in the lamp-light. But he turned away quickly, to resume his walk. She could not help asking him a question. 

"Why should it cost you anything? You are speaking for your friend--butI--"

She did not finish the sentence, for it seemed to her selfish to throwher right to happiness into the scale against Gianluca's life. But shecould not understand him. 

"It is hard to do, for all that, " he answered indistinctly. "I have saidtoo much, " he continued, stopping before her. "I meant to do the best Icould. Perhaps I should have said nothing. This is no time to stop attrifles. The man is dying, and I have a right to say that I believe youmight save his life--and a right to beg you to try. You have the rightto refuse, to question, to doubt--all rights that are a woman's in sucha case. As for me--there is no question of me in all this. Since I mustbe here for him, since I have displeased you from the first, since youdo not like me, look upon me as a necessary evil, do not consider myexistence, think of me as a man who loves your best friend and is givingall he has--to save him. "

"All you have, " repeated Veronica, thoughtfully, but without a question. 

"Yes!" he exclaimed. 

The single word was spoken with a sort of passion, as though it meantmuch to him. She liked him better now than when he walked up and down, giving her incoherent advice. Whatever he might mean, it was somethingwhich had power to move him. 

"You are mistaken, " she said. "I like you very much. "

"You--Princess!" His surprise was genuine. "You have not made me thinkso, " he added in a tone of wonder. 

"Nor have you made me think that you liked me, " she answered. 

"Gianluca thought I did not, " said Taquisara, slowly, as though speakingto himself. 

Veronica smiled. 

"When I first knew you, when we talked together at the villa on thatmorning before Christmas, I liked you better than him, " she said. 

He started sharply. 

"Please--" He checked himself almost before the one word had escaped hislips. 

"Please--what?" she asked, naturally enough. 

"Nothing. "

His face quickened as he walked again, and she watched him curiously. 

"As friends of one friend, we must be friends, " she said, after a pause. "We have spoken frankly to-night, both of us. It is much better. Withhis life between us we can say things, perhaps, which neither of uswould have said before. You are doing all you can. You ask me to do morethan I can--I think. As for his life--let us not talk of what mayhappen. I think of it enough, as it is. "

She turned as she spoke the last words, for she did not trust her face. But he heard the true note of sorrow in her tone. 

"Is it possible that you do not love him a little?" he asked, in a lowvoice. 

"It is true, " she answered mechanically, as though hearing him in adream. "I could never love him. "

Then, all at once she straightened herself and left the chimneypiece. 

"We must not talk of these things any more, " she said. "Good night. Weunderstand each other, do we not?"

She held out her hand to him, which she very rarely did. He took itquietly. 

"I understand you--yes, " he said. 

She looked at him a moment longer, smiled faintly, and then left theroom. After she was gone, he sat down in the chair she had occupied, crossed one knee over the other, folded his hands, and stared at thecarpet. He sat there for a long time, motionless, as though absorbed inthe study of a difficult problem. But his expression did not change, andhe did not speak aloud to himself as some men do when they are alone andin great trouble, as he was then. He was not a man of theatricalinstincts, nor, indeed, of any great imagination. Least of all was hegiven to anything like self-examination, or arguing with his conscience. He was exceedingly simple in nature. He either loved or hated, eitherrespected or was indifferent or despised altogether, with nohalf-measures nor compromises. 

Just then he was merely revolving the situation in his mind, and tryingto see some way of escaping from it, without abandoning his friend. Butno way occurred to him which did not look cowardly, and when he rosefrom his seat, he had made up his mind to face his troubles as well ashe could, since he could not avoid them. 

He went to Gianluca's room before he went to bed. A small light burnedbehind a shade in a corner, and at first he could barely see the whiteface on the white pillow. The sick man lay sound asleep, breathingalmost inaudibly, one light hand lying upon the coverlet, the otherhidden. Gradually, as Taquisara looked, his eyes became accustomed tothe light, and he gazed earnestly at his sleeping friend. He saw thedark rings come out beneath the drooping lids, and the paleness of theparted lips, and the terrible emaciation of the thin hand. 

But there was life still, and hope. Hope that the man might still liveand stand among men, hope that he might yet marry Veronica Serra--and behappy. In the half-darkness, Taquisara set his teeth, biting hard, asthough he would have bitten through iron, lest a sharp breath shouldescape him and disturb the sleeper's rest. 

That frail thing, that ghost, that airy remnant of a man, lay there, alive in name, between Taquisara and the mere right to think of his ownhappiness; and next to the reality of the shadow of his dream, he lovedbest on earth this shadow of reality that would not die. For he lovedVeronica with all his heart, and after her, Gianluca della Spina. Aboveboth stood honour. 

He knew that he was loyal and true as he stood there, and that there wasnot in the inmost inward heart of him a mean, double-faced wish thathis friend might die there, peacefully, and leave to the winning of thestrong what the weak had wooed in vain. He had spoken the truth when hehad said that for his friend's life he was giving all he had, when hedid his best to persuade Veronica that she must marry the dying man, inthe bare hope of saving him while there was yet time. He had done hisbest, though it was no wonder that there was no conviction, but onlyvehemence, in his tone. It had been different on that day, now long ago, when he had first spoken for Gianluca in the garden. He had not lovedher then. She had been no more to him than any other woman. But even onthat day, when he had left her, he had half guessed that he might loveher if opportunity gave possibility the right of way. He had guessed it, and even to guess it was to fear it, for Gianluca's sake. He was notquixotic. Had he been first, death or life, he would not have givenanother room at her side, had that or that man been twenty times hisfriend or his brother. Even if it had been a little otherwise, ifGianluca had not confided in him from the beginning, and had stood outas any other suitor for her hand, Taquisara, as he loved her now, wouldhardly have drawn back because his friend had been before him. ButGianluca had come to him, told him all; asked his advice, taken hishelp--all that, when Veronica had still been nothing to Taquisara--lessthan nothing, in a way, because she was such a great heiress, and hewould have hesitated before asking for her hand, being but a poorSicilian gentleman of good repute, few acres, and old blood. 

He was loyal to the core of his sound soul. Whatever became of him, Gianluca was to be first in his actions, wherever Veronica might standin his heart, and he had the strength to do all that he meant to do. Hewould do it. He knew that he should do it, and he was glad, for hishonour, that he could do it. 

He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, goingrarely to Bianca's house, and then not talking with Veronica when hecould help it. For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mysteryof attraction in which great passion begins; that something whichtouches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently, yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night, till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and pricks, then goads, then drives--then, at the last, tears men up like straws inits enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwindin the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin ofhonour, worse than any death. 

He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But inthat, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper tobreak down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strongpressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he haddone his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He wasstill strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and wastebodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could, and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the momentwhen he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding thestrength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bearthe pain, --a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate's grip, butsilently unyielding to the last. 

It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer atall. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least whatthey feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no man can really bemeasured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cryare the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it, and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the firethat scorches his brother's soul, to tell us which can suffer the more. 

Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had passedbetween Veronica and him came back to his thoughts. 

More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went toGianluca's side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, andlooked up wonderingly into his friend's eyes. He scarcely knew that hespoke, as his lips moved. 

"I am going to die, " he said, in a far-off tone. 

Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile. 

"Nonsense--no--no!" he said cheerfully. "You have been dreaming--you arebetter. "

"Yes--I am dreaming--let me sleep, " answered the sick man, hardlyarticulating the words. 

And in a moment, he was asleep again. Taquisara listened to hisbreathing, bending down a moment longer. Then he went softly away. Hehimself slept a little, but it seemed long before the morning broke. 

When it was broad daylight, Gianluca seemed better, for the deep sleephad refreshed him. It was still very early, when the professor appearedand paid him a long visit, asking a few questions at first and thensuddenly, beginning to talk of politics and the public news. Taquisaraleft the room with him, and they stood together in Gianluca'ssitting-room. 

"He is better, is he not?" asked the Sicilian, eagerly. 

To his surprise the doctor shook his head and was silent a long time. 

"I know nothing, " he said, at last. "Nobody knows anything. Surgery is afine art, but medicine is witchcraft, or little better. You see, Ispeak frankly. I can only give you my experience, and that may be worthsomething. I have seen two cases of this kind in which, when the changecame, the patients partially recovered, and lived for several years, paralyzed downwards from the point in the spine where the diseasebegins. I have seen several cases where death has resulted rathersuddenly. "

"And do you see a change coming?"

"Yes. It has begun already. Is he a devout man?"

"A religious man, at all events, " answered Taquisara, gravely. 

"Then, if he wishes to see a priest, it would be as well to send for onethis morning. But if he wishes to be moved as usual, and dressed, lethim have his way. Do not frighten him, if you can help it. No moralshock can do any good. I leave it to you. It is of no use to tell hisfather and mother. They are here, and you will see if he is worse. Isuppose you know that he suffers great pain when he is moved?"

"No!" said Taquisara, anxiously. "I did not know it. I sometimes hearhim draw his breath sharply once or twice--but he never complains. Ithought it hurt him a little. "

"It is agony, " said the doctor. "He must be a very brave man. "

The professor seemed much impressed by what Taquisara had said. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Taquisara went immediately to find Don Teodoro, who was generally athome at that hour, in his little house just opposite the castle gate. Hefound him with his silver spectacles pushed up to the top of his head, his long nose buried in a musty volume, a cup of untasted coffee at hiselbow, absorbed in study. The small room was filled with books, old andnew, and smelt of them. As Taquisara entered, the old priest looked up, screwing his lids together in the attempt to recognize his visitorwithout using his spectacles. He took him for the syndic of Muro, arespectable countryman of fifty years, come to consult with him aboutsome public matters. 

"Be seated, " he said. "If you will pardon me, for a moment--I wasjust--"

In an instant his nose almost touched the page again, and he did notcomplete the sentence, before he was lost in study once more. Taquisarasat down upon the only chair there was and waited a few moments, notrealizing that he had not been recognized. But the priest forgot hisexistence immediately and if not disturbed would probably have gone onreading till noon. 

"Don Teodoro!" said Taquisara, rousing him. "Pray excuse me--"

The old man looked up suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise. 

"Dear me!" he cried. "Are you there, Baron? I beg your pardon. I think Itook you for some one else. "

He drew his spectacles down to the level of his eyes, and let the bigbook fall back upon the table. 

"Our friend is very ill, " said Taquisara, gravely. "That is why I havecome to disturb you. "

He told the priest what the doctor had said about Gianluca's condition. Don Teodoro listened with an expression of concern and anxiety, for hehad become fond of the sick man during the past weeks, and Gianlucaliked him, too. Almost every day they talked together, and the refinedtaste and sincere love of literature of the younger man delighted in theprofound learning of the old student, while the latter found a rarepleasure in speaking of his favourite occupations to such anappreciative listener. 

"The fact is, " Taquisara concluded, "though I have not much faith indoctors, I really believe that he may die at any moment. You know whatkind of man he is. Go and sit with him after luncheon to-day--orbefore--the sooner, the better. Do not frighten him--do not tell himthat I have spoken to you about his condition. I believe that he knowsit himself, and if he is alone with you for some time, and you speak ofthe uncertainty of life, as a priest can, he will probably himselfpropose to make his confession. You understand those things, DonTeodoro--it is your business. It is our business to give you a chance. "

"Yes--yes, " answered the old man. "I daresay you are right. I supposethat is what I should do. " There was a reluctance in his voice whichsurprised Taquisara. 

"You do not seem convinced, " said the latter. 

"I wish there were another priest here, " replied Don Teodoro, thoughtfully, and his clear eyes looked away, avoiding the other'sdirect glance. 

"Why?" inquired the Sicilian, with increasing astonishment. 

"It is a painful office to perform for a friend. " The curate looked downnow, and fingered the corner of his old book, in evident hesitation. "Itis quite another thing to assist the poor. "

"I do not understand you, " said Taquisara. "I suppose that priests haveespecial sensibilities of their own--"

"Sometimes--sometimes, " interrupted Don Teodoro, as though speaking tohimself. "Yes--I have especial sensibilities. "

"It cannot be helped, " answered Taquisara, in a tone that had somethingof authority in it. "Of course we laymen do not appreciate those nicequestions. A man is dying. He wants a priest. It is your place to go tohim, whether he is your own father, or a swineherd. You are alone here, and you have no choice. "

"Yes, I am alone. I wish I were not. I wish that the princess would getme an assistant. "

"It will be best if you come to the castle in about an hour, " saidTaquisara, paying no attention to Don Teodoro's last remark. "By thattime Gianluca will be in his sitting-room, and I shall be with him. TheDuca and Duchessa will be out for their walk, for the weather is cooland fine, and they do not know of his imminent danger. Come in withoutwarning, as though you had just come to pay him a visit of a quarter ofan hour. You have done the same thing before. I will go away after fiveminutes and leave you together. Donna Veronica will not interrupt you. "

"Very well, " replied the priest, in a tone that was still reluctant. "Ifit must be, it must be. "

Taquisara looked at him curiously and went away to arrange matters as heproposed. But Don Teodoro, though he wore his spectacles, with the helpof which he really could see very well, did not notice the young man'sglance of curiosity, as he went with him to the door, and carefullyfastened it after him, which was an unusual proceeding on his part; forthough he lived quite alone, the poor people never found that doorlocked by day or night. An old woman came every day to do the littlehousehold work that was necessary, and to cook something for him, whenhe ate at home. But to-day, for once, he drew the rusty old bolt across, before he went back to his study. He did nothing which could seem tohave justified the precaution, after he had sat down again in his bigwooden easy-chair; and if the door had been wide open, and if any onehad come in without warning, the visitor would have found the priestbefore the table, slowly lifting one long, bent shank of his silverspectacles and letting it fall upon the other, in a slow andabsent-minded fashion to which no one could have attached any especialimportance. People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep itwhen they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave oftheir hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to seeif it could get a vampire's dead life for a night, and come out, anddraw blood. 

Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly thanwas his wont. In the narrow court within, he stopped before passingthrough the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of amarble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which wasbuilt into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained whitewhile the surrounding blocks had grown black with age. There was no moreapparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of theinscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses, all alone in his room. But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro. Hehad a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible fromhimself. 

But that was not easy. The thing which had taken hold of him was asstrong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold forhold, wrench for wrench. It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that toyield a hair's breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one. He had almostrelaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alonewith Veronica. 

He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turnedsharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself thatto waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable, since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica. Andhe had set himself to arrange the meeting between Gianluca and DonTeodoro, and each hour was precious. 

His face helped him, for he did not easily betray emotion; he rarelychanged colour at all, and was not a man of mobile features. But he hadgrown thinner since he had been in Muro, and the clearly cut curves thatmarked the Saracen strain in him were sharper and more defined. 

