"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 your eyes 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; and she, saying 'yes' to everything. And you love her. Well, no doubt. I could love a woman with whom I might never have spoken at all—surely—and why not? But you take it for granted that she knows you love her and expects you to ask for her, and has been told that you have done so and has herself dictated the refusal. You are credulous and despondent, and you are not strong. Besides, you sit here all day long, brooding and doing nothing but expecting to die, and hoping that she will shed a tear when she hears of your untimely end. Is that what you call 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 to her—take your place before the door and stand there day and night until she sees you and notices you." Taquisara laughed. "Do anything—but do not sit here waiting to die in cotton wool with your feet to the fire and 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 what happens."
"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 a quarrel—I know you—and a quarrel about her."
"Why should we quarrel?" asked Taquisara. "I will congratulate him on his betrothal. I know him well enough for that, and in the course of conversation something may appear which we do not know. Besides, if I go to the house, I may possibly meet Donna Veronica; if I do, I shall soon know everything, for I will speak to her of you. I know her."
"One sees that you are not a Neapolitan," said Gianluca, smiling faintly.
"No," answered the other, "I am not." And he laughed with a sort of quiet consciousness of strength which his friend secretly envied. "It is true," he added, "that things look easy to me here, which would be utterly impossible in Palermo. We are different with our women—and we are different when we love. Thank Heaven, for the present—I am as I am."
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 eyes were 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 that we have always been such good friends. But then—one need not look for reasons. It is enough that it is so."
Again he took the delicate, thin hand in his and pressed it, and went away, much more anxious about Gianluca than he was willing to show. For though he had suspected much of what he now saw, as a possibility, it was a phase too new and startling not to trouble him greatly. It will readily be conceived that if Gianluca had always been the weak and dejected and despairing individual from whom Taquisara parted that morning, there could never have been much friendship between the two. But Gianluca, not in love, had been a very different person. With an extremely delicate organization and a very sensitive nature, he was naturally of a gay and sunny temper. The two had done voluntary military service 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 the first place drawn them together. Before long they had become firm friends. In his normal condition Gianluca, though never strong, was brave, frank, and cheerful. Taquisara thought him at times poetic and visionary, but liked the impossible loftiness of his young ideals, because Taquisara himself was naturally attracted by all that looked impossible. Amongst a number of rather gay and thoughtless young men, who jested at everything, Gianluca adhered to his faith openly, and no one thought of laughing at him. He must have possessed something of that wonderful simplicity, together with much of the extraordinary tact, which helped some of the early saints to be what they were—the saints who were beloved rather than those who were persecuted. Not, indeed, that his conduct was always saintly, by any means, nor his life without reproach. But in an existence which ruins many young men forever he preserved an absolutely unaffected admiration for everything good and high and true, and had the rare power of asserting the fact, now and then, without being offensive to others. Taquisara had no desire to imitate him, but was nevertheless very strongly attracted by him, and if Gianluca had ever needed a defender, the Sicilian would have silenced his enemies at the risk of his own life. Gianluca, however, was universally liked, and had never been in need of any such old-fashioned assistance.
Since he had been in love with Veronica Serra, he was completely changed, and it was no wonder that his friend was anxious about him. Taquisara, like most men of perfectly healthy mind and body, would have found it hard to believe that Gianluca was merely love-sick, and was literally 'consuming himself,' even to the point of death, in an unrequited passion. It was certainly true, however, that he had lost strength rapidly and without the influence of any illness which could be defined, ever since the negotiations for Veronica's hand had shown signs of coming to an unsatisfactory conclusion. And they had lasted long. Many letters had been exchanged. The old Duca had been several times to the Palazzo Macomer, and the count and countess had found many reasons by which to put off their decision. For Gianluca was a good match, and altogether an exceedingly desirable young man, and the countess had always thought that if she could not marry Veronica to Bosio, it might be wisest to accept Gianluca. He was always in delicate health, Matilda reflected, and he might possibly die and leave his wife still absolute mistress of her fortune, if the marriage contract were cleverly framed with a view to that contingency.
But the young man himself had been diffident from the beginning, and at the first hesitation on the other side he had taken it for granted that all was lost. His slight vitality sank instantly under the disappointment, he refused to eat, he could not sleep, and he was in a really dangerous state before ten days had passed. Then he had sent for Taquisara, who visited him daily for nearly a week, encouraging him in every way, until to-day, when the news of the refusal was no more to be denied. It was characteristic of the Sicilian that he at once attempted to interfere with destiny in favour of his friend. He was not a man to lose time when time was precious. His ardent temper loved difficulties, even when they were not his own. Bold, untiring, discreet, and loyal, if there were anything to be done in Gianluca's case, he was the man to do it.
Bosio Macomer was somewhat surprised that morning, when his old servant informed him that Taquisara was at the door. He knew him but slightly in the way of acquaintance, though very well by name and reputation, and he wondered what had brought him at that hour. He was inclined to say that he could not receive him, offering as an excuse that he was ill, which was almost true. But he reflected that such a man must have a good reason for wishing to see him. He remembered, too, that the Duca had spoken of him as Gianluca's friend, and in the terrible position in which Bosio himself was placed, it seemed to him possible that one of Gianluca's friends might help him,—how, he had not the power of concentrating his mind enough to guess,—and he ordered the servant to admit him.
Bosio had not slept that night. He had spent the six hours between midnight and the December dawn in his easy-chair before the fireplace. Once or twice, towards morning, he had felt sleep creeping upon him through sheer physical exhaustion, but he had fought it off, afraid to lose one of the precious moments which he still had before him in which to think over what he should do. They were few enough, for a man of his nature.
