A footstep was heard upon the gravel. The dogs shut up in the cave scratched furiously, then barked loudly. Following the footsteps a bareheaded peasant appeared, his red shirt open, showing his sunburnt chest. He ran up to the open door, a letter in his hand. Seeing Enrica sitting on the low wall, he stopped and made her a rustic bow.
"Who are you?" Enrica asked, her heart beating wildly.
"Illustrissima," and the man bowed again, "I am Giacomo—Giacomo protected by his reverence Fra Pacifico. You have heard of Giacomo?"
Enrica shook her head impatiently.
"Surely you are the Signorina Enrica?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then this letter is for you." And Giacomo stepped up and gave it into her outstretched hand. "I was to tell the illustrissima that the letter had come express from Lucca to Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico could not bring it down himself, because the wife of the baker Pietro is ill, and he is nursing her."
Enrica took the letter, then stared at Giacomo so fixedly, before he turned to go, it haunted him many days after, for fear the signorina had given him the evil-eye.
Enrica held the letter in her hand. She gazed at it (standing on the spot where she had taken it, midway between the door and the low wall, a glint of sunshine striking upon her hair, turning it to threads of gold) in silent ecstasy. It was Nobili's first letter to her. His name was in the corner, his monogram on the seal. The letter came to her in her loneliness like Nobili's visible presence. Ah! who does not recall the rapture of a first love-letter!—the tangible assurance it brings that our lover is still our own—the hungry eye that runs over every line traced by that dear hand—the oft-repeated words his voice has spoken stamped on the page—the hidden sense—the half-dropped sentences—all echoing within us as note to note in chords of music!
Enrica's eyes wandered over the address, "To the Noble Signorina Enrica Guinigi, Corellia," as if each word had been some wonder. She dwelt upon every crooked line and twist, each tail and flourish, that Nobili's hand had traced. She pressed the letter to her lips, then laid it upon her lap and gazed at it, eking out every second of suspense to its utmost limit. Suddenly a burning curiosity possessed her to know when he would come. With a gasp that almost stopped her breath she tore the cover open. The paper shook so violently in her unsteady hand that the lines seemed to run up and down and dance. She could distinguish nothing. She pressed her hand to her forehead, steadied herself, then read:
ENRICA: When this comes to you I am gone from you forever. You have betrayed me—how much I do not care to know. Perhaps I think you less guilty than you are. Of all women, my heart clung to you. I loved you as men only love once in their lives. For the sake of that love, I will still screen you all I can. But it is known in Lucca that Count Marescotti was your accepted lover when you promised yourself to me. Also, that Count Marescotti refused to marry you when you were offered by the Marchesa Guinigi. From this knowledge I cannot screen you. God is my witness, I go, not desiring by my presence or my words to reproach you further. But, as a man who prizes the honor of his house and home, I cannot marry you. Tell the marchesa I shall keep my word to her, although I break the marriage-contract. She will find the money placed as she desired.
Little by little Enrica read the whole, sentence by sentence. At first the full horror of the words was veiled. They came to her in a dazed, stupid way. A mist gathered about her. There was a buzzing in her ears that deadened her brain. She forced herself to read over the letter again. Then her heart stood still with terror—her cheeks burned—her head reeled. A deadly cold came over her. Of all within that letter she understood nothing but the words, "I am gone from you forever." Gone!—Nobili gone! Never to speak to her again in that sweet voice!—never to press his lips to hers!—never to gather her to him in those firm, strong arms! O God! then she must die! If Nobili were gone, she must die! A terrible pang shot through her; then a great calmness came over her, and she was very still. "Die!—yes—why not?—Die!"
Clutching the letter in her icy hand, Enrica looked round with pale, tremulous eyes, from which the light has faded. It could not be the same world of an hour ago. Death had come into it—she is about to die. Yet the sun shone fiercely upon her face as she turned it upward and struck upon her eyes. The children laughed over the chestnuts spluttering in the ashes. Pipa sang merrily above at the open window. A bird—was it a raven?—poised itself in the air; the cattle grazed peacefully on the green slopes of the opposite mountain, and a drove of pigs ran downward to drink at a little pool. She alone has changed.
A dull, dim consciousness drew her forward toward the low wall, and the abyss that yawned beneath. There she should lie at peace. There the stillness would quiet her heart that beat so hard against her side—surely her heart must burst! She had a dumb instinct that she should like to sleep; she was so weary. Stronger grew the passion of her longing to cast herself on that cold bed—deep, deep below—to rest forever. She tried to move, but could not. She tottered and almost fell. Then all swam before her. She sank backward against the door; with her two hands she clutched the post. Her white face was set. But in her agony not a sound escaped her. Her secret—Nobili's secret—must be kept, she told herself. No one must ever know that Nobili had left her—that she was about to die—no one, no one!
With a last effort she tried to rush forward to take that leap below which would end all. In vain. All nature rushed in a wild whirlwind around her! A deadly sickness seized her. Her eyes closed. She dropped beside the door, a little ruffled heap upon the ground, Nobili's letter clasped tightly in her hand.
"My love he is to Lucca gone,To Lucca fair, a lord to be,And I would fain a message send,But who will tell my tale for me?"
Sang out Pipa from above.
"All the folk say that I am brown;The earth is brown, yet gives good corn;The clove-pink, too, although 'tis brown,In hands of gentlefolk is borne."
"They say my love is brown; but heShines like an angel-form to me;They say my love is dark as night,To me he seems an angel bright!"
Not hearing the children's voices, and fearing some trick of naughty Angelo against the peace of her precious Gigi, Pipa leaned put over the window-sill. "My babe, my babe, where art thou?" was on her lips to cry; instead, Pipa gave a piercing scream. It broke the mid-day silence. Argo barked loudly.
"Dio Gesù!" Pipa cried wildly out. "The signorina, she is dead! Help! help!"
Many hours had passed. Enrica lay still unconscious upon her bed, her face framed in her golden hair, her blue eyes open, her limbs stiff, her body cold. Sometimes her lips parted, and a smile rippled over her face; then she shuddered, and drew herself, as it were, together. All this time Nobili's letter was within her hand; her fingers tightened over it with a convulsive grasp.
Pipa and the cavaliere were with her. They had done all they could to revive her, but without effect. Trenta, sitting there, his hands crossed upon his knees, his eyes fixed upon Enrica, looked suddenly aged. How all this had come about he could not even guess. He had heard Pipa's screams, and so had the marchesa, and he had come, and he and Pipa together had raised her up and placed her on her bed; and the marchesa had charged him to watch her, and let her know when she came to her senses. Neither the cavaliere nor Pipa knew that Enrica had had a letter from Nobili. Pipa noticed a paper in her hand, but did not know what it was. The signorina had been struck down in a fit, was Pipa's explanation. It was very terrible, but God or the devil—she could not tell which—did send fits. They must be borne. An end would come. She had done all she could. Seeing no present change, Trenta rose to go to the marchesa. His joints were so stiff he could not move at all without his stick, and the furrows which had deepened upon his face were moistened with tears.
"Is Enrica no better?" the marchesa asked him, in a voice she tried to steady, but could not. She trembled all over.
