She came and stood beside the couch on which her aunt lay, and she looked down at the reclining woman. Matilde's listless hands suddenly clasped each other.
"Yes," she answered, with an effort. "Are you going out? Are you well enough to go out?" she asked, adding the last question quickly.
"I should go if I were much more ill than I have been," Veronica replied. "I am not coming back."
"Not coming back?" Surprise brought energy into Matilde's voice.
"No. I am not coming back. Do not be astonished. I understand what has happened, and I am going to a safer place."
"What? How? I do not understand." Matilde spoke rapidly and unsteadily. "You must stay here—Gregorio is going to send for the chief of police—there will be an inquiry, and you must answer questions—we suspect one of the servants, who has a grudge against your uncle, and who has tried to murder us all in revenge—"
"Yes," said Veronica, calmly. "It was well arranged, I am sure. If I had not found the rat-poison under the chest of drawers in Elettra's room, you might have thrown suspicion upon her, because her husband was murdered at Muro. If I had not found my tea too sweet, I should not have taken out the second piece and given it to the cat. The taste I had of it almost killed me—you have explained the rest to me now. But I knew all that I needed to know."
Matilde put her feet to the ground and slowly rose to her feet while Veronica was speaking. Then she laid her two hands upon the girl's shoulders and stared into her face.
"Do you dare to accuse me of trying to poison you?" she asked in a low, fierce voice.
"Take your hands from me!" cried Veronica, thrusting her back. "Call your husband. I will accuse you both—you and him."
They were women of the same race and name, and both brave. But the elder and stronger felt her nerves growing weak in her when she heard the other's voice. Perhaps courageous people recognize courage and conviction in others more easily than cowards can. Matilde hesitated.
"Call him!" repeated Veronica, in a tone of command. "I insist upon it.He shall hear what I have to say."
"I will call him, that he may see for himself that you are quite mad," answered Matilde. "That is," she added, "if he is well enough to come here from his room." And she moved slowly towards the door.
"If I am alive, he is well enough to hear me speak," said the young girl.
Matilde stopped, turned, and faced her a moment, as though about to speak angrily. Then she went on. It was best, on the whole, to call her husband, she thought, though her reasoning was confused and uncertain. In her view of matters, the burden of the crime she had tried to commit all fell upon him, and she was willing that he should face Veronica, and realize what he had done. At the same time she believed herself so safe as still to be able to throw the suspicion entirely upon Elettra, though Veronica would protect her. Moreover, though she would not have admitted the fact, her strength was momentarily so broken that she felt it easier to obey the young girl than to visit her and fight out the interview alone.
Veronica did not move while she was gone, but stood quite still, watching the door. She was very pale, with illness and rising anger, but she was not weak, as Matilde was. She had not gone through half so much. Presently Matilde returned, followed by Macomer, wrapped in a dark velvet dressing-gown, his face white and twitching, his usually smooth grey beard unbrushed, and his grey hair in disorder. With drawn lids he looked at Veronica, and in his terror he tried to smile, but there was something at once cowardly and insolent in the expression—there was something else, too, which the young girl did not understand, a sort of vacancy of the brow and unnatural weakness of the mouth.
"I am glad that you have come," she said, when the door was shut. "I have not much to say, and I wish you to hear it."
They were all standing. Gregorio steadied himself by the head of the couch, and was as erect as ever.
"I will tell you something which you do not know," said Veronica, fixing her eyes on him. "Before Bosio died he told the whole truth to Don Teodoro Maresca, his friend. And the day after his death, Don Teodoro came and told it all to me."
"Bosio!" exclaimed Gregorio, his knees shaking. "Bosio told—"
"What did Bosio tell?" asked Matilde, interrupting her husband in a loud voice to cover any mistake he might be about to make.
But Veronica had seen Macomer's face and had heard his tone of dread.Whatever doubts she still had, disappeared for the last time.
"He told his friend the whole truth about your management of my fortune," she answered steadily. "He told how you had lost your own in speculation and had taken everything of mine upon which you could lay hands—all my income and much more, so long as you were still my guardian—you and Lamberto Squarci, helping each other. And I understand now why you would not give me that money the other day. You had not got it to give me. My aunt must have borrowed it. And Bosio told Don Teodoro, that unless he was married to me, you meant to kill me, because I had signed a will leaving you everything. There was nothing that Bosio did not tell, and Don Teodoro repeated every word of it to me. I thought him mad. But now I know that he was not. I have been saved by a miracle, but you shall not try to murder me again—so I am going away."
Macomer had listened to the end, his face working horribly and his hands grasping the head of the couch. When Veronica paused, his head fell forward as he stood. Even Matilde could not speak, for a moment. The revelation that Bosio had told all before he died, and that Veronica knew it, fell upon her like a blow, with stunning force. The first words came from Gregorio.
"Bosio!" he exclaimed in a loud voice. "The devil take his soul!"
"God will have mercy upon the soul that was lost through your deeds," said the young girl, solemnly. "Amongst you, you drove him to madness—it was not his fault. But for his soul you shall answer, as well as for your deeds—and that is much to answer for, to Heaven and to me. You neither of you have the strength to deny one word of what Bosio said—"
"He was mad!" Matilde broke in. "You are mad, too—"
"Oh no!" interrupted Veronica, with contempt. "You cannot fasten that upon me. I am not mad at all, and I will show you what it is to be sane, for I know that every word of what Bosio told Don Teodoro was true. I was foolish not to believe it at once—it almost cost my life to believe you better than you are."
"He was quite insane," muttered Gregorio, in almost imbecile repetition of what his wife had said.
Matilde made another great effort to impose her remaining strength upon the young girl.
"Whether you are mad or not, you shall not stand there accusing me of monstrous crimes!" she cried, moving a step towards Veronica, and raising her hand with a menacing gesture.
"Shall not?" repeated Veronica, proudly, and instead of retreating she advanced calmly to meet her aunt.
"Would you not rather that I accused you here, and proved you guilty and let you go free, than that I should do as much in a court of justice? You know what the end of that would be—penal servitude for you both—and unless—" she paused, for she was growing hot and she wished to speak with coolness.
"Unless?" Matilde uttered the one word scornfully, still facing her.
"Unless you will confess the truth, here, before I leave the house, I will do what I can to have you both convicted," said Veronica. "That is your only chance. That or the galleys. Choose. You are thieves and murderers. Choose."
She spoke like a man to those who would have murdered her and had failed, but who had robbed her with impunity for years. Gregorio Macomer's face was all distorted. All at once his maniac laugh broke out. But it stopped suddenly and unexpectedly, and it changed to another sort of laughter—low and not unpleasant to hear, but a little vacant. Matilde turned her head slowly and gazed at him. He was bending now and resting his elbows on the head of the couch, instead of his hands, and he held his hands themselves opposite to each other, crooking first one finger and then another, and making one finger bow to the other, as children sometimes do, and laughing vacantly to himself, with a queer little chuckle of enjoyment. Veronica stared. Matilde held her breath. Still he laughed softly.
