"He who sleeps catches no fish," the lawyer muttered to himself, biting his lips. "But the priest will help me—spite of himself, he will help me. A health to Holy Mother Church! She would not do much if all her ministers were like this country clod. He is without ambition. He has quite fatigued me."
Saying this, Maestro Guglielmi poured out another glass of wine. He critically examined the wine in the light before putting it to his lips; then he swallowed it with an expression of approbation.
The chapel was approached by a door communicating with the corridor. (There was another entrance from the garden; at this entrance Adamo was stationed.) It was narrow and lofty, more like a gallery than a chapel, except that the double windows at either end were arched and filled with stained glass. The altar was placed in a recess facing the door opening from the corridor. It was of dark marble raised on steps, and was backed by a painting too much blackened by smoke to be distinguished. Within the rails stood Fra Pacifico, arrayed in a vestment of white and gold. The grand outline of his tall figure filled the front of the altar. No one would have recognized the parish priest in the stately ecclesiastic who wore his robes with so much dignity. Beside Fra Pacifico was Angelo transformed into an acolyte, wearing a linen surplice—Angelo awed into perfect propriety—swinging a silver censer, and only to be recognized by the twinkling of his wicked eyes (not even Fra Pacifico could tame them). To the right of the altar stood the marchesa. Maestro Guglielmi, tablets in hand, was beside her. Behind, at a respectful distance, appeared Silvestro, gathered up into the smallest possible compass.
As the slow moments passed, all stood so motionless—all save Angelo, swinging the silver censer—they might have passed for a sculptured group upon a marble tomb. One—two—struck from the old clock in the Lombard Tower at Corellia. At the last stroke the door from the garden was thrown open. Count Nobili stood in the doorway. At the moment of Count Nobili's appearance Maestro Guglielmi drew out his watch; then he proceeded to note upon his tablets that Count Nobili, having observed the appointed time, was not subject to a fine.
Count Nobili paused on the threshold, then he advanced to the altar. That he had come in haste was apparent. His dress was travel-stained and dusty; the locks of his abundant chestnut hair matted and rough; his whole appearance wild and disordered. All the outward polish of the man was gone; the happy smile contagious in its brightness; the pleasant curl of the upper lip raising the fair mustache; the kindling eye so capable of tenderness. His expression was of a man undergoing a terrible ordeal; defiance, shame, anger, contended on his face.
There was something in the studied negligence of Count Nobili's appearance that irritated the marchesa to the last degree of endurance. She bridled with rage, and exchanged a significant glance with Guglielmi.
Footsteps were now heard coming from the sala. It was Enrica, led by the cavaliere. Enrica was whiter than her bridal veil. She had suffered Pipa to array her as she pleased, without a word. Her hair was arranged in a coronet upon her head; a whole sheaf of golden curls hung down from it behind. There were the exquisite symmetry of form, the natural grace, the dreamy beauty—all the soft harmony of color upon her oval face—but the freshness of girlhood was gone. Enrica had made a desperate effort to be calm. Nobili was under the same roof—in the same room—Nobili was beside her. Would he not show some sign that he still loved her?—Else why had he come?—One glance at him was enough. Oh! he was changed!—She could not bear it. Enrica would have fled had not Trenta held her. The marchesa, too, advanced a step or two, and cast upon her a look so menacing that it filled her with terror. Trembling all over, Enrica clung to the cavaliere. He led her gently forward, and placed her beside Count Nobili standing at the altar. Thus unsupported, Enrica tottered—she seemed about to fall. No hand was stretched out to help her.
Nobili had turned visibly pale as Enrica entered. His face was averted. The witnesses, Adamo and Silvestro, ranged themselves on either side. The marchesa and Maestro Guglielmi drew nearer to the altar. Angelo waved the censer, walking to and fro before the rails. Pipa peeped in at the open doorway. Her eyes were red with weeping. Pipa looked round aghast.
"What a marriage was this! More like a death than a marriage! She would not have married so—not if it had cost her her life—no music, no rose-leaves, no dance, no wine. None had even changed their clothes but the cavaliere and the signorina. And a bridegroom like that!—a statue—not a living man! And the signorina—poverina—hardly able to stand upon her feet! The signorina would be sure to faint, she was so weak."
Pipa had to muffle her face in her handkerchief to drown her sobs. Then Fra Pacifico's impressive voice broke the silence with the opening words of exhortation.
"Deus Israel sit vobiscum."
"Gloria patri," was the response in Angelo's childish treble.
Enrica and Nobili now knelt side by side. Two lighted tapers, typical of chaste love, were placed on the floor beside them on either hand. The image of the Virgin on the altar was uncovered. The tall candles flickered, Enrica and Nobili knelt side by side—the man who had ceased to love, and the woman who still loved, but who dared not confess her love!
As Fra Pacifico proceeded, Count Nobili's face hardened. Was not the basilisk eye of the marchesa upon him? Her lawyer, too, taking notes of every look and gesture?
"Mario Nobili, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wife?" asked the priest. Turning from the altar, Fra Pacifico faced Count Nobili as he put this question.
A hot flush overspread Nobili's face. He opened his lips to speak, but no words were audible. Would the words not come, or would Nobili at the last moment refuse to utter them?
"Mario Nobili, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?" sternly repeated Fra Pacifico, fixing his dark eyes upon him.
"I will," answered Nobili. Whatever his feelings were, Nobili had mastered them.
For an instant Nobili's eye met Enrica's. He turned hastily away. Enrica sighed. Whatever hopes had buoyed her up were gone. Nobili had turned away from her!
Fra Pacifico placed Enrica's hand in that of Nobili. Poor little hand—how it trembled! Ah! would Nobili not recall how fondly he had clasped it? What kisses he had showered upon each rosy little finger! So lately, too! No—Nobili is impassive; not a feature of his face changes. But the contact of Nobili's beloved hand utterly overcame Enrica. The limit of her endurance was reached. Again the shadow of death was upon her—the shadow that had led her to the dark abyss.
When Nobili dropped her hand; Enrica leaned forward upon the edge of the marble rails. She hid her head upon her arms. Her long hair, escaped from the fastening, shrouded her face.
"Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus!" spoke the deep voice of Fra Pacifico.
He made the sign of the cross. The address followed. The priest's last words died away in sonorous echoes. It was done. They were man and wife!
Fra Pacifico had by no outward sign betrayed what he felt during the discharge of his office; but his conscience sorely smote him. He asked himself with dismay if, in helping Enrica, he had not committed a mortal sin? Hitherto he had defended Count Nobili; now his whole soul rose against him. "Would Nobili say nothing in justification?" Spite of himself, Fra Pacifico's fists clinched themselves under his vestments.
But Nobili was about to speak. He gave a hurried glance round the circle—upon Enrica kneeling at the altar; with the air of a man who forces himself to do a hateful penance, he broke silence.
"In the presence of the blessed sacrament"—his voice was thick and hoarse—"I declare that, after the explanations given, I withdraw my accusations. I hold that lady, now Countess Nobili"—and he pointed to the motionless mass of white drapery kneeling beside him—"I hold that lady innocent in thought and life. But I include her in the just indignation with which I regard this house and its mistress, whose agent she has made herself to deceive me."