"Enrica is no better," he answered.
"Will she die?" the marchesa asked again.
"Who can tell? She is in the hands of God."
As he spoke, Trenta shot an angry scowl at his friend—he knew her so well. If Enrica died the Guinigi race was doomed—that made her tremble, not affection for Enrica. A word more from the marchesa, and Trenta would have told her this to her face.
"We are all in the hands of God," the marchesa repeated, solemnly, and crossed herself. "I believe little in doctors."
"Still," said Trenta, "if there is no change, it is our duty to send for one. Is there any doctor at Corellia?"
"None nearer than Lucca," she replied. "Send for Fra Pacifico. If he thinks it of any use, a man shall be dispatched to Lucca immediately."
"Surely you will let Count Nobili know the danger Enrica is in?"
"No, no!" cried the marchesa, fiercely. "Count Nobili comes back here to marry Enrica or not at all. I will not have him on any other terms. If the child dies, he will not come. That at least will be a gain."
Even on the brink of death and ruin she could think of this!
"Enrica will not die! she will not die!" sobbed the poor old cavaliere, breaking down all at once. He sank upon a chair and covered his face.
The marchesa rose and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Her heart was bleeding, too, but from another cause. She bore her wounds in silence. To complain was not in the marchesa's nature. It would have increased her suffering rather than have relieved it. Still she pitied her old friend, although no word expressed it; nothing but the pressure of her hand resting upon his shoulder. Trenta's sobs were the only sound that broke the silence.
"This is losing time," she said. "Send at once for Fra Pacifico. Until he comes, we know nothing."
When Fra Pacifico's rugged, mountainous figure entered Enrica's room, he seemed to fill it. First, he blessed the sweet girl lying before him with such a terrible mockery of life in her widely-opened eyes. His deep voice shook and his grave face twitched as he pronounced the "Beatus." Leaning over the bed, Fra Pacifico proceeded to examine her in silence. He uncovered her feet, and felt her heart, her hands, her forehead, lifting up the shining curls as he did so with a tender touch, and laying them out upon the pillow, as reverently as he would replace a relic.
Cavaliere Trenta stood beside him in breathless silence. Was it life or death? Looking into Fra Pacifico's motionless face, none could tell. Pipa was kneeling in a corner, running her rosary between her fingers; she was listening also, with mouth and eyes wide open.
"Her pulse still beats," Fra Pacifico said at last, betraying no outward emotion. "It beats, but very feebly. There is a little warmth about her heart."
"San Ricardo be thanked!" ejaculated Trenta, clasping his hands.
With the mention of his ancestral saint, the cavaliere's thoughts ran on to the Trenta chapel in the church of San Frediano, where they had all stood so lately together, Enrica blooming in health and beauty at his side. His sobs choked his voice.
"Shall I send to Lucca for a doctor?" Trenta asked, as soon as he could compose himself.
"As you please. Her condition is very precarious; nothing can be done, however, but to keep her warm. That I see has been attended to. She could swallow nothing, therefore no doctor could help her. With such a pulse, to bleed her would be madness. Her youth may save her. It is plain to me some shock or horror must have struck her down and paralyzed the vital powers. How could this have been?"
The priest stood over her, lost in thought, his bushy eyebrows knit; then he turned to Pipa.
"Has any thing happened, Pipa," he asked, "to account for this?"
"Nothing your reverence," she answered. "I saw the signorina, and spoke to her, not ten minutes before I found her lying in the doorway."
"Had any one seen her?"
"No one."
"I sent a letter to her from Count Nobili. Did you see the messenger arrive?"
"No; I was cleaning in the upper story. He might have come and gone, and I not seen him."
"I heard of no letter," put in the bewildered Trenta. "What letter? No one mentioned a letter."
"Possibly," answered Fra Pacifico, in his quiet, impassible way, "but there was a letter." He turned again to interrogate Pipa. "Then the signorina must have taken the letter herself." Slightly raising his eyebrows, a sudden light came into his eyes. "That letter has done this. What can Nobili have said to her? Did you see any letter beside her, Pipa, when she fell?"
Pipa rose up from the corner where she had been kneeling, raised the sheet, and pointed to a paper clasped in Enrica's hand. As she did so, Pipa pressed her warm lips upon the colorless little hand. She would have covered the hand again to keep it warm, but Fra Pacifico stopped her.
"We must see that letter; it is absolutely needful—I her confessor, and you, cavaliere, Enrica's best friend; indeed, her only friend."
At a touch of his strong hand the letter fell from Enrica's fingers, though they clung to it convulsively.
"Of course we must see the letter," the cavaliere responded with emphasis, waking up from the apathy of grief into which he had been plunged.
Fra Pacifico, casting a look of unutterable pity on Enrica, whose secret it seemed sacrilege to violate while she lay helpless before them, unfolded the letter. He and the cavaliere, standing on tiptoe at his side, his head hardly reaching the priest's elbow, read it together. When Trenta had finished, an expression of horror and rage came into his face. He threw his arms wildly above his head.
"The villain!" he exclaimed, "'Gone forever!'—'You have betrayed me!'—'Cannot marry you!'—'Marescotti!'"
Here Trenta stopped, remembering suddenly what had passed between himself and Count Marescotti at their interview, which he justly considered as confidential. Trenta's first feeling was one of amazement how Nobili had come to know it. Then he remembered what he had said to Baldassare in the street, to quiet him, that "it was all right, and that Enrica would consent to her aunt's commands, and to his wishes."
"Beast!" he muttered, "this is what I get by associating with one who is no gentleman. I'll punish him!"
A blank terror took possession of the cavaliere. He glanced at Enrica, so life-like with her fixed, open eyes, and asked himself, if she recovered, would she ever forgive him?
"I did it for the best!" he murmured, shaking his white head. "God knows I did it for the best!—the dear, blessed one!—to give her a home, and a husband to protect her. I knew nothing about Count Nobili.—Why did you not tell me, my sweetest?" he said, leaning over the bed, and addressing Enrica in his bewilderment.
Alas! the glassy blue eyes stared at him fixedly, the white lips were motionless.
The effect of all this on Fra Pacifico had been very different. Under the strongest excitement, the long habit of his office had taught him a certain outward composure. He was ignorant of much which was known to the cavaliere. Fra Pacifico watched his excessive agitation with grave curiosity.
"What does this mean about Count Marescotti?" he asked, somewhat sternly. "What has Count Marescotti to do with her?"
As he asked this question he stretched his arm authoritatively overEnrica. Protection to the weak was the first thought of the strongman. His great bodily strength had been given him for that purpose,Fra Pacifico always said.
"I offered her in marriage to Count Marescotti," answered the cavaliere, lifting up his aged head, and meeting the priest's suspicious glance with a look of gentle reproach. "What do you think I could have done but this?"
"And Count Marescotti refused her?"
"Yes, he refused her because he was a communist. Nothing passed between them, nothing. They never met but twice, both times in my presence."
Fra Pacifico was satisfied.
"God be praised!" he muttered to himself.