"Marionettes," he said, looking up at his wife, his little eyes wide open. "Do you see the marionettes? This is Pulcinella. This is his wife. Do you see how they quarrel? Is it not pretty? I always like to see the marionettes in the streets. Ha! ha! ha! see them!"
And he played with his fingers and made them bob and bow, like little dolls.
"He is ill," said Matilde, in a low, uneasy voice. "Pay no attention to him."
He had always intended to save himself by pretending to go mad, but evenMatilde was amazed at his power of acting.
"He will recover," answered Veronica, coldly. "You can still understand me, at all events, even if he cannot. You have your choice. If you tell me the truth, I will not allow any inquiry. I will take over my fortune, if you have left me any, and for the sake of my father's name, I will not bring you to justice, even if you have ruined me. But I warn you—and it is the last time, for I am going—if you still try to deny what I know to be the truth, the prosecution shall begin to-morrow. You will not be able to murder me, for I shall be protected, and with all your abominable courage you are not brave enough to try and kill me here, before I leave this room. No—you are not. I am not afraid of you. But you have reason to be afraid. You will be convicted. Nothing can save you. Though people do not know me as they knew my father,—though I am only a girl and came to you, straight from the convent,—I know that I have power, and I shall use it. I am not poor Elettra, whom you intended to accuse. I am the Princess of Acireale; I have been your ward; you and your husband have robbed me, and you have tried to murder me. Though I am only a girl, justice will move more quickly for me than it would for you, even if you could call it to help you. Now choose, and waste no time."
While she had been speaking, Macomer had stared at her with an expression of genuine childish amusement.
"Poor Pulcinella!" he exclaimed softly. "How your wife can talk, when she is angry! Poor fellow!"
The tone was so natural that Matilde again looked at him uneasily, and moved nearer to him, not answering Veronica.
"Come, Gregorio," she said, "you are ill. Come to your room—you must not stay here."
"I am sorry you do not like the marionettes," he said gravely. "They always amuse me. Stay a little longer."
Veronica supposed that he was ill from the effects of the poisoning and that he was in some sort of delirium. But she did not pity him, and was relentless. She moved nearer to her aunt.
"Answer me!" she said sternly. "This is the last time. If you deny the truth now, I will go to the chief of police at once."
"Oh! poor old Pulcinella!" cried Macomer, laughing gently. "How she gives it to him!"
Matilde was almost distracted.
"You will be arrested at once," said Veronica, pitilessly.
"Never mind, Pulcinella!" exclaimed Macomer. "Courage, my friend! You know you always get away from the policeman! Ha! ha! ha!"
Matilde saw Veronica moving to go to the door. She straightened herself and pointed to her husband.
"Yes," she said. "He did it—and he is mad."
Her voice was firm and clear, for the die was cast. When she had spoken, she turned from them both towards the fireplace, and hid her face in her hands. If he could act his madness out, she, at least, would still be free and alive. Veronica stood still a moment longer, looking back.
"That is the other piece," said Macomer, thoughtfully. "Pulcinella does not go mad in this one. The man has forgotten the parts. It is a pity—it was so amusing."
There was silence for a moment. Matilde did not look round.
"I think he will recover," said Veronica. "But I am glad you have told the truth. I promise that you shall be safe."
In a moment she was gone.
"Just so," said Macomer, speaking to himself. "He forgot the words of the piece, and so he made it end rather abruptly. Let us go home, Matilde, since it is over."
"It is of no use to go on acting insanity before me," answered Matilde, with a bitter sigh, as she raised her face from her hands and moved away from the fireplace, not looking at him.
"That is the reason why Pulcinella's wife disappeared so suddenly," he replied. "You see, there are two pieces which the marionettes act. In the one which begins with the quarrel—"
"I tell you it is of no use to do that!" cried Matilde, angrily, and beginning to walk up and down the room, still keeping her eyes from the face she hated.
"How nervous you are!" he exclaimed, with irritation. "I was only trying to explain—"
"Oh, I know! I know! Keep this acting for the doctors! You will drive me really mad!"
"The doctors?" He stared at her and smiled childishly. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. "The doctor is in the other piece—I was going to explain—"
She turned with a fierce exclamation upon him and grasped his arm, shaking him savagely, as though to rouse him. To her horror, he burst into tears.
"You hurt!" he whined. "You hurt me! Oh, poor little Gregorio!"
He was really mad, and there was no more acting for him, as the tears streamed down his vacant face, which no longer twitched at all.
His mind had broken down under Veronica's relentless accusation and threat of vengeance.
The miserable woman's strength was all but gone, when she sat down, alone in the room with her mad husband, and once more buried her face in her hands.
He whined and cried a little while to himself, and rubbed his arm where she had taken hold so roughly; but presently his tears dried again, and he leaned over the end of the couch on his elbow, and above her bowed, veiled head he crooked his fingers at each other, and made his hands nod and bob to each other, like little dolls, laughing gently, with a chuckle now and then, at the funny things he heard Pulcinella saying to his wife.
That was the end of the attempt to murder Veronica Serra, and that was the end of the old life at the Palazzo Macomer.
Veronica was not only merciful but generous to Matilde, when she finally set her own fortune in order. Through Pietro Ghisleri she found an honest and discreet man of business, whose fortune and good name placed him above suspicion, and who arranged matters to her satisfaction, and as far to her advantage as was possible under the circumstances.
Bosio had possessed a competency, which, as he died intestate, became the inheritance of his brother. But the latter, owing to the time required for the legal formalities, had not been able to get possession of the money before he became insane, and was placed in an asylum at Aversa, where he was probably to remain until he died. Bosio's little fortune remained intact, and the use of it reverted to Matilde Macomer. Veronica paid Gregorio's expenses at the asylum.
As for the Macomer property, she found herself obliged to raise money to meet the mortgages which were due on the first of January after the final catastrophe, since Macomer had used up her income and left her momentarily in difficulties. The banker who was managing matters for her advanced the sums necessary out of his private fortune, and the estate at Caserta, together with the Palazzo Macomer in Naples, became the property of Veronica Serra. By the estimates made they were worth more than the money raised upon them by mortgage, and by the deeds of sale the balance was to be paid to Matilde. This, with Bosio's property, was enough to make her independent, and, for the time being, Veronica allowed her to live in the house.