He went in and met Veronica in the large room in which they usuallyfenced, and which lay between what was really the drawing-room and theapartment set aside for Gianluca and Taquisara. She was standing alonebeside the table, her face very white, and as she turned to Taquisara, he saw something desperate in her eyes. 

"I have seen the doctor again, " she said, not waiting for any greeting, and knowing that he would understand. 

"And I have seen the priest, " answered Taquisara. 

She started, and pressed her lips tightly to suppress something. Hereyes wandered slowly and then came back to the Sicilian before shespoke. 

"You have done right, " she said, and then paused a second. "He is goingto die to-day, " she added, very low. 

"That is not sure, " replied Taquisara. "The doctor says that he hasknown cases--"

"No, " interrupted Veronica. "I know it--I feel it. "

She was resting one hand on the heavy table, and as she spoke she bentdown, as though bowed in bodily pain. Taquisara saw the sharp lines inthe smooth young forehead, and his teeth bit hard on one another as hewatched her. He could not speak. With a quick-drawn breath shestraightened herself suddenly and looked at him again. He thought hesaw the very slightest moisture, not in her eyes, but on the lower lidsand just below them. It was very hard to shed tears, and not like her. 

"Hope!" he said gently. 

During what seemed a long time they stood looking at each other withunchanging faces, and neither spoke. Some people know that dead silencewhich descends while fate's great hand is working in the dark, and menhold their breath and shut their eyes, listening speechless for the dullfootfall of near destiny. 

At last Veronica, without a word, turned from the table and went slowlytowards a door. Taquisara did not move. When her hand was on the lock, she turned her head. 

"Stand by me, whatever I do to-day, " she said earnestly. 

"Yes. I will. "

He did not find any eloquent words nor oaths of protest, but she saw hisface and believed him. She bent her head once, as though acknowledginghis promise, and she went out quietly, closing the door behind her. 

Some minutes passed before Taquisara also left the room in the otherdirection. He wondered why she had said those last words, for he hadseen again that desperate look in her face and did not understand it. Perhaps she meant to marry Gianluca before he died, and at the thoughtTaquisara felt as though a strong man had struck him a heavy blow juston his heart, and for one instant he steadied himself by the table andswallowed hard, as though the breath were out of him. It did not last amoment. Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend. 

Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning. He hadevidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisarastanding by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anythingof so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection. Hecertainly did not remember having spoken of dying. But he was very weak, and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usuallyseemed. 

Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings, and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room. 

"Tell me, " he said, "does it hurt you very much when I take you up?"

"It hurts, " answered Gianluca, with a smile. "Hurting is relative, youknow. I can bear it very well. There are things that hurt more. "

"What? When you try to move alone?"

"Oh no! Imaginary things. You hurt me very little--you are so careful. What should I have done without you?"

Taquisara had never touched him so tenderly before, though he wasalways as gentle as a woman with him. He lifted him, carried him fromhis bedroom and laid him in his accustomed chair. The pale head restedwith a sigh upon the brown silk cushion. 

"Thank you, " he said faintly. "That was better than ever. But I ambetter to-day, too. "

The Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid'ssmall belongings near him, --his books, his cigarettes, --for he sometimessmoked a little, --and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowerswhich Elettra renewed every morning. Gianluca drew a breath ofsatisfaction when all was done. He really felt a little better, and byTaquisara's care had suffered less than usual in the moving. His fatherand mother had been in to see him as usual, before he was up, and beforethey went out for their daily walk. Veronica would not come yet, but hehad the true invalid's pleasure in anticipating the coming of awell-loved woman. As often happens in such cases he seemed quiteunconscious of his approaching danger. 

He was not surprised when Don Teodoro came in, a little later, and thetwo very soon fell into conversation together. Taquisara presently wentaway and left them, as he often did when they began to talk of books. Half an hour had not passed since his meeting with Veronica, but as heagain entered the room where they had met, he found her standing beforethe window, looking out, and twisting her handkerchief slowly with bothher hands. She started when she heard him come in, and she turned herhead to see who it was that had opened the door. To go on, he had topass near her, and she kept her eyes on his face as he approached her. 

"How is he?" she asked in a voice hardly recognizable as her own. 

She had an agonized look, and she raised her handkerchief to her mouthquickly, and held it, almost biting it, while he answered her. 

"He says that he feels better. Don Teodoro is there. He has just come. Is there anything that I can do?"

She shook her head, still holding the handkerchief to her lips, andagain looked out of the window. He waited a moment longer and thenpassed on, leaving her alone. He saw that she was half mad with anxiety, and he neither trusted himself to speak, nor believed that speakingcould be of any use. He went down to the lower bastion, where he couldbe alone, and for a long time he walked steadily up and down, tryinghard to think of nothing, and sometimes counting his steps as he walked, in order to keep his mind from itself. 

He did not idealize the woman he loved, for he was not a man of ideals, nor of much imagination. Such defects as she might have, he did notsee, and if he had seen them he would have been indifferent to them. Tosuch a man, loving meant everything and admitted of no comment, becausethere was no part of him left free to judge. He was a whole-souled man, who asked no questions of himself and no advice of others. He had neverneeded counsel, in his own opinion, and for the rest, what he felt washimself and not a secondary, dual being of separate passions andimpressions which he could analyze and examine. He had nevercomprehended that strange machine of nicely-balanced doubts andcertainties, forever in a state of half-morbid equilibrium between thewish, the thought, and the deed--such a man as Pietro Ghisleri was, forinstance, who would refuse a beggar an alms lest the giving should be asatisfaction to his own vanity, and then, perhaps, would turn back inpity and give the poor wretch half a handful of silver. When Taquisaraonce knew that he loved Veronica, he never reverted to a state of doubt. He fought against it, because his friend had loved her first, androoting himself where he stood, as it were, he would have let thepassion tear him piecemeal rather than be moved by it. But he never hadthe smallest doubt as to what the passion was in itself and might be, inits consequences, if he should be weak for one moment. Simple struggles, when they are for life and death, are more terrible than anycomplicated conflict can possibly be. 

Don Teodoro was a long time alone with Gianluca. Whatever reasons he hadof his own for not wishing to comply with Taquisara's request, heovercame them and faithfully carried out the mission imposed upon him. In itself it was no very hard one. Gianluca was a religious man, asTaquisara had said that he was, and he knew that he was very ill, thoughhe did not believe himself to be dying. With his character and in hiscondition, he was glad to talk seriously with such a man as Don Teodoro, and then to lay before him the account of his few shortcomings accordingto the practice of his belief. 

The old priest came out at last, grave and bent, and, going through therooms, he came upon Veronica standing alone where Taquisara had lefther. She did not know how long she had stood there, waiting for him. Hepaused before her, and her eyes questioned him. 

"He wishes to see you, " he said simply. 

"How is he?" He had not understood her unspoken question. "How is he?"she repeated, as he hesitated a moment. 

"To me he seems no worse. He says that he feels better to-day. But thereis something, some change--something, I cannot tell what it is, since Ilast saw him. "

"Stay here--please stay in the house!" said Veronica. "He may need you. "

While she was speaking she had gone to the door, and she went outwithout looking back. A moment later, she was by Gianluca's side. Shesaw that what Don Teodoro had said was true. There was an undefinablechange in his features since the previous day, and at the first sight ofit her heart stood still an instant and the blood left her face, so thatshe felt very cold. She kept her back to the light, that he might notsee that she was disturbed, and while she asked him how he was, herhands touched, and displaced, and replaced the little objects on thesmall table beside him, --the book, the glass, the flowers in the silvercup, the silver cigarette case, the things which, being quite helpless, he liked to have within his reach. 

"I really feel better to-day, " he said, watching her lovingly, as heanswered her question. "I wish I could go out. "

"You can be carried out upon the balcony in a little while, " she said. "It is too cool, yet. It was a cold night, for we are getting near theend of August. "

"And in Naples they are sweltering in the heat, " he answered, smiling. "It is beautiful here. I can see the mountains through the open window, and the flowers tell me what the hillsides are like, in the sunshine. Taquisara says that your maid brings them every morning. Thank you--ofcourse it is one of your endless kind doings. "

"No, " replied Veronica, frankly. "It is her way of showing her devotion, poor thing! Everybody loves you in the house--even the people who havehardly ever seen you. The women, speak of you as 'that angel'!" Shetried to laugh cheerfully. 

"I am glad they like me, though I have done nothing to be liked by them. Please thank your maid for me. It is very kind of her. "

There was a little disappointment in his voice; for he had been happy inbelieving that Veronica sent the flowers herself, not because he neededcoin of kindness to prove her wealth of friendship, but because whateversmall thing came from her hand had so much more value for him than thegreatest and most that any one else could give. 

She sat down beside him, and endeavoured to talk as though she werequite unconcerned. She tried not to look at his face, upon which itseemed to her that death was already fixing the last mask of life'scomedy. It was the more terrible, because he was so quiet and so sure oflife that morning, so convinced that he was better, so almost certainthat he should get well. 

It seemed an awful thing to sit there, talking against death; but shedid her best not to think, and only to talk and talk on, and make himbelieve that she was cheerful, while, in a kind way, she kept him fromcoming back to within a phrase's length of his love for her. It was hardfor him, too, to make any effort. The doctor had said so. And all thetime, she fancied that his features became by degrees less mobile, andthat the transparent pallor so long familiar to her was turning toanother hue, grey and stony, which she had never seen. 

Suddenly, while she was speaking of some indifferent thing, his eyelidsclosed and twitched, and his hand went out towards hers, almostspasmodically. She caught it and held it, bending far forward, and againher heart stood still till she missed its beating. 

"What is it?" she asked, staring into his face, and already half wildwith fear. 

He could shake his head feebly, but for a moment he could not speak. With one of her hands she still held his, and with the other she pressedhis brow. He smiled, as in a spasm, and then his face was a littledistorted. She felt his life slipping from her, under her very touch, asthough it were her fault because she would not hold it and keep it forhim. 

"Gianluca!" she cried, repeating his name in an agonized tone. "Gianluca! You must not die! I am here--"

He opened his eyes, and the faint smile came back, but without a spasmthis time. 

"It was a little pain, " he said. "I am sorry--it frightened you. "

"Thank God!" she exclaimed, still bending over him. "Oh--I thought youwere gone!"

"Your voice--would bring me back--Veronica, " he said, with many littleefforts, word by word, but with life in his face. 

She moved, and held the glass to his lips. Bravely he lifted his hand, and tried to hold it himself. He drank a little of the stimulant, andthen his pale head sank back, with the short, fair hair about hisforehead, like a glory. 

"Ah yes!" he said, speaking more easily, a moment later. "Death couldnever be so near but that you might stand between him and me--if youwould, " he added, so softly that the three words just reached her ears, as the far echo of sad music, full of beseeching tenderness. 

Still she held his hand, and gazed down into his face. They had told herlong ago that he was dying of love for her. In that moment she believedit true. He seemed to tell her so, to be telling it with his lastbreath. And each breath might be the last. Science could not save him. Physicians disagreed--the great authority himself could not say whetherhe was to live or die. He fainted, fell back, seemed dead already, andher voice and touch brought him to life, happy for an instant, hopingstill and living only by the beating of hope's wings. And with all that, though she did not love him, he was to her the dearest of all livingbeings. Holding his hand still, she looked upward, as though to be alonewith herself for one breathing space. But as she stood there, shepressed his fingers little by little more tightly, not knowing what shedid, so that he wondered. 

Then she bent down again, and steadily gazed into the upturned blueeyes, and once more smoothed away the fair hair from the pallid brow. 

"Do you wish it very much?" she asked simply. 

Half paralyzed though he was, he started, and the light that camesuddenly to his face, wavered and sank and rose once more. She seemed tohear his words again, saying that she could stand between death and him, were death ever so near. 

"You?" he faltered. "Wish for you? Ah God! Veronica--" his face grewdead again. "No--no--I did not understand--"

"But I mean it!" she said, in desperate, low tones, for she thought hewas sinking back. "I will marry you, Gianluca! I will, dear--I will--Iam in earnest!"

Slowly his eyes opened again and looked at her, wide, startled, and halfblind with joy. So the leader looks who, stunned to death between thedoor-posts of the hard-won gate, wakes unhurt to life in the tide of thevictory he led, and hears the strong music of triumph, and the hugeshout of brave men whose bursting throats cry out his name for veryglory's sake, their own and his. 

Gianluca's eyes opened, and with sudden pressure he grasped the handthat had so long held his, believing because he held it and felt theflesh and blood and the warmth in his own shadowy hold. 

"Veronica--love!" She would not have thought that he could press herfingers so hard, weak as he was. 

The word smote her, even then, with a small icy chill, and though shesmiled, there was a shadow in her face. Again he doubted. 

"Veronica--for the love of God--you are not deceiving me, to save mylife?" The vision of despair rose in his eyes. 

"Deceive you? I?" she cried, with sudden energy. "Indeed, indeed, I meanit, as I said it. "

"Yes--but--but if, to-morrow--" Again his voice was failing, and she washand to hand with death, for him. 

"No! There shall be no to-morrow for that--it shall be now!"

"Now? To-day? Now?"

He seemed to rise and sink, and sink and rise again, on the low-surgingwaves of his life's ebbing tide. 

"Yes--now!" she answered. "This moment Don Teodoro is in the house--Iwill call him--let me go for a moment--only one moment!"

"No--no! Do not leave me!" He clung frantically to her hand. "But--yes--call him--call him! And Taquisara. He is my friend--Oh! Itkills me to let you go!"

It was indeed the very supreme moment. The great burst of happiness hadalmost killed him, and he was like a child, not knowing what he wanted. Still he clutched her hand. A quick thought crossed her mind. She hadgone to the window for a moment, to fasten it back, and had seenTaquisara walking under the vines. He might be there. 

"Let me go to the window, " she said, regaining her self-possession. "Taquisara may be on the bastion--I saw him there. He will call DonTeodoro, and I shall not have to leave you. "

Any reasoning which kept her by his side was divinely good. Her wordscalmed him a little, and his hands gradually loosened themselves. But asshe turned quickly, he uttered a very low cry, and tried to catch herskirt. She did not hear him. She was already speaking from the window;for the Sicilian was still there, walking up and down, as he had donefor more than an hour. She called to him. He started, and looked upthrough the broad leaves. 

"Get Don Teodoro at once, and bring him, " she cried. "He is in thehouse--somewhere. "

Taquisara thought that Gianluca was dying, and neither paused noranswered, as he disappeared within. 

Veronica came back instantly. She had not been gone thirty seconds, butalready the sick man's face was grey again, though his eyes were wideand staring. His head had fallen to one side, on the brown silk cushion, in his last attempt to reach her. With both hands, she raised him alittle, so that he lay straight again. 