Count Nobili's kindling eye rested on the marchesa. She, in her turn, shot a furious glance at the cavaliere.
"'Explanations given!' Then Trenta had dared to exonerate Enrica! It was degrading!"
"This reparation made," continued Count Nobili—"my name and hand given to her by the Church—honor is satisfied: I will never live with her!"
Was there no mercy in the man as he pronounced these last words? No appeal? No mercy? Or had the marchesa driven him to bay?
The marchesa!—Nobili's last words had shattered the whole fabric of her ambition! Never for a moment had the marchesa doubted that, the marriage once over, Nobili would have seriously refused the splendid position she offered him. Look at her!—She cannot conceal her consternation.
"I invite you, therefore, Maestro Guglielmi"—the studied calmness of Nobili's manner belied the agitation of his voice and aspect—"you, Maestro Guglielmi, who have been called here expressly to insult me—I invite you to advise the Marchesa Guinigi to accept what I am willing to offer."
"To insult you, Count Nobili?" exclaimed Guglielmi, looking round.(Guglielmi had turned aside to write a few hurried words upon histablets, torn out the leaf, and slipped it into the marchesa's hand.So rapidly was this done, no one had perceived it.) "To insult you?Surely not to insult you! Allow me to explain."
"Silence!" thundered Fra Pacifico standing before the altar. "In the name of God, silence! Let those who desire to wrangle choose a fitter place. There can be no contentions in the presence of the sacrament. The declaration of Count Nobili's belief in the virtue of his wife I permitted. I listened to what followed, praying that, if human aid failed, God, hearing his blasphemy against the holy sacrament of marriage, might touch his heart. In the hands of God I leave him!"
Having thus spoken, Fra Pacifico replaced the Host in the ciborium, and, assisted by Angelo, proceeded to divest himself of his robes, which he laid one by one upon the altar.
At this instant the marchesa rose and left the chapel. Count Nobili's eyes followed her with a look of absolute loathing. Without one glance at Enrica, still immovable, her head buried on her arms, Nobili left the altar. He walked slowly to the window at the farther end of the chapel. Turning his back upon all present, he took from his pocket a parchment, which he perused with deep attention.
All this time Cavaliere Trenta, radiant in his official costume, his white staff of office in his right hand, had remained standing behind Enrica. Each instant he expected to see her rise, when it would devolve on him to lead her away; but she had not stirred. Now the cavaliere felt that the fitting moment had fully come for Enrica to withdraw. Indeed, he wondered within himself why she had remained so long.
"Enrica, rise, my child," he said, softly. "There is nothing more to be done. The ceremony is over."
Still Enrica did not move. Fra Pacifico leaned over the altar-rails, and gently raised her head. It dropped back upon his hand—Enrica had fainted.
This discovery caused the most terrible commotion. Pipa, who had watched every thing from the door, screamed and ran forward. Fra Pacifico was bending over the prostrate girl, supported in the arms of the cavaliere.
"I feared this," Fra Pacifico whispered. "Thank God, I believe it is only momentary! We must carry her instantly to her room. I will take care of her."
"Poor, broken flower!" cried Trenta, "who will raise thee up?" His voice came thick, struggling with sobs. "Can you see that unmoved, Count Nobili?" Trenta pointed to the retreating figure of Fra Pacifico bearing Enrica in his arms.
At the sound of Trenta's voice, Count Nobili started and turned around. Enrica had already disappeared.
"You will soon give her another bridegroom—he will not leave her as you have done—that bridegroom will be Death! To-day it is the bridal-veil—to-morrow it will be the shroud. Not a month ago she lay upon what might have been her death-bed. Your infamous letter did that!" The remembrance of that letter roused the cavaliere out of himself; he cared not what he said. "That letter almost killed her. Would to God she had died! What has she done? She is an angel! We were all here when you signed the contract. Why did you break it?" Trenta's shrill voice had risen into a kind of wail. "Do you mean to doubt what I told you at Lucca? I swear to you that Enrica never knew that she was offered in marriage to Count Marescotti—I swear it!—I did it—it was my fault. I persuaded the marchesa. It was I. Enrica and Count Marescotti never met but in my presence. And you revenge yourself on her? If you had the heart of a man, you could not do it!"
"It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not suffer degradation!" cried Nobili. "It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not sink into an unworthy tool! This is why I refuse to live with her. She is one of a vile conspiracy. She has joined with the marchesa against me. I have been forced to marry her. I will not live with her!"
Count Nobili stopped suddenly. An agonized expression came into his face.
"I screened her in the first fury of my anger—I screened her when I believed her guilty. Now it is too late—God help her!" He turned abruptly away.
Cavaliere Trenta, whose vehemence had died away as suddenly as it had risen, crept to the door. He threw up his hands in despair. There was no help for Enrica!
All this time Maestro Guglielmi's keen eyes had noted every thing. He was on the lookout for evidence. Persons under strong emotions, as a rule, commit themselves. Count Nobili was young and hot-headed. Count Nobili would probably commit himself. Up to this time Count Nobili had said nothing, however, that could be made use of. Guglielmi's ready brain worked incessantly. If he could carry out the plan he had formed, he might yet be a judge within the year. Already Guglielmi feels the touch of the soft fur upon his official robes!
After the cavaliere's departure, Guglielmi advanced. He had been standing so entirely concealed in the shadow thrown by the altar, that Nobili had forgotten his presence. Nobili now stared at him in angry surprise.
"With your permission," said the lawyer, with a low bow, accosting Nobili, "I hope to convince you how much you have wronged me by your accusation."
"What accusation?" demanded the count, drawing back toward the window."I do not understand you."
Guglielmi was the marchesa's adviser; Count Nobili hated him.
"Your accusation that 'I am here to insult you.' If you will do me the honor, Count Nobili, to speak to me in private"—Guglielmi glanced at Silvestro, Adamo, and Angelo, peering out half hid by the altar—"if you will do me this honor, I will prove to you that I am here to serve you."
"That is impossible," answered Nobili. "Nor do I care. I leave this house immediately."
"But allow me to observe, Count Nobili," and Maestro Guglielmi drew himself up with an air of offended dignity, "you are bound as a gentleman to retract those words, or to hear my explanation." (Delay at any price was Guglielmi's object.) "Surely, Count Nobili, you cannot refuse me this satisfaction?"
Count Nobili hesitated. What could this strange man have to say to him?
Guglielmi watched him.
"You will spare me half an hour?" he urged. "That will suffice."
Count Nobili looked greatly embarrassed.
"A thousand thanks!" exclaimed Guglielmi, accepting his silence for consent. "I will not trespass needlessly on your time. Permit me to find some one to conduct you to a room."
Guglielmi looked round—Angelo came forward.
"Conduct Count Nobili to the room prepared for him," said the lawyer."There, Count Nobili, I will attend you in a few minutes."