Lamberto Squarci was called in constantly, as having been Macomer's agent. By agreement, Veronica caused the accounts of the estate to be balanced from Macomer's books, so that everything appeared to be in order, and she formally took over her fortune from Matilde and Cardinal Campodonico, who knew nothing of the true state of affairs. Since Veronica knew everything and was satisfied, it was not necessary that he should be informed of what had taken place, and this secrecy was the keeping of Veronica's promise that Matilde should be safe.
When all was settled upon a permanent basis, Veronica found herself still exceedingly rich. Matilde was provided for. Gregorio was in the insane asylum. The cardinal and the world at large were in total ignorance of all the truth except the facts which could not be concealed; namely, that Bosio Macomer had killed himself and that his brother was mad. The latter fact explained the former; for everybody said that there was insanity in the family, and that Bosio had been mad, too.
Veronica's first, chiefest, and most immediate difficulty lay in finding a reason which she could give Bianca and the cardinal for refusing to live any longer with her aunt. She cared very little what society might say, for she was at once too inexperienced to attach the true measure of importance to its opinion, or to understand that the unhappy Princess Corleone was not in a position to socially take the place of a chaperon; and, at the same time, she was too great a personage to be easily intimidated by the fear of gossip. Bianca was her friend, and to her she went unhesitatingly, feeling quite sure that she was doing right.
There were people, however, who thought differently; first among whom were the cardinal and the Duchessa della Spina, Gianluca's mother. The cardinal did not return from Rome until after the first of January, but the duchessa came to see Veronica at Bianca's villa within a few days after Veronica had left her aunt.
The good lady implored her to return to the countess, in the name of society or of religion, but Veronica was not quite sure which she invoked, for her language was not very coherent. She was not more than five-and-forty years of age, but she seemed to be already an old woman. Her hair was grey, she had lost many teeth, and she dressed, as Veronica wickedly said to Bianca, like the devil's grandmother. She spoke affectionately, as well as reprovingly, however, having known both Veronica's parents, and as having been a third cousin of her mother; and she begged the young girl to come and stay as long as she pleased at the Della Spina palace, as her guest.
Veronica thanked her, but declined to change her quarters. It was clear that the Duchessa wished her to marry Gianluca, and had by no means given up all hopes of the match. It was all the more clear, because she never mentioned him, though Veronica knew that he was no better; and Veronica herself, though sorry for him, asked no questions, lest any inquiry should be taken for a sign of an inclination which she did not feel. The Duchessa smiled reprovingly and shook her head when she went away. It would have been quite impossible for her to explain to Veronica why she should not remain longer than necessary under Bianca's roof. And, indeed, the matter might not have been easy to explain. Veronica was glad when she was gone.
The cardinal was not so easy to deal with. He was a man of singular intensity of opinion, so to speak, when he held any fixed opinion at all, and he was displeased when he learned that Veronica was with his niece. On the other hand, the fact that Bianca was his brother's daughter gave Veronica a weapon against him. Why should she not spend a month or two with the niece of her former guardian, her old friend, the companion of her convent school days in Rome? Would his Eminence tell her why not? His Eminence replied by saying that he had never approved of Bianca's marriage; that Prince Corleone was, in his opinion, as great a good-for-nothing as ever had appeared in Neapolitan society, and was at present known to be leading a dissipated life in Paris and London. Veronica answered that all these things were to the discredit of Corleone, but that Bianca was to be pitied, since she had been so unlucky as to marry a scoundrel, and that, on the whole, it was better that Corleone should stay away from her, if he could not behave decently at home. The cardinal retorted that no young girl should stay two months in the house of any woman who was practically separated from her husband, for whatever reason; and he said that this was an accepted tradition in society, and that society was not to be despised. He was not prepared for the answer he received.
"I am Veronica Serra," said the young girl, with a smile. "Society is society. When we need each other, we will try and agree."
This was somewhat enigmatic, to say the least of it, and the cardinal was not quite sure whether he understood it. He should be very sorry, he said, to think that his old friend's daughter meant to cut herself off from the world in which she had so important a part to play. Of course, he had no longer any actual authority by which to direct her actions. She was of age, and if she chose to live alone, without so much as an elderly companion, no one could hinder her. To this Veronica promptly answered that she had come to Bianca's house in order not to be alone.
"And why," inquired the cardinal, watching her face keenly, "have you determined that you will no longer live with your aunt Macomer, who is your only near relative and your natural companion?"
This was the real question, and Veronica had hoped that he would not ask it; but being a good diplomatist, and knowing how hard it would be to answer, the wise prelate had kept it back as a hammer with which to drive the wedges he had previously inserted one by one.
"I had understood that you were always the best of friends," he added, while she was silent for a moment.
"We have not agreed so well lately," said Veronica. "Besides, you could hardly expect me to be happy in a house where such horrible things have lately happened."
"You could live somewhere else, and have your aunt with you," suggested the cardinal.
"You do not understand!" Veronica smiled. "That would be quite impossible. She has always been accustomed to being mistress in the house, and if she lived with me, she would be my guest. She would not like to accept that position. Just imagine! I would not even let her order dinner."
"You might let her do that, by way of a compromise, my child."
"Oh—but she does it abominably! That is one reason for not living with her!"
The cardinal could not help laughing at Veronica's statement of the case.
"I see," he said. "She poisoned you!" And he laughed again.
"Yes," answered Veronica. "That was exactly it. She poisoned us all."
She smiled to herself at the terrible truth of the words which so much amused the cardinal; but she continued to talk in the same strain, giving him the infinity of small reasons, under which a clever woman will hide her chief one, confusing a man's impression of the whole by her superior handling of its parts, exaggerating the one detail and belittling the next, until all proportion and true perspective are lost, and the man leaves her with the sensation of having been delicately taken to pieces, and put together again with his face turned backwards, over his shoulders.
When, on leaving him, Veronica deposited the traditional and perfunctory kiss upon his sapphire ring, Cardinal Campodonico felt that his late ward had been a match for him at all points, and that after all it was not such a great thing to be a man, if one could not do better than he had done. If he consoled himself with the fact that Eve had out-argued Adam, he was mentally confronted by the reflexion that Adam had been a layman, and had not been called upon to sustain the dignity of a cardinal and an archbishop. He determined, however, that he would renew the attempt before long. If Veronica would not leave Bianca's villa, and live in some other way, he would oblige his niece to cut the situation short and go away for a journey.
But Veronica had no intention of quartering herself upon her friend for any great length of time; and perhaps, under the circumstances, she did the best thing she could in going directly to her. Bianca was discreet, and lived very quietly, receiving few people and going very little into the world. The villa itself was at some distance from the centre of Neapolitan life, so that the average idle man or woman thought twice before calling, without a distinct object, and merely for a cup of tea and a cup-of-tea's worth of gossip. There was not that constant coming and going of visitors in every degree of intimacy which might have been expected in the house of a woman of Bianca Corleone's beauty and position. The world is easily tired of unhappy people, and men soon weary of worshipping a goddess who never smiles upon them. As for the fact that Pietro Ghisleri was frequently at the villa, society refrained from throwing stones, in consideration of the extreme brittleness of its own glass dwelling. Ghisleri was disliked in Naples, because he was a Tuscan; but Bianca, as a Roman, might have been more popular.