"They are coming--they are coming, dear one!" she repeated. "Live, live!Gianluca--live, for me!"

In her agony of fighting for his life, she pushed his hair back, andpressed her lips in one long kiss upon his forehead. A shiver ranthrough him, and the sense came back to his eyes. But though she heldhis hand, there was no more strength in it to grasp hers. He sighed thewords she heard. 

"Love--is it you? Veronica--love--life! Ah, Christ!"

And his lids closed again. The door opened, and was shut, and Veronicahalf turned her head to see, but she brought her face tenderly nearer tohis, as though to let him know that it was for his sake she looked away. Don Teodoro and Taquisara were both in the room. Even before she spoke, she had changed her hold upon Gianluca's fingers, and held his righthand in hers, as those hold hands who are to be wedded. 

"Bless us!" she said to the priest. "This is our marriage! Say thewords--quickly!"

Taquisara's face was livid, for he had as much of instant death in himas the dying man, though he could not die. But he did not fail. He cameand knelt on the other side of the couch, away from Veronica. The prieststood at the foot, in pale hesitation. Veronica's eyes commanded. 

"Speak quickly!" she said. "I will marry him--I have said it!Gianluca--say it--say that you will marry me!"

Holding his right hand, with her left thrust under his pillow she liftedhim so that he sat almost upright. It needed all her strength, and shewas very desperate for him. 

"Volo!" The one word floated on the air, breathed, not spoken, and deadsilence followed. 

Again Veronica turned to Don Teodoro. 

"Say the words. I command you! I have the right--I am free!"

The priest's face was white now. He stretched out his arms, lifting hiseyes upwards. 

A worse change was in Gianluca's face before Don Teodoro had spoken thewords he had to say. Taquisara saw it. Both he and Veronica bent overthe motionless head. Still Veronica held the cold hand in hers. Taquisara knew that in another instant the priest would speak. Gently, with womanly tenderness, though his soul was on the wheel of anguish, hetook Veronica's right hand and loosed it, and Gianluca's fell cold andmotionless from her fingers. 

"He is gone, " he whispered, close to her ear, and he held her right handfirmly, in his horror at the thought that she might be wedded to a manalready dead. 

Veronica made a slight effort of instinct, to loose his hold and to takethe hand that had fallen from hers. But it was only instinctive andhardly conscious at all. Her eyes were on Gianluca's face, and theblackness of a vast grief already darkened her soul. 

There was but an instant. The tall old priest, with eyes liftedheavenwards, neither saw nor heard. 

"Ego conjungo vos--" He said all the words, and then, high in air, hemade the great sign of the cross. "Benedictas vos omnipotens Deus--" andhe spoke all the benediction. 

He closed his eyes a moment in instant prayer. When he opened them andlooked down, his face turned whiter still. On each side, before him, knelt the living, Veronica and Taquisara, their hands clasped andwedded, as they had been when he had spoken the high sacramental words, and between them, white, motionless, the halo of his fair hair abouthis marble brow, lay Gianluca della Spina, like an angel dead on earth. 

"Merciful Lord! What have I done!" cried the priest. 

At the sound of his voice Taquisara turned quickly. But Veronica did nothear. The Sicilian saw where Don Teodoro's starting eyes were fixed, andhe understood, and his own blood shrieked in his ears, for he wasmarried to Veronica Serra. Married--half married, wholly married, married truly or falsely, by the sudden leap of violent chance--but amarriage it was, of some sort. Both he and the priest knew that, andthat it must be a voice of more authority than Don Teodoro's which couldsay that it was no marriage. For the Church's forms of office, that arenecessary, are few and very simple, but they mean much, and what is doneby them is not easily undone. But Veronica neither saw nor heard. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

"I think--I assure you that nobody knows anything--but I think that DonGianluca will improve rapidly after this crisis. "

That was the opinion of the great doctor, when he had seen the patienton the afternoon of that memorable day. For Veronica, Taquisara, and DonTeodoro had all three been mistaken when they had thought that Gianlucawas dead. As the doctor said, there had been a crisis, an inwardconvulsion of the nerves, a fainting which had been almost a catalepsy, and, several hours later, a return to consciousness with a greatlyincreased chance of life, though with extreme momentary exhaustion. 

It was Taquisara who went to find the doctor, leaving Veronica on herknees, while Don Teodoro stood motionless at the foot of the couch, hishands gripping each other till his nails cut the flesh, his grotesqueface invested for the moment with an almost sublime horror of what hehad unwittingly done. 

And then had come the physician's systematic and painful search forlife, his doubts, his hopes, his suspicions, his increasing hope again, his certainty at last that all was not over--and then the necessity forinstantly carrying out his orders, the getting of all things needed forthe sick man snatched out of death, and all the confusion that riseswhen the whole being of a great household must exert its utmost strengthin one direction, to save one life. 

Amidst it all, too, the helpless father and mother ran about tearful, incoherent, wringing their hands, believing no one and yet believing theimpossible, praying, crying, talking, hindering everything in theirsupreme parents' right to be in the way and nearest to what they lovedbest--hysterical with joy, both of them, at the end, when the physiciansaid that Gianluca was to live, and was not dead as they had thoughthim, and wildly, pathetically, insanely grateful to Veronica. 

"I saw that he was dying, " she told them simply, when he was out ofdanger. "I sent for Don Teodoro, and we were married. "

They fell upon her neck, the old man and the prematurely old woman, kissing her, pressing her in their arms, crying over her, not knowingwhat they did. 

When he saw that she was telling them, Taquisara went away from them tohis own room and stayed there some time. And Don Teodoro also went home, and for the second time on that day he bolted his battered door and madesure that he was alone. But he did not sit at his table playing withhis spectacles, as in the morning. He knelt in a corner, against one ofhis rough bookcases, bowed to the ground as though a mountain had comeupon him unawares, and now and then he beat his forehead against theparchment bindings of his favourite folio Muratori, as certain wildbeasts crouch on their knees and with a swinging of slow despair striketheir heads against the bars of their cage many times in succession. 

For Taquisara and Don Teodoro knew, each knowing also that the otherknew, that what Veronica believed to have been done that day had notbeen really done, save in the intention, and that what had really beendone must by Church law and right be undone before she could be trulymarried to Gianluca della Spina. That is to say, if the thing done hadany value whatsoever before God and man. 

It is easy to say that in other lands and under other practices of faiththe four persons concerned in what had happened might have honestly toldthemselves that such a marriage was no marriage at all. An unbelievingItalian, and there are many in the cities, though few in the country, would have laughed and said that the important point was the legal unionpronounced by the municipal authority, and that since there had beennone here, there was nothing to undo. Yet if by any similarchance--more difficult to imagine, of course, but conceivable forargument's sake--the same mistake had occurred in a legal marriage by asyndic, that same unbelieving Italian would have felt in regard to itprecisely what Taquisara and Don Teodoro felt, namely, that the unionwas well nigh indissoluble. For Italy, as a nation and a whole, whileimitating other nations in many respects, has again and again refused tolisten to any suggestion embodying a law of divorce. To all Italians, high, low, atheists, bigots, monarchists, republicans, --whatever theymay be, --marriage is an absolutely indissoluble bond. The most that theywill allow, and have always allowed, is that in such cases asVeronica's, it is in the power of the highest authority, ecclesiastic orlegal, according to their persuasion, to annul a marriage altogether anddeclare that it never took place at all, on the ground that therequirements of the Church or of the law have not been properlyfulfilled. 

In society, of the two forms, which are both looked upon as necessarytogether, the blessing of the Church is considered by far the moreindispensable, though most people acknowledge the importance andvalidity of the other, as well as its wisdom; and society, as anaristocratic body, as a rule refuses absolutely to receive within itsdoors an Italian couple who have not been married by a priest. Among allsociety's many traditions and prejudices, there is none more ancient, more deep-rooted, or more rigorous to-day than this one. 

Under these circumstances it is not surprising that Taquisara, strong, loyal, and simple as he was, should honestly believe with all his heartthat he had been married to Veronica; nor that Don Teodoro himselfshould look upon what he had unwittingly done as being something whichhe alone had no power to undo, if, in all conscience and truth, it hadbeen done at all. 

The worst point of all, in the opinion of those two men, was thatVeronica sincerely believed herself married to Gianluca, as in herintention she really was, while Gianluca himself, having pronounced thesolemn 'I will' with his last conscious breath and being told on comingto himself that the sacramental words had been spoken, had no reason atall for doubting that he was actually her husband. The position was asfull of difficulties as could be imagined. To let Gianluca know thetruth would have been almost certain to kill him. To speak of it toVeronica for the present seemed almost equally impracticable, though itwas quite impossible to take any steps towards the annulling of themarriage without her open concurrence and help, as well as Taquisara's. Meanwhile, not only she and Gianluca, but the Duca and Duchessa, too, regarded the matter as altogether settled and accomplished. At anymoment Veronica had it in her power to send for the syndic of Muro andcause the necessary formalities of the municipal marriage to be properlyexecuted. She would then be legally married to Gianluca, while in theeyes of the Church she was already Taquisara's wife, by the fact of formthough not by the intention of any one. 

It did not occur either to Taquisara or to the priest that they couldkeep their secret forever and allow matters to proceed to such aconclusion. Don Teodoro was far too earnest a believer and a churchmanat heart to allow what he should consider a great sin to be committedwithout any attempt to hinder it, and with the Sicilian the point ofhonour was concerned, as well as a deeply rooted adherence to socialtradition and to the forms and ceremonies of religion in which he hadbeen brought up. They were neither of them men to have so repudiated allthey held the most sacred in faith and honour, even if either of themhad held the secret alone without the other's knowledge. 

But each knew that the other knew the truth, and on that first day, eachdeparted to his own room lest he should be suddenly brought face to faceagain with the other. 

It was his unwillingness to allow a thing to be done which, as a man anda gentleman, he thought both dishonourable and wrong, that preventedTaquisara from leaving Muro at once. For himself, his first impulse wasto escape from the situation, from the horrible temptation he enduredwhen he was with Veronica, from the barest possibility of anyunfaithfulness to his friend. At that time the Italians were fighting inMassowah and as an officer of the reserve he could have volunteered foractive service at a moment's notice--with a terribly good prospect ofnever coming back alive. 

But even his death would hardly have mended matters, in his scrupulousopinion, unless Veronica should of her own accord and without anyespecial reason insist upon being again married in church, contrary tothe Church's own rule, but on the reasonable ground that Gianluca hadbeen unconscious during a part of the ceremony. If Taquisara were dead, such a marriage would be valid, of course; but the prospect of his deathgave him no assurance that she would ever do such a thing at all; and, moreover, in spite of his passionate temperament, he was far toosensible a man to think deliberately of sacrificing his life for suchreasons. Like many another man suddenly placed in a hard position as anobstacle in the path of a loved woman, he asked himself the question, whether, in honour and against religion, he should not commit suicide. But the answer was a foregone conclusion, and it was plainly his duty tostand by his friend and by Veronica, alive and able to do the best hecould for them both. In immediate present circumstances his presencewas of the greatest importance to Gianluca, who depended on him almostentirely for help, in his sensitive dislike of being touched and movedby servants. 

And the man who was thus thrust into a situation from which it seemedhard to escape at all, loved Veronica Serra with all his heart, with allhis soul, with the broad, deep, simple passion of simpler times, havingin him much of that old plainness of character which made men takewithout question the things they wanted, and hold them by main strengthand stoutness of heart against all comers while they lived. 

There had been a time when he had been able to speak coldly to her, andto seem to dislike her. That was past, and his devotion was even in hishands and visible, if he did with them the smallest act for her service. 

She saw it, and was glad, for he pleased her more and more in the daysthat followed the great day, while Gianluca lay pale and happy andgaining a little strength, and she, as his wife, sat through many hoursof the day by his bedside, reading to him, and telling him much abouther life, but not often allowing him to speak much, lest he should loseground and be in danger again. It seemed to her at that time thatTaquisara was learning to be another friend to her, less in most waysthan Gianluca had been, but having much that Gianluca had not--thestrength, the decision, the toughness. She did not miss those things inGianluca. She would not have had him otherwise than he was, but she sawthem all, and felt their influence, and admired them in the other man. 

She felt, too, that she had often treated him with unnecessary andalmost unmannerly coldness, and repenting of it, she meant, in pureinnocence of maiden purpose, to make it up to him now, by being morekind. Indeed, she could not understand why she had ever been so hard tohim in former days, excepting when he had spoken so rudely to her atBianca's house; and since she had seen and learned to value his loyalaffection for Gianluca, she had not only forgiven him for what he hadsaid, but had found that, on the whole, he had been right to say it. 

As for her marriage with Gianluca, it seemed to her to have changednothing, beyond the great change it had wrought in him for the better. She talked with him as before. She felt, as before, that he was herdearest and best friend. To please him, she made plans with him fortheir future, though sometimes the sharp fear for his life ran throughher heart like a needle of ice. They could live half the year in Naplesand the other six months in Muro, but sometimes, when he should be quitewell, they would travel and see the world together. It was pleasant tothink that they had the right to be always together, now, for it wouldhave seemed terrible even to Veronica to go back to the old days ofletter-writing. To her, their marriage had been the final cementing ofthe most beautiful friendship in the world. She was glad that she hadgiven her life for him, since, after all, the giving of it now changedit so little. It was clear, she thought, that she was made forfriendship and not for love; and since she was so made, she had done thebest in marrying her best friend. 

One day, when Gianluca was asleep, she had gone alone to her little rosegarden up by the dungeon tower. The autumn was beginning in themountains; there were few roses left, and the northerly breeze blew upto her out of the vast depth at her feet. Alone there, she thought ofall these things and of how she was intended by her nature for thisfriendship of hers. Seasoning about it with herself, she took animaginary case. Suppose, she thought, that she had begun to beTaquisara's friend, instead of Gianluca's, on that day in Bianca'sgarden. Her mind worked quickly. She pictured to herself the longcorrespondence, the intimacy of thought, the meeting and the destructionof the dividing barrier, the daily, hourly growing friendship, andthen--the marriage, the touch of hands, the first kiss. 

The scarlet blood leapt up like fire to her face. She started andlooked round, half dreading lest some one might be there to see. But shewas quite alone, and she wondered at herself. It must be shame, shethought, at the mere idea of marrying another man when she wasGianluca's wife. At all events, she said in her heart, she would notthink of such things again. It was probably a sin, and she wouldremember to speak of it, at her next confession. Don Teodoro would tellher what he thought. For in lonely Muro, she had no other confessor, nordesired any. Her faults, great and small, were such as she would haveacknowledged and discussed with the good man, in her own drawing-room aswillingly as in church--as, indeed, she often did. But not wishing to bealone with herself any longer on that day, she came down from the towerand went to her room, where she spent an hour with Elettra in examiningthe state of her very much reduced wardrobe. 