He knew the absolute truth of all that Matilde had told him, and he had even suspected much of it before she had first spoken. He knew that his brother had secretly ruined himself in financial speculations, in which he had employed Lamberto Squarci as his agent, and that, with Squarci's assistance, Gregorio had staved off the consequences of his actions by a fraudulent use of Veronica's fortune,—of such part of it as he could control, of course,—absorbing much of the enormous income, and even, from time to time, obtaining the consent of Cardinal Campodonico for the sale of certain lands, on pretence of making more profitable investments. During fully ten years, Gregorio's management of the estate must have been a systematic fraud upon Veronica Serra, carried on with sufficient skill to evade all inquiry from the cardinal. Gregorio's fictitious reputation as a strictly honourable man had helped him, together with the fact that his wife was the ward's own aunt, which was a strong presumption in favour of her honesty as a guardian. Then, too, it was generally believed that Macomer was a miser, and much richer than he allowed any one to suppose. As for the accounts of the estate, they could bear inspection, as Matilde had said, provided that no attempt were made to verify the existence of all the property therein described.
The worst of the case was that Squarci had been an accomplice from the beginning, and had doubtless enriched himself while Macomer had lost everything. In the event of a suit brought by the ward against the guardians, it would be in Squarci's power to turn evidence in favour of Veronica, and expose the whole enormous theft; and it would be like him to keep on the side of wealth against ruin. For Veronica was still very rich, in spite of all that had been stolen.
There could be little doubt but that in the event of an action, Gregorio and Matilde Macomer would be condemned to penal servitude, as the countess herself anticipated. It was equally certain that if Veronica married any one but Bosio, her husband and his family would demand that the accounts of the estate should be formally audited and the property scheduled; this must ultimately lead to the dreaded prosecution, which could have no possible conclusion but conviction and infamy.
Whatever Bosio's true relations with Matilde had been in the course of the last ten years, he had at least loved her faithfully, with the complete devotion of a man who not only loves a woman, but is morally dominated by her in all the circumstances of life. He had not the character which seeks ideals, and he asked for none.
Matilde's beauty and conversation had sufficed him, for in his opinion he had never known any one to be compared with her; and on her side she had been strong enough to make a slave of him from the first. To the extent of his weak character and considerable physical courage, there was 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 for her sake.
But where all moral sense of right and all natural action of conscience were gone, there remained in the man an inheritance of traditional feeling, which even Matilde's influence could not make him wittingly violate any further,—a remnant of honour, a thread, as it were, by which his soul was still held above the level of total destruction. There was nothing, perhaps, involving himself alone, which he would have refused 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 a night of thought, he still felt that he could not do it.
Of course, there was the possibility that Veronica herself might absolutely refuse to marry him, and thus save his weakness from the necessity of trying to be strong. But Bosio thought this improbable.
The fatherless and motherless girl had been purposely kept from all outside influences by Gregorio and Matilde, in order that they might control her disposition for their own interests. She had been taught to expect that in due time they would select a husband for her from the men who might offer themselves, and that it would be more or less her duty to accept their decision, as being really the best for her own happiness. They had hindered her from forming friendships with girls of her own age, and altogether from acquaintanceship with young married women, excepting Bianca Corleone, who had been her friend in the convent. In society, when she went with them, men were introduced to her very rarely. Bosio had been present once or twice on such occasions, and he remembered having seen her with Gianluca. It had been very much as Taquisara had described it to Gianluca himself—a mere exchange of a few words, while the girl watched her aunt almost all the time with a sort of childish fear of doing something not quite right. Veronica could not be 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. It was not at all improbable, considering all the circumstances, that she might be delighted with the idea of marrying him, merely because she liked him, and he was familiar in her daily life. Bosio knew that Matilde would speak to her about it at once; and when he tried to think what he should do if Veronica readily accepted the proposition, the pain in his head grew intolerable, and he found it impossible to think connectedly. The horrible dishonour of it stared him in the face—and beyond the dishonour, still more fearfully imposing, rose the vision of sure disgrace and infamy for the woman he loved, if he himself refused to 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. The Sicilian came forward, and Bosio rose to meet him, still wondering why he 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 evidently suffering.
"I ought almost to ask you to excuse me for having received you, in my condition," said Bosio, politely. "I have a violent headache. But I am wholly at your service. In what can I be of use to you?"
Taquisara found himself in an awkward position. He had expected to find Bosio Macomer radiant and ready to be congratulated by any one who chose to knock at his door. Instead, he found a man apparently both ill and distressed. He hesitated a moment, for he knew Bosio but slightly, after all.
"I do not know whether you will think it strange that I should come," he said, and his square face grew more square as he looked straight at Bosio. "I am Gianluca della Spina's best friend."
"Ah! Yes—I think I have heard so," answered Bosio, not startled, but considerably 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 are to marry Donna Veronica Serra," continued Taquisara, feeling that after all he might as well go straight to the point.
Bosio straightened himself a little in his chair, and there was a look of 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 Duca della Spina," he replied coldly.
"Yes," said Taquisara. "I know it was. That is the reason why I have come to you, directly, as Gianluca's friend."
"Does Don Gianluca propose to call me out, because he cannot marry Donna Veronica?" asked Bosio, in surprise, and in a tone which showed that he was 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 come to represent him, in some way. Do I understand?"