It need hardly be said that she preferred the isolation she enjoyed to a gayer existence. To Veronica it seemed as though she herself had never before known what liberty was. The whole mode of life was different from anything to which she had been accustomed. The villa was near the country, and its own grounds were not small. Bianca was passionately fond of dogs and horses, for her father bred horses on his lands in the Roman Campagna, and she had been accustomed to animals from her childhood. She taught Veronica to ride, and the fearless young girl was a good pupil. They rode out together early in the morning, westward, towards Baiae, and up to the king's preserves, and often through some lands of Veronica's which lay in the rich Falernian district within an easy distance. A groom followed them. Ghisleri very rarely joined the party.
Bianca Corleone had another accomplishment which was very unusual at that time, and is still uncommon, among Italian women. She could fence, and was fond of the exercise. She had been a delicate child, and it had long been feared that her lungs were weak, so that she had been encouraged from her earliest youth in everything which could contribute towards increasing her strength. Her brother, Gianforte, had even as a boy been a good fencer. He was devotedly attached to his only sister, and as she had not gone to the convent school until she had been fifteen years old, they had been constantly together until then, he being only a couple of years older than she. One day she had taken up one of his foils, laughing at the idea, and had made him show her how to hold it; and he had forthwith amused her by teaching her to fence, on rainy days in Rome, when she could not ride. It had seemed to do her good, and her father had allowed her to have regular lessons, until she could handle a foil very fairly, for a girl. She herself liked it, but she rarely alluded to it, regarding it as a rather unfeminine amusement, and being, at the same time, a most womanly woman.
But in her villa she had a large empty room, admirably adapted for fencing, and three times weekly a famous master came and gave her lessons. To her surprise Veronica had shown an irresistible desire to learn also, and had insisted upon being properly taught by the fencing-master. The young girl had soon shown that she had far more natural ability and aptitude for the skilled exercise than Bianca had possessed when she had first begun. Her lean young figure, long arms, and unusual quickness gave her every advantage with a foil, and her extraordinary tenacity and determination to do well at it helped her to progress rapidly. Before she had practised two months, though by no means yet as good as Bianca, she had been able to sustain a long bout with her very creditably indeed.
Bianca had a very different temperament and organization. She was never really strong, though exercise had developed her strength to the utmost. She did many things well, but did nothing with that sort of conviction, so to say, which proceeds from conscious inward vigour. When she was not actually riding or fencing, or doing something of the sort, there was a languor in her movements and her manner which told that she had no great vital force upon which to draw. Those who already know something of her story, will remember that her life was short as well as sad.
She watched Veronica with interest, noting how suddenly the girl changed and developed in her new liberty. She had never suspected her of many tastes and inclinations which now showed themselves for the first time. She found that a certain simplicity of view and judgment which she had set down to girlish innocence, was, in reality, the natural bent of Veronica's character. There was a fearless directness in the girl's ways, which delighted Bianca Corleone.
The two young women were alone one afternoon, not long after Veronica had come, when Taquisara and Gianluca appeared together. It was a part of Bianca's way of showing her indifference to the world, to receive any one who came, whenever she was at home. No one should ever be able to say that he or she had not been admitted when Bianca was in the villa.
At the door of the drawing-room, Veronica could see that Gianluca tried to make his friend enter before him, and that Taquisara pushed him forward, with a little friendly laugh of encouragement. It happened that she was seated just opposite to the door. Gianluca came on, and went directly towards Bianca. He was thinner and more transparent than ever. Veronica could almost fancy that she could see the light through his face. She thought he was slightly lame; or, at least, that he walked with a little difficulty.
Bianca looked up kindly, as she gave him her hand, for she had always liked him. Taquisara came to her a moment later, and both men turned to Veronica. Gianluca evidently did not wish to sit down by Veronica, whereas Taquisara, in order to oblige him to do so, took a chair on the other side of Bianca, and spoke to her at once. Gianluca seated himself upon a chair half-way between Bianca and Veronica.
Possibly Bianca resented the Sicilian's cool way of forcing her to talk with him, as though he knew that she should prefer to do so. For many reasons she was unduly sensitive to the slightest appearance of anything even faintly resembling a liberty. She answered what he said, and made a remark in her turn; but, without waiting for his reply, she looked round at Gianluca and spoke to him, interrupting something which he was trying to say to Veronica. In almost any situation, such a proceeding would have been tactless; but Bianca had seen the result of the meeting between Gianluca and Veronica on the former occasion, and she guessed rightly that if they were forced into the necessity of exchanging commonplaces, there would be an even more complete failure now than there had been before. Taquisara had thrust him upon Veronica in an excess of friendly zeal for his interests. He kept his place for a few moments, and then, seeing Bianca's intention, rose and went to Veronica's other side. Gianluca immediately drew his chair nearer to Bianca.
Veronica did not remember afterwards how the Sicilian opened the conversation, nor what she herself at first said. In spite of the strong impression he had produced upon her when they had met in the garden three or four weeks earlier, she now looked away from him, watching the other two as they talked.
She saw at a glance that Gianluca's manner with Bianca was not at all what it was with herself. He looked ill and worn; but his face had brightened, his tone was light and cheerful, and he was evidently saying amusing things, for Bianca laughed audibly, which was rare with her, even when she and Veronica were alone together. He was at his ease; instead of seeming awkward he had an especial grace, beyond that of ordinary men; instead of being visibly disturbed by the sound of his own voice, he appeared to be almost as sure of himself and of what he was going to say as Taquisara.
Veronica wondered why she had never noticed him before, except when he was talking with her. He was ill and weak, but he was undeniably a noticeable man. She remembered all that his friend had said of him, and her own disappointment after her last meeting with him, and she all at once realized that she had only seen the man at his worst. She watched him narrowly. He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned without apparent reason, and met them. Instantly the blood mounted to the roots of his hair, and he looked away again, and stumbled and hesitated in the answer he gave to what Bianca had last said.
But Veronica remembered very distinctly his speeches to her, and she recalled in contrast the words Bosio had spoken to her just before he died. Then she turned her head, and listened to Taquisara.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I have not the slightest idea," replied the Sicilian, with a little laugh. "I suppose it must have been a compliment, and I did not expect any answer, of course."
"I should have thanked you, if I had heard it," answered Veronica, smiling rather absently, for she was still thinking of Gianluca.
