The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, and contributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about their son and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation. They were both too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage upon Veronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel that they were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they told each other, in the privacy of the Duchessa's dressing-room, that after what Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, to marry him. That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted; for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far as the prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy of belief. He had certainly been much better since they had brought him to Muro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they were until the autumn.
On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking very plainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must not be deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had no intention of ever marrying at all. But she had been interrupted by the coming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the first opportunity, she did not purposely create another at once. She was not skilful in such situations. When her directness came into conflict with her sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious matters she instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could be hard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time rather be over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most people call tact. The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in a glacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to know certainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of any one of them, nor how far it may lead. The little strengths of weak people are like jagged rocks jutting up in shifting sands and changing tide, the more dangerous to the unwary because they are few and unexpected, and no one can tell where they lie, just below the surface. Many a brave enterprise has gone to pieces upon the stupid, unforeseen obstinacy of a despised weakling.
Veronica, like other people, even the very strongest, had weak points, or moments when some points of her character were weak, which comes to the same thing in result. She dreaded to hurt Gianluca, and since the occasion had passed when she might have made everything clear, and would have done so, she found it hard to decide how to act.
Taquisara had told her that the man was dying. If that were true, it could make no difference, whether he believed that she would marry him or not. The thought of his death was terribly painful, and she thrust it from her; for she was not heartless, and in the days that followed their conversation on the balcony, her affection grew to be as real and deep as it could possibly have been for a most dearly loved brother. For her, there had been none of those ties in which such affections live and grow and become parts of life itself. Fatherless, motherless, without brother, or sisters, the girl had grown up not knowing what she had to give, and giving scarcely anything at all of what was best in her. She was reticent and proud, and could never be attached to many people. Bianca had been her friend, in a way, but Bianca's life was mysterious to her, and Pietro Ghisleri had come between the two.
And now, through many months, by the intimacy of correspondence which had suddenly turned to an intimacy of real converse in which she had not been disappointed, she had grown—for it was a true growth—to the power of a most devoted friendship, capable of great and lasting sacrifice. It was a friendship, too, that was, as it were, pre-sanctified by the rising shadow of near death, fore-hallowed by the sure suffering of its coming end. It would be hard indeed to cut from Gianluca's heart the one flower of his loving belief.
But then, when she sat beside him on the balcony in the shady hours, and the great wave of life came up to her from the southern valley, she could not believe that he was really to die. And then, she hesitated, and she wished to do what was right and true by him, pain or no pain. Sometimes there was a little colour in his face, and often the deep blue light came into his beautiful eyes. He was to live, then, and she felt that she was cruel, and base, and cowardly to let his thoughts of her grow.
Those were the good days. There were worse ones, when he lay like a dead angel before her, and only in his eyes there was a little life. Then more than once, she gave him the magic of her touch, laid one hand softly upon one of his, or smoothed his silk pillow and arranged the shawl about him. Perhaps she was wrong to do such things, just because she was so young; but when she did them he breathed freely again, and the faint false dawn of a new day that might never brighten rose in the alabaster cheeks.
Once, Taquisara, standing on the great round bastion below, unnoticed by them both under the spreading vine, turned suddenly by chance and looked up through the leaves, and he saw how Veronica was bending forward towards his friend and touching one hand of his—for it was not far to see. Taquisara did not look again, but presently he went in, and there was less of unconcern in his handsome bronze face that day, and his dark eyes were harder and colder than they were wont to be.
Veronica liked him, and forgot altogether the unpleasantness which there had been between them. He was as gentle as a woman with Gianluca. He seemed to be strong, too, for on the bad days when his friend could not walk at all, he carried him like a child from room to room. Veronica saw how necessary he was, and he knew it himself, for after his first protest he made no attempt to go away. Gianluca, naturally sensitive and abnormally impressionable, hated to be touched by servants, as some invalids do, and Taquisara's constant presence saved him much suffering, none the less acute because it was imaginary.
At luncheon, at dinner, whenever the Duca and Duchessa were present, Taquisara did his best to help the conversation and always seemed cheerful, unconcerned, and hopeful for Gianluca's recovery. It was on rare occasions, when Veronica found herself alone with him for a few moments, or together with him and Don Teodoro, that the man appeared to her silent, morose, and sometimes almost ill-tempered. He did not again speak rudely in her presence, but she guessed that the unspoken thought was constantly in his mind—that, and something else which she could not understand. Daily, hourly perhaps, he was inwardly accusing her of playing with Gianluca, as he had expressed it.
Strange to say, she began to care for his opinion and to wish that he could understand her better; and because he could not, she resented the opinion which she thought he held of her. When she was with him, she felt something which she did not recognize in herself—a desire to attack him, for no reason whatever, and at the same time a wish that he might like her better. Even in her childhood she had never cared very much whether people liked her or not.
One day it rained,—for it was in August,—and from time to time the enormous thunder-storms rolled up out of the valley and crashed and split themselves upon the sharp peak above Muro, and rumbled away to northward up the pass, while the deluge of cold rain descended in their track.
It was afternoon. The windows were all shut, the Duca and Duchessa had disappeared for their daily sleep, as they always did, and Veronica and Taquisara kept Gianluca company in one of the big rooms. He was better than usual, but Veronica found it hard to amuse him, and tried to imagine some diversion for the long hours.
"Can you fence?" she asked suddenly, of Taquisara.
"Of course—after a fashion," he answered, with a laugh of surprise at the question, which seemed absurd to him.
"Will you fence with me?"
"I? Oh—I remember hearing that you took fencing lessons at the PrincessCorleone's. If it amuses you, of course I will."
"I have all my things here," said Veronica. "There are any number of foils, and I got two men's jackets and masks, just in the hope that they might be wanted some day. I am very fond of it, you know. We can move the table away from the middle of the room—it will be something to do. It is dull, when it rains, and Don Gianluca can watch us and tell me when I make mistakes. It will amuse us all."
"Gianluca could give us both lessons," said Taquisara. "He fences beautifully."