"Your Excellency is in rags, " observed the woman. "You cannot appear inNaples as a bride with any of the things you have. In the first place, you have scarcely anything that is not black or white. But also, thoughsome of these clothes had a cheerful youth, their old age is very sad. "

Veronica laughed at Elettra's way of expressing herself, and they wentover all the wardrobe together that afternoon. 

As Taquisara saw how those around him seemed to have recovered from theterrible emotions through which they had passed, and how the life in thecastle quickly subsided again to its monotonous level and ran on in itsold channel, the temptation to solve all difficulties by letting mattersalone presented itself to him with considerable force. Ten days had goneby, and he had not once found himself alone with Don Teodoro. When theymet, they avoided each other's eyes, and each remained separately faceto face with the same trouble, while each had a trouble of his own withwhich the other had nothing to do. 

There was little or no change now from what had formerly been the dailyround. Again, as before, Taquisara carried his friend daily from his ownroom to the large one in which Veronica and the Sicilian again fencedalmost every day. Sometimes, when it was fine and warm, Gianluca wastaken out upon the balcony for a couple of hours. He no longer sufferedin being moved; but his lower limbs were now completely paralyzed. Hehardly thought of the fact, in his constant and increasing happiness. Itwas only when he saw the fencing that he sometimes looked down sadly athis useless legs and thin hands, for fencing was the only exercise forwhich he had ever cared. He had none of that sanguine vitality whichwould have made such an existence intolerable to Taquisara, or even toVeronica. With her beside him, or if he could not have her, with booksor conversation, he was not only contented, but happy. It must beremembered, too, that he was not aware that his condition was hopelessand that he might live a total cripple for many years to come. If he hadknown that, he might have been less gay; not knowing it, married to thewoman he loved and looking forward to complete recovery, life was littleshort of a paradise within sight of a heaven. 

Veronica never tired of taking care of him, and one might have supposedthat she was satisfied with the prospect of nursing him all her life, orall his. But she herself by no means believed the doctor's predictions. She had been too sure that he was to die, and too much surprised anddelighted by his recovery, to accept on mere faith of any man's verdictthe assurance that he was never to walk again. There was the reaction, too, after the strong emotion and the heart-rending anxiety, therelaxation of mind and nerve, and the willingness to be happy againafter so much strain and stress. 

As Gianluca's general health improved, the Duca and Duchessa began tospeak of an early departure for their own place near Avellino. Theireldest son's illness had placed him first with them, but they hadseveral other children, all of whom had been under the care of a sisterof the Duchessa during the latter's stay at Muro. The motherly womanwas beginning to be anxious about them, and the old gentleman had afair-haired little daughter of eleven summers, whom he especially lovedand longed to see. 

They thought that before long Gianluca might be moved. It was growingcolder, day by day, in the first chill of early autumn, and theybelieved that a little warmth would do him good. Veronica should comeand pay them a visit, and Taquisara, too. 

As for the marriage, they meant that it should be an open secret for alittle while longer. The servants knew of it, and would tell otherservants of course, and the Duchessa had written of it to her sister, onhearing which fact Veronica had written to Bianca Corleone, telling herexactly what had happened, lest Bianca should hear of it from some oneelse. It was long before she had an answer to this letter, and when itcame Bianca's writing was full of her own desperate sadness, thoughthere were words of congratulation for Veronica, such as the occasionseemed to require. Bianca wrote from a remote corner of Sicily, whereshe was living almost alone on her husband's principal estate. There hadbeen trouble. Corleone had suddenly taken it into his head to come homefor a few weeks. Then Bianca's brother, Gianforte Campodonico, hadappeared and had taken a violent dislike to Pietro Ghisleri, so thatBianca feared a quarrel between them. Before anything had happened, shehad induced Ghisleri to go to Switzerland, and she herself had gone toSicily, whither her brother had accompanied her. But he had been obligedto leave her soon afterwards, and she suspected that he had followedGhisleri to the north in order to pick a quarrel with him. She was veryunhappy, and there was much more about herself in her letter than aboutVeronica's marriage. 

The old couple grew daily more anxious to leave for Avellino. Theyproposed that as soon as Gianluca could safely travel, the whole partyshould go there together. Before returning to Naples for the winter, thelegal formalities of the municipal wedding could be fulfilled, and themarriage should then be formally announced. Gianluca and Veronica wouldcome and spend the winter in the Della Spina palace, wherein, as in allItalian patriarchal establishments, there was a spacious apartment forthe establishment of the eldest son whenever he should marry. 

Once, when this was discussed before them, Taquisara met Don Teodoro'seyes, and the two men looked steadily at each other for several seconds. But even after that they avoided a meeting. It did not seem absolutelynecessary yet, and each knew that the other had not yet found thesolution of the difficulty. To every one's surprise, Gianluca opposedthe plan altogether. They all seemed to have taken it for granted thathe need not be consulted, and Veronica, in her complete self-sacrifice, would have been willing to do whatever pleased the rest. But Gianlucaquietly refused to go to Avellino at all. So long as his wife would givehim hospitality, he said with a proud smile, he would stay in Muro. After that, he should prefer to return directly to Naples. It was noteasy to argue against an invalid's prerogative. After some fruitlessattempts to move him, his father and mother temporarily desisted. 

"You shall not go to Avellino, " he said to Veronica, when they werealone. "It is a den of wild children and intolerable relations, and youwould not have a moment's peace. You have no idea how detestable thatsort of existence would be after this heavenly calm. I am very fond ofmy father and mother, and my brothers and sisters, and my relations, andmost of them are very good people in their way. But that is no reasonwhy you and I should be set up to be looked at, and tallied at, by themall, twelve hours every day. "

"I would certainly much rather stay here, " answered Veronica, with alittle laugh. "That is, if you can induce them to stay here, too. "

"For that matter, they are quite unnecessary, " said Gianluca. "There isno reason in the world why, if you like, we should not have the legalmarriage here since you have a syndic and a municipality. Then we couldannounce it, and there would be no objection to our staying here alone. "

"That is true, " replied Veronica, thoughtfully. "We could always dothat, if we chose. "

But she did not propose to do it at once, and he did not like to pressher. He saw no harm, however, in speaking of the project with Taquisara. The Sicilian looked at him, said nothing, and then carefully examined acigar before lighting it. He had long expected that such a proposalwould come either from Gianluca or Veronica, and he was not surprised. But when he at last heard it made he held his breath for a moment or twoand then began to smoke in silence. 

"You say nothing, " observed Gianluca. "Do you see any possible objectionto our doing that? Society ought to be satisfied. "

"I should think so, " answered Taquisara. "I should think that anythingwould be better than Avellino and all the relations. As for going backto Naples and having a municipal wedding there, and no religiousceremony, I would not do it if I were you. The two marriages are alwayssupposed to take place on consecutive days, or at least very neartogether, since both are necessary nowadays. "

"I know, " said Gianluca. 

Taquisara made up his mind that he must take the initiative and speakwith Don Teodoro. He had been willing and ready to give up all right tohope for the woman he loved, in order that his friend might marry her, but the idea that there should be an irregularity about the marriage, orno real marriage at all, as he believed was the case, was more than hecould, or would, bear. To speak with Veronica was out of the question. He knew enough of women to understand that if she ever knew how, by anaccident, she had held his hand instead of Gianluca's at the moment whenshe was giving her very soul to save the dying man, she might neverforgive him. She might even turn and hate him. She would never believethat he himself had not known what he was doing. If it were possible, hewould not incur such risk. Anything in reason and honour would be betterthan to be hated by her. He had seen her change of manner, of late, andhe knew very well that she was beginning to like him much more thanformerly. 

In the morning, after Don Teodoro had said mass, Taquisara went to himand found him over his books. This time the priest recognized him atonce and rose to greet him gravely, as though he had expected his visit. 

"Have you made up your mind what to do?" asked the Sicilian, as he satdown. 

It was as though they had been in the habit of discussing the situationtogether, and were about to renew a conversation which had been brokenoff. 

"I know what I shall have to do, if matters go any further, " answeredthe priest, in a dull voice, unlike his own. 

"What would that be?"

"It is in my power to cause the marriage to be declared null and void. "

"By appealing to your bishop, I suppose. In that event Donna Veronicawould have to be told. "

"There is another way. "

"Then why do you not take it and act at once? Why do you hesitate?"Taquisara watched him keenly. 

"Because it would mean the sacrifice of my whole existence. I am human. I hesitate, as long as there is any other hope. "

"I do not understand. As for sacrificing your existence--that must be anexaggeration. "

"Not at all. If it were only my own, I should not have hesitated, perhaps. I do not know. But what I should do would involve a great anddirect injury to many others--to hundreds of other people. "

Taquisara looked at him harder than ever, understanding him less andless. 

"You seem to have a secret, " he said at last, thoughtfully. 

"Yes, " answered the priest, resting his elbow on the old table andshading his eyes with his hand, though there was no strong light todazzle him. "Yes--yes, " he repeated. "I have a secret, a great secret. I cannot tell it to you--not even to you, though you are one of the mostdiscreet men I ever met. You must forgive me, but I cannot. "

"I do not wish to know it, " replied Taquisara. "Especially not, if itconcerns many people. "

A short silence followed, during which neither moved, nor looked at theother. 

"Don Teodoro, " asked the Sicilian, at last, in a low voice, "please tellme your view of the case, as a priest. Am I, at the present moment, inconsequence of what happened a fortnight ago, actually married to DonnaVeronica, or not?"

The priest hesitated, looked down, took off his spectacles, and put themon again, before he answered the question. 

"I think, " he said, "that most people, if any had been present, would beof opinion that it was enough of a marriage to require a formalannullation before any other could take place. I should certainly notdare to consider the princess and Don Gianluca as married, when it wasyou who held her right hand, and received the benediction with her inthe prescribed attitude. "

"Yes, " answered Taquisara; "but in your own individual opinion, as apriest, am I married to her, or not?"

"As a priest, I can have no individual opinion. I can tell you, ofcourse, that the marriage can be annulled. In the first place, youneither of you had the intention of being married to each other. In allthe sacraments, the intention of those to whom they are administered isthe prime consideration. It would only be necessary for you and theprincess to swear that you had no intention of being married, and thatit was, to the best of your knowledge, entirely an accident, and alldifficulties could be removed. "

"Ah, yes! But then Donna Veronica would know, and Gianluca would have toknow it, too. I came here to tell you that they are seriously thinkingof sending for the syndic, to publish the banns of marriage at themunicipality and marry them legally, after which the Duca and Duchessawill go to Avellino, and leave them here together. Whether it costs yourexistence or mine, Don Teodoro, this thing shall not be done. "

"No, " said Don Teodoro. "It shall not. You are in a terrible positionyourself. I feel for you. "

"I?" Taquisara bent his brows. "I, in a terrible position?"

"Do not be angry, " answered the priest, gently. "I know your secret wellenough, though she does not guess it yet. Do not think me indiscreetbecause I mention the fact. It would be far better if you could go awayfor the present. But I know how you are situated, and you are helping toprevent mischief. We must help each other. If it is to cost theexistence of one of us, it shall be mine. You are young, and I am old. And that is not the only reason. My secret is not like yours. I cannotlet it go down into the grave with me. I have kept it long enough, and Ishould have kept it longer, if this had not happened. I shall probablygo to Naples to-morrow. You must prevent them from publishing the bannsuntil I come back, or until you hear from me. I may never come back. Itis possible. "

"What do you mean?" asked Taquisara, for he saw a strange look in theold man's clear eyes. 

"I shall not end my life here, " he said quietly. 

"You? End your life? You, commit suicide? Are you mad, Don Teodoro?"

"Oh no! I may live many years yet. I hope that I may, for I have much torepent of. But I shall not live here. "

"I hope you will, " said Taquisara. "But if you know my secret--keep it. "

"As I have kept mine till now, " answered the old man. 

So they parted, and Taquisara went back to the castle, leaving thelonely priest among his books. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Veronica did not wish the people of Muro to believe that she wasmarrying a cripple. That was the reason why she did not at once agree toGianluca's proposal and send for the syndic to perform the legalceremony. She had persuaded herself that by quick degrees ofimprovement, he would recover the power to stand upright, at least tothe extent to which he had still retained his strength when he had firstarrived. Since he had lived through the crisis, she grew sanguine forhim and hoped much. 

Her feeling was natural enough in the matter, though it was made up ofseveral undefined instincts about which she troubled herself verylittle--pride of race, pride of personal wholeness and soundness, prideof womanhood in the manhood of a husband. Veronica named none of thesein her thoughts, but they were all in her heart. Few women would nothave felt the same in her place. 

She was sure that he was to get better, if not quite well, and shewished that he might be well enough to stand beside her on his feet whenthey should be formally married. If he continued to improve as rapidlyas during the past fortnight, she believed that the day could not be faroff. When he could stand, in another month, perhaps, the syndic shouldcome. It was even possible that by that time he might be able to walk alittle with her in the village. 

Her people were a sort of family to her. That was a remnant of feudalismin her character, perhaps, which had suddenly developed during themonths she had spent in Muro. But that, too, was natural, as it wasnatural that they should love her and almost worship the ground shetrod. For the poorer classes of Italians are sometimes very forgetful ofbenefits, but are rarely ungrateful. She had done in a few months, fortheir real advantage, so that they felt it, enough to make up for theoppression of generations of Serra, and almost enough to atone for theextortions of Gregorio Macomer. She was the last of her name, and herhusband, if he lived, was to be the father of a new stock, which wouldbe called Serra della Spina, and whose men would hold the lands and takethe rents and do good, or not, according to their hearts, each in hisgeneration. It seemed to her that the people had a right to see Gianlucastanding on his feet beside her, since her marriage was to mean so muchto them. 

Don Teodoro came to her, soon after Taquisara had left him, to tell herthat he must go to Naples without delay. She looked at him inastonishment at the proposal, and as she looked, she saw that his facewas changed. Oddly enough, he held himself much more erect than usual;but his features were drawn down as though by much suffering, and hiseyes, usually so clear and steady, wandered nervously about the room. 

"You are not well, " said Veronica. "Why must you go now?"

"It is because I must go now that I am not well, " answered the priest, shaking his head. "I am very sorry to be obliged to leave you at thistime. I only hope that, if you are thinking of fulfilling the legalformalities of your marriage, you will give me notice of the fact, sothat I may come back, if I can. You know that all that concerns youconcerns my life. "

Veronica looked at him, and wondered why he was so much disturbed. Buthis words gave her an opportunity of speaking to him about her owndecision. She did not wish him to think her capricious, much less toimagine that she looked upon the marriage as a mere piece of sentiment, which was not to change her life at all, except to bind her as a nurseto the bedside of a hopeless invalid. That idea itself was beginning tobe repugnant to her, and the hope that Gianluca might recover wasbecoming a necessary part of her happiness, though she scarcely knewit. 