Still holding the letter in his hand, the priest turned toward Enrica. Again he felt her pulse, and passed his broad hand across her forehead.
"No change!" he said, sadly—"no change! Poor child, how she must have suffered! And alone, too! There is some mistake—obviously some mistake."
"No mistake about the wretch having forsaken her," interrupted Trenta, firing up at what he considered Fra Pacifico's ill-placed leniency. "Domine Dio! No mistake about that."
"Yes, but there must be," insisted the other. "I have known Nobili from a boy. He is incapable of such villainy. I tell you, cavaliere, Nobili is utterly incapable of it. He has been deceived. By-and-by he will bitterly repent this," and Fra Pacifico held up the letter.
"Yes," answered Trenta, bitterly—"yes, if she lives. If he has killed her, what will his repentance matter?"
"Better wait, however, until we know more. Nobili may be hot-headed, vain, and credulous, but he is generous to a fault. If he cannot justify himself, why, then"—the priest's voice changed, his swarthy face flushed with a dark glow—"I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—charity demands this—but if Nobili cannot justify himself"—(the cavaliere made an indignant gesture)—"leave him to me. You shall be satisfied, cavaliere. God deals with men's souls hereafter, but he permits bodily punishment in this world. Nobili shall have his, I promise you!"
Fra Pacifico clinched his huge fist menacingly, and dealt a blow in the air that would have felled a giant.
Having given vent to his feelings, to the unmitigated delight of the cavaliere, who nodded and smiled—for an instant forgetting his sorrow, and Enrica lying there—Fra Pacifico composed himself.
"The marchesa must see that letter," he said, in his usual manner."Take it to her, cavaliere. Hear what she says."
The cavaliere took the letter in silence. Then he shrugged his shoulders despairingly.
"I must go now to Corellia. I will return soon. That Enrica still lives is full of hope." Fra Pacifico said this, turning toward the little bed with its modest shroud of white linen curtains. "But I can do nothing. The feeble spark of life that still lingers in her frame would fly forever if tormented by remedies. I have hope in God only." And he gave a heavy sigh.
Before Fra Pacifico departed, he took some holy water from a little vessel near the bed, and sprinkled it upon Enrica. He ordered Pipa to keep her very warm, and to watch every breath she drew. Then he glided from the room with the light step of one well used to sickness.
Cavaliere Trenta followed him slowly. He paused motionless in the open doorway, his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, fixed on Enrica—the fatal letter in his hand. At length he tore himself away, closed the door, and, crossing the sala, knocked at the door of the marchesa's apartment.
* * * * *
In the gray of the early morning of the second day, just as the sun rose and cast a few straggling gleams into the room, Enrica called faintly to Pipa. She knew Pipa when she came. It seemed as if Enrica had waked out of a long, deep sleep. She felt no pain, but an excessive weakness. She touched her forehead and her hair. She handled the sheets—then extended both her hands to Pipa, as if she had been buried and asked to be raised up again. She tried to sit up, but—she fell back upon her pillow. Pipa's arms were round her in an instant. She put back the long hair that fell upon Enrica's face, and poured into her mouth a few drops of a cordial Fra Pacifico had left for her. Pipa dared not speak—Pipa dared not breathe—so great was her joy. At length she ventured to take one of Enrica's hands in hers, pressed it gently and said to her in a low voice:
"You must be very quiet. We are all here."
Enrica looked up at Pipa, surprised and frightened; then her eyes wandered round in search of something. She was evidently dwelling upon some idea she could not express. She raised her hand, opened it slowly, and gazed at it. Her hand was empty.
"Where is—?" Enrica asked, in a voice like a sigh—then she stopped, and gazed up again distressfully into Pipa's face. Pipa knew that Count Nobili's letter had been taken by Fra Pacifico. Now she bent over Enrica in an agony of fear lest, when her reason came and she missed that letter, she should sink back again and die.
With the sound of her own voice all came back to Enrica in an instant. She closed her eyes, and longed never to open them again! "Gone! gone! forever!" sounded in her ears like a rushing of great waters. Then she lay for a long time quite still. She could not bear to speak to Pipa. His name—Nobili's name—was sacred. If Pipa knew what Nobili had done, she might speak ill of him. That Enrica could not bear. Yet she should like to know who had taken his letter.
Her brain was very weak, yet it worked incessantly. She asked herself all manner of questions in a helpless way; but as her fluttering pulses settled, and the blood returned to its accustomed channels, faintly coloring her cheek, the truth came to her. Insulted!—abandoned!—forgotten! She thought it all over bit by bit. Each thought as it rose in her mind seemed to freeze the returning warmth within her. That letter—oh, if she could only find that letter! She tried to recall every phrase and put a sense to it. How had she deceived him? What could Nobili mean? What had she done to be talked of in Lucca? Marescotti—who was he? At first she was so stunned she forgot his name; then it came to her. Yes, the poet—Marescotti—Trenta's friend—who had raved on the Guinigi Tower. What was he to her? Marry Marescotti! Oh! who could have said it?
Gradually, as Enrica's mind became clearer, lying there so still with no sound but Pipa's measured breathing, she felt to its full extent how Nobili had wronged her. Why had he not come himself and asked her if all this were true? To leave her thus forever! Without even asking her—oh, how cruel! She believed in him, why did he not believe in her? No one had ever yet told her a lie; within herself she felt no power of deceit. She could not understand it in others, nor the falseness of the world. Now she must learn it! Then a great longing and tenderness came over her. She loved Nobili still. Even though he had smitten her so sorely, she loved him—she loved him, and she forgave him! But stronger and stronger grew the thought, even while these longings swept over her like great waves, that Nobili was unworthy of her. Should she love him less for that? Oh, no! He was unworthy of her—yet she yearned after him. He had left her—but in her heart Nobili should forever sit enthroned—and she would worship him!
And they had been so happy, so more than happy—from the first moment they had met—and he had shattered it! Oh, his love for her was dead and buried out of sight! What was life to her without Nobili? Oh, those forebodings that had clung about her from the very moment he had left Corellia! Now she could understand them. Never to see him again!—was it possible? A great pity came upon her for herself. No one, she was sure, could ever have suffered like her—no one—no one. This thought for some time pursued her closely. There was a terrible comfort in it. Alas! all her life would be suffering now!
As Enrica lay there, her face turned toward the wall, and her eyes closed (Pipa watching her, thinking she had dozed), suddenly her bosom heaved. She gave a wild cry. The pent-up tears came pouring down her cheeks, and sob after sob shook her from head to foot.
This burst of grief saved her—Fra Pacifico said so when he came down later. "Death had passed very near her," he said, "but now she would recover."
On the evening of that day the marchesa was in her own room, opening from the sala. The little furniture the room contained was collected around the marchesa, forming a species of oasis on the broad desert of the scagliola floor. A brass lamp, placed on a table, formed the centre of this habitable spot. The marchesa sat in deep shadow, but in the outline of her tall, slight figure, and in the carriage of her head and neck, there was the same indomitable pride, courage, and energy, as before. A paper lay on the ground near her; it was Nobili's letter. Fra Pacifico sat opposite to her. He was speaking. His deep-set luminous eyes were fixed on the marchesa. His straight, coarse hair was pushed up erect upon his brow; there was at all times something of a mane about it. His cassock sat loosely about his big, well-made limbs; his priestly stock was loosed, showing the dark skin of his throat and chin. In the turn of his eye, in the expression of his countenance, there were anxiety, restlessness, and distrust.