"Ah—if I only could!" exclaimed Gianluca, in a tone that hurt Veronica.
The invalid looked down at his long, thin legs and emaciated hands, and he tried to smile bravely.
"You would rather not see us—we will not do it," said Veronica, gently, bending a little to see his face, as she stood near him.
"Oh no! Please do!" he answered. "I have never seen a woman fence—I cannot imagine how you could. It would amuse me very much. Please send for the foils."
The things were brought, the tables and chairs were moved away, Taquisara drew Gianluca's big easy-chair, with him in it, towards the window, and Veronica put on her leathern jacket and glove, and stood holding her mask in her hand, as she bent over the foils looking for her favourite one. She found it, and came forward, carrying both mask and foil, while Taquisara got ready. Gianluca looked at her and smiled. There was something defiant and warlike about the small, well-poised head, the aquiline features, and the bright eyes. With one foot a little in advance she stood up, straight and daring, in the middle of the room, waiting for her adversary. The grey light of the rainy afternoon gleamed coldly along the steel.
Taquisara took the one of the two masks which fitted him the better, and picked out a foil. He did not think of putting on a jacket to fence with a woman.
"No jacket?" asked Veronica, with a short laugh, as she slipped her mask over her head.
He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course, and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil. She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were to fence a bout for a prize. Taquisara did the same.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard."Are you left-handed?"
"Yes—did you never notice it?" She laughed again, as her foil played upon his for a second. "Now then!" she cried.
Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent very little time in the study of the art. He was bold, quick, and somewhat reckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men of his society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he had wounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his own safety, than by any superior skill. He had expected that Veronica would make a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sport in a few minutes. To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she could really fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her a great advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary. He had of course intended and expected only to defend himself without ever really attacking, as men generally do when they fence with women. But he was mistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted.
She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way. Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that was like a man's, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foil bent nearly double, with the button full on his breast. She stepped back, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca's, and he laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted.
"I took you by surprise," she said. "You had better put on a jacket—it is just as well."
"Oh no—but you can really fence! I had no idea. I shall be more careful. Try again!"
They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious. His defence did not compare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest. He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently she touched him on the arm.
"Why do you not attack me?" she asked impatiently. "You need not be afraid—I can defend myself pretty well."
He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with a man, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage. She felt an unaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitement she uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did more than once. She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, and she was glad that she should do better against him than against Bianca or her fencing-master. There was a strange delight in it. He, on his part, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a real attack. He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failed utterly. Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and she was left-handed.
It was rather wild play, but it was amusing to watch, and Gianluca looked on with delighted appreciation. She was so slight and graceful, and yet so quick and strong. As for Taquisara, he was glad when she drew back, took her mask from her face, and said that it was enough.
"You ought to know that you can hardly ever disarm a left-handed person when you are engaged in carte," observed Gianluca, looking at Taquisara.
Though he had never been in a quarrel in his life, he had been passionately fond of fencing, and in his real interest in what he had seen he did not even think of complimenting Veronica. She was keen enough to feel that his scientific remark was better than any flattery.
Taquisara shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Donna Veronica fences like a man," he said. "And I am not very good at it either. She would have killed me two or three times!"
"You never really attacked me," she answered, flushed and happy. "By the by," she added, seeing that he was looking over the other foils, "one of those is sharp—the one with the green hilt—be careful not to take it by mistake if we fence again, for you might really kill me."
"How did it come here?" he asked, taking up the one she indicated.
"It was lying about at the Princess Corleone's. I took it by mistake, I suppose, with my things. I believe that Signor Ghisleri brought it to show her, one day. I think he said it had been used."
She threw off her leathern jacket, and tossed the other things aside.
"Let us fence a little every day," she said. "That is, if you will really fence, instead of playing with me."
"I am certainly not able to play with you," he answered. "And I shall wear a jacket next time."
"You are wonderful," said Gianluca, still watching her with admiration.
The storm had passed, and the rain was over. Before long the Duca and Duchessa would appear for tea, and Taquisara said that he would go for a walk. Veronica rang and had the room set in order again, and sat down by Gianluca. The exercise had done her good, and she still felt that fierce little satisfaction at having fought with Taquisara. There was an unwonted colour in her cheeks, and her brown hair had been somewhat ruffled by the mask. Her hands were warm, and tingled, and she felt intensely alive. It had been pleasant, for once, to put out all her energy in something like a real struggle.
Little by little her sensations wore off, and she was quite quiet again, but the recollection of them remained and made her wish to renew them every day.
"You are wonderful," Gianluca repeated, when they had talked of other things for a while. "Taquisara is not a fencing-master, but he is as good as most men, and better than many. You gave him trouble, I could see. It was all he could do to defend himself against you, sometimes."
"Did it amuse you to watch us?" asked Veronica.
"Yes—of course!"
"Then we will do it again, every day. I am glad of a little practice, and it will not hurt him either. A descendant of Tancred ought to fence better than that! I suppose that your mother would be horrified."
"She might be a little surprised."
"Shall we tell her?"
"Not unless we are obliged to," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "We do not tell her everything."
"No," said Veronica, acquiescing rather thoughtfully.
Gianluca was in that state in which there is a delight in having little, harmless secrets from the world in common with one much loved, but not yet wholly won, and each small secrecy was to the bond that held him what the silver threads are to Damascus steel, welded into the whole that the blade may bend double without breaking. But to Veronica it was different; for she guessed instinctively how he looked upon such trifles, and she did not wish them to multiply unduly. Each one was a sting to her conscience.
"I hate secrets," she said gravely, after a pause. "Let us tell her. It is much better."
"As you like," answered Gianluca, with a little disappointment, which she did not fail to notice.
"You think that she will be scandalized? And that we shall not fence any more? Why? I am sure, if she could see us, she would think it very proper. It is not improper, is it?" She asked the last question anxiously, as though in an after-thought.
"Improper? No! How absurd! If everything that is unusual were to be considered improper, our writing to each other would be improper, too. But we kept it a secret, all the same. I cannot imagine talking about it. For me—everything that belongs to you is a secret."