"A man never expects thanks from a woman," said Taquisara. "Shall you stay long with the Princess Corleone?"
"I do not know. I have not decided. Why do you ask?"
"Was I indiscreet?"
"No. Of course not. I thought you might have some reason for asking."
"A general reason, perhaps," answered Taquisara. "You have been in trouble. I suppose that you have been unhappy, and that you will change your life in some way—so I asked what you were going to do."
"As for staying here or not, I have not yet decided. But what I mean to do would not interest you at all. Before very long, I shall probably go to Muro."
"To Muro! I have often wished to see the place where they murdered QueenJoanna."
"I have never been there myself, though it belongs to me," answered Veronica. "Her ghost has it all to itself now. They say that she sits at the head of the grand staircase, once a year, at midnight, and shrieks. If you wish to see Muro, you had better go before I am there," she added, with a smile. "I shall be there alone, and I could not possibly receive you, as I could not even offer you a cup of tea, you know."
"What an absurd institution society is," observed Taquisara, with contempt. "The priest says, 'Ego conjungo vos'; and you are licensed to snap your fingers at everything that has bound you until that moment, as though the law of your marriage were your divorce from law."
"That sounds clever," said Veronica; "but I do not believe it is."
He laughed, indifferently; and after a moment or two, she looked at him, and smiled.
"I did not mean to be so rude," she said.
So they talked in small, objectless remarks, and questions, and answers, neither witty nor quite witless; but Veronica did not refer to Gianluca, and Taquisara knew that for the present he had better let matters alone. Presently Bianca spoke across to Veronica, and the conversation became general. In the course of it, Gianluca spoke to Veronica, and she answered him, and then asked him a question. She was surprised to find that, so long as the others were joining in whatever was said, he seemed quite at his ease, though his colour came and went frequently. On the whole, she had a much better impression of him this time than she had retained after the former meeting, when he had seemed so utterly helpless and shy in her presence. But when both men rose to go away she could not help comparing them again.
Even then, it seemed to her that the comparison was less unfavourable to Gianluca than she had expected that it must be. He was tall and well-proportioned, and in spite of the slight difficulty in walking, which she had to-day noticed for the first time, he was graceful and of easy carriage. His extreme languor in moving was, perhaps, what displeased her the most. When he had entered the room, she had been annoyed at his coming; but now she was rather sorry, than otherwise, that he was going away so soon. Possibly, as she had expected nothing, she was the more easily satisfied. Taquisara, too, had disappointed her. He had talked very much like any one else, and not at all as he had talked at that first meeting. Veronica felt that she was indifferent. Bosio's untimely death had terribly changed the face of the world for her, she thought.
A cold listlessness, unfamiliar to her nature, came over her when the two men were gone. Before long Ghisleri appeared, and there was tea and more conversation. He was thought to be an agreeable man, and people said that he talked well. Veronica wondered vaguely what Bianca saw in him that made her like him so much. But it struck her that the question had not presented itself to her before that day, and that, on the whole, she liked her friend's friend very well.
Presently she left them to themselves in the drawing-room and went to her own room to write a long letter to Don Teodoro, who was now in Muro, and actively engaged in carrying out her wishes for improving the condition of the poor there. As she wrote, her interest in life revived, after having been unaccountably suspended for half an hour, and she felt again all her enthusiasm for the chief object she now had in view.
Soon after this, too, she began to examine the state of the big farms through which she often rode with Bianca, asking questions of the people and entering into conversation with the local under-steward when she chanced to meet him. As was to be expected, the news that the young princess now took an active interest in the administration of her estates soon went abroad amongst the peasants. They soon knew her by sight and were only too ready to come and stand at her stirrup and pour out the tale of their woes, since she was condescending enough to listen. Sometimes, if she found a case of anything like oppression, she interfered. Sometimes, and this was what more often happened, she helped some poor man with money—in order that he might be able to pay his rent to herself. Bianca laughed once at a charity of this kind, but Veronica held her own.
"The rule is for everybody," she said. "They must pay their rents, or go. If I choose to help those who have had trouble, that is my affair, and not the business of the under-steward with whom they have to do. Besides, if the rent is remitted this year, they will expect the same thing in the future, whereas they know that a little money is a passing charity on which they cannot count with certainty. The less publicity there is about charity, the more of self-respect remains to those who profit by it."
Bianca glanced sideways at Veronica's face as the latter finished speaking, and she felt that the girl was not cast in the same mould as herself.
"I wonder whether you will ever marry," she said thoughtfully, after a short pause.
"Why? What has that to do with it?" asked Veronica.
"Your husband will find that it has a great deal to do with it, my dear," Bianca answered, with a smile, and speculating upon the possible fate of the Princess of Acireale's future husband.
"Oh,—of course, I should not let him interfere in anything of this kind," said Veronica, gravely. "He should not come between me and my people."
She sat very straight on her horse, and the girl's small head and aquiline features had a dominating expression. A struggling man, with such a look, is a man who means to win, and generally does, whatever the nature of the race may be.
"But I shall never marry," Veronica added presently, and her face softened as she thought of the dead betrothed. "There is plenty to do in the world, without marrying, if one will only do it."
"If you do not, there will be one free man more in the world," answeredBianca.
Veronica laughed a little.
"I daresay I should have my own way," she said.
The longer Veronica stayed with her, the more thoroughly was Bianca convinced of this, and she wondered why it should have taken her so long to discover that the quiet, sallow-faced, gentle-mannered little girl, whom she had first known at the convent school, was developing a character which might some day astonish every one who should attempt to oppose her. It had been a growth of strength, with an accentuation of wilfulness, and it had not been at all apparent at first.
So they lived quietly together, in spite of the Cardinal Campodonico's objections and arguments, and, little by little, Veronica became quite used to her absolute independence of plan and action, and the idea of taking an elderly gentlewoman for a companion grew more and more distasteful to her.
Meanwhile her aunt was living all alone at the Palazzo Macomer. Many communications passed between the two, about matters of business, during the earlier weeks after their final separation, but they did not meet. As neither of them ever went into the world, it was extremely improbable that they should meet at all, except by agreement.
Gianluca came to the villa again, ten days after the visit last spoken of. And after that he came often, at irregular intervals, generally once or twice a week. The first disappointing impression, which Veronica had retained so long, gradually wore away, and she liked him very much better than she had ever thought possible. Bianca never left the two alone together. She felt more than ever responsible for Veronica, now, and bound to observe the customs and traditions in which both had been brought up. She was wise enough to know, too, that after such an unlucky beginning, it would be better for Gianluca if a long time passed before he had another chance of pouring out his heart to the young girl. Things might go by contraries, she thought. Contempt might turn to familiarity, familiarity to friendship, and friendship to love. The first change had already taken place, and the others might come in time.