"Yes—Enrica has recovered for the present," he was saying, "but such an attack saps and weakens the very issues of life. Count Nobili, if not brought to reason, would break her heart." She was obstinately silent. The balance of her mind was partially upset. "'I shall never see Nobili again,' was all she would say to me. It is a pity, I think, that you sent the cavaliere away to Lucca. Enrica might have opened her mind to him."
As he spoke, Fra Pacifico crossed one of his legs over the other, and arranged the heavy folds of his cassock over his knees.
"And who says Enrica shall not see Nobili again?" asked the marchesa, defiantly. "Holy saints! That is my affair. I want no advice. My honor is now as much concerned in the completion of this marriage as it was before to prevent it. The contract has been signed in my presence. The money agreed upon has been paid over to me. The marriage must take place. I have sent Trenta to Lucca to make preliminary arrangements."
"I rejoice to hear it," answered Fra Pacifico, his countenance brightening. "There must be some extraordinary mistake. The cavaliere will explain it. Some enemies of your family must have misled Count Nobili, especially as there was a certain appearance of concealment respecting Count Marescotti. It will all come right. I only feared lest the language of that letter would have, in your opinion, rendered the marriage impossible."
"That letter does not move me in the least," answered the marchesa haughtily, speaking out of the shadow. She gave the letter a kick, sending it farther from her. "I care neither for praise nor insult from such a fellow. He is but an instrument in my hand. He has, however, justified my bad opinion of him. I am glad of that. Do you imagine, my father," she added, leaning forward, and bringing her head for an instant within the circle of the light—"do you imagine any thing but absolute necessity would have induced me to allow Count Nobili ever to enter my presence?"
"I am bound to tell you that your pride is un-Christian, my daughter." Fra Pacifico spoke with warmth. "I cannot permit such language in my presence."
The marchesa waved her hand contemptuously, then contemplated him, a smile upon her face.
"I have long known Count Nobili. He has the faults of his age. He is impulsive—vain, perhaps—but at the same time he is loyal and generous. He was not himself when he wrote that letter. There is a passionate sorrow about it that convinces me of this. He has been misled. The offer you sanctioned of Enrica's hand to Count Marescotti, has been misrepresented to him. Undoubtedly Nobili ought to have sought an explanation before he left Lucca; but, the more he loved Enrica, the more he must have suffered before he could so address her."
"You justify Count Nobili, then, my father, not only for abandoning my niece, but for endeavoring to blast her character? Is this your Christianity?" The marchesa asked this question with bitter scorn; her keen eyes shone mockingly out of the darkness. "I told you what he was, remember. I have some knowledge of him and of his father."
"My daughter, I do not defend him. If need be, I have sworn to punish him with my own hand. But, until I know all the circumstances, I pity him; I repeat, I pity him. Some powerful influence must have been brought to bear upon Nobili. It may have been a woman."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the marchesa, contemptuously. "You admit, then,Nobili has a taste for women?"
Fra Pacifico rose suddenly from his chair. An expression of deep displeasure was on his face, which had grown crimson under the marchesa's taunts.
"I desire no altercation, marchesa, nor will I permit you to address such unseemly words to me. What I deem fitting I shall say, now and always. It is my duty. You have called me here. What do you want? How can I help you? In all things lawful I am ready to do so. Nay, I will take the whole matter on myself if you desire."
As he spoke, Fra Pacifico stooped and raised Nobili's crumpled letter from the floor. He spread it out open on the table. The marchesa motioned to him to reseat himself. He did so.
"What I want?" she said, taking up the priest's words. "I will tell you. When I bring Count Nobili here"—the marchesa spoke very slowly, and stretched out her long fingers, as though she held him already in her grasp—"when I bring Count Nobili here, I want you to perform the marriage ceremony. It must take place immediately. Under the circumstances the marriage had better be private."
"I shall not perform the ceremony," answered Fra Pacifico, his full, deep voice ringing through the room, "at your bidding only. Enrica must also consent. Enrica must consent in my presence."
As the light of the lamp struck upon Fra Pacifico, the lines about his mouth deepened, and that look of courage and of command the people of Corellia knew so well was marked upon his countenance. A rock might have been moved, but not Fra Pacifico.
"Enrica shall obey me!" cried the marchesa. Her temper was rising beyond control at the idea of any opposition at such a critical moment. She had made her plan, settled it with Trenta; her plan must be carried out. "Enrica shall obey me," she repeated. "Enrica will obey me unless instigated by you, Fra Pacifico."
"My daughter," replied the priest, "if you forget the respect due to my office, I shall leave you."
"Pardon me, my father," and the marchesa bowed stiffly; "but I appeal to your justice. Can I allow that reprobate to break my niece's heart?—to tarnish her good name? If there were a single Guinigi left, he would stab Nobili like a dog! Such a fellow is unworthy the name of gentleman. Marriage alone can remove the stain he has cast upon Enrica. It is no question of sentiment. The marriage is essential to the honor of my house. Enrica must becalledCountess Nobili, whether Nobili pleases it or not. Else how can I keep his money? And without his money—" She paused suddenly. In the warmth of speech the marchesa had been actually led into the confession that Nobili was necessary to her "I have the contract," she added. "Thank Heaven, I have the contract! Nobili is legally bound by the contract."
"Yes, that may be," answered Fra Pacifico, reflectively, "if you choose to force him. But I warn you that I will put no violence on Enrica's feelings. She must decide for herself."
"But if Enrica still loves him," urged the marchesa, determined if possible to avoid an appeal to her niece—"if Enrica still loves him, as you assure me she does, may we not look upon her acquiescence as obtained?"
Fra Pacifico shook his head. He was perfectly unmoved by the marchesa's violence.
"Life, honor, position, reputation, all rest on this marriage. I have accepted Count Nobili's money; Count Nobili must accept my niece."
"Your niece must nevertheless consent. I can permit no other arrangement. Then you have to find Count Nobili. He must voluntarily appear at the altar."
Fra Pacifico turned his resolute face full upon the marchesa. Her whole attitude betrayed intense excitement.
"Your niece must consent, Count Nobili must appear voluntarily before the altar, else the Church cannot sanction the union. It would be sacrilege. How do you propose to overcome Count Nobili's refusal?"
"By the law!" exclaimed the marchesa, imperiously.
Fra Pacifico turned aside his head to conceal a smile. The law had not hitherto favored the marchesa. Her constant appeal to the law had been the principal cause of her present troubles.
"By the law," the marchesa repeated. Her sallow face glowed for a moment. "Surely, Fra Pacifico—surely you will not oppose me? You talk of the Church. The Church, indeed! Did not the wretch sign the marriage-contract in your presence? The Church must enable him to complete his contract. In your presence too, as priest and civil delegate; and you talk of sacrilege, my father! Che! che! Dio buono!" she exclaimed, losing all self-control in the conviction her own argument brought to her—"Fra Pacifico, you must be mad!"
