"You are not afraid?" said Andrea, as we turned on to the Lung' Arno and came in sight of the house.
"No," I answered in all good faith, a little resenting the question.
After all, what was there to fear? This was the nineteenth century, when people's marriages were looked upon as their own affairs, and the paternal blessing—since it had ceased to be asine quâ non—was never long withheld.
If Andrea's family were disappointed in his choice, and I supposed that at first such would be the case, it lay with me to turn that disappointment into satisfaction.
I had but a modest opinion of myself, yet I knew that in making me his wife Andrea was doing nothing to disgrace himself; his good taste, perhaps, was at fault, but that was all.
You see, I had been educated in a very primitive and unworldly school of manners, and must ask you to forgive my ignorance.
Yet I confess my heart did beat rather fast as we made our way up the steps into the empty hall, and I wished the next few hours well over.
I reminded myself that I was under Andrea's wing, safe from harm, but looking up at Andrea I was not quite sure of his own unruffled self-possession. A distant hum of voices greeted us as we entered, growing louder with every stair we mounted, and when we reached the landing leading to the gallery, there stood the whole family assembled like the people in a comedy.
To judge from the sounds we heard, they had been engaged in excited discussion, every one speaking at once, but at our appearance a dead and awful silence fell upon the group.
Slowly we advanced, the mark of every eye, then came to a stop well in front of the group.
It seemed an age, but I believe it was less than a minute, before the Marchesa stepped forward, looking straight at me and away from her son, so as not in the least to include him in her condemnation, and said: "I am truly sorry, Miss Meredith, for I was given tounderstand that your mother was a very respectable woman."
"Mother!" cried Andrea, with a pale face and flashing eyes; "be careful of your words." Then taking my hand, he turned to the old Marchese, who stood helpless and speechless in the background, and said loudly and deliberately: "This lady has promised to be my wife."
For an instant no one spoke, but there was no mistaking the meaning of their silence; then Romeo called out in a voice of suppressed fury: "It is impossible!"
Andrea, still holding my hand, turned with awful calm upon his brother. Annunziata's ready tears were flowing, and Bianca gazed open-mouthed with horror and excitement upon the scene.
"Romeo," said Andrea, tightening his hold of my fingers, "this is no affair of yours. Once before you tried to interfere in my life; I should have thought the result had been too discouraging for a second attempt."
"It is the affair of all of us when you try to bring disgrace on the family."
"Disgrace! Sir, do you know what word you are using, and in reference to whom?"
"Oh, the signorina, of course, is charming. I have nothing to say against her."
He bowed low, and, as our eyes met, I knew he was my enemy.
"Andrea," said his mother, interposing between her sons, "this is no time and place for discussion. Miss Meredith shall come with me, and you shall endeavour to explain to your father how it is you have insulted him."
"My son," said the Marchese, speaking for the first time, with a certain mournful dignity, "never before has such a thing happened in our family as that a wife should be brought home to it without the head of the house being consulted. What am I to think of this want of confidence, of respect, except that you are ashamed of your choice?"
"Father," answered Andrea, drawing my hand through his arm, "it has throughout been my intention of asking your consent and your blessing. Nor has there been any concealment on my part. From the first I have expressed my admiration of this lady very openly to you all. What is the result? that she is watched, persecuted like a suspected criminal, and finally driven away—she a young girl, a stranger in a foreign land. Can you expect the man who loves herto stand by and see this without letting her know at the first opportunity that there is one on whose protection she can at once and always rely?"
"Andrea," said his mother, "we did but try our best to prevent what we one and all regard as a misfortune. Miss Meredith is no suitable bride for a son of the house of Brogi. Oh" (as he opened his lips as about to protest), "I have nothing to say against her, though indeed you cannot expect me to be lost in admiration of her discretion."
The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders and threw out her hands as she spoke, with an impatience which she rarely displayed.
Andrea answered very quietly: "My mother, this is no time and place for such a discussion. With your permission, I will retire with my father, and Miss Meredith shall withdraw to her own room." He released my hand very gently from his arm, and stood a moment looking down at me.
"You are not afraid, Elsie?" he whispered in English.
"Yes, I am frightened to death!"
"It will be all right very soon."