"My dear Don Teodoro, " she said, "so far as that is concerned, you maybe quite sure that I will let you know in time. I have not the slightestintention of fulfilling any legal formalities until my husband is wellenough to stand on his feet with me before the syndic; and I am afraidthat he will not be well enough for that in less than a month, at theearliest. "

The wandering eyes suddenly fixed themselves on her face, the strangegreat features relaxed, and the wide, thin lips smiled at her. Hishappiness was strangely founded, but it was genuine, though notaltogether noble. Her words were a reprieve; and he could keep hissecret longer, almost, perhaps, until he died, and when he should bedying, it would be easier to tell. But that was far from being all. Heloved her, as the source of great charity and kindness from which thepeople were drawing life, with all his own passionate charity; and heloved her for herself, for her gentleness and her hardness, because sheruled him, and because she touched his heart. All other thoughts away, he could not bear to think of her as bound for life to be the actualwife of a helpless cripple. 

And something of her own heart he half guessed and half knew. For in herinnocence she had confessed to him how she had thought of Taquisara, when she had been alone that day, and how the blood had flowed in herface, and burned her so that she was almost sure that such thoughtsmust be wrong. It was because she had told him these things that he hadwatched Taquisara ever since, and he had seen that the man loved hersilently. 

But he knew also, as well as any one could know it, that Gianluca wouldnever stand upon his feet again. And, moreover, he knew that though itwould seem wrong to Veronica to love Taquisara, and would be wrong, ifshe had intention, as it were, yet there could be no real sin in it, forshe was not Gianluca's wife. Had she been truly married, Don Teodoro, gentle and old, would have found strength to force Taquisara to goaway--had anything more than the force of honour been needed in such acase. 

"I am very glad, my dear Princess, " he said, and his voice trembled inthe reaction after his own anxiety. "You do not wish me to go to Naples, now?" he said with an interrogation, after a brief pause. "You wouldrather that I should wait until Christmas?"

"Of course--if you can, " answered Veronica, somewhat surprised at hischange of tone. "But if you really must go, if you are so very anxiousto go at once, I must not hinder you. "

"I will see, " said Don Teodoro. "I will think of it. Perhaps it can bearranged--indeed, I think it can. "

He was old, she thought, and he had never been decided in character, except about doing good to poor people, and studying Church history. Soshe did not press him with questions, but let him do as he would; and hedid not go to Naples then, but he went and found Taquisara within thehour, and told him what Veronica had said about her marriage. 

The Sicilian heard him in silence, as they stood together on the lowerbastion where they had met, but Don Teodoro saw the high-cut nostrilsquiver, while the even lips set themselves to betray nothing. 

"If matters go no further than they have gone, " he said at last, as thepriest waited, "we need do nothing. "

So they did nothing, and Don Teodoro did not go to Naples. 

The daily life ran on in its channel. But Gianluca did not continue toimprove so fast. Then it seemed as though improvement had reached itslimit, and still he was helpless to stand, being completely andhopelessly paralyzed in his lower limbs. At first, neither the oldcouple nor Veronica realized that he was no longer getting better, though he was no worse. He himself did not believe it; but Taquisara sawand understood. Gianluca refused to be moved, insisting that he wasgaining strength, and that some day the sensation would come suddenly tohis feet, and he should stand upright. Otherwise, he was now almost aswell as when he had come to Muro. They sent for a wheel-chair fromNaples, and he wheeled himself through the endless rooms, and toluncheon, and to dinner, Veronica walking by his side. It gave his armsexercise, and he became very expert at it, laughing cheerfully as hemade the wheels go round, and he went so fast that Veronica sometimeshad to run a few steps to keep up with him. 

Then, one day, Taquisara carried him out to the gate, and set him in thecarriage, and Veronica took him for a short drive. The poor people were, most of them, at their work, but the very old men and the boys and girlsturned out, and flocked after the victoria as it moved slowly throughthe narrow street. Some of them called out words of simple blessing onthe couple, but others hushed them and said that the princess was notreally married yet. Gianluca smiled as he looked into Veronica's face, and she smiled, too, but less happily. 

The weather changed. There had been a short touch of cold in the air atthe end of August, and breezes from the north that poured down from theheights behind the castle, into the tremendous abyss below, and shot upagain to the walls and the windows, even as high as the dungeon tower. Then, at the new moon, the weather had changed, the sky grew warm again, the little clouds hung high and motionless above the peaks, melting fromday to day to a serene, deep calm, in which, all the earth seemed to beripening in a great stillness while heaven held its breath, and themountains slept. In the rich valley the grapes grew full and dark, andthe last figs cracked with full sweetness in the sun, the pears grewgolden, and the apples red, and all the green silver of the olive groveswas dotted through and through its shade, with myriad millions of dullgreen points, where the oil-fruit hung by little stems beneath theleaves. 

An autumn began, such as no one in Muro remembered--an autumn of goldendays and dewy moonlight nights, soft, breathless, sweet, and tender. Itwas a year of plenty and of much good wine, which is rare in the south, for when the wine is much it is very seldom good. But this year allprospered, and the people said that the Blessed Mother of God loved theyoung princess and would bless her, and hers also, and give her husbandback his strength, even by a miracle if need should be. 

Gianluca clung to the place where he was happy, and would not be takenaway. His mother humoured him, and the old Duca, yearning for his littlefair-haired daughter, went alone at last to Avellino. 

Then came long conversations at night between the Duchessa and Veronica. The Duchessa loved her son very dearly, but since he was so much better, she was tired of Muro. She wished to see her other children. It wasridiculous to expect that she and her husband should relieve each otheras sentries of propriety in Veronica's castle, the one not daring to gotill the other came back. Why should Veronica not send for the syndicand have the formalities fulfilled? Once legally, as well aschristianly, man and wife, the two could stay in Muro as long as theypleased. 

But Veronica would not. Gianluca was improving, and before long he wouldwalk. She had set her heart upon it, that he should be strong again. Shewould not have her people think that he was a cripple. The people werepeasants, the Duchessa answered, peasants like any others. Why shouldthe Princess of Acireale care what such creatures thought? ButVeronica's eyes gleamed, and she said that they were her own people anda part of her life, and she told the Duchessa all that was in her mind, very frankly, and so innocently, yet with such unbending determinationto have her way, that the Duchessa did not know what to do. Thereupon, after the manner of futile people, she repeated herself, and thestruggle began again. 

It was a tragedy that had begun. Veronica had escaped with her life fromMatilde Macomer to find out in the consequence of her own free deedswhat tragedy really meant, and how bitter the fruit of good could be. 

Nor in the slightest degree had her affection for Gianluca diminished, nor did it change in itself, as days followed days to full weeks, andweek choked week, cramming whole months back into time's sack, for timeto bear away and cast into the abyss of the useless and irrevocablepast. 

Still he was her friend, still she would give her life to save him, andwould have given it again if it had been to give. Still she could talkwith him, and listen to him, and answer smile and word and gesture. Shecould sit beside him through quiet hours, and drive with him in thevast, still sunshine of that golden autumn, calling him by gentler namesthan friend and touching his hand softly in the long silence. All thisshe could do, and if there were ever any effort in it, that was surelynot an effort to be kind, but one of those little doubting, uncertain, spontaneous efforts which we make whenever we unconsciously begin tofeel that it will not be enough to do right, but that we must also seemto do right in other eyes, lest our right be thought half hearted. 

The days were monotonous, but it was not their monotony which she felt, so much as that irrevocable quality of them all which made a greybackground in her soul, against which something was moving, undefined, strong as the unseen wind, yet mistily visible sometimes, having morelife than shape--a terrible thing which drew her to it against her will, and yet a thing which had in it much besides terror. 

She turned from it when she knew that it was there, and fixed her sightupon Gianluca's face. Sometimes she found comfort in that, and she didall that was required of her, and more also, and was glad to do it. 

But the wrong done to nature was deeper and more real than all the goodshe could do to hide it, and it cried out against her continually by thevoice of the woman's instinct. It was not Gianluca who becameintolerable to her, but she herself, and it was to escape from herselfthat she clung to him closely, as well as out of affection for him; forwhen she was by herself she was no longer alone. That other unshapedsomething kept her company. 

She was bound hand and foot, soul, body, and intelligence, for life. She, the very strong, was tied to the helpless; she, the energetic, wasbound to apathy; she, the active, was nailed to the passive; she, thefree, the erect, was bowed under a burden which she must carry to herlife's end, never to be free again. 

She could bear the burden, and she said none of these things to herself. But the wrong was upon nature, and the mother of all turned against theone child that would be unlike all the rest. 

The man who was a man, soul and body, heart, hand, and spirit, stoodbeside the other, who was a shadow, and beside her, who was a woman--andthe tragedy began in the prologue of contrast. Strength to weakness, motion to immobility, the grace and carriage of manly youth to the sadrestfulness of helpless, hopeless limbs that never again could feel andbear weight; that was the contrast from which there was no escaping. Onthe steps of love's temple, at the very threshold, the one lay halfdead, never to rise again; and beside him stood the other, in the prideand glory of the morning of life. 

It would have been hard, even if the contrast had been less strong tothe eye, and the distance of the two souls greater one from theother--even if Taquisara had not been what he was. But as the one, inhis being, was alive from head to heel, so the other was dead save inthe thoughts in which he still had a shadowy life. And for therest--flesh, blood, and life apart--they were equals. Was Gianluca true?Taquisara was as honest and loyal as the brave daylight. Was the onebrave? So was the other, in thought and deed. Was Gianluca enduring? Sowas Taquisara, and he had the more to endure, the more to fight, themore to keep down in him. 

She knew that he loved her. How it was that she knew it she could nottell, but sometimes the music of the truth rang in her ears till theflame shot up in her face and she shut her eyes to hide her soul--aloud, triumphant music, stately and grand as might herald the marchingof archangels--till her inward cry of terror pierced it, and all was asstill as the grave. Then, for a space, the vision of sin stood dark inthe way, and she turned and fled from it back to Gianluca's side, backto the care of him, back to his helpless love for her, back to hispathetic, stricken restfulness, back to the maiden dreams of a life-longfriendship, unbroken as the calm of the summer ocean, perfect as thecloudless sky of those golden autumn days. 

For a time, the dark wraith of sin faded, and there was no music in theair, and her cheek was cool, while she looked all the world in the facewith the fearless eyes of a child-empress. Again the monotonous, goodday rolled in the same grooves, noiselessly, and surely, as all the daysto come were to roll along, to the end of ends. She worked for herpeople, talked with Don Teodoro, talked, smiled, laughed with Gianluca, and bore the old Duchessa's ramblings with patience and kindness. 

But all of a sudden, for a nothing, at the sight of a fencing foil, atthe smell of Gianluca's cigarette, at the sound of a footfall she knew, there came the mad wish to be alone; and she resisted it, for it did notseem good to her, and even as she struggled the blood rose in her throatand was in her cheeks in a moment, so that if just then by chanceTaquisara came upon her suddenly, the room swam and for an instant herbrain reeled as she turned her face from him in mortal shame. 

She knew so well that he loved her, and that he was suffering, too. Itwas love's hands that had chiselled the bronze of his face to leanerlines, and that threw a new darkness into his dark eyes. It was for herthat there was that other note in his voice that had never been therebefore. It was for love of her that once or twice, when she took hishand in greeting, it was icy cold--not like Gianluca's, half dead, anddull, and chilly, and very thin--but cold from the heart, as it were, and more wildly living than if it had burned like fire; trembling, andnot in weakness, with something that caught her own fingers and ran likelightning to the very core and quick of her soul, hurting it overmuchwith its bolt of joy and fear. It was for her that, at the first, he hadbeen cold and silent, because he was afraid of himself, and of love, andof the least, faintest breath that might tarnish the bright shield ofhis spotless loyalty to Gianluca. 

All the little changes in his speech and manner were clear to her now, and each had its meaning, and all meant the same. His words, spoken fromtime to time, came back to her, and she understood them, and saw how, for his friend's sake, he had held his peace for himself, and had everurged her to marry Gianluca, in spite of everything. 

If he had not loved her, or if she had thought that he did not, shewould have had the pride to tear her heart clean from love's terriblehands, whole or broken, as might be, and to toss it, with the dead dullweeks into old time's sack of irrevocably lost and useless things, andso to live her life out, loveless, in the still haven of Gianluca'sfriendship. But, having his love, she had not such pride; and theloyalty she truly had was matched alone against all human nature sincethe world began. 

Do what she would, she yielded sometimes to that great wish to gosuddenly to her own room and be alone. Then, standing at her window whenthe mist whitened in the valley under the broad moon, she listened, andinstantly the air was full of music again as love lifted up its voice, and sweetly chanted the melody of life. With parted lips she listened, till the moonlight filled her eyes, and her heart fluttered softly, andher throat was warm. 

And sometimes, too, while she was there, the man who loved her sosilently and so well was by his friend's side, tending as his own thelife that stood between him and the hope of happiness; loving both himand her, but honour best. But sometimes he, too, was alone in his ownroom, and even at his window, facing the same broad moon, the same whitemist in the sleeping valley, the same dark, crested hills, but nothearing the music that the woman heard. He could be calm for a while ashe looked out; but presently, without warning, he swallowed hard, andagain, as on the fatal day, he held her little hand in his, under thepriest's great sign of the cross, and his own blood shrieked in hisears. In cruel anger against himself, he turned from the window then andpaced the room with short, braced steps, till at last he threw himselfinto a deep chair and sullenly took the first book at hand, to readhimself back to the monotony of all he had to bear. 

And so those two fearless ones went through the days and weeks intwofold terror of themselves and each of the other, and the slow, wordless tragedy was acted before eyes that saw but did not understand. Still Gianluca refused to go away, and still Veronica refused to sendfor the syndic. She would not yield to the Duchessa, who found herselfopposed both by her son and her son's wife. 

No one knew how much Veronica herself still hoped, when the brightautumn days were broken at last by the first winter storm that rose outof the dark south in monstrous wrath against such perpetual calm. Sheherself did not know whether she still hoped for any improvement, orwhether, in her inmost thoughts, she had given up hope and had acceptedthe certainty that Gianluca was never to be better than he was now. There is something of habit in all hope that has been with us long, andthe habits we notice the least are sometimes the hardest of all tobreak. 