"He is ill—of love, as they say." Taquisara smiled at the idea, in spite of himself. "It is serious, at all events—so serious, that I have come in person to ask whether it is really true that you are betrothed to Donna Veronica, in order that I may take him the truth as I hear it from your lips. I daresay you think me indiscreet, Count Macomer, for I am only slightly acquainted with you. But I am sincerely devoted to Gianluca, and if you were a total stranger to me, I should come to you as 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 the slightest degree indelicate, I shall of course infer that you have no answer to give, and that the matter is not yet really settled."
Bosio's eyebrows contracted spasmodically, and his white hand stroked his silky beard, while his eyes turned quickly from his guest and looked down at the carpet. In two passes, as though they had been fencing together, this singularly direct man had thrust him to the wall, and was forcing him to make a decision. Of course it was still in his power to answer in one way or the other, though he was yet undecided. But he honestly 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 his brother and Matilde in the position of having told a deliberate lie to Gianluca's father. He felt that he was growing confused, and that his hesitation and confusion were every moment making it clearer to Taquisara that the betrothal was by no means as yet a fact. He tried to temporize.
"It depends upon what you understand by an engagement," he said. "With us, here in Naples, the betrothal means the signing of the marriage contract. Now, the contract has not even been discussed. I think that my brother's announcement was premature, though it was perhaps justifiable, as he wished to discourage any false expectations on the part of Don Gianluca."
"I am not a diplomatist," answered the Sicilian. "The statement was categorical—that you were betrothed to Donna Veronica. For the sake of my friend, I am indiscreet enough to wish to hear the confirmation of the statement from your own lips, without in the least questioning the right of the Count Macomer to make it last night. Gianluca is honestly and very deeply in love. The happiness of his whole life is involved. With his delicate constitution and sensitive temper, I believe that his life itself is in danger. You will be doing him an honourable kindness in letting him know the truth, through me."
"I will," said Bosio, absently, "I will—as soon as—" He checked himself and glanced nervously at Taquisara.
"As soon as you yourself have decided," said the latter, quietly. "I think I understand. Your brother and the countess feel quite sure of the fact, as though it had already taken place, but for some reason which does not concern me, you yourself are not so certain of the result. To be plain, there is still a possibility that the marriage may not take place. I need not tell you that in speaking to Gianluca I shall be very careful not to raise any false hopes in his mind. But I am exceedingly indebted 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 not quite 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 his desperate difficulty.
The Sicilian descended the stairs slowly, and paused to look out of one of the big windows at a landing, which offered nothing in the way of a view but an almost blank wall on the other side of the narrow street. He did 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 satisfy himself, for his suspicions were aroused. He had expected to find Bosio jubilant. From what he had seen, he had understood well enough that there was some mysterious trouble. He could not hope to extort any information from Macomer or his wife, and he had no means of reaching Veronica, nor could he have asked direct questions if he had succeeded in seeing her.
Suddenly, he thought of the young Princess Corleone, whom he knew tolerably well, Corleone being a Sicilian like himself. She was Veronica's only intimate friend. She was the niece of Cardinal Campodonico, one of Veronica's guardians. If any one knew the truth, she might be expected to know it.
Taquisara looked at his watch, lit a cigar, and left the gloomy Palazzo Macomer, glad to be outside and to turn his face to the sunshine, and his back upon all the wickedness of which its old walls kept the secret.
The villas along the shore towards Posilippo face the sun all day in winter, for they look due south from the water's edge, and their marble steps lead down into the tideless sea, as though it were a landlocked lagoon 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 the borders; the broad, fan-like palms stand unsheltered in the south wind, and the oranges and lemons are left hanging on the trees for beauty's sake. There are but two changes in the year, from spring to summer, and from summer back to spring.
It is sometimes cold in Naples, high up in the city, when the northeast wind comes screaming from the snowy Abruzzi, and when Vesuvius is clad in white almost to the lower villages. In Naples it is sometimes dreary when the water-laden southwest sends up its mountains of black clouds. But somehow in soft Posilippo the wind is tempered and the rain seems but a shower, and spring and summer, summer and spring, ever join hands amongst 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 nor a whitecap on the sea as the water gently lapped against the steps at the foot of Bianca Corleone's garden. It was so warm that she was sitting there herself, a book unread on her knees, her marvellous face towards the day, her small feet resting on the lower rail of another chair before her, just because the gravel might possibly be damp.
Beside her, and turned towards her, looking earnestly to her averted eyes, sat Pietro Ghisleri, the man who many years afterwards married Lady Herbert Arden, of whom many have heard,—a man young at that time and not world-worn as he was later, nor prematurely gaunt and weather-beaten. He was only five-and-twenty years of age, then, and the beautiful Bianca was but twenty-one, and had already been married two years to Corleone. But the suffering of a lifetime had been crushed into those two years; for Corleone was bad, from his head to his heart, all through, and she had believed that she loved him.
Then, half broken-hearted, she had listened to Ghisleri; and he loved her 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 and purposes, Corleone had abandoned her, and Ghisleri was often with her. It was not until later that her brother, Gianforte Campodonico, lifted up 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 swiftly down the walk towards the pair. Ghisleri rose to his feet,—a tall, fair man, sunburnt, lean and strong, with bright blue eyes,—and Bianca turned in her chair, with a smile, and held out her hand, as she sat, to the young girl.
"You do not mind?" asked Veronica, smiling innocently. "Am I not interrupting you?"
"No, dear—no." A very faint dawn of colour rose in Bianca's almost unnatural pallor.
"Something so strange has happened," said Veronica.
Then she nodded to Pietro Ghisleri, realizing that she had forgotten him. 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 you will 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 should look after her dogs when there was anything the matter with them, and Veronica sat down. Her expression was strange, Bianca thought, as though she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Yet she looked fresh and 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, holding both 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 was almost her only intimate friend. Veronica seemed surprised.