Veronica leaned back in her chair, and her face grew still more grave, but she did not answer. The struggle had begun again, and the hesitation. Should she tell him, once for all, that she really never could love him? Should she leave him the illusion he loved so well? Was he to die, or was he to live? The answer to each question seemed to lie in the query of the next. He spoke again before she broke the silence.
"Do you not feel that—a little—not as I do, but just a little, about me?" he asked in a voice not timid, but very soft.
"No," she answered sadly. "Not as you do. No; it is quite different."
She did not look at him at once, for she was almost afraid to meet his eyes, but she heard him catch his breath, as though to strangle a sigh by main force, and his head moved on the cushion.
She had begun to hurt him.
"I thought you might," he said, faintly but steadily. "I almost thought you did."
"No," she repeated, with ever-increasing gentleness. "No. Do not think that—please do not!"
He said nothing, but again he moved his head. Then, seeing that the moment had come, and that she must face it with truth or lie to him while he lived, she turned her face bravely towards him, to tell him all her heart.
"You are the only real friend I have in the world," she said. "But I can never love you—never, Gianluca—never. It is not in me. There is no one in the whole world for whom I care as I do for you. I cannot imagine anything that I could not do for your sake. But not love—not love. That is something else. I do not know what it means. You could make me understand anything but that. Oh—why must I say it, when it is so hard to say?"
His face seemed cut, as a mask of pain, in alabaster, and the appealing, hungry eyes waited for each fresh hurt.
"You made me think that you might love me," he said, the slow words hardly forming themselves on his dry lips.
"Then God forgive me!" she cried, clasping her hands and bending her face over them. "And yet—and yet I knew it. I felt it. I meant to tell you, if you did not know! I only wished not to hurt you—it is so hard to say."
"Yes," he answered, scarcely above his breath. "I see it is," he added, after a long time.
As he lay in the deep chair, he turned his face from her, on the cushion, till she could not see his eyes, and then was quite still. It would have been easier if he had reproached her vehemently, if he had turned and tried to win her again, and poured out his heart full of love. But he lay there, like a dead angel, with his face turned from her, hardly breathing.
"I have been cowardly, and base, and bad!" she cried, bending over her clasped hands, and speaking to herself. "I should have said it—I said it long ago, at Bianca's, and I should have said it again—but I was afraid—afraid—oh! afraid!"
Her low voice trembled in anger against herself, in pity for him, in sorrow for them both. She looked up and saw him still motionless. It was as though she had killed him and were sitting beside his body. But he still lived, and might live. For one instant she felt a mad impulse to give him her life, to marry him, not loving him, to save him if she could, to atone for what she had done. But a horrible under-thought told her that it would be but gambling for her freedom with his existence, and that if she did it, she should do it because she felt that he must surely die. Even her simplicity seemed gone. She looked again; he had not moved.
She threw herself upon her knees, beside his great chair, her clasped hands on his thin shoulder, in a sort of agony of despair.
"Speak to me!" she cried. "Forgive me—say that I have not killed you—Gianluca—dear!"
One shadowy hand of his was lifted, and touched hers. It was as cold as though it had lain dead in the dew. She took it quickly and held it fast. He did not turn his head.
"It has been my life," he said, "my whole life."
He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would.There was still magic in her touch.
"Forgive me!" she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm of the chair. "Forgive me!"
At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silk cushion, and looked at her bent head. Instinctively she raised her hot eyes.
"Forgive you?" He spoke very sorrowfully. "I love you. What is there to forgive? It is not your fault—"
"It is—it is!" she cried, speaking into his sad eyes for forgiveness, with all her soul.
"I shall die—but it is not your fault," he answered, and he sank back, for he had raised himself a little. "It is not your fault," he repeated. "Do not ask me to forgive you. Perhaps I should have lived longer—I do not know, for I only lived for you. No—I am quiet now. I can speak better than I could. You must not think that you have killed me, if I die. Men live through worse, but not men like me, perhaps. Something else is killing me slowly, but they will not tell me what it is. Never mind. It will do as well without a name, and if I get well, it needs none. After all, I am not dead yet, and while I am alive, I can love you. You have been all to me. If you had loved me, I should have had more than all the world, and that would have been too much. If I deceived myself, loving you as I did,—as I do,—it is not your fault, Veronica. It is not your fault. There was a time last year, when I would have done anything, given everything, life and all, for one of a thousand words you have written and said to me since then—when I would have committed crimes for the touch of this little hand. Do you see? It is all my fault. That is what I wanted you to understand."
He had said all he could, and his breath came with an effort at the last. But his lips smiled bravely as he looked at her, still kneeling by his side. Then he seemed to realize that she should not be there.
"Get up, dear," he said, with failing voice. "You must not kneel—some one might come—they would think—that you meant—something."
His lids quivered and closed, and his lips trembled oddly. She felt his hand relax, and she thought that he was gone. Instantly she sprang to her feet beside him, and lifted his head, her face full of the horror that goes before the wave of pain for those one loves. But he had not even fainted. He opened his eyes, and smiled, and tried to speak again, but could not.
Veronica's lips moved, too, as she stood there, supporting him a little with her arm and stiffened with terror for his life. But she could not speak either. She watched his face with most intense anxiety. Again and again, he opened his eyes, and saw her, and he felt her arm under him.
"It is nothing," he said suddenly. "I was a little faint."
She drew away her arm with a deep breath of relief, and he sighed when it was gone. But neither of them spoke. Veronica rang, and sent for his favourite wine, and he drank a little of it. Then she sat down beside him, where she had sat before, and the room was very still.
It was hot, too, for no one had opened the window since it had stopped raining. Veronica rose and undid the fastenings and threw back the glass, and the cool air rushed in, laden with the sweet smell of the wet earth. As she came back, she saw that his eyes followed all her movements, gravely, as a sick child watches its nurse moving about its room. There was no reproach in their look, but they were still fixed on her, when she sat down again by his side.
"Veronica," said the faint, far voice, presently. "May I ask you one question, that I have no right to ask?"