Before the spring came, Veronica knew that Taquisara had not been guilty of exaggeration in describing his friend's character. Gianluca was all that his friend had painted him, and perhaps more. Unfortunately, he was not at all the kind of man whom Veronica would ever be inclined to fancy for a husband. It was easy for her to respect him, as she came to know him better; it would have been hard not to like him, but it seemed impossible to her that she should ever love him.
Taquisara came very rarely—not more than three or four times in the course of the winter. He came alone, and did not stay long. Veronica saw that he avoided her on those few occasions, and preferred to talk with Bianca, though she was sometimes aware that he was looking at her earnestly, when her eyes were half turned from him.
Gianluca seemed to grow a little stronger towards the spring. At least, he was less transparently thin; but the difficulty he had in walking was more apparent than before.
As Gianluca's spirits revived, and he began to take courage again and find new hope that Veronica might marry him after all, her position as a permanent guest in Bianca's house became a subject of especial displeasure to the Della Spina family. They wished to renew their proposals for a marriage, and they found themselves stopped by the fact that Veronica was no longer under the charge of any relative to whom they could have communicated their offer.
No one knew exactly what had happened before Christmas at the Palazzo Macomer excepting the persons concerned; but there is inevitably a certain amount of publicity about all business transactions connected with real estate, and somehow a story had filtered from the financial to the social world, which more or less explained Veronica's conduct. It was said that Gregorio, whom most people had detested, had mismanaged her fortune, though nothing was hinted about any great fraud; and people added that when the day of reckoning had come he had found himself ruined, and had lost his mind; Matilde, as guardian, had incurred the young princess's displeasure, but the latter had treated her generously, allowing her to live in the palace, which was now undoubtedly Veronica's property. Some persons told a story of an attempt made by a servant to poison the Macomer household, but the majority laughed at the tale, and said that Gregorio had been too poor, or too stingy, to have his copper saucepans properly tinned, and that a grain of verdigris would poison half a regiment, as every Italian knows.
However that might be, no one was responsible for Veronica, but Veronica herself, unless Cardinal Campodonico still had some authority over her, which seemed more than doubtful. The old Duca made him a formal visit, and a formal proposition. His Eminence smiled, looked grave, smiled again, and replied that in a long and varied experience of the world he could not remember to have met with just such a case; that so far as he could understand, the young Princess of Acireale was her own mistress, and would make her own choice, if she made any; but that she had been heard to say that she would never marry at all. This, however, the cardinal thought impossible.
"Then," said the Duca della Spina, "you advise me to go directly to the young lady and ask her whether she will marry my son."
"My friend," replied the cardinal, "this is a case in which I would rather not give advice. I have no doubt that whatever you do will be well done, and I wish you all possible success."
The old Duca shuffled out of the cardinal's study, more puzzled than ever, and went home to tell his wife and Gianluca and Taquisara the result of the interview. Taquisara was in the confidence of the family, and spent much of his time with his friend.
"I am at my wits' end," concluded the old nobleman, shaking his head, and looking sorrowfully at his son. "If you wish it, I will go to Donna Veronica myself. It would be—well—very informal, to say the least. Poor Gianluca! My poor boy! If you would only be satisfied to marry your cousin Vittoria, it would be a question of days! Of course—I understand—her complexion is an obstacle," he added reflectively. "It will probably improve, however."
No one answered him, Taquisara broke the silence, after a pause.
"You must either speak to the Princess Corleone," he said, "or Gianluca must speak to Donna Veronica for himself."
Gianluca said nothing to him, but by a glance he reminded his friend of his former attempt. So they came to no conclusion, though it was clear that Veronica now liked Gianluca quite enough, in their opinion, to marry him at once. But he himself, remembering his discomfiture, knew that the time had not yet come, though he had hopes that it might not be far off. On that very day he went to Bianca's villa, and stayed an unreasonably long time, in the hope that Ghisleri might appear, for he found Bianca and Veronica alone. Pietro would have talked with Bianca, and he himself would have had a chance, perhaps, to judge of his actual position. He was no longer shy and awkward, now, when he was with the young girl. But Ghisleri did not come, and Gianluca went home, disappointed and disconsolate.
"I suppose that if we were in Sicily," he said to Taquisara on the following morning, "you would propose to carry her off by force. You once advised me to do something of the sort."
"That is a proceeding which needs the consent of the lady," answered theSicilian. "The 'force' is employed against the relations. Now DonnaVeronica has none to speak of so far as I can see. It is a case forpersuasion."
Gianluca sighed. Matters were at a deadlock, and Veronica had announced her intention of going to Muro alone, before long. Once established there, she might stay in the mountains until the following autumn, unapproachable in her maiden solitude, as she had told Taquisara. Gianluca might knock at her gate, there, but he would certainly not be admitted.
"You despise me," he said to his friend. "You think me weak and helpless, and you fancy that if you were in my place you could do better. But I do not believe you could."
"No," replied the other. "I do not believe so, either. And I do not at all despise you. You have only one chance—to make her love you. No man is to be despised because a woman does not love him. It is not his fault."
"I feel as though it were," said Gianluca. "I am sure that if I could change, if I could make myself different in some way—but that is absurd, of course."
"One cannot suddenly become some one else." For himself, without vanity, Taquisara was probably glad of the fact, but he was sincerely sorry for his friend. "You might write to her," he suggested.
"Love-letters—to Donna Veronica?" Gianluca smiled incredulously. "You do not know her!"
"I know her a little," replied Taquisara. "All women like to receive letters from men who love them, if they are well expressed and sincere."
"How horribly practical you are sometimes!" exclaimed the younger man, unaccountably irritated at his friend's generalizations.
Taquisara laughed and knocked the ashes from his long black cigar.
"You came to me for advice, not for sentiment," he observed presently. "Perhaps I am a bad adviser, but that is the worst you can say of me. I daresay I do not understand women. I have known a few pretty well, but that is all. I am not a lady killer, and I certainly never wished to marry. You must not expect much of me—but what little there is to expect will be practical. Perhaps Ghisleri could advise you better than I. He is a queer fellow. If he ever cuts his throat, he will not die of it—his heart and his head will go on living separately, just as they do now."
Gianluca smiled again, for the description of the man was keen and true, as men knew him.
"No," he answered; "I shall not consult Ghisleri. You and I are different enough to understand each other. He and I are not, though he is a good friend of mine."
"I should not say that you resemble Ghisleri in any way," observedTaquisara, bluntly.
"You may not see it, but I feel it. It is not easy to explain. He and I feel about many things in the same way, but we look at ourselves differently."
"That sounds like a woman's speech!" said Taquisara. "But you are always making fine distinctions which I cannot understand. What do you mean when you say that you look at yourselves differently? How do you look at yourselves?"