When Veronica said that Gianluca would yet stand up and walk, no onecontradicted her, except the doctors, and she had no faith in them. They came and went. The great professor came three times from Naples andsaw the patient, ate his dinner, slept soundly, and went away assuringVeronica that it was useless to send for him unless some great changetook place. To please her, he recommended a little electricity, baths, light treatment such as could give little trouble, and he carefullyinstructed the young doctor of Muro in all he was to do. When he hadfinished, and the young man had promised to do everything regularly, they looked at each other, smiled sadly, but professionally, and partedwith mutual good will and understanding, both knowing that the case wasnow perfectly hopeless. Their coming and going made little intervals inthe tragic play of life, but never broke its continuity. 

The old Duca appeared again, and slipped quietly into his place, asbefore. But at the end of a week there was an unexpected flaring-up ofenergy, as it were, in his docile and affectionate being. When he andhis wife and Veronica were with Gianluca, he suddenly declared that thesituation must end, and that they must all go down to Naples. Veronicashould send for the syndic, and have the legal marriage at once, andthen they would all go down together. It was quite clear in his mind, assimple as daylight, as easy of performance as breathing, as satisfactoryas satisfaction itself. The Duchessa was with him, and supported all hesaid with approving nods and futile gestures and incoherent phrasesthrown in, as one throws straws upon a stream to see the current carrythem away. 

Gianluca said nothing, and Veronica stood alone against them all, forshe knew that he was on his father's side. She guessed, perhaps, thatGianluca had made up his mind never to leave her roof except as herlawful husband, clinging to her, as he had tried to cling to her skirton that most eventful day when she had gone to the window for a moment;and she understood why, having spoken once, he would not speak again. Hewas too proud to repeat such a request, but his love was far tooobstinate to be satisfied with less than its fulfilment. But his ownhope for his recovery was more alive than hers. 

Instinctively, as she opposed them all, Veronica looked round forTaquisara. It was not often that she needed help, and she knew that hecould have helped her, had he been there. But she had to speak forherself. She said what she could; but in that self-examination whichself-defence forces upon those who have never dissected their ownhearts, a new and fearful truth sprang up, clear of all others, bright, keen, and terrible. 

It was no longer for her people's sake that she was waiting in the hopeof Gianluca's recovery. It was no longer for her own, nor for his. Itwas out of her deadly love for Taquisara that all her nature roseagainst that final bond of the law, and the world, and society. So longas that was not yet welded and made fast upon her, there was thefleeting shadow of a desperate hope that she might still be free. 

It rose and smote her between the eyes, and clutched at her heart; andwhen she knew its face, she stopped in the midst of her speech, andturned white, even to her lips and her throat. 

"I do not know. I will think about it, " she said faintly. 

As her power to oppose gave way, the Duca's astonishment at his victoryswelled his weakness to violence; and he raved of duties andobligations, of paternal authority, of the obedience of children andchildren-in-law, in all the boundless, self-assured incoherence offeebleness suddenly let loose against smitten strength. 

Veronica seemed to hear nothing. She had resumed her seat besideGianluca, and was stroking his white hand, --less thin than it had been, but somehow even more lifeless, --and she looked down at it verythoughtfully, while he watched her face. He was happier than he had beenfor a long time, for he knew that she was going to make a concession, and that he had not asked for it. 

There was silence, and Veronica raised her head. The old Duca's facewas red with the exertion of much speaking. He was a good man and meantwell, but in that moment Veronica hated him as she had never hated anyone, not even Matilde Macomer. And yet she knew that his intention wasall for the best, and that it was natural that he should press his pointand exult when she gave up the fight. She opened her lips to speak. 

At that moment the door turned on its hinges opposite her eyes, andTaquisara stood before her. He came in quietly and not knowing thatanything extraordinary was occurring. But his eyes met hers for onemoment, and instantly her cheek reddened in the evening light. 

"I will give you a promise, " she said slowly. "This is the first week inDecember. If Gianluca is not much better by the first of January, I willdo as you ask. The civil marriage shall take place here, and if hewishes to go down to Naples, we will all go together. "

The Duca began to speak again, sure that he could press her further. Butshe interrupted him. Taquisara had gone to the window and was turninghis back on them all. 

"No, " said Veronica. "That is what I will do, and I will do it--I havepromised--that, and nothing else. "

She had risen, and as she pronounced the last words, she left Gianluca'sside and, with her eyes fixed before her, went straight to the door, pale and erect. She felt that she had given her life a second time. Taquisara heard her footsteps, left the window, and opened the door forher to pass, standing aside while she went by. He saw her head move alittle, as though she would turn and look at him, and he saw howresolutely she resisted and looked before her. He understood that shewould not trust herself to see his eyes again, and he quietly closed thedoor behind her. She knew what he must have felt when she had spoken, and he felt a lofty pride that she should trust him to bear the knifewithout warning, sure that he would utter no cry. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The tenth of December was at hand, on which day Don Teodoro had been inthe habit of going to Naples to pay his annual visit to his friend DonMatteo. When Taquisara told him of what had taken place, the priest knewthat he need not disturb Veronica for permission to leave Muro, merelyfor the sake of gaining a day or two. One day was all he needed, andthere would be three weeks from the tenth of December to the first ofJanuary. He made his preparations for the little journey with much care, and went away with more luggage than usual. He also set all hismanuscripts and books in order. When he was going away he gave the keyof his little house to Taquisara. 

"I do not expect to come back, " he said. "But you will hear from me. Itwill be kind of you to have my books and manuscripts sent to an addresswhich I will give you in my letter. I do not think that we shall meetagain. Good-bye. If I were not what I am, I would bless you. Good-bye. "

Taquisara held his hand for a moment. 

"We shall all bless you, " he answered, "if you can end this trouble. "

"I can, " said the priest. "And your blessing is worth having. "

He went away quickly, as though not trusting himself to speak any more. He had taken leave of Veronica and the rest as hastily as he couldwithout giving offence to any one. It was not until he looked back atthe poor people who waved their hands at him as he went out of thevillage that the hot tears streamed down his cheeks. 

He was twenty-four hours in reaching Naples, as usual, and his friendgreeted him with open arms as he always did. He thought that Don Teodorolooked ill and tired, and as it was a fine day they walked the shortdistance from Don Matteo's house to the café where the priest had satwith Bosio, and they each drank a cup of chocolate. 

Don Matteo observed that the tenth of December had been a fine day inthe preceding year, too, and Don Teodoro tried to remember in what yearit had last rained on that date. They ate little puffed bits of pastrywith their chocolate, and they sat a long time over it, while Don Matteotold Don Teodoro of an interesting document of the fourteenth centurywhich he had discovered in a private library. Don Teodoro spoke rarely, but not at random, for the thinking habit of the scholarly mind does noteasily break down, even under a great strain. 

Then they went back to Don Matteo's house, and sat down together in thestudy. Don Matteo wondered why his friend did not unpack and arrange hisbelongings, especially as he had brought more luggage than usual withhim, but he saw that he was tired, and said nothing. Don Teodoro tookoff his spectacles, and rubbed them bright with the corner of hismantle. He looked at them and took a long time over polishing them, forhe was thinking of all the things he had seen through the oldsilver-rimmed glasses, some of which he should never see again. 

"My friend, " he said at last, "I wish to tell you a secret. "

Don Matteo turned slowly in his seat, uncrossed his knees, and looked athim. 

"You may trust me, " he answered. 

"I know that, " said Don Teodoro. "But there are reasons, as you willsee, why you cannot receive this as an ordinary secret. I wish to tellit to you as a confession. You will then have to consult the archbishop, before giving me absolution--and advice. "

"Is it as serious as that?" asked Don Matteo, very much surprised, foronly the very gravest matters, and generally the most terrible crimes, are referred to the bishop by a confessor. 

"It is a grave matter, " answered Don Teodoro. "Have the kindness to getyour stole, and I will make my confession, here. But we will lock theenter door of the outer room, if you please. "

He was shivering, and his face was white as he rose to go and slip thebolt. Re-entering the room, he locked the inner door also behind him. Don Matteo had produced from a drawer an old violet stole with tarnishedsilver embroidery. It was carefully wrapped up in thin, clean, whitepaper. A priest always wears the stole in administering any of the sevensacraments. He passed it over his head, and the broad bands fell overhis breast, and he held the ends, upon which were embroidered smallGreek crosses, in one of his hands. Grave and silent, he sat down besidethe table, resting his elbow upon it and shading his eyes with his otherhand. 

Don Teodoro knelt down, beside him at the table, and each said his partof the preliminary form in a low voice. When Don Teodoro had said thefirst half of the 'Confiteor, ' he was silent for some time, and DonMatteo was aware that his tall, thin frame was trembling, for the tableshook under his elbow. Then he began to speak, as follows:--

"I must tell the story of my life. My father was an officer in the armyof King Ferdinand, under the former government, and I was his onlychild. He had a little fortune, and his pay was relatively large forthose days, so that I was brought up as a gentleman's son. My father, who had been so fortunate as to make many advantageous friendships inthe course of his career, wished me to enter the military academy andthe army. By his interest I should have had rapid advancement. But thiswas not my inclination. Ever since I can remember anything, I know thatI ardently wished to be a priest. As a little boy, I used to make asmall altar in a dark room behind my own, and I used to adorn it anddress it for the feast days, and light tapers on it, and save my pocketmoney to buy tiny silver ornaments for it. Before I could read I knewthe Rosary and the short Litanies, and I used to say them very devoutlybefore my little altar, with genuflexions and other gestures such as Isaw the priests make in church. My father smiled sometimes, but he didnot interfere. He was a devout man, though he was a soldier. I had somefacility for learning, also, and was fond of all books. My mother diedwhen I was four years old. 

"I need not tell how the devout passion increased in me as I grew older. I passed through all the stages of such development very quickly. Myfather believed that I had a true vocation for the Church, and yieldingto my entreaties and to the advice of his friends, who told him that hecould never make a soldier of such a boy, he allowed me to enter aseminary. I was very happy, and my love of books and my earnest desireto be a priest continued to increase. I was made a deacon and receivedthe tonsure. Then I fell ill. It was the will of Heaven, for I never wasill before that, nor have been since. It was a long illness, a dangerousfever. Just before that time, while I was in the seminary, my father hadmarried a second time, a young and very beautiful woman, scarcely twoyears older than I. They both took care of me, and she was very kind andliked me from the first. 

"I loved her. That was perhaps an illness also, for I never suffered inthat way again. It was very terrible, for I knew what a great sin it wasto love my father's wife. I never told her that I loved her, and she wasalways the same, kind and good. My heart was red-hot iron in my breast, day and night, and it was very long before I was really well again. After that, I confessed my sin many times, but I could not feelrepentance for it. My father wondered, and so did she, why I would notgo back to the seminary for the few months that remained to complete mystudies. It would have been better if I had gone back. But I loved her, and I could not. I could not confess the sin in my heart to theconfessor of the seminary, for whom I had great esteem and who had knownme so long, I was ashamed, and waited, thinking that it would pass. ButI wished to escape. 

"I joined myself as a lay brother to a Franciscan mission that wasgoing to Africa. My father made many objections to this, but I overcamethem. I think he guessed that I loved his wife, and though he loved me, too, he was glad that I should go away. As for me, I trusted that in thelabours of a distant mission I should forget my love, feel honestrepentance, receive absolution, and be ordained a true priest by amissionary bishop. 

"We were seven who started together upon that mission. After two years Ialone was left alive. One after the other they died of the fever of thatcountry. We had written for help, but I knew afterwards that our lettershad not reached the sea. That was why no one came to bring help. We hadconverted people amongst those savages and had built a chapel. Eventhose who were not converted were friendly, for we had taught them manythings. My companions all died, one by one, and I buried the last. But Imyself was never ill of the fever. Yet the people there clung around me. I committed a great sin. They had no priest, and they did not understandthat I was not one, for I dressed like the others. If there were no moreservices in the little chapel, they would think that Christianity wasdead, and they would fall back to their former condition. I took the sinupon myself, and I said mass for them, knowing that it was no mass, andpraying that God would forgive me, and that it might not be a sacrilege. I did not fall ill. I lived amongst them, and received theirconfessions and administered all the sacraments when they were required, for the space of a year and a half, during which I sent many appeals forhelp. But in my letters I did not explain what I was doing, for Iintended to go to the bishop if I ever got home alive, and confess tohim. 

"At last help came, priests and lay brothers. It pleased Heaven thatthey should come at last at the very moment when I was saying mass forthe people. Of course there was no bishop amongst them, and none of themknew that I was not a priest. I should have confessed the truth to theeldest of them, but I had no courage, for I did not do it at once, butput it off, and as every priest said mass every day, I said mine, too, on the first morning after the others had come. I wished to go away atonce. But I alone knew all the people, and could preach a little intheir language, and I was much loved by them, for I had been alone withthem during eighteen months. So my new brethren would not let me go, andafter what I had done so far, I was ashamed to tell the truth aboutmyself. They looked up to me as a superior, because I had been so longin the mission and had lived through what had killed so many. Theythought me very humble and praised my humility. But it was nothumility--it was shame. 

"During two years more I remained with them, and two of them died, butthe rest lived, for I had learned how men should live in that country inorder to escape the fevers, and I taught them. The mission grew, andmany people were converted. Then they began to speak of sending home twoof their number to Rome, to give an account of the work, and to get morehelp, if possible, in order that the conversion might be carried furtherinto the country; and they decided to do so. It was my right to be oneof the two, and I took it. My companion was a young priest less strongthan the rest, and we left the mission and after a long journey we gothome safely. I meant to go to the first bishop I met, and make myconfession. 

"But when we came to Rome and we were giving an account of what had beendone, the young priest thrust me forward to speak, as was natural, and Iseemed to be a personage of importance, because I had lived through somany perils and had outlived so many. We two were invited to dinner bycardinals, and were admitted to a private audience of the Pope. Everybody seemed to know what I had done, and even the liberalnewspapers praised my courage and devotion. 

"I had no courage, for being full of vanity, I never confessed my sin. But I would not go back to the mission, and when I could leave Rome, Ileft the young priests there and went to Naples to see my father. Hehad read what had been written about me, and was proud of me, and hereceived me gladly, for he loved me and was a devout man. Six years hadpassed since I had seen his wife, and though I trembled when I was justabout to see her, yet when she entered the room I knew that I did notlove her any more, and I was very much pleased to find that this sin, atleast, had left me. 

"I lived with them several years, devoting myself to study, and I usedto say my mass in a church close by. For I was a priest by nature andheart, and I had grown so used to my sin of sacrilege, that I shut myeyes, and told myself that it was the wish of Heaven. But the truth is, I was a coward. It was then that you first knew me and you know how myfather died and my stepmother married again, and how I undertook to bethe tutor of poor Bosio Macomer. But with years, the city grewdistasteful to me, and I wished to be alone, for Bosio was grown up, andI had no heart for teaching any one else. I was also very poor, havingspent what my father left me, both on books, and in other ways of whichI need not speak because there was nothing wrong in what I did with themoney. 