"Anything," she answered. "And you have the right to ask anything."
"No—not this. Do you love another man?"
The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness.
"No, Gianluca. No—by the truth of God—no living man!"
"Nor one dead?" His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyes were wide for her answer.
A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflected from an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seen it.
"There was Bosio," she said softly. "He spoke to me the night he died—I could have married him—I should have loved him—perhaps."
If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemed rather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning, one by one, and word by word—and finding, wondered at what had once been true.
And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closed peacefully and naturally, opening again with another look. He was too weak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some word she had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, that she had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living. And Hope, that is ever last to leave a breaking heart, nestled back into her own sweet place, breathing soft things of love, and life, and golden years to be.
"Thank you," he said. "I should not have asked you. It was kind to answer."
They did not speak again, and presently the door opened. The old Duca held it back with a stately bow, and the Duchessa swept into the room with that sort of uncertain swaying motion, which is all that weakness leaves of grace. And the Duca shuffled in after her, and closed the door most precisely, for he was a precise old man.
"I thought it was time for tea, my dear," said the Duchessa. "We have had such a good sleep!"
Though Gianluca had seemed to gain strength during the first week of his stay at Muro, he appeared to lose it even more rapidly after that memorable afternoon. It was not that he lost heart and control of courage; on the contrary, he spoke all at once more hopefully, and grew most particular in the carrying out of each detail of the day, precisely in the manner prescribed by the doctors. He forced himself to eat, he did his best to sleep a certain number of hours, he made Taquisara carry him out into the air and back again at fixed times, in order that the extreme regularity of his life might help his recovery if possible. But all this was of no use. It had seemed inconceivable that he should grow more thin, and yet his face and throat and hands shrunk day by day. He could not use his legs at all, now, and he told no one that he had hardly any sensation in them.
The Duchessa prayed for her son, always in her own room and sometimes in the church, whither she went often alone in the afternoon, and sometimes accompanied by her husband. She even curtailed her daily siesta in order to have more time for prayer. No doubt, she would have given anything in the world for Gianluca, but she had very little else to give, beyond that sacrifice, which did not seem small or laughable to her. The Duca said little, but often shook his head, unexpectedly, and his weak eyes were watery. He sometimes walked twenty-five times round the top of the big lower bastion, under the vines that grew upon the trellis over it, before the midday breakfast, while the Duchessa was at her devotions. At every round, when he came to the point fronting the valley he paused a moment and repeated very much the same words each time.
"My poor son! My poor Gianluca!" he said, and then shuffled round the bastion again.
Taquisara scarcely left the sick man's side except when Gianluca could be alone with Veronica. He was evidently very anxious, though his face betrayed little of what he felt. He knew it, and was glad that nature had given him that bronze-like colour, which could hardly change at all. When the whole party were together, he talked; he talked when he was alone with Gianluca; but when he was with Gianluca and Veronica he spoke in monosyllables. Once she noticed that he was biting his lip nervously, just as he turned away his face.
Though Gianluca was worse, without doubt, he insisted that there should be no change in his way of spending the day. To amuse him, Veronica and Taquisara fenced a little of an afternoon. But the Sicilian had no heart in it, and evidently did not care whether Veronica touched him or not, and his indifference annoyed her, so that she sometimes worked herself into little furies of attack, and he, rather than really attack her in return and oppose his strength, broke ground and let himself be driven back across the room.
"Some day I shall take the foil with the green hilt," laughed Veronica."Then you will really take the trouble to fight me."
The foil with the green hilt was the sharp one which had got among the others by mistake. Taquisara smiled indifferently.
"My life is at your service," he said, in a tone that seemed a little sarcastic.
"Keep it for those who need it," she answered, laughing again, and glancing at Gianluca.
Her tone was a little scornful, too, and Gianluca watched them both with some surprise. Almost any one would have thought that they disliked each other, but such a possibility had never struck him before. He would have admitted that Veronica might not like Taquisara, but that any one in the world should not like Veronica was beyond his comprehension. He spoke to his friend about it when they were alone.
"What is the matter between you and Donna Veronica?" he asked that evening, before dinner.
"Nothing," answered Taquisara, stopping in his walk. "What do you mean."
"I think you dislike her," said Gianluca.
"I?" The Sicilian's strong voice rang in the room. "No," he added quietly, and recovering instantly from his astonishment. "I do not dislike her. What makes you think that I do?"
"Little things. You seem so silent and out of temper when she is in the room. To-day when she was laughing about the pointed foil you answered her sarcastically. Many little things make me think that you do not like her."
"You are mistaken," said Taquisara, gravely. "I like Donna Veronica very much. Indeed, I always did, ever since I first saw her. I am sorry that my manner should have given you a wrong impression. I always feel that I am in the way when I am with you two."
"You are never in the way," answered Gianluca.
After that, Taquisara was very careful, but more than ever he did his best not to remain as a third when the Duca and Duchessa were away, and Veronica and Gianluca could be together. The fencing alone was inevitable, and he hated it, though he went through it with a good grace almost every day, since Veronica seemed so unreasonably fond of the exercise.
She and Gianluca did not refer to what had happened, and to what had been said, when she had told him the truth. She, on her part, felt that she had done right, and that it was the sort of right which need not be done again. But he, poor man, was not so wholly undeceived as she thought him to be. Since she loved no one else, he could still hope that she might love him.
Yet he felt his life slipping from him, and he made desperate efforts to get well, insisting upon every detail of his invalid existence as though each several minute of the day had a healing virtue which he must not lose. He was sure that his chance of winning the woman he loved lay in living to win her, and he grappled his soul to his frail body with every thrill of energy that his dying nerve had left, with all the tense moral grip that love and despair can give. And yet it seemed hopeless, for his strength sank daily. At last he could not even sit up at table, and remained lying in his low chair, while the others ate their meals hastily in order not to leave him long alone.
The doctor came, a clever young man, whom Veronica had procured for the good of the village. He shook his head, though he tried to speak cheerfully to Gianluca's father and mother. But he advised them to send for the great authority whom they had consulted in Naples, and under whom he himself had studied. Veronica spoke with him in an outer room.