"Why not?" she asked. "That is, if I wished to. Why do you speak in that way? Do you know anything about him which I do not know? You must have some reason."
Bianca's exquisite face grew calm and grave, and she looked away, and waited some seconds before she spoke. The sins of the earth were familiar to her before her time, and suffering and the payment. But Veronica 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 hair is a little grey. I think I would perhaps rather have him just for a friend, instead of a husband. But then, he would be both. I do not know what 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, every one 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. "How absurd! Why does he not ask for me, if that is true? Not that I would ever marry him! He is like a Perugino angel, with his yellow hair and blue eyes."
She laughed again. Bianca knew from Ghisleri that Gianluca's father had done his best to bring about the marriage. She was amazed to find that Veronica knew nothing of the negotiations.
"It is very strange," she said thoughtfully, and hesitating as to how much 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 every day. He is really madly in love with you, and is positively ill about it. That is why I say that you should marry him, if you marry at all—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 is interesting—I feel like a heroine in a book—a man dying for love of me, whom I scarcely know! It is too ridiculous! He must be in love with my 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 I scarcely know him—and I have heard nothing about it. Have they spoken of the marriage?"
"Yes."
They were interrupted by a servant, who came quickly down from the house. The man asked if the princess would receive Baron Taquisara. Bianca ordered him to be admitted, and told the man to ask Ghisleri to come 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 or twice at balls, I think. Yes—he was introduced to me somewhere. I remember him because they say he is descended from Tancred."
"Yes," said Bianca. "I could not refuse to receive him, because Signor Ghisleri is here. They will both go away before long, and then we can talk. Can you stay to breakfast with me?"
"Oh, no! I should not dare to do that!" Veronica laughed a little. "No one knows where I am," she added. "My aunt thinks I have gone for a drive to think over the matter. I just pulled down the curtain of the brougham 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, in the prime of youth and strength. Bianca gave the Sicilian her hand, and he bowed gravely to Veronica. Ghisleri brought out more chairs, and without the slightest hesitation sat down beside Bianca, forcing Taquisara 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 delighted at thus being thrust upon Donna Veronica, from whom he felt sure that he should learn something about the projected marriage. For he had great and unaffected confidence in himself. But he hesitated a moment before he spoke, for he did not now remember that he had ever before entered intentionally into a serious conversation with a young girl, in the whole course of his life. The customs of the society in which he lived made such things well-nigh impossible. As usual with him, he meditated going straight to the matter in hand, and he only paused to consider what words he should use. Veronica, as she had been taught to do in such a 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 fallen so madly in love with her, and while she looked away from him, his bold eyes scrutinized her face. He saw what she had seen, when she had looked into the glass on the previous evening—neither more nor less, except that she was dressed for walking, and something feathery was around her slender throat—and she wore a hat, which, in her own opinion, changed her appearance very much. But, as he looked, he was aware that there was more in her face than he had supposed.
There was something in the expression which was, all at once, far more beautiful to him, than anything he had ever discovered in the sad and faultless features of the already famous beauty who sat beside her. Unconsciously, as he realized it, he forgot that he was expected to speak.
Then, wondering at his silence, and conscious of his gaze, Veronica turned her face to his, with a shy look of girlish inquiry, and their eyes met. Taquisara was too dark to blush, but to his own surprise he felt 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 a moment and then faded, coming again more strongly as she turned her eyes away. Then he felt that he must speak. Ghisleri and Bianca, on the other side, had begun at once to talk, and their voices, unknown to themselves, had sunk to a low key.
"I am very glad I have met you here, this morning, Donna Veronica," said Taquisara, leaning forward so as to speak close to her, but looking down at the gravel under his feet. "I had something especial to say to you."
Veronica glanced at him, half startled. His tone and manner were quite different from anything she had hitherto heard and seen. She saw that he was not looking at her, and her eyes went back to the roots of the trees.
"Yes," she said, almost inaudibly, for she did not know whether he expected her to say anything.
"I have a very good friend, Donna Veronica," he continued; "I have been with 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 her delicate face.
"Yes," she said. "I—I know him a little."
"He loves you, Donna Veronica," Taquisara said, his voice softening almost 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 think it is dangerous—because you will not marry him."
He paused to see what she would do. She quickly turned her startled eyes to him, and her lips parted, but she said nothing. He raised his face and met her look as he went on.
"Last night, his father was at your house, and he was told that there was no hope, because you were betrothed to Count Bosio Macomer."
"They told him that?" asked Veronica, quickly, and the colour mounted a third time in her cheeks. "But it is not true!" she added; and her eyes set themselves sharply, for she was angry.
"No," said Taquisara, "I know that it is not quite true, for I have been to 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 that nothing was settled. I thanked him, and came away. I did not hope to see you; but I knew that the Princess Corleone was your best friend, as I am Gianluca's. I thought I would speak to her. Since, by a miracle, we have 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 am talking. If you blame me, remember that it is for Gianluca, that he is my friend, that he knows nothing of my speaking to you, since you and I have met by chance, and that he is perhaps dying—dying for you, Donna Veronica."
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 her conversation with Ghisleri as not to have noticed that Veronica and Taquisara were speaking almost in whispers, which was strange conduct for 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 back instantly to Taquisara.