"Must you leave me, Andrea?"
"Yes, dear, I must."
He went over to his father and gave him his arm. All this time Annunziata was weeping like the walrus in "Alice," her loud sobs echoing dismally throughout the house.
"Elsie," said Andrea, as he prepared to descend with the Marchese, "go straight to your room."
I turned without a word, and stunned, astonished, unutterably miserable, fled upstairs without a glance at the hostile group on the landing.
Once the door safely shut behind me, my pent up feelings found vent, and I sobbed hysterically.
Was ever such a morning in a woman's life? And I had had no breakfast.
I was not allowed much time in which to indulge my emotions. Very soon came a knock at the door, and a maid entered with wine, bread, and chestnuts. With the volubility of Italian servants, she pressed me to eat and drink, and when she departed with the empty tray I felt refreshed, and ready to fight my battle to the last. A second knock at the door was not long in following the first, and this time it was the Marchesa who responded to my "Come in."
My heart sank considerably as the stately little lady advanced towards me, and I inwardly reproached Andrea for his desertion.
"Miss Meredith," said the Marchesa, taking the chair I mechanically offered her, and waving her hand towards another, "pray be seated."
I obeyed, feeling secretly much in awe of the rigid little figure sitting very upright opposite me.
"What, after all, is the love of a young man but a passing infatuation?"
This was the first gun fired into the enemy's camp, but there was no answering volley.
That she spoke in all good faith I fully believe, and I felt how useless would be any discussion between us of the point. I looked down in silence.
"Miss Meredith," went on the dry, fluent tones, which I was beginning to feel were the tones of doom, "I will refrain from blaming you in this unfortunate matter. I will merely state the case as it stands. You come into this family, are well received, kindly treated,and regarded with esteem by us all. In return for this, I am bound to say, you perform your duties and do what is required of you with amiability. So far all is well. But there are traditions, feelings, sacred customs, and emotions belonging to the family where you have been received of which you can have no knowledge. That is not required, nor expected of you. What is expected of you, as of every right-minded person, is that you should at least respect what is of such importance to others. Is this the case? Have you not rather taken delight in outraging our feelings in their most delicate relations; in trampling, in your selfish ignorance, on all that we hold most dear?"
Her words stung me; they were cruel words, but I had sworn inwardly to stand by my guns.
With hands interlocked and drooping head, I sat before her without word.
"We had looked forward to this home-coming of my son," she went on, branching off into another talk, "as to the beginning of a fresh epoch of our lives, his father and I, we that are no longer young. To him we had looked for the carrying on of our race. From my daughter-in-law we have been obliged to despair of issue. Andrea, suitably married and established inthe home of his ancestors, is what we all dreamed one day to see—nor do I even now entirely abandon the hope of seeing it."
With burning cheeks, and an awful sense that a web was being woven about me, I rose stiffly from my seat, and went over to a cabinet where stood my mother's portrait.
I looked a moment at the pictured eyes, as if for guidance, then said in a low voice:
"Marchesa, I have given my word to your son, and only at his bidding can I take it back."
"It does not take much penetration," she replied, "to know that my son is the last person to bid you do anything of the kind. That he is the soul of chivalry, that the very fact of a person being in an unfortunate position would of itself attract his regard, a child might easily discover."
She spoke with such genuine feeling that for a moment my heart went out towards her; for a moment our eyes met, and not unkindly.
"No doubt," she went on, after a pause, and rising from her seat, "no doubt you represented the precautions we thought necessary to adopt, for your own protection as well my son's, as a form of persecution. If you did not actually represent it to him, I feelsure you gave him to understand that such was the case."
She had hit the mark.
With an agonizing rush of shame, of despair, I remembered my own outbreak on the piazza that morning; how I had confided to Andrea, unasked, my intention of going away, and of the sorrow the prospect gave me.
Had I been mistaken? Had the message of his eyes, his voice, his manner, meant nothing? Had I indeed been unmindful of my woman's modesty? The Marchesa was aware at once of having struck home, and the monotonous tones began again.
"Of course, Miss Meredith, if you choose to take advantage of my son's chivalry, and of his passing fancy—for Andrea is exceedingly susceptible and, no doubt, believes himself in love with you—if, I say, you choose to do this, there is no more to be said.