"Do you never think about yourself, as though you were another person, and were judging yourself like a man you knew?"
"No," said Taquisara, thoughtfully. "I never thought of doing that."
"But what does self-examination mean, then?" asked Gianluca.
"I have not the slightest idea. I am myself. I know myself. I know what I want and do not want. It seems to me that I know enough. What in the world should I examine? You would be much better if you could get rid of all that romance about conscience and self-examination and such trash. A man knows perfectly well whether he is faithful to the woman he loves or not, whether he is betraying his friend or standing by him—what else do you want? I believe that theology and philosophy and self-examination, and all that, were invented in early times for heathen people who did not know whether they were doing right or wrong, because they were just converted."
At this extraordinary view of church history Gianluca laughed.
"You may laugh," answered the Sicilian. "You will never make me believe that old Tancred sat up all night examining his conscience before he went to the Holy Land—any more than he fasted and prayed before he had his daughter's lover murdered."
"No—perhaps not!" Gianluca laughed again.
"He did what struck him as right and natural," said Taquisara, gravely. "Besides, he was sovereign prince in his own land, and it was not a murder at all, but an execution. For a princess, his daughter behaved outrageously. I should have done the same thing, in his place. He had the right and the power, and he used it. But that is not the point. As for Ghisleri, he would have cut the boy's head off in a rage, and then he would have spent a year on his knees in a monastery. You would have prayed yourself into a good humour, and the fellow would have got off."
"Unless I had asked your advice," suggested Gianluca.
"And if you had, you would not have acted upon it—any more than you will write to Donna Veronica now, though I tell you that all women like to receive love-letters. It is natural. A woman is not satisfied with being told once a week that she is loved. She likes to know it all the time—the oftener, the better. Two letters of one page are better than one of two pages. Twenty notes a day, of a line or two each, will make a woman perfectly happy—provided that you do not make a mistake and send one less on the day following. They like repetition, provided it is in the same pitch. If you have begun high, you must not let the strings slacken. Women are curious creatures. In religion, they can believe fifty times as much as any man. In love, they only believe while they see you and hear you. As soon as your back is turned—even if they have sent you away—they scream and cry out that you have abandoned them. Before you come, they want you. When you are there, you weary them. When you are gone, you have betrayed them. And they wonder that a man cannot bear that sort of thing forever! Do you call me practical for speaking in this way? Very well, then—I am practical. I tell you what I know."
Gianluca was amused, but he thought over what Taquisara had advised him to do, and the more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to follow the advice. Not that he regarded the writing of letters to Veronica at all as a hopeful means of moving her; but he felt that he might write her much which he would not say. He loved her with the deepest sincerity, and with an almost morbid passion, and the idea of approaching her in any way was irresistible. He had not realized before now that he could at least try the experiment of writing. She knew that he loved her, and at the worst, she might tell him not to write again. He remembered his terrible awkwardness and hesitation when he had first told her of his love, and his humiliation afterwards, when he had reflected upon the poor figure he had made. There would be no humiliation, now. He was sure of that. He could rely upon his pen and his wits, though he could not trust to his wits with only his tongue to help them.
The chief objection to this method of wooing was that, in his class, it was untraditional. And this had some weight with him, for he had been brought up rigidly in the practices and customs of an exclusive caste. On the other hand, he had never thought of plunging rashly into love-phrases, from the first. He wished to establish a correspondence with Veronica, and then by subtle tact and delicate degrees to acquire the right of speaking to her, by his letters, of what he felt, making no reference to them when he met her, until she should at last give some sign that she would listen favourably.
The plan was wise and far sighted, but it had not been the result of wisdom nor of diplomatic instinct. He adopted it out of delicacy, and out of respect for the woman he loved, and in the hope of reaching her heart without ever jarring upon her sensibilities.
By nature and talent, as well as by cultivation, Gianluca was admirably gifted for such a correspondence as he now attempted to begin. In other circumstances of fortune he might have become eminent as a man of letters. Without possessing any of that practical, masculine knowledge of women, which Taquisara so roughly expressed, Gianluca had a keen and sure understanding of the feminine mind. There is no contradiction in that, for the men who know something of women's hearts by instinct and experience are by no means always those who are in intellectual sympathy with them. Very young women are sometimes surprised when they discover this fact, but men generally know it of one another; and the man of whom other men are jealous is rarely the one who prides himself upon knowing and sympathizing with the feminine point of view on things in general, from literature to dress.
Gianluca had talked with Veronica about all sorts of subjects, and she had often asked him questions which he had not been able to answer on the spur of the moment. It was easy for him, in his first letter, to hark back to one of those idle questions of hers, and to make his reply to it an excuse for a letter. Such a communication would need no acknowledgment beyond a spoken word of thanks, which she would bestow upon him the next time they met. It should contain nothing warmer than the assurance of his anxiety to be of service to her, in anything she undertook, and a protestation of respectful friendship at the end.
He wrote that first letter over twice and read it carefully before he sent it. It referred to an historical question connected with the house of Anjou, from which her castle of Muro had come to the Serra by a marriage, several centuries ago, and by which marriage Veronica traced her descent on one side to the kings of France. The castle itself had been twice the scene of royal murders, and there were many strange traditions connected with it. Gianluca got the information he needed from the library downstairs, and he found ample material for a letter of some length.
But it was not dry and uninteresting, a mere copy of notes taken from histories and chronicles. The man had an undeveloped literary talent, as has been said, and he instinctively found light and graceful expressions for hard facts. He was himself discovering that he had a gift for writing, and the pleasure of the discovery enhanced the delight of writing to the woman he loved. The man of letters who has first found out his own facility in the course of daily writing to a dearly loved woman alone knows the sort of pleasure that Gianluca enjoyed, when he found that it was his pen that helped him, and not he that was driving his pen.
He sent what he had written, and determined that on the following day he would go to the villa again. To his surprise and joy, he received a note from Veronica in the morning, thanking him warmly for the pains he had taken, and asking another question. It came through the post; and with his insight into feminine ways, he guessed that she had not wished to send a messenger to him,—a servant, who would have at once told other servants of the correspondence.
Veronica had been pleased by the letter. She was beginning to like him for himself, and to forget how very foolish he had seemed to be when he was declaring his passion for her. But his letter showed him all at once in an entirely new light, and was at once a pleasure and a surprise. She thought it natural to write him a few words of thanks. Indeed, it would have seemed rude not to do so.