"And then, Count Macomer--the one who is now insane--offered to make mecurate of Muro and chaplain of the castle of the Serra, all of whichyou know. And I, accustomed to my wickedness, and feeling myself apriest, though I was not one, accepted it for the peace of it. 

"It is a very terrible thing. For all the sacraments I have administeredin these many years have been of no value; but the worst, for itsconsequences, is that none of the many hundreds I have married, aretruly married, and that if the truth were known to them, the confusionwould be beyond my power to imagine. But Christians they are, for alayman may baptize, even though he be not in a state of grace. 

"And for the other sacraments, the sin is all mine, as you see, and Godwill be good to them all, according to the intention and belief theyhad. And now a worse thing has happened, though it was not my fault, excepting that the original fault is all mine. For Don Gianluca dellaSpina was lying at the point of death, and there were with him theprincess and Don Sigismondo Taquisara, the Baron of Guardia, his friend. The princess desired to be married to Don Gianluca, before he died, andsent for me in great haste and commanded me to marry them. As I raisedmy eyes to speak, for it was impossible to resist her will, theTaquisara thought that Don Gianluca was dead and took the princess'shand from the dead man's, as he thought, and as I suppose--and I gavethem the benediction. But when I looked down, it was the Baron ofGuardia who appeared to have been married to the princess, for theirright hands were clasped; and I cannot tell whether, if I were a truepriest, they would have been married or not. 

"But the princess and Don Gianluca believe that I made them husband andwife, though the Taquisara knows that something was wrong, since he heldher hand. For Don Gianluca has recovered, and they are now about to havea civil marriage and announce it to their friends. 

"It was the will of God that my own sin should follow me to the end, andthat it should be the means of freeing these three persons from theirterrible position. For the Baron of Guardia believes that he is marriedto the princess, and she believes that she is Don Gianluca's wife. Butas yet no further harm is done, and the Taquisara is the bravestgentleman and the truest man to his friend that ever drew breath. Therefore I have made this confession. And I will abide all theconsequences. The bishop before whom you will lay the case will knowwhat is to be done. It will be in his power, I presume, to acquaint theprincess with the fact that she is not married at all, and must bemarried by a true priest; and to do so, without injuring the poor peopleof Muro who have been the victims of my sin for many years. 

"That is my confession. And now, if I have not made all clear to you, Ibeg you to ask me such questions as you think fit, for it is not inyour power to give me absolution. "

Don Teodoro was exhausted. His face sank upon his folded hands on theedge of the table, and his shoulders trembled. 

"My poor friend! My poor friend!" repeated Don Matteo, in a low andwondering tone. "No--it is quite clear, " he added. "There is nothingwhich I have not understood. But I can say nothing, my poor friend!Pray--pray for forgiveness. God will forgive you, for you have done evilonly to yourself, and never anything but good to others. "

Don Teodoro in a hardly audible voice repeated the second half of the'Confiteor' and remained on his knees a little while longer. Don Matteocovered his eyes with his hands, and during several minutes there wassilence. Then the two old men rose and looked at each other for amoment. 

"Courage!" said Don Matteo, and he gently patted his friend's shoulder. 

He took off his stole, folded it carefully, and wrapped it in its cleanwhite paper again, before putting it away. But he did that by force ofhabit. Confessors hear strange things sometimes and are not easilydisconcerted, but Don Teodoro's was the strangest tale that had evercome to Don Matteo's ears. Again he came and patted Don Teodoro'sshoulder in a way of kindly encouragement. 

Then he took his three-cornered hat and went out without a word. Insuch a case there was no time to be lost. 

Cardinal Campodonico was at that time the archbishop of Naples, and hereceived Don Matteo immediately, for the priest was a man ofextraordinarily brilliant gifts and well known to the prelate, who likedhim and had caused him to be made a canon of the cathedral not manyyears earlier. 

Don Matteo, as was right in such a position, laid the whole matterbefore him as a theoretical case of conscience, without names, andwithout any useless details which might by any possibility give a clueto his real penitent's identity. He stated it all with great clearnessand force, but he dwelt much upon the spotless life of charity and goodworks which the man had led, in spite of his one chief sin. He knew, when Don Teodoro spoke of having spent his father's fortune, that almostevery penny of it had gone to the poor of Naples in one way or another, and he had seen at a glance how his poor friend had in his youthexaggerated his boyish admiration for his stepmother. But Don Matteo putthe main point very clearly before the cardinal--always as a purelytheoretical case of conscience, asking what a confessor's duty would bein such an extremely difficult situation. 

The cardinal listened attentively, and then was silent for some time. 

"The first thing to be done, " he said at last, "would be to make apriest of him. He is evidently a man with a vocation, and the chain ofcircumstances which led him into this sin and difficulty is a verystrange one. I hardly know what to say of it--left alone with savagesonly just converted--well, he was wrong, of course. But the man yourepresent in your theoretical case is supposed to be in all otherrespects almost a holy man. "

"Yes, a man of holy life, " said Don Matteo, earnestly. 

"I do not see how a man of such disposition could have been so lackingin courage afterwards, " said the cardinal. 

"But suppose that it were exactly as I represent the case, Eminence, what should the confessor do?"

The cardinal looked into his eyes long and gravely. 

"I should think it best to make a priest of him as soon as possible, " hesaid at last. 

"But how? No bishop could ordain him a priest without knowing hisstory. "

"I would ordain him, if he came to me. I think I should be doing right. "

"But then your Eminence would know him, and the secret of confessionwould have been betrayed. "

"That is true. Let him go to another bishop and tell his story. "

"Another bishop might not think as your Eminence does. Besides, thequestion is what the confessor is to do under the circumstances. "

The cardinal suddenly rose, went to the broad window, and looked outthoughtfully. Don Matteo stood up respectfully, waiting. It seemed tohim a long time before the prelate turned, and what he did thensurprised the priest very much, for he went to each of the three doorsof the room in succession, opened it, looked out, closed it again andlocked it. Then he came back to Don Matteo. 

"Are you, to the best of your belief, in a state of grace, my friend?"he asked in a low voice. "Have you no mortal sin on your conscience?Reflect well. This is a grave matter. "

"I cannot think of any, Eminence, " answered the good priest, after amoment's pause. 

"Very well. We are alone here. The case of conscience you have laidbefore me is a very extraordinary one. I do not wish to know whether ithas actually come before you in confession. But if it has, --or if itshould, --I should wish you to be in a position to help that poor man andset his life straight, by the grace of God, without injuring him, and, above all, without injuring any of those persons to whom he hasadministered the sacraments. I have known you a long time, Don Matteo, and I can trust you to make no use of any power I give you, before theworld. I have the power and the right to consecrate a bishop any priestwhom I think a fit person. Kneel down here, say the 'Confiteor, ' and Iwill lay my hands on you. You could then give the penitent absolutionand ordain him a priest privately. "

Don Matteo started in utmost surprise, and hesitated an instant. 

"Kneel down, " said the cardinal. "I take this upon myself. "

The priest knelt, and the solemn words sounded low in the quiet littleroom, as the archbishop laid his hands upon Don Matteo's grey head. Whenthe latter rose, he kissed the cardinal's ring, trembling a little, forit had all been very unexpected. The cardinal embraced him in theecclesiastical fashion, and then, to his further amazement, drew off hisepiscopal ring and slipped it upon Don Matteo's finger, took his ownbishop's cross and chain from his neck and hung it about Don Matteo'sneck. 

"Keep them both in memory of this morning, " said the prelate. "But hidethe chain and the cross under your cassock, for people need not see thatyou are a bishop, when you sit among the canons in church. You know it, I know it, your penitent must know it if the case is a real one, and thePope shall know it--but no one else living need ever guess it. Will youkindly unlock the doors? Thank you. We will not mention this occurrenceagain, if we can help it. Good morning, Don Matteo--good morning, myfriend. "

When Don Matteo was in the street again, he stood still and passed hishand over his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. His bishop's ringtouched his forehead, and he realized that it was all true. He had notbeen half an hour in the archbishop's palace, and when he reached hisown door, he had not been absent an hour from the house. 

He found Don Teodoro in the same room and still in the same chair, intowhich he had dropped exhausted when Don Matteo had gone out, his headsunk on his breast, his hands clasped despairingly on his knees. As thedoor opened, he looked up with scared eyes, and rose. 

"Courage!" exclaimed Don Matteo, patting his shoulder just as he haddone before going out. "I have seen his Eminence. "

Don Teodoro looked at him in mute and resigned expectation, and wonderedat his cheerful face. But his friend made him sit down again, and toldhim all that had taken place, and then, before Don Teodoro could recoverhis astonishment and emotion, he found himself kneeling on the floor andheard the words of absolution spoken softly over him. A moment later hefelt upon his head the laying of hands and heard those still moresolemn words pronounced over him, which, he had never hoped to hearsaid for himself. 

When he rose to his feet at last, he saw Don Matteo wrapping up thebishop's cross and chain and ring in the same piece of clean white paperin which he kept the old stole. 

But Don Teodoro went to his little room, which was ready for him asusual, and he was not seen again on that day. Several times Don Matteowent softly to the door. Once he heard the old man sobbing within asthough his heart would break, all alone; and once again he heard hisvoice saying Latin prayers in a low tone; and the third time all wasvery still, and Don Matteo knew that the worst was past. 

On the next morning very early Don Teodoro came out of his room. Neitherof the two spoke of what had happened, but the clear light was in theold priest's eyes again, clearer and happier than before, and little bylittle the lines smoothed themselves from his singular face until therewere no more there than there had been for years. All that day theytalked together of books and of Don Teodoro's great history of theChurch. But they were both thoughtful and subject to moments of absenceof mind. 

It was not until the evening of the third day that Don Teodoro asked hisfriend a question. 

"What do you advise me to say to the princess?" he inquired, when theywere alone together. 

"Tell her that you have consulted an ecclesiastical authority and thatthere was an irregularity about the marriage with Don Gianluca so thatyou must solemnly marry them again before they can consider themselvesman and wife. And tell the Baron of Guardia that the same authority issure that he was not married to the princess, but is a free man. It isvery simple, and there can be no possible mistake, now. "

"Yes, " said Don Teodoro. "It is very simple. "

And so it was, for Cardinal Campodonico deserved the reputation heenjoyed of being, in ecclesiastical affairs, a man equal to the mostdifficult emergencies, in character, in keen discernment, and in promptaction. 

But Don Teodoro sighed softly when he had spoken, for he thought ofTaquisara and of what that brave and silent man would suffer when he wasforced to stand by Gianluca's side and see the rings exchanged and thehands joined, and hear the words spoken which must cut him off foreverfrom all hope. But Taquisara, at least, in his suffering, would have theconsolation of having been honest and true and loyal from first to last. He would never have to bear the consequences of having been a coward ata great moment. It could not be so very hard for him, after all, thoughtDon Teodoro. 

And he saw no reason for curtailing his stay in Naples, since there wastime until the first of January. On the contrary, he grew glad of thoselong days, in which he could meditate on the past and think of thefuture, and be supremely and humbly thankful for the great change thathad come into his life. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Don Teodoro wrote a few words to Taquisara, embodying what Don. Matteohad advised him to say. He added also that matters had not turned out ashe had expected and that he should return to Muro as usual on thetwentieth of the month. The Sicilian, read the letter twice and thenburned it carefully. He was neither surprised nor disappointed by itscontents, though he had expected that there would be much moredifficulty in undoing what had been done. There was clearly nothing moreto be said, as there was most certainly nothing more to hope. DonTeodoro had undoubtedly consulted the archbishop of Naples, thoughtTaquisara, and such a decision was final and authoritative. 

He had succeeded in forcing himself into a sort of mechanical regularityof life which helped him through the day. Gianluca needed him still, though less than formerly, and as long as he could be of use, and couldcontrol his face and voice, he would stay in Muro. Since Veronica hadfixed the first of January as a limit, he could hardly find an excusefor going away during the last three weeks of the time, when he couldstill be of infinite service to his friend on the journey to Naples. 

On the whole, he considered himself very little. It was easier to do hisutmost, and to invent more than his utmost to be done, than it would beto live an idle life anywhere else. 

Again, as in the early days, he avoided Veronica when he could do so, without attracting Gianluca's attention, and Veronica herself kept outof his way as much as she could. Without words they had a tacitunderstanding that they would never be left alone together, even for aninstant. 

One day, by chance, going in opposite directions through the house, theyopened opposite doors of the same room and faced each otherunexpectedly. For a single instant both paused, and then came forward topass each other. Veronica held her head high and looked straight beforeher, for they had met already on that day, and there was no reason whyshe should speak to him. But Taquisara could not help looking into herface, and he saw how hard it tried to be and yet how, in spite ofherself, it softened almost before she had passed him. He turned andglanced at her retreating figure, and her head was bent low, and herright hand, hanging by her side, opened and shut twice convulsively, inhis sight. 

He had not dared to suggest to himself until then that she mightpossibly love him, but in the flash of that quick passing he almost knewit. Then, before he had closed the door behind him and entered the nextroom, the knowledge was gone, and he cursed himself for the thought, asthough it had been an insult to her. If he should have to pass her aloneagain, he would rather cut off his right hand than turn and look at her. But that one moment, past and gone, had life in it to torment him nightand day. 

Gianluca was no better, and no worse. He wheeled himself about the greatrooms, and on fine mornings Veronica took him to drive. She read to him, played bésique with him, fenced with Taquisara to amuse him; she devotedherself to him in every way; but as day followed day, she invented allsorts of occupations and games which should take the place ofconversation. Anything was better than talking with him, now; anythingwas better than to hear him say that he loved her, expecting her topronounce the words. 

He himself lost heart suddenly. 

"I shall never walk again, " he said, one afternoon, as they sat togetherin the big room. 

The days were very short, for it was mid-December, and the lamps hadbeen brought. They had been out in the carriage, and when Taquisara hadlifted him from his seat, he had made a desperate attempt to move hislegs, a sudden effort into which he had thrown all the concentratedhope and will that were still in him. But there had been neither motionnor sensation, and all at once he had felt that it was all over, forever. 

Veronica looked at him quickly, and he was watching her face. He saw nocontradiction there of what he had said, but only a little surprise thathe should have said it. 

"You may not be able to walk as soon as we thought, " she answeredgently. "But that is no reason why you should never walk at all. "

"I am afraid it is, " he said. 

She stroked his hand, as she often did, and her eyes wandered from hisface to the other side of the room, and back again. 

"I have been trying very hard to get well, " he continued presently. "Harder than any one knows. "

"I know, " Veronica answered. "You are so brave!"