A shade of annoyance was in his face, and Veronica felt suddenly that this was the first real crisis in her life, and that she must hear all he 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, might have done, and Taquisara was on his feet at the same moment. She led the way down to the marble steps that descended to the sea, and stood on the uppermost one, looking out. Bianca and Ghisleri watched her in surprise and Bianca made a slight movement, as though to follow, but then leaned back again. There was then, and still is, a very strong feeling in Southern Italy against allowing a young girl to be out of earshot with a man.
Though Bianca and Veronica had been children, together, and there was little difference of age between them, Bianca felt that, as the married woman, she was responsible for the observance of social custom. But in a moment she realized that Taquisara was talking of Gianluca, and that anything would be better than to allow Veronica to marry Bosio Macomer.
"I understand," she said to Ghisleri; "let them alone. It is better, so long as only you and I see it."
Down by the steps, Veronica stood very still, looking out over the blue water, 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 say that it is dreadful. It is. I have seen it, and have been with him day after day. I am not very sensitive, as a rule, but I have had a strange impression which I shall never forget. Gianluca and I met when we were serving 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 good man." Taquisara smiled gravely. "That was enough to make him quite different 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 was not. One saw that all the little that was bad in his life was only a jest, 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 and unaffectedly.
"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 Donna Bianca. You understand that, do you not? And you understand that there is nothing you would not do for a friend? Not out of mere obligation, because your friend has done much for you, but just for friendship—love, if you choose to call it so. I have heard people speak eloquently of friendship—so have you perhaps. And we both understand what it means, though many do not. That is why I speak as I do, and if I do not speak well, you must forgive me, and feel the meaning I cannot express to your ears. Gianluca loves you, Donna Veronica, as men very rarely love women, so immensely, so strongly, that his love is burning up his life in him—and it has all been kept from you for some reason or other, while your relations are doing their best to make you marry Bosio Macomer, who can no more be compared with Gianluca della Spina than—"
He checked himself, for he felt that his tone was contemptuous, and remembered that Veronica might perhaps like Bosio. She was listening, her eyes fixed on the distance, her mind wide open to the new experience of life which had come so unexpectedly.
"He cannot be compared with Gianluca," continued Taquisara, modifying his sentence and omitting whatever simile had presented itself in his thoughts. "If you knew Gianluca, you would understand. It is because I know 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 were concerned, 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 is society 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 be burnt to death afterwards by slow fire, like your best friend there, Donna Bianca? Ah—you understand that. You know her life, and I know it too. It is the life—or the death—to which you may look forward if you will neither open your eyes to see, nor raise your hand to guard yourself. And you cry out in outraged horror at the idea of seeing Gianluca della Spina here, in this garden, by these steps, under God's sunlight, as you see me here to-day by accident. It seems to you—what shall I say?—unladylike!" Taquisara laughed scornfully. "What does it matter 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, but you have a woman's right to hear them, whatever you may think of me. And I 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 I do say, what is to prevent Gianluca from being here to-morrow, or this very afternoon, as I am here now, and why should it be such a dreadful thing for you to come here, knowing that you will meet him? Do you think that he would not give the last drop of his blood, at one word from your lips, to save you from trouble, or danger, or insult? Do you think, if he knew how I am speaking to you—speaking roughly, perhaps, because I am rough—he would not turn upon me, his friend, who am fighting for his life, and quarrel with me, and disown me, because my roughness comes near you and may offend you? You do not know him. How should you? But because you do not know him and cannot guess how he loves you, do not throw his life away without seeing it, without understanding what you despise, 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 for you only—and, for you, I think it would be worth living."
Taquisara was a man who could be in earnest for his friend, and there was a strong vibration in his low voice which few could have heard with indifference. While he was speaking and forcing the appeal of his honest black eyes upon Veronica's face, she could not help slowly turning to meet them, and her lips parted a little as though in wonder, while she drank in eagerly the words he spoke. It was the first time in her life that she had ever heard a man speak to her of love, and, in his rough eloquence, he spoke well and strongly, though it was not for himself. In his own cause, the words might not have come so readily, but they were not now the less evidently sincere, because they were many. She was glad that 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 hear more. It was as though a dawn were rising, high and clear, in the dim country through which childhood had led her, and she longed suddenly for the 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, though I know it all. You must hear it for yourself, you must see him, you must know him—"
"But it is impossible—" Veronica's protest broke off rather weakly in the 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 be here, though he has not been able to leave the house for a week; and if you 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 was genuine shame of doing a thing which she had been taught to think the most dreadful in the whole world.
"An appointment!" Taquisara laughed contemptuously. "Do you not come often to see the Princess Corleone? You will come again. And Gianluca will come often, too—and if you chance to meet to-morrow, it will be an accident of fate, that is all, as you chanced to see me here to-day. You cannot forbid him to come here. You cannot, without a reason, ask Donna Bianca 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 had made.
"That is all," he said. "There is neither appointment, nor engagement, nor anything but the possibility of a meeting which you cannot be sure of avoiding, unless you never come to see your friend, or unless you give 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 come to-morrow, or not? I shall perhaps never know, for I shall not come with him. I have been here to-day—what excuse could I give for calling again to-morrow? Donna Bianca would think it strange. I can hope, for his sake. I can tell you that no woman has the right to throw away such love as his, to ruin such a life as his, to break such a heart without a thought and without so much as hearing the man speak—whatever this wretched society in which we live may say about proprieties and rights and wrongs, and the difference between the proper behaviour for young girls and married women. This is God's earth, Donna Veronica—not society's!"
Veronica said nothing; but there was perplexity in her face, and she looked down, and pulled at one finger of her glove. She was wondering whether, if she came on the next day, and stood with Gianluca della Spina on that very spot, he would speak for himself as strongly and well as his friend had been speaking for him.