"I only ask for Enrica's consent," answered the priest. "That given, if Count Nobili comes, I will consent to marry them."
"Count Nobili—he shall come—never fear," and the marchesa gave a short, scornful laugh. "After I have been to Lucca he will come. I shall have done my duty. It is all very well," added the marchesa, loftily, "for low people to pair like animals, from inclination. Such vulgar motives have no place in the world in which I live. Persons of my rank form alliances among themselves from more elevated considerations; from political and prudential motives; for the sake of great wealth when wealth is required; to shed fresh lustre on an historic name by adding to it the splendor of another equally illustrious. My own marriage was arranged for this end. Again I remind you, my father, that nothing but necessity would have forced me to permit a usurer's son to dare to aspire to the hand of my niece. It is a horrible degradation—the first blot on a spotless escutcheon."
"Again I warn you, my daughter, such pride is unseemly. Summon Enrica at once. Let us hear what she says."
The marchesa drew back into the shadow, and was silent. As long as she could bring her battery of arguments against Fra Pacifico, she felt safe. What Enrica might say, who could tell? One word from Enrica might overturn all her subtle combinations. That Fra Pacifico should assist her was indispensable. Another priest, less interested in Enrica, might, under the circumstances, refuse to unite them. Even if that difficulty could be got over, the marchesa was fully alive to the fact that a painful scene would probably occur—such a scene as ought not to be witnessed by a stranger. Hence her hesitation in calling Enrica.
During this pause Fra Pacifico crossed his arms upon his breast and waited in silence.
"Let Enrica come," said the marchesa at last; "I have no objection."She threw herself back on her seat, and doggedly awaited the result.
Fra Pacifico rose and opened a door on the other side of the room, communicating with the vaulted passage which had connected the villa with the tower.
"Who is there?" he called. (Bells were a luxury unknown at Corellia.)
"I," answered Angelo, running forward, his eyes gleaming like two stars. Angelo sometimes acted as acolyte to Fra Pacifico. Angelo was proud to show his alacrity to his reverence, who had often cuffed him for his mischievous pranks; specially on one occasion, when Fra Pacifico had found him in the act of pushing Gigi stealthily into the marble basin of the fountain, to see if, being small, Gigi would swim like the gold-fish.
"Go to the Signorina Enrica, Angelo, and tell her that the marchesa wants her."
As long as Enrica was ill, Fra Pacifico went freely in and out of her room; now that she was recovered, and had risen from her bed, it was not suitable for him to seek her there himself.
When Angelo knocked at Enrica's door, Pipa, who was with her, opened it, and gave her Fra Pacifico's message. The summons was so sudden Enrica had no time to think, but a wild, unmeaning delight possessed her. It was so rare for her aunt to send for her she must be going to tell her something about Nobili. With his name upon her lips, Enrica started up from the chair on which she had been half lying, and ran toward the door.
"Softly, softly, my blessed angel!" cried Pipa, following her with outstretched arms as if she were a baby taking its first steps. "You were all but dead this morning, and now you run like little Gigi when I call to him."
"I can walk very well, Pipa." Enrica opened the door with feverish haste. "I must not keep my aunt waiting."
"Let me put a shawl round you," insisted kind Pipa. "The evening is fresh."
She wrapped a large white shawl about her, that made Enrica look paler and more ghost-like than before.
"Nobody loves me like you, Pipa—nobody—dear Pipa!"
Enrica threw her soft arms around Pipa as she said this. She felt so lonely the tears came into her eyes, already swollen with excessive weeping.
"Who knows?" was Pipa's grave reply. "It is a strange world. You must not judge a man always by what he does."
Enrica gave a deep sigh. She had hurried out of her room into the sala with a headlong impulse to rush to her aunt. Now she dreaded what her aunt might have to say to her. The little strength she had suddenly left her. The warm blood that had mounted to her head chilled within her veins. For a few moments she leaned against Pipa, who watched her with anxious eyes. Then, disengaging herself from her, she trod feebly across the floor. The sala was in darkness. Enrica stretched out her hands before her to feel for the door. When she had found it she stopped terrified. What was she about to hear? The deep voice of Fra Pacifico was audible from within. Enrica placed her hand upon the handle of the door—then she withdrew it. Without the autumn wind moaned round the corners of the house. How it must roar in the abyss under the cliffs! Enrica thought. How dark it must be down there in the blackness of the night! Like letters written in fire, Nobili's words rose up before her—"I am gone from you forever!" Oh! why was she not dead?—Why was she not lying deep below, buried among the cold rocks?—Enrica felt very faint. A groan escaped her.
Fra Pacifico, accustomed to listen to the almost inaudible sounds of the sick and the dying, heard it.
The door opened. Enrica found herself within the room.
"Enrica," said the marchesa, addressing her blandly (did not all now depend upon her?)—"Enrica, you look very pale."
She made no reply, but looked round vacantly. The light of the lamp, coming suddenly out of the darkness, the finding herself face to face with the marchesa, dazzled and alarmed her.
Fra Pacifico took both Enrica's hands in his, drew an arm-chair forward, and placed her in it.
"Enrica, I have sent for you to ask you a question," the marchesa spoke.
At the sound of her aunt's voice, Enrica shuddered visibly. Was it not, after all, the marchesa's fault that Nobili had left her? Why had the marchesa thrown her into Count Marescotti's company? Why had the marchesa offered her in marriage to Count Marescotti without telling her? At this moment Enrica loathed her. Something of all this passed over her pallid face as she turned her eyes beseechingly toward Fra Pacifico. The marchesa watched her with secret rage.
Was this silly, love-sick child about to annihilate the labors of her life? Was this daughter of her husband's cousin, Antonio—a collateral branch—about to consign the Guinigi name to the tomb? She could have lifted up her voice and cursed her where she stood.
"Enrica, I have sent for you to ask you a question." Spite of her efforts to be calm, there was a strange ring in her voice that made Enrica look up at her. "Enrica, do you still love Count Nobili?"
"This is not a fair question," interrupted Fra Pacifico, coming to the rescue of the distressed Enrica, who sat speechless before her terrible aunt. "I know she still loves him. The love of a heart like hers is not to be destroyed by such a letter as that, and the unjust accusations it contains."
Fra Pacifico pointed with his finger to Nobili's letter lying where he had placed it on the table. Seeing the letter, Enrica started back and shivered.
"Is it not so, Enrica?"
The little blond head and the sad blue eyes bowed themselves gently in response. A faint smile flitted across Enrica's face. Fra Pacifico had spoken all her mind, which she in her weakness could not have done, especially with her aunt's dark eyes riveted upon her.
"Then you still love Count Nobili?" The marchesa accentuated each word with bitter emphasis.
"I do," answered Enrica, faintly.
"If Count Nobili returns here, will you marry him?"
As the marchesa spoke, Enrica trembled like a leaf. "What was she to answer?" The little composure she had been able to assume utterly forsook her. She who had believed that nothing was left but to die, was suddenly called upon to live!