"Andrea will never take back his word, on that you may rely. But be sure of this, his life will be spoiled, and he will know it. It is not to be expected that you should realize the meaning of ancestral pride, of family honour. Perhaps you think the sentiments which have taken centuries to grow can wither up in a day before the flame of a foolish fancy?"
She had conquered. Moving over to her I looked straight in her face. My voice rang strange and hollow: "By marrying your son I should bring no disgrace upon him nor his family. But I do not intend to marry him."
She had not anticipated so easy a victory. Her cheek flushed, almost as if with compunction. She held out her hands towards me.
But as for me, I turned away ungraciously, and, going up to the chest, began to lift out my under linen, and to pile it on the bed.
"Marchesa, do not thank me, do not praise me? I do not know if I am doing right or wrong."
"Signorina, you have taken the course of an honourable woman."
I went over to the corner where my box stood, and lifted the lid with trembling hands.
"Marchesa, will your servant find out what hour of the night the train leaves for Genoa? and will he have a drosky ready in time to take me to the station?"
"Miss Meredith, there is no necessity for this haste. You cannot depart like this, and without advising your family."
I laid a dress—the little black dress I had worn at the dance—at the bottom of the box. It ought tohave gone at the top, but such details did not occupy me at the moment.
"I trust," I said, "that there may be no difficulties placed in the way of my immediate departure."
She came up to me in some agitation.
"But, signorina!"
"Marchesa," I answered, "you have my promise. Is not that what you wanted?"
I intended a dismissal, I frankly own it, but the Marchesa took my rudeness with such humility that for the moment I felt ashamed of myself.
"You have forced me, Miss Meredith, to speak to you as I have never spoken before to a stranger beneath my roof. To fly in the face of the hospitable traditions of the house——"
There came a knock at the door, and the servant announced that the Marchesino desired to speak with Miss Meredith.
We two women, who both loved Andrea, looked at one another.
"You will have to tell him yourself, signorina; from no one else would my son receive your message." The Marchesa turned away as she spoke.
"I will write to him."
Hastily dismissing the servant with words to theeffect that Andrea should be waited on in a few minutes, the Marchesa handed me, in silence, the little paper-case which lay on the table. With uncertain fingers I wrote:
"Marchesino,—We were both of us hasty and ill-advised this morning. I must thank you for the great honour you have done me, but at the same time I must beg of you to release me from the promise I have made.—Elsie Meredith."
I handed the open sheet to the Marchesa, who read it carefully, folded it up, thanked me and went from the room.
Then suddenly the great bed began to waltz, the open box in the corner, the painted ceiling, the chest and cabinet to whirl about in hopeless confusion. I don't know how it came about, but for the first time in my life I fainted.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon; already the front of the house was in shadow, and the drawing-room was cool and dark. Here Andrea and I were standing face to face; both pale, both resolute, while the Marchesa looked from one to the other with anxious eyes.
"You wrote this?" he asked, holding up my unfortunate scrawl.
"Yes, I wrote it."
"And you meant what you wrote?"
"Yes."
He came a little nearer to me, speaking, it seemed, with a certain passionate contempt.
"And you expected me, Elsie, to accept such an answer?"
Before the fire of his glance my eyes fell suddenly. "I have no other answer to give you," I murmured brokenly.
The Marchesa, who had stayed in the room by my own request, glanced questioningly from one to the other, evidently unable to follow the rapid English of the dialogue.
"Is it possible, Elsie, that you have deceived me? That you, who seemed so true, are falser than words can say? Have you forgotten what you said to me, what your eyes said as well as your lips, a few short hours ago?"
"I have not forgotten, but I cannot marry you."
"Then you do not love me, Elsie? you have been amusing yourself."
"If you choose to think so, I cannot help it."
"Elsie, whatever promise you have made to my mother, whatever promise may have been extorted from you, remember that your first promise and your duty were to me."
I shivered from head to foot, while my heart echoed his words. But I had given my word, and I would not go back from it. Never should my mother's daughter thrust herself unwelcomed in any house.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Elsie?"
"Nothing."
"Mother," he cried, turning flashing eyes to the Marchesa, "what have you been saying to her, bywhat means have you so transformed her, how have you succeeded in wringing from her a most unjust promise?"