When the marchesa entered the sala after she had left the chapel, her steps were slow and measured. Count Nobili's words rang in her ear: "I will not live with her." She could not put these words from her. For the first time in her life the marchesa was shaken in the belief of her mission.
If Count Nobili refused to live with Enrica as his wife, all the law in the world could not force him. If no heir was born to the Guinigi, she had lived in vain.
As the marchesa stood in the dull light of the misty afternoon, leaning against the solid carved table on which refreshments were spread, the old palace at Lucca rose up before her dyed with the ruddy tints of summer sunsets. She trod again in thought those mysterious rooms, shrouded in perpetual twilight. She gazed upon the faces of the dead, looking down upon her from the walls. How could she answer to those dead; for what had she done? That heroic face too with the stern, soft eyes—how could she meet it? What was Count Nobili or his wealth to her without an heir? By threats she had forced Nobili to make Enrica his wife, but no threats could compel him to complete the marriage.
As she lingered in the sala, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her, the marchesa suddenly recollected the penciled lines which Guglielmi had torn from his tablet and slipped into her hand. She drew the paper from the folds of her dress and read these words:
"We are beaten if Count Nobili leaves the house to-night. Keep him at all hazards."
A sudden revulsion seized her. She raised her head with that snake-like action natural to her. The blood rushed to her face and neck. Guglielmi then still had hope?—All was not lost. In an instant her energy returned to her. What could she do to keep him? Would Enrica—Enrica was still within the chapel. The marchesa heard the murmur of voices coming through the corridor. No, though she worshiped him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of her beauty—no, even though she was his wife. It would be useless to ask her. "Keep him—how?" the marchesa asked herself with feverish impatience. Every moment was precious. She heard footsteps. They must be leaving the chapel. Nobili, perhaps, was going. No. The door to the garden, by which Nobili had entered the chapel, was now locked. Adamo had given her the key. She must therefore see them when they passed out through the sala. At this moment the howling of the dogs was audible. They were chained up in the cave under the tower. Poor beasts, they had been forgotten in the hurry of the day. The dogs were hungry; were yelping for their food. Through the open door the marchesa saw Adamo pass—a sudden thought struck her.
"Adamo!"
"Padrona." And Adamo's bullet-head and broad shoulders fill up the doorway.
"Where is Count Nobili?"
"Along with the lawyer from Lucca."
"He is safe, then, for the present," the marchesa told herself.
Adamo could not speak for staring at his mistress as she stood opposite to him full in the light. He had never seen such a look upon her face all the years he had served her.
She almost smiled at him.
"Adamo," the marchesa addresses him eagerly, "come here. How many years have you lived with me?"
Adamo grins and shows two rows of white teeth.
"Thirty years, padrona—I came when I was a little lad."
"Have I treated you well, Adamo?"
As she asks this question, the marchesa moves close to him.
"Have I ever complained," is Adamo's answer, "that the marchesa asks me?"
"You saved my life, Adamo, not long ago, from the fire." The eager look is growing intenser. "I have never thanked you. Adamo—"
"Padrona"—he is more and more amazed at her—"she must be going to die! Gesù mio! I wish she would swear at me," Adamo thought. "Padrona, don't thank me—Domine Dio did it."
"Take these"—and the marchesa puts her hand into her pocket and draws out some notes—"take these, these are better than thanks."
Adamo drew back much affronted. "Padrona, I don't want money."
"Yes, yes, take them—for Pipa and the boys"—and she thrusts the notes into his big red hands.
"After all," thought Adamo to himself, "if the padrona is going to die, I may as well have these notes as another."
"I would save your life any day, padrona," Adamo says aloud. "It is a pleasure."
"Would you?" the marchesa fell into a muse.
Again the dogs howled. Adamo makes a motion to go to them.
"Were you going to feed the dogs when I called to you?" she asks.
"Padrona, yes. I was going to feed them."
"Are they very hungry?"
"Very—poverini! they have had nothing since this morning. Now it is five o'clock."
"Don't feed them, Adamo, don't feed them." The marchesa is strangely excited. She holds out her hand to detain him.
Adamo stares at her in mute consternation. "The padrona is certainly going mad before she dies," he mutters, trying to get away.
"Adamo, come here!" He approaches her, secretly making horns against the evil-eye with his fingers. "You saved my life, now you must save my honor."
The words came hissing into his ear. Adamo drew back a step or two."Blessed mother, what ails her?" But he held his tongue.
The marchesa stands before him drawn up to her full height, every nerve and muscle strained to the utmost.
"Adamo, do you hear?—My honor, the honor of my name. Quick, quick!"
She lays her hand on his rough jacket and grasps it.
Adamo, struck with superstitious awe, cannot speak. He nods.
"The dogs are hungry, you say. Let them loose without feeding. No one must leave the house to-night. Do you understand? You must prevent it. Let the dogs loose."
Again Adamo nods. He is utterly bewildered. He will obey her, of course, but what can she mean?
"Is your gun loaded?" she asks, anxiously.
"Yes, padrona."
"That is well." A vindictive smile lights up her features. "No one must leave the house to-night. You understand? The dogs will be loose—the guns loaded.—Where is Pipa? Say nothing to Pipa. Do you understand? Don't tell Pipa—"
"Understand? No, diavalo! I don't understand," bursts out Adamo. "If you want any one shot, tell me who it is, padrona, and I will do it."
"That would be murder, Adamo." The marchesa is standing very near him. Adamo sees the savage gleam that comes into her eyes. "If any one leaves the house to-night except Fra Pacifico, stop him, Adamo, stop him. You, or the dogs, or the gun—no matter. Stop him, I command you. I have my reasons. If a life is lost I cannot help it—nor can you, Adamo, eh?"
She smiles grimly. Adamo smiles too, a stolid smile, and nods. He is greatly relieved. The padrona is not mad, nor will she die.
"You may sleep in peace, padrona." With the utmost respect Adamo raises her hand to his lips and kisses it. "Next time ask Adamo to do something more, and he will do it. Trust me, no one shall leave the house to-night alive."
The marchesa listens to Adamo breathlessly. "Go—go," she says; "we must not be seen together."
"The signora shall be obeyed," answers Adamo. He vanishes behind the trees.
"Now I can meet Guglielmi!" The marchesa rapidly crosses the sala to the door of her own room, which she leaves ajar.
The room to which Angelo conducts Count Nobili is on the ground-floor, in the same wing as the chapel. It is reached by the same corridor, which traverses all that side of the house. Into this corridor many other doors open. Pipa had chosen it because it was the best room in the house. From the high ceiling, painted in gay frescoes, hangs a large chandelier; the bed is covered with red damask curtains. Such furniture as was available had been carried thither by Pipa and Adamo. One large window, reaching to the ground, looks westward over the low wall.
The sun is setting. The mighty range of mountains are laced with gold; light, fleecy cloudlets float across the sky. Behind rise banks of deepest saffron. These shift and move at first in chaos; then they take the form as of a fiery city. There are domes and towers and pinnacles as of living flame, that burn and glisten. Another moment, and the sun has sunk to rest. The phantom city fades; the ruddy background melts into the gray mountain-side. Dim ghost-like streaks linger about the double summits of La Pagna. They vanish. Nothing then remains but masses of leaden clouds soon to darken into night.