"I fear that he cannot live, but I am not infallible," he said.
"How long will he live, if he is going to die?" asked Veronica, pale and quiet.
"Do not ask me—it is guess-work," answered the young doctor. "I think he may live a fortnight. He is practically paralyzed from his waist downwards—it is almost complete. What he eats does not nourish him."
"What has caused this?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, smiled faintly, and made a gesture which in the south signifies the inevitable.
"It is a decayed race," he said; "a family too old—there is no more blood in them—what shall I say?"
"I do not believe that has anything to do with it," replied Veronica, rather proudly. "The Serra are as old as they. Did you see that gentleman who is Don Gianluca's friend? He is descended from Tancred."
"It is other blood," said the doctor.
He went away, and the great physician who lived in Naples was sent for at once. A carriage went down to Eboli to meet him. He came, looked, asked questions, and shook his head, very much as his pupil had done. He stayed a night, and when it was late, Veronica and Taquisara were alone with him. He was a fat man, with enormous shoulders and very short legs, and a round face and dreamy eyes set too low for proportion of feature. Taquisara thought that he was like a turtle standing on its hind flippers, preternaturally endowed with a hemispherical black stomach, and a large watch chain; but the idea did not seem comic to him, for he was in no humour to be amused at anything.
The professor—for he was one—talked long and learnedly, using a number of Latin words with edifying terminations. In spite of this, however, he was not without common sense.
"I have known people to recover when they seemed to have no chance at all," he said.
"But you do not expect him to live?" asked Taquisara, pressing him.
"It is a desperate case," answered the physician.
Being very fat, and having travelled all day, he went to bed. Veronica remained alone in the drawing-room with Taquisara. The latter slowly walked up and down between two opposite doors. Veronica kept her seat, her head bent, listening to his regular footsteps.
"Donna Veronica—" he stopped.
"Yes," she answered, not looking up, but starting slightly at the sound of his voice. "What do you wish to say?"
"You know that I have not always been fortunate in what I have said to you, and that makes me hesitate to speak now. But it seems to me that, as Gianluca is really in the care of us two—"
"Well?" Still she did not turn to him, though he paused awkwardly, and began to walk again.
"Gianluca asked me the other day whether I disliked you," he said.
"Well? Do you?" Her tone was unnaturally cold, even to her own ears.
He stood still on the other side of the table, looking towards her.
"No," he said, as though he were making an effort. "If he asked me the question, it must be that I have behaved rudely to you before him. Have I?"
"I have not noticed it," answered Veronica, as coldly as before.
"It would certainly not have been intentional, if there had been anything to notice. If I speak of it now, it is because Gianluca spoke to me, and because, if we are to talk about him, the way must be clear. You say that it is? May I go on?"
Veronica did not answer at once. Then she rose slowly, turned, and stood before the low, long chimneypiece.
"Why should we talk about him at all?" she asked, at length determining what to say. "We shall not agree, and we can only repeat what we have both said before now. It can be of no use."
"I have something more to say," replied Taquisara.
"Yes. There may be more to be said, that may be better not said. I know what it is. You once accused me of playing with him. You said it rudely and roughly, but I have forgiven you for saying it. You would have more reason for saying it now than you had then, and I should be less angry. You have a better right to speak, and I have less right to defend myself. But I will speak for you. I am not afraid."
"No. That is the last thing any one could say of you!"
"Or of you, perhaps," she said, more kindly, and it was the first word of appreciation she had ever given him. "We are neither of us cowards. That is why I am willing to tell you what I think of myself. It is almost what you think of me—that I have done a thousand things which might make Don Gianluca, and his father and mother, too, believe that if he recovers I mean to marry him. But you think me a heartless woman. I am not. There are things which you neither know, nor could understand if you knew them. I will ask you only one question. Is there any imaginable reason why I should wish to hurt him?"
"None that I can guess," answered Taquisara, looking into her eyes.
"Then you must understand what I have done. Out of too much friendship I have made a great mistake. What you can never understand, I suppose, is, that I can feel for him what you do—just that, and no more—or more of that, perhaps, and nothing else. A woman can be a man's friend, as well as a man can. I never played with him—as you call it—though you have enough right to say it. I told him from the first that I could never marry him. I told him so again on the day when we had first fenced, and you went to walk after the rain."
"That is why he has been worse, since then. It began that very evening."
"Yes. I know it. Do you think I do not reproach myself for having gone so far that I had to speak? Indeed, indeed, I do, more than you know. But what am I to do? He cannot go away, ill as he is. I cannot leave you all here. And then, I would not leave him, if I could. He is more to me than I can ever tell you—I would give my right hand for his life. Would you have me marry him, knowing that I can never love him? Is that what you would have me do?"
Taquisara was silent for a moment, looking earnestly at her, and he bit his lip a little.
"Yes," he said. "That is what you should do. It is all you can do, to try and save his life."
The moment he had spoken he turned from her and began to walk up and down again.
"Do you know what you are asking?" Veronica followed him with her eyes.
"It is a sacrifice," he said, pursuing his walk and not glancing at her. "It is to give your life for his. I know it. But you can hardly give him more than he has given you—or you have taken from him. Yes—I know what the doctors say, that it is a disease which is known and understood. No doubt it is. But diseases of that sort may remain latent for a lifetime, unless something determines them. Until they have gone too far, they may be overcome. If he had not lived for weeks in a state of nervous tension that would almost make a strong man ill, he would not be in such a condition now. If he had never known you, he might have been as well as he ever was—he might have been well for twenty or thirty years, before it attacked him. It is not all your fault, but a part of it is. Take your friendship, and your mistakes, together—your wish that he may live, and your responsibility if he dies—two motives are better than one, when the one is not strong enough. You have two, and good ones. Marry him, Donna Veronica—marry him and save his life, if you can, and your own remorse if he dies. Let me go to him now—he is not asleep—let me tell him that you have changed your mind, or made up your mind—that you love him, after all—"
"Please do not go on," said Veronica, drawing back a little, till she leaned against the mantelpiece.