"Stay," I interposed, speaking also in Italian, "no promise has been wrung from me, I gave it freely. Marchesino, it seems you cannot believe it, yet it is true that of my own free will I refuse to marry you, that I take back my unconsidered word of this morning. I am no wife for you, and you no husband for me; a few hours of reflection have sufficed very plainly to show me that."
He stood there, paler than ever, looking at me with a piteous air of incredulity. "Elsie, it is not possible—consider, remember—it is not true!"
His voice broke, wavered, and fell; from the passionate entreaty of his eyes I turned my own way.
"It is true, Marchesino, that I will never, never marry you."
Clear, cold, and cruel, though very low, were the tones of my voice; I know not what angel or fiend was giving me strength and utterance; I only know that it was not the normal Elsie who thus spoke and acted.
There was a pause, which seemed to last an age, then once again his voice broke the stillness.
"Since, then, you choose to spoil my life, Elsie, andperhaps (who knows?) your own, there is no more to be said. Far be it from me to extort a woman's consent from her. The only love worth having is that which is given freely, which has courage, which has pride."
Very hard and contemptuous sounded his words. My heart cried out in agony; "Andrea, you are unjust!" but I stood there dumb as a fish, with clasped hands and a drooping head.
"Mother," went on Andrea, "will you kindly summon my father and the others. Miss Meredith, oblige me and stay a few moments; I am sorry to trouble you."
They came in slowly through the open door, the old man, his son and the two younger ladies, anxious, expectant.
Andrea turned towards them.
"My father," he said, "this lady refuses to marry me, and no doubt everybody is content. That she declines to face the hostility, the discourtesy of my family, is not perhaps greatly to be wondered at. It is evident that I am not considered worthy of so great a sacrifice on her part; I do not blame her; rather I blame my own credulity in thinking my love returned. But I wish you all to know," he added, "that I haveentirely altered my plans. I shall write off my appointment in England, and shall start to-night for Livorno, on my way to America. My mother, you will kindly send for anorariothat I may know at what time to order the carriage. Miss Meredith, I bid you good-bye."
He turned round suddenly and faced me, holding out his hand with an air of ceremony.
As for me, I glanced from the dear hand, the dear eyes, to the circle of dismayed faces beyond, then, without a word, I rushed through the open door to my room.
Not daring to allow myself a moment's thought, I fell to immediately packing—fitting in a neat mosaic of stockings and petticoats as though it were the one object of existence.
I do not know if it were minutes or hours before the Marchesa came in, pale and unusually agitated, with no air of enjoying her victory.
"Signorina," she said, "the train for Genoa leaves at 8; I have ordered the carriage for 7.15. You would prefer, perhaps, to dine in your room?"
"I do not wish for dinner, thank you."
"You must allow me to thank you once again, Miss Meredith."
"Do not thank me," I cried, with sudden passion; "I have done nothing to be thanked for."
For, indeed, I was enjoying none of the compensations of martyrdom; for me it was the pang without the palm, as the poet says.
I had fallen in a cause in which I did not believe, had been pressed into a service for which I had no enthusiasm.
"If you will excuse me, Marchesa," I went on, "there are some books of mine in the schoolroom which I must fetch;" and with a little bow, I swept into the corridor with an air as stately as her own.
Andrea's room was on the same floor as my own, but at the other end of the passage, and I had to pass it on my way to the schoolroom. The door stood wide open, and just outside was a large trunk, which Pasquale, the servant, was engaged in packing, while his master gave directions and handed things from the threshold.
I heard their voices as I came.
"At what time does the train go for Livorno, did you say?"
"At 9,excellenza. The carriage will be back in time from the station."
I glided past as rapidly as possible, filled with acertain mournful humour at this spectacle of the gentleman packing his box at one end of the hall, while the lady packed hers at the other.
My room was empty when I regained it, and with a heavy heart I finished my sad task, locking the box, labelling and strapping it.
Then I put on my grey travelling dress, my hat, veil, and gloves, and sat down by the window.
It was only half-past five, and these preparations were a little premature; but this confused, chaotic day seemed beyond the ordinary measurements of time.