On entering the room, Count Nobili takes a long breath, gazes for a moment on the mountains that rise before him, then turns toward the door, awaiting the arrival of Guglielmi. His restless eye, his shifting color, betray his agitation. The ordeal is not yet over; he must hear what this man has to say.
Maestro Guglielmi enters with a quick, brisk step and easy, confident bearing; indeed, he is in the highest spirits. He had trembled lest Nobili should have insisted upon leaving Corellia immediately after the ceremony when it was still broad daylight. Several unforeseen circumstances had prevented this—Enrica's fainting-fit; the discussion that ensued upon it between Nobili and the old chamberlain—all this had created delay, and afforded him an appropriate opportunity of requesting a private interview. Besides, the cunning lawyer had noted that, during that discussion in the chapel with Cavaliere Trenta, Nobili had evinced indications of other passions besides anger—indications of a certain tenderness in the midst of his vehement sense of the wrong done him by the marchesa. But, what was of far more consequence to Guglielmi was, that all this had the effect of stopping Nobili's immediate departure. That Guglielmi had prevailed upon Nobili to enter the room prepared for him—that he had in so doing domiciled himself voluntarily under the same roof as his wife—was an immense point gained.
All this filled Maestro Guglielmi with the prescience of success. With Nobili in the house, what might not the chapter of accidents produce? All this had occurred, too, without taking into account what the marchesa herself might have planned, when she had read the note of instructions he had written upon a page of his tablets. Guglielmi thought he knew his friend and client the Marchesa Guinigi but little, if her fertile brain had not already created some complication that would have the effect of preventing Count Nobili's departure that night. The instant—the immediate instant—now lay with himself. He was about to make the most of it.
When Guglielmi entered the room, Count Nobili received him with an expression of undisguised disgust. Summoned by Nobili in a peremptory tone to say why he had brought him hither, Guglielmi broke forth with extraordinary volubility. He had used, he declared, his influence with the marchesa throughout for his (Count Nobili's) advantage—solely for his advantage. One word from him, and the Marchesa Guinigi would have availed herself of her legal claims in the most vindictive manner—exposed family secrets—made the whole transaction of the marriage public—and so revenged herself upon him that Count Nobili would have no choice but to leave Lucca and Italy forever.
"All this I have prevented," Guglielmi insisted emphatically. "How could I serve you better?—Could a brother have guarded your honor more jealously? You will come to see and acknowledge the obligation in time—yes, Count Nobili—in time. Time brings all things to light. Time will exhibit my integrity, my disinterested devotion to your interests in their true aspect. All little difficulties settled with my illustrious client, the Marchesa Guinigi (a high-minded and most courageous lady of the heroic type), established in Lucca in the full enjoyment of your enormous wealth—with the lovely lady I have just seen by your side—the enlightened benefactor of the city—the patron of art—the consoler of distress—a leader of the young generation of nobles—the political head of the new Italian party—bearing the grandest name (of course you will adopt that of Guinigi), adorning that name with the example of noble actions—a splendid career opens before you. Yes, Count Nobili—yes—a career worthy of the loftiest ambition!"
"All this I have been the happy means of procuring for you. Another advocate might have exasperated the marchesa's passions for his own purposes; it would have been most easy. But I," continued Guglielmi, bringing his flaming eyes to bear upon Count Nobili, then raising them from him outward toward the darkening mountains as though he would call on the great Apennines to bear witness to his truth—"I have scorned such base considerations. With unexampled magnanimity I have brought about this marriage—all this I have done, actuated by the purest, the most single-hearted motives. In return, Count Nobili, I make one request—I entreat you to believe that I am your friend—"
(Before the lawyer had concluded his peroration, professional zeal had so far transported him that he had convinced himself all he said was true—was he not indeed pleading for his judgeship?)
Guglielmi extended his arms as if about toembraceCount Nobili!
All this time Nobili had stood as far removed from him as possible. Nobili had neither moved nor raised his head once. He had listened to Guglielmi, as the rocks listen to the splash of the seething waves beating against their side. As the lawyer proceeded, a deep flush gradually overspread his face—when he saw the lawyer's outstretched arms, he retreated to the utmost limits of the room. Guglielmi's arms fell to his side.
"Whatever may be my opinion of you, Signore Avvocato," spoke the count at length, contemplating Guglielmi fixedly, and speaking slowly, as if exercising a strong control over himself—"whether I accept your friendship, or whether I believe any one word you say, is immaterial. It cannot affect in any way what is past. The declaration I made before the altar is the declaration to which I adhere—I am not bound to state my reasons. To me they are overwhelming. I must therefore decline all discussion with you. It is for you to make such arrangements with your client as will insure me a separation. That done, our paths lie far apart."
Who would have recognized the gracious, facile Count Nobili in these hard words? The haughty tone in which they were uttered added to their sting.
We are at best the creatures of circumstances—circumstances had entirely altered him. At that moment, Nobili was at war with all the world. He hated himself—he hated and he mistrusted every one. Guglielmi was not certainly adapted to restore faith in mankind.
Legal habits had taught Maestro Guglielmi to shape his countenance into a mask, fashioned to whatever expression he might desire to assume. Never had the trick been so difficult! The intense rage that possessed him was uncontrollable. For the first moment he stood stolidly mute. Then he struck the heel of his boot loudly upon the stuccoed floor—would he could crush Count Nobili thus!—crush him and trample upon him—Nobili—the only obstacle to the high honors awaiting him! The next instant Guglielmi was reproaching himself for his want of control—the next instant he was conscious how needful it was to dissemble. Was he—Guglielmi—who had flashed his sword in a thousand battles, to be worsted by a stubborn boy? Outwitted by a capricious lover? Never!
"Excuse me, Count Nobili," he said, overmastering himself by a violent effort—"it is a bitter pang to me, your devoted friend, to be asked to become a party to an act fatal to your prospects. If you adhere to your resolution, you can never return to Lucca—never inhabit the palace your wealth has so superbly decorated. Public opinion would not permit it. You, a stranger in the city, are held to have ill-used and abandoned the niece of the Marchesa Guinigi." Nobili looked up; he was about to reply. "Pardon me, count, I neither affirm nor deny this accusation," continued Guglielmi, observing his movement; "I am giving no opinion on the merits of the case. You have now espoused the lady. If for a second time you abandon her, you will incur the increased indignation of the public. Reconsider, I implore you, this last resolve."
The lawyer's metallic voice grew positively pathetic.
"I will not reconsider it!" cried Count Nobili, indignantly. "I deny your right to advise me. You have brought me into this room for no purpose that I can comprehend. What have I in common with the advocate of my enemy? I desire to leave Corellia. You are detaining me. Here is the deed of separation "—Nobili drew from his breast-pocket the parchment he had perused so attentively in the chapel—"it only needs the lady's signature. Mine is already affixed. Let me tell you, and through you the Marchesa Guinigi, without that deed—and my own free will," he added in a lower tone, "neither you nor she would have forced me here to this marriage; I came because I considered some reparation was due to a young lady whose name has been cruelly outraged. Else I would have died first! If the lady I have made my wife desires, to make any amends to me for the insults that have been heaped upon me through her, let her set me free from an odious thralldom. I will not so much as look upon one who has permitted herself to be made the tool of others to deceive me. She has been treacherous to me in business—she has been treacherous to me in love—no, I will never look upon her again! Live with her?—by God! never!"