In the liberty she was enjoying in Bianca's house, she was rapidly forgetting that she was only a young girl, and that society would be shocked if it knew that she was exchanging letters with Gianluca della Spina. There is nothing which a girl learns so easily and all at once as independence of that social kind. What grey-haired man of the world has not at one time or another been amazed at the full-grown assurance of some bride of eighteen or nineteen summers? A month is enough—with proper advantages—to make a drawing-room queen and a society tyrant of a schoolgirl. And that sort of independence is not alone the result of marriage. In Veronica's case, a slowly developed strength had been suddenly set free to act, by an accidental emancipation from all semblance of restraint; and the emancipation was so complete that even in the widest interpretation of the law, no one could have now claimed a right to control or direct her actions.
She was nearly twenty-two years of age; she had a great position in her own right, and she was immensely rich. It was not until long afterwards that she learned how many offers of marriage had been refused for her by her aunt and uncle. For the present, the fathers and mothers of marriageable sons were waiting until three or four months should have elapsed, for they generally guessed that there had been a catastrophe of some sort at the Palazzo Macomer after Bosio's death; and, moreover, as has been seen, it was impossible to ascertain the proper person to whom to address any such proposal.
The consequence of it all was, that Veronica was absolutely her own mistress, and free to go and come, and to do what seemed right in her own eyes. As she had told the cardinal, when she and society should discover that they needed each other, they would try and agree. In case of a disagreement, it was probable that, of the two, society would yield to Veronica Serra. Meanwhile she would correspond with Gianluca, if she pleased. During the arrangement of her affairs, she had constantly written to men, about business, under the advice of the bankers to whom she had confided the whole matter. Gianluca was merely a few years younger, and happened to belong to her own class. That was all. Why should he and she not write to each other? Yet it was not long since the idea of meeting Gianluca at Bianca's house, by agreement, had seemed a dangerous adventure, about entering upon which she had really hesitated. To-day, for any reasonable cause, she would have walked through Naples with him in the face of the world, at the hour when every one was in the streets.
He came to the villa in the afternoon, after receiving her note of thanks, and she was glad to see him, and spoke with pleasure of his letter, before Bianca, who seemed surprised, but said nothing at the time. He was wise enough not to stay too long, and he went away exceedingly elated by his first success.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Veronica, of her friend, just after he had left them. "He seems so much better—but he is growing very lame. Did you notice how he walked to-day? He seems to drag his feet after him."
"He must have hurt his foot," said Bianca, calmly. "By the by, what is this, about letters? Do you mean to say that he writes to you?"
"Yes—and I write to him," answered Veronica, with perfect calm. "You see, as I have nobody to ask, I ask nobody. It is more simple."
"But, my dear child—a young girl—"
"Do not call me a child, and do not call me a young girl, Bianca," said Veronica. "I am neither, in the sense of being a thing to be kept under a glass case and fed on rose leaves. I am a woman, and as I do not think that I shall ever marry, I refuse to be chaperoned all the way to old-maidhood. I know that you feel responsible for me, in a sort of way, because you are married, and I am not. It is really absurd, dear. I am much better able to take care of myself than you are."
"No doubt, in a way. You are more energetic. But as for writing toGianluca—I hardly know—I wish you would not."
"He writes very well," answered Veronica. "I will show you his letter. Besides, so far as your responsibility goes, it will not last much longer. I shall go to Muro next month."
"Alone?"
"Alone—yes. I always mean to live alone. Don Teodoro will come and dine with me every evening, and we will talk about the people, and what we are doing for them. I shall have horses to ride. If you will come, we will fence together. I shall miss the fencing dreadfully. Could you not come, Bianca dear?"
"I believe that you will miss the fencing more than me, dear," answeredBianca, rather sadly.
Veronica was more to her than she could ever be to Veronica, and she knew it.
"Bianca!" exclaimed the young girl. "How can you say such things! Because I spoke of fencing first? You know that I did not mean it in that way! I want you for yourself—but it will be nice to have the foils in the morning, all the same. You see, I could not even have a fencing-master out there. It is so far! Do come."
Bianca shook her head.
"We will have glorious days together," continued Veronica. "We will do all sorts of things together. They do say that it rains a good deal in those mountains—well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri, while I write to Don Gianluca."
Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautiful face grew paler, until it was almost wan. Veronica thought she was like a passion flower, just then. A short silence followed.
"Veronica," said Bianca, at last, "why do you not marry Gianluca, since you have grown to liking him so much?"
"I like him for a friend," answered Veronica, quietly. "I do not want a husband. Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps—some day, if you will come to Muro, dear. Think about it."
She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to the subject again. She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of not asking questions. Confidence given for the asking, however readily, is but the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidence unasked.
In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again, about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation; and Veronica's short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found that she, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward to writing them, as well as to receiving his. And his came oftener, until she had one almost every day.
But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarely spoke of their correspondence. Somehow it had come to be a bond linking certain sides of their natures which they did not show to each other when they met and talked. They never could talk as freely as they wrote, even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemed perfectly at his ease in conversation. There was a sort of undefined restraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they would write what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand each other far better than by spoken words.
In Gianluca's case such a condition of things was natural enough. He felt that she understood friendship when he meant love, and he was aware that he was progressing slowly but surely towards the freedom to say what was always in his heart, while his success must depend upon his wisdom and tact in not surprising her with a declaration of passion, in the midst of a discussion upon church history or modern systems of charity. Compared with what he had felt in their former relations, he was happy, now, beyond his utmost expectations; and, in the relative happiness he had found, he was willing to be patient, rather than to risk anything prematurely.
It was more strange, perhaps, that Veronica should regard this growing intimacy as she did, for she had no under-thought of a future change to something else, as he had, and she was naturally simple in reasoning and direct in action. Yet she could not but be aware that there was a sort of duality in their friendship, and she never confused the ideas they exchanged when in the one state—that is to say, when writing—with those about which they talked when an actual meeting brought them into the other. The one state already was an intimacy; the other was hardly yet more than a pleasant acquaintance, with the memory of a disagreeable beginning. Such curiosities of human intercourse are more easily understood by those who have met with them in life than explained to those who have not. The facts were plain. When Veronica and Gianluca were together in Bianca's drawing-room, they said nothing which might not have been heard with indifference by all Naples. When they wrote to each other they spoke of themselves, of their real thoughts about things and people, of their belief, and, to some extent, of their feelings.
Veronica did not perhaps acknowledge that, little by little, Gianluca's letters were beginning to fill the place of poor Bosio's conversation in former times. But that was what was taking place. She was more lonely in mind than in heart, and without making the slightest pretence to talent or unusual cultivation, she craved a mental companionship of some sort to take up the thread where it had been broken. She had found it unexpectedly in her new friend's letters, and she recognized it and clung to it, as to something almost necessary in her existence. When she was ready to go up to Muro, she knew that without those letters life in such a solitude would be well nigh unsupportable, whereas, being able to look forward to them, and to answering them, her hours of idleness were already a foretasted pleasure.