He had placed himself in front of her before he had finished speaking. He was excited, vehement, and not eloquent—like a man driven to bay by a crowd to argue a question in which he had no conviction, but which concerns his life. He stopped speaking when she interrupted him, and he seemed to be waiting for her to say more. She had drawn herself up a little proudly, with her head high.
"You hurt me," she said, breaking the silence, and hardly knowing why she said the words.
"Do you think it costs me nothing?" he asked, in a low voice.
His eyes burned strangely in the lamp-light. But he turned away quickly, to resume his walk. She could not help asking him a question.
"Why should it cost you anything? You are speaking for your friend—butI—"
She did not finish the sentence, for it seemed to her selfish to throw her right to happiness into the scale against Gianluca's life. But she could not understand him.
"It is hard to do, for all that," he answered indistinctly. "I have said too much," he continued, stopping before her. "I meant to do the best I could. Perhaps I should have said nothing. This is no time to stop at trifles. The man is dying, and I have a right to say that I believe you might save his life—and a right to beg you to try. You have the right to refuse, to question, to doubt—all rights that are a woman's in such a case. As for me—there is no question of me in all this. Since I must be here for him, since I have displeased you from the first, since you do not like me, look upon me as a necessary evil, do not consider my existence, think of me as a man who loves your best friend and is giving all he has—to save him."
"All you have," repeated Veronica, thoughtfully, but without a question.
"Yes!" he exclaimed.
The single word was spoken with a sort of passion, as though it meant much to him. She liked him better now than when he walked up and down, giving her incoherent advice. Whatever he might mean, it was something which had power to move him.
"You are mistaken," she said. "I like you very much."
"You—Princess!" His surprise was genuine. "You have not made me think so," he added in a tone of wonder.
"Nor have you made me think that you liked me," she answered.
"Gianluca thought I did not," said Taquisara, slowly, as though speaking to himself.
Veronica smiled.
"When I first knew you, when we talked together at the villa on that morning before Christmas, I liked you better than him," she said.
He started sharply.
"Please—" He checked himself almost before the one word had escaped his lips.
"Please—what?" she asked, naturally enough.
"Nothing."
His face quickened as he walked again, and she watched him curiously.
"As friends of one friend, we must be friends," she said, after a pause. "We have spoken frankly to-night, both of us. It is much better. With his life between us we can say things, perhaps, which neither of us would have said before. You are doing all you can. You ask me to do more than I can—I think. As for his life—let us not talk of what may happen. I think of it enough, as it is."
She turned as she spoke the last words, for she did not trust her face.But he heard the true note of sorrow in her tone.
"Is it possible that you do not love him a little?" he asked, in a low voice.
"It is true," she answered mechanically, as though hearing him in a dream. "I could never love him."
Then, all at once she straightened herself and left the chimneypiece.
"We must not talk of these things any more," she said. "Good night. We understand each other, do we not?"
She held out her hand to him, which she very rarely did. He took it quietly.
"I understand you—yes," he said.
She looked at him a moment longer, smiled faintly, and then left the room. After she was gone, he sat down in the chair she had occupied, crossed one knee over the other, folded his hands, and stared at the carpet. He sat there for a long time, motionless, as though absorbed in the study of a difficult problem. But his expression did not change, and he did not speak aloud to himself as some men do when they are alone and in great trouble, as he was then. He was not a man of theatrical instincts, nor, indeed, of any great imagination. Least of all was he given to anything like self-examination, or arguing with his conscience. He was exceedingly simple in nature. He either loved or hated, either respected or was indifferent or despised altogether, with no half-measures nor compromises.
Just then he was merely revolving the situation in his mind, and trying to see some way of escaping from it, without abandoning his friend. But no way occurred to him which did not look cowardly, and when he rose from his seat, he had made up his mind to face his troubles as well as he could, since he could not avoid them.
He went to Gianluca's room before he went to bed. A small light burned behind a shade in a corner, and at first he could barely see the white face on the white pillow. The sick man lay sound asleep, breathing almost inaudibly, one light hand lying upon the coverlet, the other hidden. Gradually, as Taquisara looked, his eyes became accustomed to the light, and he gazed earnestly at his sleeping friend. He saw the dark rings come out beneath the drooping lids, and the paleness of the parted lips, and the terrible emaciation of the thin hand.
But there was life still, and hope. Hope that the man might still live and stand among men, hope that he might yet marry Veronica Serra—and be happy. In the half-darkness, Taquisara set his teeth, biting hard, as though he would have bitten through iron, lest a sharp breath should escape him and disturb the sleeper's rest.
That frail thing, that ghost, that airy remnant of a man, lay there, alive in name, between Taquisara and the mere right to think of his own happiness; and next to the reality of the shadow of his dream, he loved best on earth this shadow of reality that would not die. For he loved Veronica with all his heart, and after her, Gianluca della Spina. Above both stood honour.
He knew that he was loyal and true as he stood there, and that there was not in the inmost inward heart of him a mean, double-faced wish that his friend might die there, peacefully, and leave to the winning of the strong what the weak had wooed in vain. He had spoken the truth when he had said that for his friend's life he was giving all he had, when he did his best to persuade Veronica that she must marry the dying man, in the bare hope of saving him while there was yet time. He had done his best, though it was no wonder that there was no conviction, but only vehemence, in his tone. It had been different on that day, now long ago, when he had first spoken for Gianluca in the garden. He had not loved her then. She had been no more to him than any other woman. But even on that day, when he had left her, he had half guessed that he might love her if opportunity gave possibility the right of way. He had guessed it, and even to guess it was to fear it, for Gianluca's sake. He was not quixotic. Had he been first, death or life, he would not have given another room at her side, had that or that man been twenty times his friend or his brother. Even if it had been a little otherwise, if Gianluca had not confided in him from the beginning, and had stood out as any other suitor for her hand, Taquisara, as he loved her now, would hardly have drawn back because his friend had been before him. But Gianluca had come to him, told him all; asked his advice, taken his help—all that, when Veronica had still been nothing to Taquisara—less than nothing, in a way, because she was such a great heiress, and he would have hesitated before asking for her hand, being but a poor Sicilian gentleman of good repute, few acres, and old blood.