Somehow, she doubted it, and somehow, too, she knew that if by magic Taquisara should all at once turn out to be the real Gianluca,—not the Gianluca she knew,—she should be better satisfied with the world. For as things seemed just then, she was not satisfied at all, and the future was 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 him little. If you chanced to be his friend, instead of Don Gianluca's, you could speak as eloquently for him."
"I think not," answered Taquisara. And his lip curled a little, though she did not see the expression.
"Why not? You do not know him. How can you tell? A little while ago, you said that he was not to be compared to your friend. How can you be so sure? 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 I ask is that you will wait until you know both, before you make up your mind—a week—no more, if you can spare no more. It is not for me to tell you what your rights are, that you are not in the position of the average young girl, just from the convent, who accepts the choice her father and mother make for her—because, perhaps, she may never have another; and, at all events, because she cannot choose. You have the world to choose from, and—forgive me for saying it—you have no one to choose 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 the middle-aged, younger brother of Count Macomer, with a very slender fortune of his own and a position no better than the rest of us. If he marries you, he becomes Prince of Acireale, a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, a Grandee of Spain of the First Class—and many times a millionnaire. For you have all that to give the man you marry. Grant that he is the best of men. Is his brother wholly disinterested? I speak plainly. It is rumoured that Count Macomer has lost most of his fortune in 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 his brother held yours?"
"My uncle never speculated in his life!" answered Veronica, rather indignantly.
"Grant that. The other side remains. And the countess? Is she wholly disinterested? Has she been disappointed by the marriage she made, or not? She was born a Serra, like yourself, and she married Macomer in the days of the old court, when he was a favourite with the old king and had a brilliant position, and people said that he might be one of the first men in the kingdom. But Garibaldi swept all that away, and Macomer's chances with it, and the countess is a disappointed woman, for her husband has remained just what he always was—plain Count Macomer, with his name and his palace, neither of them extraordinary. Truly, Donna Veronica, though you may refuse to speak to me again for what I say, I will dare to tell you that you must be very unsuspicious! They conceal from you the honourable offer of such a man as Gianluca della Spina, the eldest son of a great old house, and they announce your betrothal with Count Bosio before either you or he know of it. One need not be very distrustful to think all that strange—even granting that Count Bosio is the best of men, a matter of which you are a judge."
"I would rather that you should not say those things to me," said Veronica, a little pale, and turning half round as though she would go back to Bianca and Ghisleri.
"Forgive me—for I have risked such opinion of me as you may have, to say them. There may be reasonable doubt about them. But of the rest—there is no doubt. There is a man's life in it, and death is beyond doubts, and a love that can take a man and tear him and hurt him until he dies has a right to a woman's hearing—and to her charity—before she throws it away. I ask no forgiveness of you for saying that. Gianluca will come to-morrow at this time, and he will come again until he sees you. I have kept you too long, Donna Veronica, and you 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 had once more looked into his eyes, before she turned towards Bianca and walked slowly up the short, broad path by his side.
Bosio felt that if he remained in his room alone with the horror of his position, he should go mad before night. He was weakly resolved not to marry Veronica, but he knew and for the first time dreaded the power Matilde had over his thoughts as well as his actions. He felt that if he could avoid her, he could still cling to the remnant of honour, but that she would tear it from him if she could and cast it to the winds. The whole card-house of his ill-founded life was trembling under the breath of fate, and its near fall seemed to threaten its existence.
He went out and walked slowly through sunny, unfrequented places, high up in the city, trying to shake off the chill of his fear as a man hopes to rid himself of an ague by sitting in the sun. But the chill was in his heart, and it was his soul that shivered. He weakly wished that he were wholly bad, that he might feel less.
Then, in true Italian humour, he tried to think of something which might divert his thoughts from the duty of facing their own terrible perplexity. If it had been evening, he would have strolled into the theatre; had it been already afternoon, he would have had himself driven out along the public garden towards Posilippo, to see the faces of his friends go by. But it was morning. There was nothing but the club, and he cared little for the men he might meet there. There was nothing to do, and his eyes did not help him to forget his troubles. He wandered on through ways broad and narrow, climbing up one steep lane and descending again by the next, hardly aware of direction and not noticing whether he went east or west, north or south, up or down.
At last, at a corner, he chanced to read the name of a street. It was familiar enough to him, as a Neapolitan, but just now it reminded him of something which might possibly help to distract his attention. He stopped and got out his pocket-book, and found in it a card, glanced at the address on it, and then once more at the name of the street. Then he went on till he came to the right number, entered a gloomy doorway, black with dampness and foul air, ascended four flights of dark stone steps, and stopped before a small brown door. The card nailed upon it was like the one he had in his pocket-book. The name was 'Giuditta Astarita,' and under it, in another character, was printed the word 'Somnambulist.'
There was nothing at all unnatural in the name or the profession, in Naples, where somnambulists are plentiful enough. And the name itself was a Neapolitan one, and by no means uncommon. The card, however, was white and clean, which argued either that Giuditta Astarita had not long been a professional clairvoyante, or else that she had recently changed her lodgings. Bosio knew nothing about her, except that she had suddenly acquired an extraordinary reputation as a seer, and that many people in society had lately visited her, and had come away full of extraordinary stories about her power. He rang the little tinkling bell, which was answered by a very respectably dressed woman servant with only one eye,—a fact which Bosio noticed because it was the blind side of her face which first appeared as the door opened.