"O my aunt," Enrica cried, springing to her feet, "how can I lookNobili in the face after that letter? He thinks I have deceived him."
Enrica stopped; the words seemed to choke her. With an imploring look, she turned toward Fra Pacifico. Without knowing what she did Enrica flung herself on the floor at his feet; she clasped his knees—she turned her beseeching eyes into his.
"O my father, help me! Nobili is my very life. How can I refuse what is my very life? When Nobili left me, my first thought was to die!"
"Surely, my daughter, not by a violent death?" asked Fra Pacifico, stooping over her.
"Yes, yes," and Enrica wrung her hands, "yes, I would have done it—I could not bear to live without him."
A look of sorrow and reproach darkened Fra Pacifico's brow. He crossed himself. "God be praised," he exclaimed, "you were saved from that wickedness!"
"My father"—Enrica extended her arms toward him—"I implore you, for the love of Jesus, let me enter a convent!"
In these few and simple words Enrica had tried all her powers of persuasion. The words were addressed to the priest; but her blue eyes, filled with tears, gathered themselves upon the marchesa imploringly. Enrica awaited her fate in silence. The priest rose and gently replaced her on her chair. All the benevolence of his manly nature was called forth. He cast a searching glance at the marchesa. Nothing betrayed her feelings.
"Calm yourself, Enrica," Fra Pacifico said, soothingly. "No one seeks to hurry or to force you. But I could not for a moment sanction your entering a convent. In your present state of mind it would be an unholy and an unnatural act."
Although outwardly unmoved, never in her life had the marchesa felt such exultation. Had Fra Pacifico seconded Enrica's proposal to enter a convent, all would have been lost! Still nothing was absolutely decided. It was possible Fra Pacifico might yet frustrate her plans. She ventured another question.
"If Count Nobili meets you at the altar, you will not then refuse to marry him?"
There was an imperceptible tremor in the marchesa's voice. The suspense was becoming intolerable to her.
"Refuse to marry him? Refuse Nobili? No, no, I can refuse Nobili nothing," answered Enrica, dreamily. "But he will not come!—he is gone forever!"
"He will come," insisted the marchesa, pushing her advantage skillfully.
"But will he love me?" asked the tender young voice. "Will he believe that I love him? Oh, tell me that!—Father Pacifico, help me! I cannot think." Enrica pressed her hands to her forehead. She had suffered so much, now that the crisis had come she was stunned, she had no power to decide. "Dare I marry him?—Ought we to part forever?" A flush gathered on her cheek, an ineffable longing shone from her eyes. More than life was in the balance—not only to Enrica, but to the marchesa—the marchesa, who, wrapped within the veil of her impenetrable reserve, breathlessly awaited, an answer.
Fra Pacifico showed unmistakable signs of agitation. He rose from his chair, and for some minutes strode rapidly up and down the room, the floor creaking under his heavy tread. The life of this fragile girl lay in his hands. How could he resist that pleading look? Enrica had done nothing wrong. Was Enrica to suffer—die, perhaps—because Nobili had wrongfully accused her? Fra Pacifico passed his large, muscular hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin, then stopped to gaze upon her. Her lips were parted, her eyes dilated to their utmost limit.
"My child," he said at last, laying his hand upon her head with fatherly tenderness—"my child, if Count Nobili returns here, you will be justified in marrying him."
Enrica sank back and closed her eyes. A great leap of joy overwhelmed her. She dared not question her happiness. To behold Nobili once more—only to behold him—filled her with rapture.
"What is your answer, Enrica? I must hear your answer from yourself."
The marchesa spoke out of the darkness. She shrank from allowing FraPacifico to scrutinize the exultation marked on her every feature.
"My aunt, if Nobili comes here to claim me, I will marry him," answered Enrica, more firmly. "But stop"—her eye had meanwhile traveled to the letter still lying on the table—a horrible doubt crossed her mind. "Will Nobili know that I am not what he says there—in that letter?"
Enrica could bring herself to say no more. She longed to ask all that had happened about Count Marescotti, and how her name had been mixed up with his, but the words refused to come.
"Leave that to me," answered the marchesa, imperiously. "If Count Nobili comes to marry you, is not that proof enough that he is satisfied?"
Enrica felt that it must be so. A wild joy possessed her. This joy was harder to bear than the pain. Enrica was actually sinking under the hope that Nobili might return to her!
Fra Pacifico noticed the gray shadow that was creeping over her face.
"Enrica must go at once to her room," he said abruptly, "else I cannot answer for the consequences. Her strength is overtaxed."
As he spoke, Fra Pacifico hastily opened the door leading into the sala. He took Enrica by the hand and raised her. She was perfectly passive. The marchesa rose also; for the first time she came into the full light of the lamp. Enrica stooped and kissed her hand mechanically.
"My niece, you may prepare for your approaching marriage. Count Nobili will be here shortly—never fear."
The marchesa's manner was strange, almost menacing. Fra Pacifico led Enrica across the sala to her own door. When he returned, the marchesa was again reading Count Nobili's letter.
"A love-match in the Guinigi family!" She was laughing with derision."What are we coming to?"
She tore the letter into innumerable fragments.
"My father, I shall leave for Lucca early to-morrow. You must look after Enrica. I am satisfied with what has passed."
"God send we have done right!" answered the priest, gloomily. "Now at least she has a chance of life."
"Adieu, Fra Pacifico. When next we meet it will be at the marriage."
Fra Pacifico withdrew. Had he done his duty?—Fra Pacifico dared not ask himself the question.
Ten days after the departure of the marchesa, Fra Pacifico received the following letter:
REVEREND AND ESTEEMED FATHER: I have put the matter of Enrica's marriage into the hands of the well-known advocate, Maestro Guglielmi, of Lucca. He at once left for Rome. By extraordinary diligence he procured a summons for Count Nobili to appear within fifteen days before the tribunal, to answer in person for his breach of marriage-contract—unless, before the expiration of that time, he should make the contract good by marriage. The citation was left with the secretary at Count Nobili's own house. Maestro Guglielmi also informed the secretary, by my order, that, in default of his—Count Nobili's—appearance, a detailed account of the whole transaction with my niece, and of other transactions touching Count Nobili's father, known to me—of which I have informed Maestro Guglielmi—would be published—upon my authority—in every newspaper in all the cities throughout Italy, with such explanations and particulars as I might see fit to insert. Also that the name of Count Nobili, as a slanderer and a perjurer, should be placarded on all the spare walls of Lucca, at Florence, and throughout Tuscany. The secretary denies any knowledge of his master's present address. He declared that he was unable, therefore, to communicate with him.