He was loyal to the core of his sound soul. Whatever became of him, Gianluca was to be first in his actions, wherever Veronica might stand in his heart, and he had the strength to do all that he meant to do. He would do it. He knew that he should do it, and he was glad, for his honour, that he could do it.
He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, going rarely to Bianca's house, and then not talking with Veronica when he could help it. For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mystery of attraction in which great passion begins; that something which touches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently, yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night, till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and pricks, then goads, then drives—then, at the last, tears men up like straws in its enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwind in the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin of honour, worse than any death.
He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But in that, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper to break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strong pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had done his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He was still strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and waste bodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could, and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the moment when he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding the strength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bear the pain,—a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate's grip, but silently unyielding to the last.
It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer at all. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least what they feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no man can really be measured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cry are the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it, and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the fire that scorches his brother's soul, to tell us which can suffer the more.
Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had passed between Veronica and him came back to his thoughts.
More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went to Gianluca's side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, and looked up wonderingly into his friend's eyes. He scarcely knew that he spoke, as his lips moved.
"I am going to die," he said, in a far-off tone.
Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile.
"Nonsense—no—no!" he said cheerfully. "You have been dreaming—you are better."
"Yes—I am dreaming—let me sleep," answered the sick man, hardly articulating the words.
And in a moment, he was asleep again. Taquisara listened to his breathing, bending down a moment longer. Then he went softly away. He himself slept a little, but it seemed long before the morning broke.
When it was broad daylight, Gianluca seemed better, for the deep sleep had refreshed him. It was still very early, when the professor appeared and paid him a long visit, asking a few questions at first and then suddenly, beginning to talk of politics and the public news. Taquisara left the room with him, and they stood together in Gianluca's sitting-room.
"He is better, is he not?" asked the Sicilian, eagerly.
To his surprise the doctor shook his head and was silent a long time.
"I know nothing," he said, at last. "Nobody knows anything. Surgery is a fine art, but medicine is witchcraft, or little better. You see, I speak frankly. I can only give you my experience, and that may be worth something. I have seen two cases of this kind in which, when the change came, the patients partially recovered, and lived for several years, paralyzed downwards from the point in the spine where the disease begins. I have seen several cases where death has resulted rather suddenly."
"And do you see a change coming?"
"Yes. It has begun already. Is he a devout man?"
"A religious man, at all events," answered Taquisara, gravely.
"Then, if he wishes to see a priest, it would be as well to send for one this morning. But if he wishes to be moved as usual, and dressed, let him have his way. Do not frighten him, if you can help it. No moral shock can do any good. I leave it to you. It is of no use to tell his father and mother. They are here, and you will see if he is worse. I suppose you know that he suffers great pain when he is moved?"
"No!" said Taquisara, anxiously. "I did not know it. I sometimes hear him draw his breath sharply once or twice—but he never complains. I thought it hurt him a little."
"It is agony," said the doctor. "He must be a very brave man."
The professor seemed much impressed by what Taquisara had said.
Taquisara went immediately to find Don Teodoro, who was generally at home at that hour, in his little house just opposite the castle gate. He found him with his silver spectacles pushed up to the top of his head, his long nose buried in a musty volume, a cup of untasted coffee at his elbow, absorbed in study. The small room was filled with books, old and new, and smelt of them. As Taquisara entered, the old priest looked up, screwing his lids together in the attempt to recognize his visitor without using his spectacles. He took him for the syndic of Muro, a respectable countryman of fifty years, come to consult with him about some public matters.
"Be seated," he said. "If you will pardon me, for a moment—I was just—"
In an instant his nose almost touched the page again, and he did not complete the sentence, before he was lost in study once more. Taquisara sat down upon the only chair there was and waited a few moments, not realizing that he had not been recognized. But the priest forgot his existence immediately and if not disturbed would probably have gone on reading till noon.
"Don Teodoro!" said Taquisara, rousing him. "Pray excuse me—"
The old man looked up suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise.
"Dear me!" he cried. "Are you there, Baron? I beg your pardon. I think I took you for some one else."
He drew his spectacles down to the level of his eyes, and let the big book fall back upon the table.
"Our friend is very ill," said Taquisara, gravely. "That is why I have come to disturb you."
He told the priest what the doctor had said about Gianluca's condition. Don Teodoro listened with an expression of concern and anxiety, for he had become fond of the sick man during the past weeks, and Gianluca liked him, too. Almost every day they talked together, and the refined taste and sincere love of literature of the younger man delighted in the profound learning of the old student, while the latter found a rare pleasure in speaking of his favourite occupations to such an appreciative listener.
"The fact is," Taquisara concluded, "though I have not much faith in doctors, I really believe that he may die at any moment. You know what kind of man he is. Go and sit with him after luncheon to-day—or before—the sooner, the better. Do not frighten him—do not tell him that I have spoken to you about his condition. I believe that he knows it himself, and if he is alone with you for some time, and you speak of the uncertainty of life, as a priest can, he will probably himself propose to make his confession. You understand those things, Don Teodoro—it is your business. It is our business to give you a chance."
"Yes—yes," answered the old man. "I daresay you are right. I suppose that is what I should do." There was a reluctance in his voice which surprised Taquisara.
"You do not seem convinced," said the latter.
"I wish there were another priest here," replied Don Teodoro, thoughtfully, and his clear eyes looked away, avoiding the other's direct glance.
"Why?" inquired the Sicilian, with increasing astonishment.
"It is a painful office to perform for a friend." The curate looked down now, and fingered the corner of his old book, in evident hesitation. "It is quite another thing to assist the poor."
"I do not understand you," said Taquisara. "I suppose that priests have especial sensibilities of their own—"
"Sometimes—sometimes," interrupted Don Teodoro, as though speaking to himself. "Yes—I have especial sensibilities."