The Signora Giuditta Astarita was at home, and there was no other visitor. Bosio, without giving his name, was ushered into a small sitting-room, of which the only window opened upon a narrow court opposite a blank wall. The furniture was scant and stiff, and such of it as was upholstered was covered with a cheap cotton corded material of a spurious wine colour. There were small square antimacassars on the chairs, and two of them, side by side, on the back of the sofa. The single window had heavy curtains, now drawn aside, but evidently capable of shutting out all light. A solid, square, walnut table stood before the sofa, without any table-cloth, and upon it were arranged half a dozen large books, bound with a good deal of gilding, and which looked as 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 abnormally stout, with an unhealthy face, thin black hair and large weak eyes of a light china blue. Her lips were parted in a sort of chronic sad smile, which showed uneven and discoloured teeth. She wore a long trailing garment of heavy black silk, not gathered to the figure at the waist, but loose from the shoulders down, and buttoned from throat to feet in front, with small buttons, like a cassock. From one of the upper buttonholes dangled a thin gold chain, supporting a bunch of small charms against the evil eye, a little coral horn, a tiny silver hunchback, a miniature gilt bell, and two or three coins of gold and silver, besides an Egyptian scarabee in a gold setting. The woman remained 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, drew another into position for herself, opposite his, and at some distance from it, and then fumbled in the curtains for the cord that pulled them.
"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 the heavy curtains ran together. Then he heard the rustle of the woman's silk dress as she sat down opposite to him in the dark. He felt unaccountably nervous, and her china blue eyes had made a disagreeable impression upon him. He expected something to happen.
"I see a name over your head," said a clear, bell-like voice, certainly not Giuditta Astarita's. "It is Veronica."
Bosio started uneasily, though like most Neapolitans, he had visited somnambulists 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 that you wish to consult the spirits?"
"Yes," said the spirit voice, before Bosio could answer. "You are afraid that they will murder her, if you do not marry her—or if she will not marry you."
Bosio uttered a loud exclamation of alarm and astonishment, for this was altogether beyond anything in his experience.
"Is it so?" asked Giuditta Astarita.
"Yes. It is true," said Bosio, in uncertain tones. "And I wish to know—whether—" he stopped.
"Whether the grey-faced man and the handsome woman whose eyes are near together will really kill her?" asked the spirit voice.
Bosio felt his soft hair rising on his head. "Do you know who I am?" he asked nervously.
"No," replied the voice of Giuditta. "The spirits know everything, but I do not. They only speak through me with another voice. I do not know what they are going to say. You need have no apprehension. This is more sacred than the confessional, Signore, more secret than the tomb."
The phrase sounded as though it had been carefully studied and often repeated, but the dramatic tone in which it was uttered produced a certain reassuring effect upon Bosio, in his half-frightened state.
"Do you wish to tell whether they will really kill Veronica?" inquired Giuditta. "If you have any question to ask, you must put it quickly. I cannot keep the spirits waiting. They exhaust me when they are impatient."
"What shall I do to avoid marrying her?" asked Bosio, suddenly springing to 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 life really in danger?"
"Yes. They wish to kill her to get her money. The handsome woman has her will leaving her everything if she dies."
"But will they really kill her?" insisted Bosio, half breathless in his fear 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 spoke hoarsely.
"The spirit is gone," she said. "He will not answer any more questions to-day."
"Can you not call it back?" asked Bosio, anxiously, and peering into the blackness before him, as though hoping to see something.
"No. When he is gone he never comes back for the same person. He answered you many things, Signore. You must have patience."
He heard her rise, and a moment later the light dazzled him as he looked up and met her china blue eyes. He was dazed as well as dazzled, for there had been an extraordinary directness and accuracy about the few questions and answers he had heard in the clear voice which was so utterly unlike Giuditta's, though quite human and natural. He was certain that he had not heard the door open after she had drawn the curtains. He looked about the scantily furnished room, in search of some corner in which some third person might have been hidden. Giuditta Astarita'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 I remember nothing I have heard or seen while I have been in it. If you wish to ask more, you must have the kindness to come again. It is very fatiguing to me. You can see that I am not in good health. The hours are from ten till three."
The smile had subsided within its usual limits, and the china blue eyes stared coldly. She was evidently waiting to be paid.
"What do I owe you?" asked Bosio, with a certain considerateness of tone, so to say.
"It is twenty-five lire," answered Giuditta Astarita. "I have but one price. Thank you," she added, as he laid the notes upon the polished walnut 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. "I have one of your cards. It is enough. Good morning."
As he opened the door, he found the one-eyed serving-woman in the passage, ready to show him out. Instinctively he looked at the single eye as he glanced at her face, and he was surprised to notice that it was of the same uncommon china blue colour as Giuditta's own. The woman who did duty as a servant to admit visitors was undoubtedly Giuditta's mother or elder sister, or some very near relative. It would be natural enough, amongst such people, as Bosio knew, but he wondered how many more of the same family lived in the rooms beyond the one in which he had received spirit-communications, and whether Giuditta Astarita supported 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 has been said, and he had generally seen or heard something which had either interested 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 did not come from any one in the room, and he had never found any somnambulist who had so instantly grasped his most secret thoughts, without the slightest assistance or leading word from himself. Yet at the crucial test—the question of a certainty in the future, this one had stopped short as all stopped, or failed in their predictions of what was to come. He had been startled and almost frightened. Like many Southern Italians, he was at once credulous and sceptical—a superstitious unbeliever, if one may couple the two words into one expression. His intelligence bade him deny what his temperament inclined him to accept. Besides, on the present occasion, no theory which he could form could account for the woman's knowledge of his life. She had never seen him. He had no extraordinary peculiarity by which she might have recognized him at first sight from hearsay, nor was he in any way connected with public affairs. He had come quite unexpectedly and had not given his name, and the spirit, or whatever it might be, had instantly told him of Veronica, of her danger, of his brother and sister-in-law and of the will. Moreover, the friends who had spoken to him of Giuditta Astarita had told him similar tales within a few days.