In the mean time a knowledge of the facts has spread through this city. The public voice is with us to a man. Once more the citizens have rallied round the great Guinigi name. Crowds assemble daily before Count Nobili's palace. His name is loudly execrated by the citizens. Stones have been thrown, and windows broken; indeed, there are threats of burning the palace. The authorities have not interfered. Count Nobili has now, I hear, returned privately to Lucca. He dares not show himself, or he would be stabbed; but Count Nobili's lawyer has had a conference with Maestro Guglielmi. Cavaliere Trenta insisted upon being present. This was against my will. Cavaliere Trenta always says too much. Maestro Guglielmi gave Count Nobili's lawyer three days to decide. At the expiration of that time Signore Guglielmi met him again. Count Nobili's lawyer declared that with the utmost difficulty he had prevailed upon his client to make good the contract by the religious ceremony of marriage. Let every thing therefore be ready for the ceremony. This letter is private. You will say nothing further to my niece than that Count Nobili will arrive at Corellia at two o'clock the day after to-morrow to marry her. Farewell.
Your friend and well-wisher,
The morning of the third day rose gray and chill at Corellia. Much rain had fallen during the night, and a damp mist streamed up from the valleys, shutting out the mighty range of mountains. In the plains of Pisa and Florence the October sun still blazed glorious as ever on the lush grass and flowery meadows—on the sluggish streams and the rich blossoms. There, the trees still rustled in green luxuriance, to soft breezes perfumed with orange-trees and roses. But in the mountain-fastnesses of the Apennines autumn had come on apace. Such faded leaves as clung to the shrubs about the villa were drooping under the weight of the rain-drops, and a few autumnal flowers that still lit up the broad borders lay prostrate on the earth. Each tiny stream and brawling water-course—even mere little humble rills that dried up in summer—now rushed downward over rocks and stones blackened with moss, to pour themselves into the river Serchio. In the forest the turf was carpeted with yellow leaves, carried hither and thither by the winds. The stems and branches of the chestnuts ranged themselves, tier above tier, like silver pillars, against the red sandstone of the rocks. The year was dying out, and with the year all Nature was dying out likewise.
Within the villa a table was spread in the great sala, with wine and such simple refreshments as the brief notice allowed. As the morning advanced, clouds gathered more thickly over the heavens. The gloomy daylight coming in at the doors, and through the many windows, caught up no ray within. The vaguely-sailing ships painted upon the wall, destined never to find a port in those unknown seas for which their sails were set—and that exasperating company opposite, that through all changes of weal or woe danced remorselessly under the greenwood—were shrouded in misty shadows.
Not a sound broke the silence—nothing save the striking of the clock at Corellia, bringing with it visions of the dark old church—the kneeling women—and the peace of God within. Even Argo and his friends—Juno and Tuzzi, and the bull-dog—were mute.
About twelve o'clock the marchesa arrived from Lucca. In her company came the Cavaliere Trenta and Maestro Guglielmi. Fra Pacifico was in waiting. He received them with grave courtesy. Adamo, arrayed by Pipa in his Sunday clothes, with a flower behind his ear, and Silvestro, stood uncovered at the entrance. Once, and once only, Silvestro abstained from addressing his mistress with his usual question about her health.
Maestro Guglielmi was formally presented to Fra Pacifico by the punctilious cavaliere, now restored to his usual health and spirits. The cavaliere had arrayed himself in his official uniform—dark-purple velvet embroidered with gold. Not having worn the uniform, however, for more than twenty years, the coat was much too small for him. In his hand he carried a white staff of office. This served him as a stick. Coming up from Lucca, the cavaliere had reflected that on him solely must rest the care of imparting some show of dignity to the ceremony about to take place. He resolved that he would be equal to the occasion, whatever might occur.
There was a strange hush upon each one of the little group met in the sala. Each was busy with his own thoughts. The marriage about to take place was to the marchesa the resurrection of the Guinigi name. To Fra Pacifico it was the possible rescue of Enrica from a life of suffering, perhaps an early death. To Guglielmi it was the triumph of the keen lawyer, who had tracked and pursued his prey until that prey had yielded. To the cavaliere it was simply an act of justice which Count Nobili owed to Enrica, after the explanations he (Trenta) had given to him through his lawyer, respecting Count Marescotti—such an act of justice as the paternal government of his master the Duke of Lucca would have forced, upon the strength of his absolute prerogative, irrespective of law. The only person not outwardly affected was the marchesa. The marchesa had said nothing since her arrival, but there was a haughty alacrity of step and movement, as she walked down the sala toward the door of her own apartment, that spoke more than words.
No sooner had the sound of her closing door died away in the echoes of the sala than Trenta, with forward bows both to Fra Pacifico and the lawyer, requested permission to leave them, in order to visit Enrica. Guglielmi and Fra Pacifico were now alone. Guglielmi gave a cautious glance round, then walked up to the table, and poured out a tumbler of wine, which he swallowed slowly. As he did so, he was engaged in closely scrutinizing Fra Pacifico, who, full of anxiety as to what was about to happen, stood lost in thought.
Maestro Guglielmi, whose age might be about forty, was a man, once seen, not easily forgotten—a tall, slight man of quick subtile movements, that betrayed the devouring activity within. Maestro Guglielmi had a perfectly colorless face, a prominent, eager nose, thin lips, that perpetually unclosed to a ghostly smile in which the other features took no part; a brow already knitted with those fine wrinkles indicative of constant study, and overhanging eyebrows that framed a pair of eyes that read you like a book. It would have been a bold man who, with those eyes fixed on him, would have told a lie to Maestro Guglielmi, advocate in the High Court of Lucca. If any man had so lied, those eyes would have gathered up the light, and flashed it forth again in lightnings that might consume him. That they were dark and flaming, and greatly dreaded by all on whom Guglielmi fixed them in opposition, was generally admitted by his legal compeers.
"Reverend sir," began Maestro Guglielmi, blandly, stepping up to where the priest stood a little apart, and speaking in a metallic voice audible in any court of law, be it ever so closely packed—"it gratifies me much that chance has so ordered it that we two are left alone." Guglielmi took out his watch. "We have a good half-hour to spare."
Fra Pacifico turned, and for the first time contemplated the lawyer attentively. As he did so, he noted with surprise the power of his eyes.
"I earnestly desire some conversation with you," continued Guglielmi, the semblance of a smile flitting over his hard face. "Can we speak here securely?" And the lawyer glanced round at the various doors, and particularly to an open one, which led from the sala to the chapel, at the farther end of the house. Fra Pacifico moved forward and closed it.
"You are quite safe—say what you please," he answered, bluntly. His frank nature rose involuntarily against the cunning of Guglielmi's look and manner. "We have no spies here."
"Pardon me, I did not mean to insinuate that. But what I have to say is strictly private."
Fra Pacifico eyed Guglielmi with no friendly expression.
"I know you well by repute, reverend sir"—with one comprehensive glance Guglielmi seemed to take in Fra Pacifico mentally and physically—"therefore it is that I address myself to you."
The priest crossed his arms and bowed.