A maid-servant, with a dainty little dinner on a tray, was the next arrival on the scene. She set it down on a table near me, but I took no heed. As if I could have swallowed a mouthful!
I was quite calm now, only unutterably mournful. "I have spoilt my life," I thought, as my eyes fixed themselves drearily on the river, the old houses opposite, the marble bridge—once all so strange, now grown so dear; "I have spoilt my life, and for what? Ah, if mother had only been here to stand by me! But I was alone. What was I to do? Oh, Andrea, do you hate me?"
The tears streamed down my face as I sat. "Oh,my beloved Pisa," I thought again, "how can I bear to leave you!"
Once more came a knock at the door—the little, quick knock of the Marchesa; and as I responded duly, I reflected: "No doubt she comes to insult me with my salary. And the worst of it is, I shall have to take it; for if I don't, how am I to get home?"
She looked very unlike her usual, self-possessed self as she came towards me.
"Miss Meredith, my husband wishes to speak to you."
I rose wearily in mechanical obedience, and followed her, silent and dejected, downstairs to the Marchese's room. Here, amid his books and papers, sat the old man, looking the picture of wretchedness.
"Ah, signorina," he said, "what will you think of me, of us all? Of the favour which, very humbly, I have to beg of you? I cannot bear thus to part from my son; he is going far away from me, in anger, for an indefinite time. It is you, and you only, who can persuade him to stop!"
I look up in sudden astonishment.
"My child, go to him; tell him that he can stay."
"Marchese, I am sorry, but you ask what is impossible."
"I do not wonder," he said, with a most touching yet dignified humility, "I do not wonder at your reply. My wife, it is your part to speak to this lady."
With set lips yet unblanching front, the gallant little Marchesa advanced.
"Miss Meredith, do not in this matter consider yourself bound by any promise you have made to me. I release you from it."
"May not the matter be considered ended?" I cried in very weariness; "that I have come between your son and his family no one regrets more than I. Only let me go away!"
The old man rose slowly, left the room, and went to the foot of the stairs.
"Andrea, Andrea," I heard him call.
"His excellency has not finished packing," answered the voice of Pasquale.
"Andrea, Andrea," cried his father again; then came rapid footsteps, and in a few seconds Andrea stood once more before me.
He turned from one to the other questioningly.
The Marchese took my hand.
"My son," he said, "can you not persuade this lady to remain with us."
He looked up, my Andrea, and our eyes met; but on neither side was speech or movement.
The old man went on.
"Andrea, it is possible that we did wrong, your mother and I, in attempting to interfere with you in this matter. You must forgive us if we are slow to understand the new spirit of radicalism which, it seems, is the spirit of the times. Once before our wishes clashed; but, my son, I cannot bear to send you away in anger a second time. As for this lady, she knows how deeply we all respect her. Persuade her to forgive us, if indeed you can."
Andrea I saw was deeply moved; he shaded his eyes with his hand, and the tears flowed down my own cheeks unchecked.
"Well, Elsie, it is for you to decide." He spoke at last, coldly, in an off-hand manner.
I was lacking in pride, perhaps in dignity, for though I said nothing, I held out my hand.
"Are you quite sure you love me, Elsie?"
"Quite, quite sure, Andrea."
* * * * * *
"I am so glad," cried Bianca, some ten minutes later, giving me a hug, "I am so glad it is you and not that bad-tempered Costanza."
"We are all glad," said the old Marchese, holding out his hand with a smile, while Romeo and his mother stood bearing their defeat with commendable grace.
* * * * * *
So it came to pass that on the evening of that wonderful day Andrea and I, instead of being borne by express trains to Genoa and Leghorn respectively, were pacing the gallery arm in arm in the sunlight.
We had been engaged in this occupation for about an hour, and now he knew all about my mother and sisters, and the details of the happy life at Islington.
"We will live in England, but every year we will come to Italy," he was saying, as we paused before the Bronzino, which seemed to have taken in the situation.
"I love Italy more than any place in the world," I answered.
A pause.
"We will be married immediately after Easter, Elsie!"
"Andrea, I go home the day after to-morrow."
"And to-morrow," he said, "we will go to the mountains."
The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS,
CHILWORTH AND LONDON.