The pent-up wrath within him, the maddening sense of wrong, blaze out. Count Nobili is now striding up and down the room insensible to any thing for the moment but the consciousness of his own outraged feelings.
As Count Nobili waxed furious, Maestro Guglielmi grew calm. His busy brain was concocting all sorts of expedients. He leaned his chin upon his hands. His false smile gave place to a sardonic grin, as he watched Nobili—marked his well-set, muscular figure, his easy movements, the graceful curve of his head and neck, his delicate, regular features, his sunny complexion. But Nobili's face without a smile was shorn of its chief charm: that smile, so bright in itself, brought brightness to others.
"A fine, generous fellow, a proper husband for any lady in Italy, whoever she may be," was Guglielmi's reflection, as he watched him. "The young countess has taste. He is not such a fool either, but desperately provoking—like all boys with large fortunes, desperately provoking—and dogged as a mule. But for all that he is a fine, generous-hearted fellow. I like him—I like him for refusing to be forced against his will. I would not live with an angel on such terms." At this point Guglielmi's eyes exhibited a succession of fireworks; his long teeth gleamed, and he smiled a stealthy smile. "But he must be tamed, this youth—he must be tamed. Let me see, I must take him on another tack—on the flank this time, and hit him hard!"
Nobili has now ceased striding up and down the room. He stands facing the window. His ear has caught the barking of several dogs. A minute after, one rushes past the window—raised only by a few stone steps from the ground—formidable beast with long white hair, tail on end, ears erect, open-mouthed, fiery-eyed—this is Argo—Argo let loose, famished—maddened by Adamo's devices—Argo rushing at full speed and tearing up a shower of gravel with his huge paws. Barking horribly, he disappears into the shrubs. Argo's bark is taken up by the other dogs from all round the house in various keys. Juno the lurcher gives a short low yelp; the rat-terrier Tuzzi, a shrill, grating whine like a rusty saw; the bull-terrier, a deep growl. In the solemn silence of the untrodden Apennines that rise around, the loud voices of the dogs echo from cliff to cliff boom down into the abyss, and rattle there like thunder. The night-birds catch up the sound and screech; the frightened bats circle round wildly.
At this moment heavy footsteps creak upon the gravel under the shadow of the wall. A low whistle passes through the air, and the dogs disappear.
"A savage pack, like their mistress," was Count Nobili's thought as his eyes tried to pierce into the growing darkness.
Night is coming on. Heavy vapors creep up from the earth and obscure the air. Darker and denser clouds cover the heavens. Black shadows gather within the room. The bed looms out from the lighter walls like a funeral catafalque.
A few pale gleams of light still linger on the horizon. These fall upon Nobili's figure as he stands framed in the window. As the waning light strikes upon his eyes, a presentiment of danger comes over him. These dogs, these footsteps—what do they mean?
Again a wild desire seizes him to be riding full speed on the mountain-road to Lucca, to feel the fresh night air upon his heated brow; the elastic spring of his good horse under him, each stride bearing him farther from his enemies. He is about to leap out and fly, when the warning hand of the lawyer is laid upon his arm. Nobili shakes him off, but Guglielmi permits himself no indication of offense. Dejection and grief are depicted on his countenance. He shakes his head despondingly; his manner is dangerously fawning. He, too, has heard the dogs, the footsteps, and the whistle. He has drawn his own conclusions.
"I perceive, Count Nobili," he says, "you are impatient."
This was in response to a muttered curse from Nobili.
"Let me go! A thousand devils! Let me go!" cried the count, putting the lawyer back. "Impatient! I am maddened!"
"But not before we have settled the matter in question. That is impossible! Hear me, then. Count Nobili. With the deepest sorrow I accept the separation you demand on the part of the marchesa; you give me no choice. I venture no further remark," continues Guglielmi meekly, drilling his eyes to a subdued expression.
(His eyes are a continual curse to him; sometimes they will tell the truth.)
"But there is one point, my dear count, upon which we must understand each other."
In order to detain Nobili, Guglielmi is about to commit himself to a deliberate lie. Lying is not his practice; not on principle, for he has none. Expediency is his faith, pliancy his creed; lying is inartistic, also dangerous. A lie may grow into a spectre, and haunt you to your grave, perhaps beyond it.
Guglielmi felt he must do something decisive, or that exalted personage who desired to avoid all scandal not connected with himself would be irretrievably offended, and he, Guglielmi, would never sit on the judicial bench. Yet, unscrupulous as he was, the trickster shuddered at the thought of what that lie might cost him.
"It is my duty to inform you, Count Nobili"—Guglielmi is speaking with pompous earnestness—he anxiously notes the effect his words produce upon Count Nobili—"that, unless you remain under the same roof with your wife to-night, the marriage will not be completed; therefore no separation between you will be legal."
Nobili turned pale. He struck his fist violently on the table.
"What! a new difficulty? When will this torture end?"
"It will end to-morrow morning, Count Nobili. To-morrow morning I shall have the honor of waiting upon you, in company with the Mayor of Corellia, for the civil marriage. Every requisition of the law will then have been complied with."
Maestro Guglielmi bows and moves toward the door. If by this means the civil marriage can be brought about, Guglielmi will have clinched a doubtful act into a legal certainty.
"A moment, Signore Avvocato "—and Nobili is following Guglielmi to the door, consternation and amazement depicted upon his countenance, "Is this indeed so?"
Nobili's manner indicates suspicion.
"Absolutely so," answers the mendacious one. "To-morrow morning, after the civil marriage, we shall be in readiness to sign the deed of separation. Allow me in the mean time to peruse it."
He holds out his hand. If all fails, he determines to destroy that deed, and protest that he has lost it.
"Dio Santo!" ejaculates Nobili, giving the deed to him—"twenty-four hours at Corellia!"
"Not twenty-four," suggests Guglielmi, blandly, putting the deed into his pocket and taking out his watch with extraordinary rapidity, then replacing it as rapidly; "it is now seven o'clock. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning the deed of separation shall be signed, and you, Count Nobili, will be free."
At that moment Fra Pacifico's tall figure barred the doorway. He seemed to have risen suddenly out of the darkness. Nobili started back and changed color. Of all living men, he most dreaded the priest at that particular moment. The priest was now before him, stern, grave, authoritative; searching him with those earnest eyes—the priest—a living protest against all he had done, against all he was about to do!
The agile lawyer darted forward. He was about to speak. Fra Pacifico waved him into silence.
"Maestro Guglielmi," he said, with that sonorous voice which lent importance to his slightest utterances, "I am glad to find you here. You represent the marchesa.—My son," he continued, addressing Count Nobili (as he did so, his face darkened into a look of mingled pain and displeasure), "I come from your wife."