"Brave? No. I am desperate. Do you think I do not know what it must beto you, to be tied to a hopeless cripple like me?"

"Tied? I?" She spoke bravely, for it would have been a deadly crueltynot to contradict him. "It is for you, " she went on. "You must not thinkof me as tied to you, dear, as you call it! I did it gladly, of my ownfree will, and I knew what I was doing. "

"Ah no!" he answered sadly. "You could not have known what you weredoing, then. Your whole life has only saved half of mine. "

A chill of fear shot through Veronica's heart. 

"Dear, " she said anxiously and nervously. "Have I done anything to makeyou talk like this?"

"Yes, love, you have done much, " he answered, with a tender, regretfullook. "No--do not start! I am sorry that you did not understand. It isbecause you do so much, because you give your whole life for my wretchedexistence, because I know what my hours of happiness cost you now andwill cost you hereafter. That is why I say these things. It would havebeen so much easier and simpler if I had died with my hand in yours, that day, when Don Teodoro married us. Veronica--tell me--did he say allthe words? I fainted, I think. "

"Yes, " answered Veronica, still pale. "He said all the words. "

"And did he give us the benediction?"

"Yes, he gave us the benediction. "

Gianluca sighed. 

"Then it cannot be undone, dear, " he said softly. "You must forgive me. "

"I would not have it undone, Gianluca. "

And before that great unselfishness, Veronica bowed her head down, untilher lips kissed his hands. But as she touched them, she heard the dooropen, and instantly she was erect again, and trying to smile. Taquisaracame in. 

Veronica rose, for she felt that she could not sit still by Gianluca'sside, with his words in her ear, her own scarcely cold upon her lips, and the man for whom she would have given her soul's salvation, whowould have died ten deaths for her, standing quietly there, looking on. She walked nervously up and down the room. 

"Should you like to fence?" asked Taquisara. "We have not touched a foilto-day. "

Anything seemed good which could pass the time without talking. But toher it seemed heartless just then. 

"No, " she answered, almost curtly. "It seems to me that we are alwaysfencing. "

But Gianluca understood why she refused. And to him, perhaps, anythingwas better than thinking. 

"Please do!" he said. "I enjoy it so much!"

Mechanically and without a word, she went to the corner where the foilsand other things were kept in a great carved chest. 

Taquisara moved a large table out of the way, pushing it slowly beforehim. 

"Do you think you can see? Or shall we have more lamps?" asked Veronica. 

"I can see very well--as well as one can, by lamp-light, " answeredTaquisara, as he placed the lamps together upon the table, so that thelight should fall sideways upon them when they fenced. 

Veronica was glad to slip her mask over her face, just then. She wasconscious of the fact when she had done it, though she hardly knew whatshe was doing as she took a foil from the long chest and stepped outinto the room to meet Taquisara. Then, as he raised his arm to engageand she still held her foil down, her habitual interest in the amusementmomentarily asserted itself. 

"Shall we try that feint of yours that you were doing the other day?"she asked. "You know, you touched me with it. I think I can meet it now, for I have been thinking about it. "

"Yes, try it!" said Gianluca, from his chair. 

"Certainly, " answered Taquisara. 

Instantly, both fell into position and engaged. Barely crossing foils, Taquisara executed the feint in question at once, and lunged his fullestlength. But Veronica had thought out the right parry and answer, and wasquicker than he. 

His weapon ran past her head without touching her, and as he recoveredhimself, hers shot out after him. He uttered an exclamation as it ranunder his arm, with a little soft resistance. 

"Touched!" cried Veronica, at the same instant. 

He said nothing. Then, a second later, she uttered a sharp cry ofhorror, dropped her foil upon the floor and raising her mask stared athim with wild, white face. Not heeding what she did, she had taken thesharp foil by mistake. It was dark in the corner where the chest stood. 

"It is nothing, " he said. "It is nothing, I assure you. "

"What is the matter?" asked Gianluca, in astonishment, for he could notsee that the foil had no button. 

But Veronica did not answer him. She was close to Taquisara now, clutching his arm with both hands and staring at the wire mask whichcovered his face. 

"You are hurt! I know you are hurt!" she said, in a voice faint withfear. 

"Oh no!" he answered, with a short laugh. "I was a little surprised. Take another foil. It is nothing, I assure you. "

"I know you are hurt, " she repeated. "Oh God! I might have killed you--"

She felt dizzy, and sick with horror, and she clung to his arm, now, forsupport. 

"Do you mean to say that you had the sharp foil?" asked Gianluca, beginning to understand. 

"It is nothing at all, " said Taquisara. "It ran through my jacket, justunder the arm. It did not touch me. "

"It might have run through you, " said Gianluca, gravely. "It might havekilled you. "

"Oh--please--please--" cried Veronica, still clinging to Taquisara'sarm and turning her pale face to Gianluca. 

He looked on, and his face changed. There was something in her attitude, just for a few seconds, in her ghastly pallor, in the tones of hervoice, that went through Gianluca like a knife. The dreadful instinctivecertainty that she loved the man she had so nearly killed, tookpossession of him in a dark prevision of terror. Veronica was strong andbrave, but it would have been strange indeed if she had shown nothing ofwhat she felt. 

It did not last long, and perhaps she knew what she had shown, for shedropped Taquisara's arm, and the colour rushed to her face as shestooped and picked up the foil with the green hilt. The hilts of theothers were blue, like those of many Neapolitan foils, and in thelamp-light she could hardly distinguish the difference. 

With sudden anger Veronica set her foot upon the steel and bent it up, trying to break it. She could not, for it was of soft temper, but shebent it out of all shape, so as to be useless. 

She forced herself to take another, and they fenced again for a fewminutes. Gianluca watched them at first, but soon his head fell back, and he stared at the ceiling. Death had entered into his soul. He hadguessed half the truth. But in the state in which he was on thatevening, and after what had passed between him and Veronica, thesuspicion alone would have been enough. Nothing could have saved himfrom it, since it was indeed the truth. Such passionate, strong lovecould only hide itself so long as it lived in the even, unchanging lightof monotonous days. In the flash of a danger, a terror, a violentchance, its shape stood out for an instant and was not to be mistaken. 

Gianluca scarcely spoke again on that evening. The next morning, beforehe left his own room, Taquisara was with him, walking up and down andsmoking while Gianluca drank his coffee. They had been discussing theaccident of the previous evening, and Taquisara had laughed over it. ButGianluca was sad and grave. 

"I wish to ask you a question, " he said, after a short silence. "When Ifainted, that day--did Don Teodoro pronounce all the proper words? Youmust have heard him. Was it a real marriage, without any defect ofform?"

Taquisara stopped in his walk and hesitated. After all, since DonTeodoro had written to him that the marriage must be performed again, itwas much better that Gianluca should be prepared for it, since hehimself had put the question. 

"Since you ask me, " answered Taquisara, after a moment's thought, "I mayas well tell you what I know. After it was done, both Don Teodoro and Ihad doubts as to whether the marriage were perfectly valid, and hedetermined to consult a bishop. I suppose that he has done so, for hehas written to me about it. He says that the ecclesiastical authoritybefore whom the matter was laid declares that there were informalities, and that you must be married again. You see, in the first place, therewere no banns published in church, and there was no permission from thebishop to omit publishing them. But, of course, that might be set aside. I fancy that the real trouble may have been that you were unconscious. At all events, it is a very simple matter to be married again. "

"In other words, it is no marriage at all. I thought so--I thought so. "Gianluca repeated the words slowly and sadly. 

"What does it matter?" asked Taquisara, turning away and walking again. "It is a question of five minutes. I should think that you would beglad--"

"Yes--perhaps I am glad, " said Gianluca, so low that the words werescarcely an interruption. 

"Because you can be married in your full senses, " continued Taquisara, bravely, "with your father and mother beside you, and all the rest ofit. "

Gianluca said nothing to this, and again there was a short silence. Justas Taquisara came to the table in his walk, Gianluca spoke again. 

"Stop a moment, " he said. "Look at me, Taquisara. If you were in myplace, what would you do?"

Their eyes met, and Gianluca saw the quick effort of the other'sfeatures, controlling themselves, as though he had been struck unawares. 

"I?" exclaimed Taquisara, taken entirely off his guard. "If I were inyour place? Why--" he recovered himself--"I should get married again, assoon as possible, of course. What else should any one do?"

But the bold eyes for once looked down a little, their steadinessbroken. 

"You would do nothing of the sort, " said Gianluca. 

"What do you mean?" Again Taquisara started almost imperceptibly, andhis brows contracted as he looked up sharply. 

"If you were in my place, " said Gianluca, "you would cut your throatrather than ruin the life of the woman you loved, by tying your miseryto her for life, a load for her to carry. "

"Do not say such things!" exclaimed the Sicilian, turning suddenly fromthe table and resuming his walk. "You are mad!"

"No--not mad. But not cowardly either. There is not much left of me, butwhat there is shall not be afraid. I am not truly married to her. I willnot be. I will not die with that on my soul. "

"Gianluca--for God's sake do not say such things!" Taquisara turned uponhim, staring. 

He sat in his deep chair, his fair angel head thrown back, the dark blueeyes bright, brave, and daring--all the rest, dead. 

"I say them, and I mean them, " he answered. "I love her very much. Ilove her enough for that. I love her more than you do. "

"Than I?" Taquisara's voice almost broke, as the blow struck him, butthere was no fear in his eyes either. He drew a breath then, and spokestrong words. "Now may Christ forget me in the hour of death, if I havenot been true to you!"

"And me and mine if I blast your life and hers, " came back theunflinching answer. 

A deep silence fell upon them both. At last Gianluca spoke again, andhis voice sank to another tone. 

"She loves you, too, " he said. 

"Loves me?" cried Taquisara, his brows suddenly close bent. "Oh no!Unsay that, or--no--Gianluca--how dare you even dream the right to saythat of your wife?"

It was beyond his strength to bear. 

"She is not my wife, " said Gianluca. "You have told me so--she is not mywife. She has done what no other living woman could have done, to be mywife and to love me. But she is not my wife, and what I say is true, andright as well, your right and hers. 

"No--not that--not hers. " Taquisara turned half round, against thetable, where he stood, and his voice was low and broken. 

"Yes, hers. You will know it soon--when I have taken my love to mygrave, and left her yours on earth. "

"Gianluca!"

Taquisara could not speak, beyond that, but he laid his hand upon hisfriend's arm and clutched it, as though to hold him back. His dark eyesdarkened, and in them were the terrible tears that strong men shed oncein life, and sometimes once again, but very seldom more. 

Gianluca's thin fingers folded upon the hand that held him. 

"You have been very true to me, " he said. "She will be quite safe withyou. "

For a long time they were both silent. It began to rain, and the bigdrops beat against the windows, melancholy as the muffled drum of afuneral march, and the grey morning light grew still more dim. 

"I will not go into the other room just yet, " said Gianluca, quietly. "Iwould rather be alone for a little while. "

Their eyes met once more, and Taquisara went away without a word. 

That had been almost the last act of the strange tragedy of love anddeath which had been lived out in slow scenes during those many weeks. It was needful that it should come, and inevitable, soon or late. Itbegan when Gianluca made that one last desperate effort to move, insudden certainty of hope that ended in the instant foreknowledge of whatwas to be. A little thing swayed him then--such a little thing as theaccident of a sharp foil, a rent in a jacket, the woman's blinding fearfor the man she loved. There are many arrows in fate's quiver, and thelittle ones are as keen as the long shafts, and quicker to find thetender mark. 

The man was born to suffer, but he had in him that something divine bywhich martyrs made death the witness of life and turned despair of earthto sure hope of heaven. 

He had ever been a man tender and gentle. His nature did not fail himnow. With exquisite devotion and thought for Veronica's happiness, andwith a love for her that penetrated the short future of near death, hewould not say to her what he had said to Taquisara. He would not let onebreath of doubt disturb her only satisfaction while he still lived, nortrouble her with the least fear lest she had not done all her fullest togive him happiness while she could. In the end, it was his love that cutshort his living, and no one knew what hours and days and nights of painhe bore, till the end came. He made of his love and his death a way forher life. She had given him all she had. He gave it back to her ahundred-fold, but she should not know, while he lived, that her greatgift had not been to him more than she could make it, all that shewished it might be, all that she knew it was not. 

He had not far to carry his burden; but except his friend, no one shouldknow the heaviness of his heart, neither his father nor his mother, andleast of all, Veronica. He could not hide that he was dying, but hecould hide the cost of it, and its bitterness. After that day, his lifewent from him, as the strength falls away from a ship's sails when thebreeze is softly dying on a summer's evening. In fear Veronica watchedhim, and in fear she met Taquisara's eyes. In the long nights, when itrained and there was no moon, the darkness of death's wings was in theair, and she held her breath, alone in her dim room. 

They all knew it, and none said it, though shadow answered shadow in oneanother's faces when they met. It was as though another element than airhad descended amongst them, dull, unresonant, hushing word and tread. 

For each life we love is a sun, in our lives that would be dark if therewere no love in them, and when it goes down to its setting in ourhearts, the last light of love's day is very deep and tender, as noother is after it, and the passionate, sad twilight of regret deepensto a darkness of great loneliness over all, until our tears are wept, and our souls take of our mortal selves memories of love undying. 

The end came soon, in the night, for it was his will to live that hadkept him with them so long. Taquisara was with him. One by one theothers came, hastily muffled and wrapped in dark robes, for the nightwas cold and damp even within doors. One after another they came, andthey stood and knelt beside him on the right and left. He spoke to themall, --to his father and his mother first, for he felt the tide ebbing. With streaming eyes Veronica bent down and looked for the fading lightin his, through her fast-falling tears. And close to her his motherstretched out weak hands that trembled with every breaking sob. Hisfather knelt there, burying his face against the pillow, shaking allover, his arms hanging down loose and helpless by his sides, bent, bowed, crushed, as a weak old lion, stricken in age and cruelly woundedto death. And above them all, Taquisara's sad, deep-chiselled facelooked down, as the face of a bronze statue beside a grave. Without, thewinter's rain beat a low dead-march on the great windows, and thesouthwest wind sighed out its vast breath along the castle walls. 

It was long since he had spoken, and they thought that they should neverhear his voice again. But still the last light lingered in his eyes. Very little was left for him to do. 

He moved Veronica's right hand, that was in his, drawing it a little, and she let it move; and his other held Taquisara's, and he drew italso, they yielding, till the two touched, and at his dying will claspedone another. Then he smiled faintly, his last smile on earth. And as itfaded forever, there came back to them from beyond all pain the words ofhis blessing upon their two strong young lives. 

"Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus--" and the angels heard the rest. 

Thus died Gianluca della Spina. 

THE END.