"The marchesa has confided to me the charge of this most delicate case. Hitherto I have conducted it with success. It is not my habit to fail. I have succeeded in convincing Count Nobili's lawyer, and through him Count Nobili himself, that it would be suicidal to his interests should he not make good the marriage-contract with the Marchesa Guinigi's niece. If Count Nobili refuses, he must leave the country. He has established himself in Lucca, and desires, as I understand, to remain there. My noble client has done me the honor to inform me that she is acquainted with, and can prove, some act of villainy committed by his father, who, though he ended his life as an eminent banker at Florence, began it as a money-lender at Leghorn. Count Nobili's father filled in a blank check which a client had incautiously left in his hands, to an enormous amount, or something of that kind, I believe. I refused to notice this circumstance legally, feeling sure that we were strong enough without it. I was also sure that giving publicity to such a fact would only prejudice the position of the future husband of the marchesa's niece. To return. Fortunately, Count Nobili's lawyer saw the case as I put it to him. Count-Nobili will, undoubtedly, be here at two o'clock." Again the lawyer took out his watch, looked at it, and replaced it with rapidity. "A good deal of hard work is comprised in that sentence, 'Count Nobili will be here!'" Again there was the ghost of a smile. "Lawyers must not always be judged by the result. In this case, however, the result is favorable, eminently favorable."
Fra Pacifico's face deepened into a look of disgust, but he said nothing.
"Count Nobili once here and joined to the young lady by the Church,we must keep him. The spouses must pass twenty-four hours under the same roof to complete and legalize the marriage. I am here officially, to see that Count Nobili attends at the time appointed for the ceremony. In reality, I am here to see that Count Nobili remains. This must be no formal union. They must be bound together irrevocably. You must help me, reverend sir."
Maestro Guglielmi turned quickly upon Fra Pacifico. His eyes ran all over him. The priest drew back.
"I have already stretched my conscience to the utmost for the sake of the lady. I can do nothing more."
"But, my father, it is surely to the lady's advantage that, if the count marries her, they should live together, that heirs should be born to them," pleaded Guglielmi in a most persuasive voice. "If the count separates from his wife after the ceremony, how can this be? We do not live in the days of miracles, though we have an infallible pope. Eh, my father? Not in the days of miracles." Guglielmi gave an ironical laugh, and his eyes twinkled. "Besides, there is the civil ceremony."
"The Sindaco of Corellia can be present, if you please, for the civil marriage."
"Unfortunately, there is no time to call the sindaco now," repliedGuglielmi. "If Count Nobili remains the night in company with hisbride, we shall have no difficulty about the civil marriage to-morrow.Count Nobili will not object then. Not likely."
The lawyer gave a harsh, cynical laugh that grated offensively upon the priest's ear. Fra Pacifico began to think Maestro Guglielmi intolerable.
"That is your affair. I will undertake no further responsibility," responded Fra Pacifico, doggedly.
"You cannot mean, my father, that you will not help me?" And Guglielmi contemplated Fra Pacifico fixedly with all the lightnings he could bring to bear upon him. To his amazement, he produced no effect whatever. Fra Pacifico remained silent. Altogether this was a priest different from any he had ever met with—Guglielmi hated priests—he began to be interested in Fra Pacifico.
"Well, well," was Guglielmi's reply, with an aspect of intense chagrin, "I had better hopes. Your position, Fra Pacifico, as a peace-maker—as a friend of the family—however"—here the lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes wandered restlessly up and down the room—"however, at least permit me to tell you what I intend to do."
Fra Pacifico bowed coldly.
"As you please," was his reply.
Maestro Guglielmi advanced close to Fra Pacifico, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
"The circumstances attending this marriage are becoming very public. My client, the Marchesa Guinigi, considers her position so exalted she dares to court publicity. She forgets we are not in the middle ages. Ha! ha!" and Guglielmi showed his teeth in a smile that was nothing but a grin—"publicity will be fatal to the young lady. This the marchesa fails to see; but I see it, and you see it, my father."
Fra Pacifico shook himself all over as though silently rejecting any possible participation in Maestro Guglielmi's arguments. Guglielmi quite understood the gesture, but continued, perfectly at his ease:
"The high rank of the young lady—the wealth of the count—a marriage-contract broken—an illustrious name libeled—Count Nobili, a well-known member of the Jockey Club, in concealment—the Lucchese populace roused to fury—all these details have reached the capital. A certain royal personage"—here Guglielmi drew himself up pompously, and waved his hand, as was his wont in the fervor of a grand peroration—"a certain royal personage, who has reasons of his own for avoiding unnecessary scandal (possibly because the royal personage causes so much himself, and considers scandal his own prerogative) "—Guglielmi emphasized his joke with such scintillation as would metaphorically have taken any other man than Fra Pacifico off his legs—even Fra Pacifico stared at him with astonishment—"a certain royal personage, I say—earnestly desires that this affair should be amicably arranged—that the republican party should not have the gratification of gloating over a sensational trial between two noble families (the republicans would make terrible capital out of it)—a certain personage desires, I say, that the affair should be arranged—amicably arranged—not only by a formal marriage—the formal marriage, of course, we positively insist on—but by a complete reconciliation between the parties. If this should not be so, the present ceremony will infallibly lead to a lawsuit respecting the civil marriage—the domicile—and the cohabitation—which it is distinctly understood that Count Nobili will refuse, and that the Marchesa Guinigi, acting for her niece, will maintain. It is essential, therefore, that more than the formal ceremony shall take place. It is essential that the subsequent cohabitation—"
"I see your drift," interrupted downright Fra Pacifico, in his blunt way; "no need to go into further details."
Spite of himself, Fra Pacifico had become interested in the narrative. The cunning lawyer intended that Fra Pacifico should become so interested. What was the strong-fisted, simple-hearted priest beside such a sophist as Maestro Guglielmi!
"The royal personage in question," continued Guglielmi, who read in Fra Pacifico's frank countenance that he had conquered his repugnance, "has done me the high honor of communicating to me his august sentiments. I have pledged myself to do all I can to prevent the catastrophe of law. My official capacity, however, ends with Count Nobili's presence here at the appointed hour."
At the word "hour" Guglielmi hastily pulled out his watch.
"Only a few minutes more," he muttered. "But this is not all. Listen, my father."
He gave a hasty glance round, then put his lips close to the priest's ear.
"If I succeed—may I saywe?" he added, insinuatingly—"ifwesucceed, a canonry will be offered to you, Fra Pacifico; and I" (Guglielmi's speaking eyes became brilliantly emphatic now)—"I shall be appointed judge of the tribunal at Lucca."
"Pshaw!" cried Fra Pacifico, retreating from him with an expression of blank disappointment. "I a canon at Lucca! If that is to be the consequence of success, you must depend on yourself, Signore Guglielmi. I decline to help you. I would not be a canon at Lucca if the King of Italy asked me in person."
Guglielmi, whose tactics were, if he failed, never to show it, smiled his falsest smile.
"Noble disinterestedness!" he exclaimed, drawing his delicate hand across his brow. "Nothing could have raised your reverence higher in my esteem than this refusal!"
To conceal his real annoyance, Maestro Guglielmi turned away and coughed. It was a diplomatic cough, ready on all emergencies. Again he consulted his watch.
"Five minutes more, then we must assemble at the altar. A fine will be levied upon Count Nobili, if he is not punctual."
"If it is so near the time, I must beg you to excuse me," said FraPacifico, glad to escape.
Fra Pacifico, walked rapidly toward the door opening into the corridor leading to the chapel. His retreating figure was followed by a succession of fireworks from Guglielmi's eyes, indicative of indignation and contempt.