At that word Fra Pacifico paused. Count Nobili reddened. His eyes fell upon the floor; he dared not meet the reproving glance he felt was upon him.
"My son, I come from your wife," repeated Fra Pacifico.
There was a dead silence.
"You saw your wife borne from the altar fainting. She was mercifully spared, therefore, hearing from your own lips that you repudiated her. She has since been informed by Cavaliere Trenta that you did so. I am here as her messenger. Your wife accepts the separation you desire."
As each sentence fell from the priest's lips his countenance grew sterner.
"Accepts the separation! Gives me up!" exclaimed Nobili, quite taken aback. "So much the better. We are both of the same mind."
But, spite his words, there were irritation and surprise in Nobili's manner. That Enrica herself should have consented to part from him was altogether an astonishment!
"If Countess Nobili accepts the separation"—and he turned sharply upon Guglielmi—"nothing need detain you here, Signore Avvocato. You hear what Fra Pacifico says. You have only, therefore, to inform the Marchesa Guinigi. Probably her niece has already done so. We know that they act in concert." Count Nobili laughed bitterly.
"The marchesa is not even aware that I am here," interposed FraPacifico. "Enrica is now married—she acts for herself. Her first act,Count Nobili, is one of obedience—she sacrifices herself to you."
Again the priest's deep-set eyes turned reprovingly upon Count Nobili. Dare the headstrong boy affect to misunderstand that he had driven Enrica to renounce him? Guglielmi remained standing near the door—self-possessed, indeed, as usual, but utterly crestfallen. His very soul sank within him as he listened to Fra Pacifico. Every thing was going wrong, the judgeship in imminent peril, and this devil of a priest, who ought to know better, doing every thing to divide them!
"Signore Guglielmi," said Nobili, with a significant glance at the open door, "allow me to repeat—we need not detain you. We shall now act for ourselves. Without reference to the difficulties you have raised—"
"The difficulties I have raised have been for your own good, Count Nobili," was Guglielmi's indignant reply. "Had I been supported by"—and he glanced at Fra Pacifico—"by those whose duty teaches them obedience to the ordinances of the Church, you would have saved yourself and others the spectacle of a matrimonial scandal that will degrade you before the eyes of all Italy."
Count Nobili was rushing forward, with some undefined purpose of chastising Guglielmi, when Fra Pacifico interposed. A quiet smile parted his well-formed mouth; he shrugged his shoulders as he eyed the enraged lawyer.
"Allow me to judge of my duty as a priest. Look to your own as a lawyer, or it may be the worse for you. What says the motto?—'Those who seek gold may find sand.'"
Guglielmi, greatly alarmed at what Fra Pacifico might reveal of their previous conversation, waited to hear no more; he hastily disappeared. Fra Pacifico watched the manner of his exit with silence, the quiet smile of conscious power still on his lips. When he turned and addressed Count Nobili, the smile had died out.
Before Fra Pacifico can speak, the whole pack of dogs, attracted by the loud voices, gather round the steps before the open window. They are barking furiously. The smooth-skinned, treacherous bull-dog is silent, but he stands foremost. True to his breed, the bull-dog is silent. He creeps in noiselessly—his teeth gleam within an inch of Nobili. Fra Pacifico spies him. With a furious kick he flings him out far over the heads of the others. The bull-dog's howl of anguish rouses the rest to frenzy. A moment more, and Fra Pacifico and Count Nobili would have been attacked within the very room, but again footsteps are heard passing in the shadow. A shot is fired close at hand. The dogs rush off, the bull-dog whining and limping in the rear.
Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico exchange glances. There is a knock at the door. Pipa enters carrying a lighted lamp which she places on the table. Pipa does not even salute Fra Pacifico, but fixes her eyes, swollen with crying, upon Count Nobili.
"What is the matter?" asks the priest.
"Riverenza, I do not know. Adamo and Angelo are out watching."
"But, Pipa, it is very strange. A shot was fired. The dogs, too, are wilder than ever."
"Riverenza, I know nothing. Perhaps there are some deserters about. We are used to the dogs. I never hear them. I am come from the signorina."
At that name Count Nobili looks up and meets Pipa's gaze. If Pipa could have stabbed him then and there with the silver dagger in her black hair she would have done it, and counted it a righteous act. But she must deliver her message.
"Signore Conte"—Pipa flings her words at Nobili as if each word were a stone, with which she would have hit him—"Signore Conte, the marchesa has sent me. The marchesa bids me salute you. She desired me to bring in this light. I was to say supper is served in the great sala. She eats in her own room with the cavaliere, and hopes you will excuse her."
Before the count could answer, Pipa was gone.
"My son," said Fra Pacifico, standing beside him in the dimly-lighted room, "you have now had time to reflect. Do you accept the separation offered to you by your wife?"
"I do, my father."
"Then she will enter a convent." Nobili sighed heavily. "You have broken her heart."
There was a depth of unexpressed reproach in the priest's look. Tears gathered in his eyes, his deep voice shook.
"But why if she ever loved me"—whispered Nobili into Fra Pacifico's ear as though he shrank from letting the very walls hear what he was about to say—
"If she loved you!" burst out Fra Pacifico with rising passion—"if she loved you! You have my word that she loved you—nay, God help her, that she loves you still!"
Fra Pacifico drew back from Nobili as he said this. Again Nobili approached him, speaking into his ear.
"Why, then, if she loved me, could she join with the marchesa against me? Was I not induced by my love for her to pay her aunt's debts? Answer me that, my father. Why did she insist upon this ill-omened marriage?—a proceeding as indelicate as it is—"
"Silence!" thundered Fra Pacifico—"silence, I command you! What you say of that pure and lovely girl whose soul is as crystal before me, is absolute sacrilege. I will not listen to it!"
Fra Pacifico's eyes flashed fire. He looked as if he would strike Count Nobili where he stood. He checked himself, however; then he continued with more calmness: "To become your wife was needful for the honor of Enrica's name, which you had slandered. The child put herself in my hands. I am responsible for this marriage—I only. As to the marchesa, do you think she consults Enrica? The hawk and the dove share not the same nest! No, no. Did the marchesa so much as tell Enrica, when she offered her as wife to Count Marescotti?"
At the sound of Marescotti's name Nobili's assumed composure utterly gave way. His whole frame stiffened with rage.
"Yes—Marescotti—curse him! And I am the husband of the woman he refused!"
"For shame, Count Nobili!—you have yourself exonerated her."
"Enrica must have been an accomplice!" cried Nobili, transported out of himself. Count Marescotti's name had exasperated him beyond control.
"Fool!" exclaimed Fra Pacifico. "Will you not listen to reason? Has not Enrica by her own act renounced all claim to you as a wife? Is not that enough?"
Nobili was silent. Hitherto he had been driven on, goaded by the promptings of passion, and the firm belief that Enrica was the mere tool of her aunt. Now the same facts detailed by the priest placed themselves in a new light. For the first time Nobili doubted whether he was entirely justified in all that he had done—in all that he was about to do.