The spirit had said that the handsome woman would make him marry Veronica. But what had the silence meant, when he had asked more? That was the question. Did it mean that the spirit was unwilling to affirm that Veronica must die if he refused to marry her? He passed his hand over 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. And yet, the situation might have been taken from the times of the Medici, of Paolo Giordano Orsini, of Beatrice Cenci, of the Borgia. There was a frightful incongruity between civilization and his life—between broad, flat, comfortable, every-day, police-regulated civilization, and the hideous drama in which he was suddenly a principal actor.
More than once he told himself that he was mistaken and that such things could not possibly be; that it was all a feverish dream and that he should soon wake to see that there was a perfectly simple, natural and undramatic solution before him. But turn the facts as he would, he could not find that easy way. If he refused to marry Veronica and attempted to get legal protection for her, the inevitable result would be the prosecution, conviction, and utter ruin of his brother and of the woman he loved. If he refused to marry Veronica and did nothing to protect her, Matilde's eyes had told him what Matilde would do to escape public shame and open infamy. If he married Veronica and saved his brother—he was 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 had not many.
With a half-childish smile on his pale face, he wondered what such a man as Taquisara would do, if he were so placed, and the Sicilian's manly face and bold eyes rose up contemptuously before him. To such a depth as Bosio had already reached, Taquisara could never have fallen. Bosio's instinct told him that.
If he had been able to find one friend in all his acquaintance to whom he might turn and ask advice, it would have been an infinite relief. But such friends were rare, he knew, and he had never made one. Pleasant acquaintances he had, by the score and the hundred, in society, and amongst artists and men of letters. But the life he had led had shut out friendship. To have a friend would have been to let some one into his life, and that would have meant, sooner or later, the betrayal of the woman he loved.
Yet, though he felt that Taquisara was his enemy and not his friend, he had such sudden confidence in the man's honour and truth that he was insanely impelled to go to him and tell him all, and implore him to save Veronica at any cost, no matter what, or to whom. Then of course, a moment later, the thought seemed madness, and he only felt that he was losing hold more quickly upon his saner sense. His visit to the somnambulist, too, had helped to unnerve him, and as he wandered through the streets he forgot that it was time to eat, so that physical faintness came upon him unawares and suddenly.
He did not wish to go home; for if he did, the final decision would be thrust upon him by Matilde, and he did not feel that he could face another scene with her yet. When he found himself near the Palazzo Macomer, he turned back, walking slowly, and went towards the sea, till he came to the vast Piazza San Ferdinando, beyond San Carlo. He went into a café and sat down in a corner to drink a cup of chocolate by way of luncheon. The seat he had chosen was at the end of one of the long red velvet divans close to a big window looking upon the square. There were little marble tables in a row, and at the one before that which Bosio chose, a priest was seated, reading, with an empty cup before him. He was evidently near-sighted, for he held his newspaper so near his eyes that Bosio could not have seen his face even had he thought of looking at it. The priest had thrown back his heavy black cloak after he had sat down, so that it fell in wide folds upon the seat, on each side of him. His hands, which held up the paper, while he seemed to be searching for something in the columns, were thin to emaciation, almost transparent, and very carefully kept,—a fact which might have argued that 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 that seem improbable. On the other hand, he wore heavy, coarse shoes; his clothes, though well brushed, were visibly threadbare, and his clean white stock was frayed at the edge and almost worn out. He had taken off his three-cornered hat, and his high peaked head was barely covered with scanty silver-grey hair. When he dropped his paper and looked about him for the waiter, evidently wishing to pay for his coffee, he showed a face sufficiently remarkable to deserve description. The prominent feature was the enormous, beak-like nose—the nose of the fanatic which is 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 keeping with what was most striking in it. The forehead was not powerful, narrow, prominent—but rather, broad and imaginative. The chin was round and not enough developed; the clean-shaven lips had a singularly gentle expression, and the very near-sighted blue eyes were not set deeply enough to give strength to the look. The priest carried his head somewhat bent and forward, in a sort of deprecating way, which made his long nose seem longer, and his short chin more retreating. The skull was unusually high and peaked at the point where phrenologists place the organ of veneration. The man himself was tall and exceedingly thin, and looked as though he fasted too often and too long. He was certainly a very ugly man, judged according to the standards of human beauty; and yet there was about him an air of kindness and sincerity which had in it something almost saintly, together with a very unmistakable individual identity. He was one of those men whom one can neither forget nor mistake when one has met them once. Bosio did not notice him, being much absorbed by his own thoughts. The waiter came to ask what he wished, and was stopped on his way back by the priest, who desired to pay for what he had taken. But Bosio had turned to the window again, and sat looking out and watching the people in the broad semicircular Piazza.
The priest, having paid his little score, carefully folded his newspaper and put it into the wide pocket of his cassock. Then he gathered up the collar of his big cloak behind him, as he sat, and began to edge his way out from behind the little marble table. But the long folds had fallen far on each side—so far that Bosio had unawares sat down upon the cloth, and as the priest tried to get out, he felt the cloak being dragged from under him. The priest stopped and turned, just as Bosio rose with an apology on his lips, which became an exclamation of surprise, as he began to speak.