"It cannot be helped," answered Taquisara, in a tone that had something of authority in it. "Of course we laymen do not appreciate those nice questions. A man is dying. He wants a priest. It is your place to go to him, whether he is your own father, or a swineherd. You are alone here, and you have no choice."
"Yes, I am alone. I wish I were not. I wish that the princess would get me an assistant."
"It will be best if you come to the castle in about an hour," said Taquisara, paying no attention to Don Teodoro's last remark. "By that time Gianluca will be in his sitting-room, and I shall be with him. The Duca and Duchessa will be out for their walk, for the weather is cool and fine, and they do not know of his imminent danger. Come in without warning, as though you had just come to pay him a visit of a quarter of an hour. You have done the same thing before. I will go away after five minutes and leave you together. Donna Veronica will not interrupt you."
"Very well," replied the priest, in a tone that was still reluctant. "If it must be, it must be."
Taquisara looked at him curiously and went away to arrange matters as he proposed. But Don Teodoro, though he wore his spectacles, with the help of which he really could see very well, did not notice the young man's glance of curiosity, as he went with him to the door, and carefully fastened it after him, which was an unusual proceeding on his part; for though he lived quite alone, the poor people never found that door locked by day or night. An old woman came every day to do the little household work that was necessary, and to cook something for him, when he ate at home. But to-day, for once, he drew the rusty old bolt across, before he went back to his study. He did nothing which could seem to have justified the precaution, after he had sat down again in his big wooden easy-chair; and if the door had been wide open, and if any one had come in without warning, the visitor would have found the priest before the table, slowly lifting one long, bent shank of his silver spectacles and letting it fall upon the other, in a slow and absent-minded fashion to which no one could have attached any especial importance. People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep it when they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave of their hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to see if it could get a vampire's dead life for a night, and come out, and draw blood.
Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly than was his wont. In the narrow court within, he stopped before passing through the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of a marble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which was built into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained white while the surrounding blocks had grown black with age. There was no more apparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of the inscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses, all alone in his room. But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro. He had a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible from himself.
But that was not easy. The thing which had taken hold of him was as strong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold for hold, wrench for wrench. It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that to yield a hair's breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one. He had almost relaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alone with Veronica.
He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turned sharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself that to waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable, since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica. And he had set himself to arrange the meeting between Gianluca and Don Teodoro, and each hour was precious.
His face helped him, for he did not easily betray emotion; he rarely changed colour at all, and was not a man of mobile features. But he had grown thinner since he had been in Muro, and the clearly cut curves that marked the Saracen strain in him were sharper and more defined.
He went in and met Veronica in the large room in which they usually fenced, and which lay between what was really the drawing-room and the apartment set aside for Gianluca and Taquisara. She was standing alone beside the table, her face very white, and as she turned to Taquisara, he saw something desperate in her eyes.
"I have seen the doctor again," she said, not waiting for any greeting, and knowing that he would understand.
"And I have seen the priest," answered Taquisara.
She started, and pressed her lips tightly to suppress something. Her eyes wandered slowly and then came back to the Sicilian before she spoke.
"You have done right," she said, and then paused a second. "He is going to die to-day," she added, very low.
"That is not sure," replied Taquisara. "The doctor says that he has known cases—"
"No," interrupted Veronica. "I know it—I feel it."
She was resting one hand on the heavy table, and as she spoke she bent down, as though bowed in bodily pain. Taquisara saw the sharp lines in the smooth young forehead, and his teeth bit hard on one another as he watched her. He could not speak. With a quick-drawn breath she straightened herself suddenly and looked at him again. He thought he saw the very slightest moisture, not in her eyes, but on the lower lids and just below them. It was very hard to shed tears, and not like her.
"Hope!" he said gently.
During what seemed a long time they stood looking at each other with unchanging faces, and neither spoke. Some people know that dead silence which descends while fate's great hand is working in the dark, and men hold their breath and shut their eyes, listening speechless for the dull footfall of near destiny.
At last Veronica, without a word, turned from the table and went slowly towards a door. Taquisara did not move. When her hand was on the lock, she turned her head.
"Stand by me, whatever I do to-day," she said earnestly.
"Yes. I will."
He did not find any eloquent words nor oaths of protest, but she saw his face and believed him. She bent her head once, as though acknowledging his promise, and she went out quietly, closing the door behind her.
Some minutes passed before Taquisara also left the room in the other direction. He wondered why she had said those last words, for he had seen again that desperate look in her face and did not understand it. Perhaps she meant to marry Gianluca before he died, and at the thought Taquisara felt as though a strong man had struck him a heavy blow just on his heart, and for one instant he steadied himself by the table and swallowed hard, as though the breath were out of him. It did not last a moment. Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend.
Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning. He had evidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisara standing by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anything of so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection. He certainly did not remember having spoken of dying. But he was very weak, and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usually seemed.
Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings, and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room.
"Tell me," he said, "does it hurt you very much when I take you up?"
"It hurts," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "Hurting is relative, you know. I can bear it very well. There are things that hurt more."
"What? When you try to move alone?"
"Oh no! Imaginary things. You hurt me very little—you are so careful.What should I have done without you?"
Taquisara had never touched him so tenderly before, though he was always as gentle as a woman with him. He lifted him, carried him from his bedroom and laid him in his accustomed chair. The pale head rested with a sigh upon the brown silk cushion.
"Thank you," he said faintly. "That was better than ever. But I am better to-day, too."
The Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid's small belongings near him,—his books, his cigarettes,—for he sometimes smoked a little,—and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowers which Elettra renewed every morning. Gianluca drew a breath of satisfaction when all was done. He really felt a little better, and by Taquisara's care had suffered less than usual in the moving. His father and mother had been in to see him as usual, before he was up, and before they went out for their daily walk. Veronica would not come yet, but he had the true invalid's pleasure in anticipating the coming of a well-loved woman. As often happens in such cases he seemed quite unconscious of his approaching danger.