Meanwhile Fra Pacifico was losing all patience. His manly nature rose within him at what he considered Nobili's deliberate cruelty. Inflexible in right, Fra Pacifico was violent in face of wrong.
"Why did you not let her die?" he exclaimed, bitterly. "It would have saved her a world of suffering. I thought I knew you, Mario Nobili—knew you from a boy," he added, contemplating him with a dark scowl. "You have deceived me. Every word you utter only sinks you lower in my esteem."
"It would indeed have been better had we both perished in the flames!" cried Nobili in a voice full of anguish—"perished—locked in each other's arms! Poor Enrica!" He turned away, and a low sob burst from his heart of hearts. "The marchesa has destroyed my love!—She has blighted my life!" Nobili's voice sounded hollow in the dimly-lighted room. At last Nobili was speaking out—speaking, as it were, from the grave of his love! "Yes, I loved her," he continued dreamily—"I loved her! How much I did not know!"
He had forgotten he was not alone. The priest was but dimly visible. He was leaning against the wall, his massive chin resting on his hand, listening to Nobili. Now, hearing what he said, Fra Pacifico's anger had vanished. After all, he had not been mistaken in his old pupil! Nobili was neither cruel nor heartless; but he had been driven to bay! Now he pitied him, profoundly. What could he say to him? He could urge Nobili no more. He must work out his own fate!
Again Nobili spoke.
"When I saw her sweet face turned toward me as she entered the chapel, I dared not look again! It was too late. My pride as a man, all that is sacred to me as a gentleman, has been too deeply wounded. The marchesa has done it. She alone is responsible.Shehas left me no alternative. I will never accept a wife forced upon me byher—never, by Heaven! My father, these are my last words. Carry them to Enrica."
Count Nobili's head dropped upon his breast. He covered his face with his hands.
"My son, I leave you in the hands of God. May He lead you and comfort you! But remember, the life of your wife is bound up inyourlife. Hitherto Enrica has lived upon hope. Deprived of hope,she will die."
When Nobili looked up, Fra Pacifico was gone.
The time had now come when Count Nobili must finally make up his mind. He had told Fra Pacifico that his determination was unaltered. He had told him that his dignity as a man, his honor as a gentleman, demanded that he should free himself from the net-work of intrigues in which the marchesa had entangled him. Of all earthly things, compliancy with her desires most revolted him. Rather than live any longer the victim either of her malice or her ambition, he had brought himself to believe that it was his duty to renounce Enrica. Until Fra Pacifico had entered that room within which he was again pacing up and down with hasty strides, no doubt whatever had arisen in his mind as to what it was incumbent upon him to do: to give Enrica the protection of his name by marriage, then to separate. Whether to separate in the manner pointed out by Guglielmi he had not decided. An innate repulsion, now increased by suspicion, made him distrust any act pressed upon him by that man, especially when urged in concert with the marchesa.
Every hour passed at Corellia was torture to him. Should he go at once, or should he remain until the morning?—sign the deed?—complete the sacrifice? Already what he had so loudly insisted on presented itself now to him in the light of a sacrifice. Enrica loved him still—he believed Fra Pacifico. The throbbing of his heart as he thought of her told him that he returned that love. She was there near him under the same roof. Could he leave her? Yes, he must leave her! He would trust himself no longer in the hands of the marchesa or of her agent. Instinct told him some subtle scheme lay under the urgings of Guglielmi—the dangerous civilities of the marchesa. He would go. The legal separation might be completed elsewhere. Why only at Corellia? Why must those formalities insisted on by Guglielmi be respected? What did they mean? Of the real drift of the delay Nobili was utterly ignorant. Had he asked Fra Pacifico, he would have told him the truth, but he had not done so.
To meet Enrica in the morning; to meet her again in the presence of her detested aunt; to meet her only to sign a deed separating them forever under the mockery of mutual consent, was agony. Why should he endure it?
Nobili, wrought up to a pitch of excitement that almost robbed him of reason, dares not trust himself to think. He seizes his hat, which lay upon the table, and rushes out into the night. The murmur of voices comes dimly to him in the freshness of the air out of a window next his own. A circle of light shines on the glistening gravel before him. There must be people within—people watching him, doubtless. As the thought crosses his mind he is suddenly pinned to the earth. Argo is watching for him—stealthy Argo—Argo springs upon him silently from behind; he holds him tightly in his grip. The dog made no sound, nor does he now, but he has laid Nobili flat on the ground. He stands over him, his heavy paws planted upon his chest, his open jaws and dripping tongue close upon his face, so close, that Nobili feels the dog's hot breath upon his skin. Nobili cannot move; he looks up fixedly into Argo's glaring, bloodshot eyes. His steady gaze daunts the dog. In the very act of digging his big fangs into Nobili's throat Argo pauses; he shrinks before those human eyes before which the brutish nature quails. In an instant Nobili's strong hands close round his throat; he presses it until the powerful paws slacken in their grip—until the fiery eyes are starting from their sockets.
Silent as is the struggle the other dogs are alarmed—they give tongue from different sides. Footsteps are rapidly approaching—the barrel of a gun gleams out of the darkness—a shot is fired—the report wanders off in endless reverberation among the rocks—another shot, and another, in instant succession, answer each other from behind the villa.
With a grasp of iron Nobili holds back gallant Argo—Argo foaming at the mouth; his white-coated chest heaving, as if in his last agony! Yet Argo is still immovable—his heavy paws upon Nobili's chest pressing with all his weight upon him!
Now the footsteps have turned the corner! Dim forms already shape themselves in the night mist. The other dogs, barking savagely, are behind—they are coming—they are at hand! Ah! Nobili, what can you do now?—Nobili understands his danger. Quick as thought Nobili has dealt Argo a tremendous blow under the left ear. He seizes him by his milk-white hair so long and beautiful, he flings him against the low wall almost insensible. Argo falls a shapeless mass. He is stunned and motionless. Before the shadow of Adamo is upon him—before the dogs noses touch him—Nobili is on his feet. With one bound he has leaped through the window—the same from which the voices had come (it has been opened in the scuffle)—in an instant he closes the sash! He is safe!
Coming suddenly out of the darkness, after the great force he had put forth, Nobili feels giddy and bewildered. At first he sees nothing but that there is a light in the centre of the room. As his eyes fix themselves upon it the light almost blinds him. He puts his hand to his forehead, where the veins had swollen out like cords upon his fair skin. He puts up his hands to shade his dazzled eyes before which clouds of stars dance desperately. He steadies himself and looks round.
Before him stands Enrica!
By Pipa's care the bridegroom's chamber had been chosen next the bride's when she prepared Count Nobili's room. Pipa was straightforward and simple in her notions of matrimony, but, like a wise woman, she had held her tongue.
Nobili and Enrica are alone. A furtive glance passes between them. Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks. The first movement comes from Enrica. She sinks backward upon a chair. The tangle of her yellow hair closes round her face upon which a deep blush had risen at sight of Nobili. When that blush had died out she looked resigned, almost passionless. She knew that the moment had come which must decide her fate. Before they two parted she would hear from the lips of the man she loved if they were ever to meet again! Her eyes fell to the ground. She dared not raise them. If she looked at Nobili, she must fling herself into his arms.
Nobili, standing on the same spot beyond the circle of the light, gazes at Enrica in silence. He is overwhelmed by the most conflicting emotions. But the spell of her beauty is upon him. His pulses beat madly. For an instant he forgets where he is. He forgets all but that Enrica is before him. For a moment! Then his brain clears. He remembers every thing—remembers—oh, how bitterly!—that, after all that has passed, his very presence in that room is an insult to her! He feels he ought to go—yet an irresistible longing chains him to the spot. He moves toward the door. To reach it he must pass close to Enrica. When he is near the door he stops. The light shows that his clothes are torn—that there is blood upon his face and hands. In scarcely articulate words Nobili addresses her.
"Enrica—countess, I mean"—Nobili hesitates—"pardon this intrusion.—You saw the accident.—I did not know that this wasyourroom."
Again Nobili pauses, waiting for an answer. None comes. Would she not speak to him? Alas! had he deserved that she should? Nobili takes a step or two toward the door. With one hand upon the lock he pauses once more, gazing at Enrica with lingering eyes. Then he turns to leave the room. It is all over!—he had only to depart! A low cry from Enrica stops him.
"Nobili," Enrica says, "tell me—oh! tell me, are you hurt?"
Enrica has risen from the chair. One hand rests on the table for support. Her voice falters as she asks the question. Nobili, every drop of whose blood runs fevered in his veins, turns toward her.
"I am not hurt—a scratch or two—nothing."
"Thank God!" Enrica utters, in a low voice.
Nobili endeavors to approach her. She draws back.
"As I am here"—he speaks with the utmost embarrassment—"here, as you see, by accident"—his voice rests on the words—"I cannot go—"
As Nobili speaks he perceives that Enrica gradually retreats farther from him. The tender delight that had come into her eyes when he first addressed her fades out into a scared look—a look like a defenseless animal expecting to receive a death-wound. Nobili sees and understands the expression.
His heart smites him sorely. Great God!—has he become an object of terror to her?
"Enrica!"—she starts back as Nobili pronounces her name, yet he speaks so softly the sound comes to her almost like a sigh—"Enrica, do not fear me. I will say no word to offend you. I cannot go without asking your pardon. As one who loved you once—as one who loves—" He stops. What is he saying?—"I humbly beseech you to forgive me. Enrica, let me hear you say that you forgive me."
Still Enrica retreats from him, that suffering, saint-like look upon her face he knows so well. Nobili follows her. He kneels at her feet. He kneels at the feet of the woman from whom, not an hour before, he had demanded a separation!
"Say—can you forgive me before I go?"
As Nobili speaks, his strong heart goes out to her in speechless longings. If Enrica had looked into his eyes they would have told her that he never had loved her as now! And they were parted!
Enrica puts out her hand timidly. Her lips move as if to speak, but no sound comes. Nobili rises; he takes her hand within both his own. He kisses it reverently.
"Dear hand—" he murmurs, "and it was mine!"
Released from his, the dainty little hand falls to her side. She sighs deeply. There is the old charm in Nobili's voice—so sweet, so subtile. The tones fall upon her ear like strains of passionate music. A storm of emotion sweeps across her face. She has forgotten all in the rapture of his presence. Yes!—that voice! Had it not been raised but a few hours before at the altar to repudiate her? How can she believe in him? How surrender herself to the glamour of his words? Remembering all this, despair comes over her. Again Enrica shrinks from him. She bursts into tears and hides her face with her hands.
Enrica's distrust of him, her silence, her tears, cut Nobili to the soul. He knows he deserves it. Ah!—with her there before him, how he curses himself for ever having doubted her! Every justification suddenly leaves him. He is utterly confounded. The gossip of the club—Count Marescotti and his miserable verses—the marchesa herself—what are they all beside the purity of those saint-like eyes? Nera, too—false, fickle, sensual Nera—a mere thing of flesh and blood—he had left her for Nera! Was he mad?
At that moment, of all living men, Count Nobili seemed to himself the most unworthy! He must go—he did not deserve to stay!
"Enrica—before I leave you, speak to me one word of forgiveness—I implore you!"
As he speaks their eyes meet. Yes, she is his own Enrica—unchanged, unsullied!—the idol is intact within its shrine—the sanctuary is as he had left it! No rude touch had soiled that atmosphere of purity and freshness that floated like an aureole around her!
How could he leave her?—if they must part, he would hear his fate from her own lips. Enrica is leaning against the wall speechless, her face shaded by her hand. Big tears are trickling through her fingers. Unable to support herself she clings to a chair, then seats herself. And Nobili, pale with passion stands by, and dares not so much as to touch her—dares not touch her, although she is his wife!
In the fury of his self-reproach, he digs his hands into the masses of thick chestnut curls that lie disordered about his head.
Fool, idiot!—had he lost her? A terrible misgiving overcomes him? It fills him with horror. Was it too late? Would she never forgive him? Nobili's troubled eyes, that wander all over her, ask the question.
"Speak to me—speak to me!" he cries. "Curse me—but speak to me!"
At this appeal Enrica turns her tear-bedewed face toward him.
"Nobili," she says at last, very low, "would you have gone without seeing me?"
Nobili dares not lie to her. He makes no reply.
"Oh, do not deceive me, Nobili!" and Enrica wrings her hands and looks piteously into his face. "Tell me—would you have come to me?"
It is only by a strong effort that Nobili can restrain himself from folding Enrica in his arms and in one burning kiss burying the remembrance of the miserable past. But he trembles lest by offending her the tender flower before him may never again expand to the ardor of his love. If Fra Pacifico has not by his arguments already shaken Nobili's conviction of the righteousness of his own conduct, the sight of Enrica utterly overcomes him.
"Deceive you!" he exclaims, approaching her and seizing her hands which she did not withdraw—"deceive you! How little you read my heart!"
He holds her soft hands firmly in his—he covers them with kisses. Enrica feels the tender pressure of his lips pass through her whole frame. But, can she trust him?
"Did I not love you enough?" she asks, looking into his face. She gently disengages her hands from his grasp. There is no reproach in her look, but infinite sorrow. "Can I believe you?" And the soft blue eyes rest upon him full of pathetic pleading.
An expression of despair comes into Nobili's bright face. How can he answer her? How can he satisfy her when he himself has shaken her trust? Alas! would the golden past never come again? The past, tinted with the passion of ardent summer?
"Believe me?" he cries, in a tone of wildest passion. "Can you ask me?"
As he speaks he leans over her. Love is in his voice—his eyes—his whole attitude. Would she not understand him? Would she reject him?
Enrica draws back—she raises her hand in protest.
"Let me again"—Nobili is following her closely—"let me implore your forgiveness of my unmanly conduct."
She presses her hands to her bosom as if in pain, but not a sound comes to her lips.
"Believe me," he urges, "I have been driven mad by the marchesa! It is my only excuse."