"Balduccio, I thank you. Within a week I hope to bring her home to Lucca. There will then be but one Guinigi home in the two palaces. The marchesa makes her heiress of all she possesses."
Prince Ruspoli is satisfied. Now he will back Count Nobili to any odds. He will name his next foal Mario Nobili.
Again Nobili glances round; this time there is the shadow of a frown upon his smooth brow. Orsetti feels that he must speak.
"Have you known the lady long?" Orsetti asks, with an embarrassment foreign to him.
"Yes, and no," answers Nobili, reddening, and scanning the veiled expression on Orsetti's face with intense curiosity. "But the matter has been brought to a crisis by the accidental burning of the marchesa's house at Corellia. I was present—I saved her niece."
"I thought it was rather sudden," says Orazio, from behind, in a tone full of suggestion. "We were in doubt, before you came, to whom the lady was engaged."
Nobili starts.
"What do you mean?" he asks, hastily.
The color has left his cheeks; his blue eyes grow dark.
"There has been some foolish gossip from persons who know nothing," Orsetti answers, advancing to the front. "About some engagement with another gentleman, whom she had accepted—"
"Nonsense! Don't listen to him, my good fellow," breaks in Ruspoli. "These lads have nothing to do but to breed scandal. They would slander the Virgin; not for wickedness, but for idleness. I mean to make them hunt. Hunting is the cure."
Nobili stands as if turned to stone.
"But I must listen," replies Nobili, fiercely, fire flaming in his eyes. "This lady's honor is my own. Who has dared to couple her name with any other man? Orsetti—Ruspoli"—and he turns to them in great excitement—"you are my friends. What does this mean?"
"Nothing," said Orsetti, trying to smile, but not succeeding. "I hear, Nobili, you have behaved with extraordinary generosity," he adds, fencing the question.
"Yes, by Jove!" adds Prince Ruspoli. Ruspoli was leaning up against a pillar, watching Orazio as he would a mischievous cur. "A most suitable marriage. Not that I care a button for blood, except in horses."
Nobili has not moved, but, as each speaks, his eye shifts rapidly from one to the other. His face from pale grows livid, and there is a throb about his temples that sounds in his ears like a thousand hammers.
"Orsetti," Nobili says, sternly, "I address myself to you. You are the oldest here. You are the first man I knew after I came to Lucca. You are all concealing something from me. I entreat you, Orsetti, as man to man, tell me whose name has been coupled with that of my affianced wife? That it is a lie I know beforehand—a base and palpable lie! She has been reared at home in perfect solitude."
Nobili spoke with passionate vehemence. The hot blood rushed over his face and neck, and tingled to his very fingers. Now he glances from man to man in an appeal defiant, yet pleading, pitiful to behold. Every face grows grave.
Orsetti is the first to reply.
"I feel deeply for you, Nobili. We all love you."
"Yes, all," responded Malatesta and Ruspoli, speaking together.
"You must not attach too much importance to idle gossip," saysOrsetti.
"No, no," cried Ruspoli, "don't. I will stand by you, Nobili. I know the lady by sight—a little English beau"
"Scandal! Who is the man? By God, I'll have his blood within this very hour!"
Nobili is now wrought up beyond all endurance.
"You can't," says Orazio Franchi, tapping his heel upon the marble pavement. "He's gone."
"Gone! I'll follow him to hell!" roars Nobili "Who is he?"
"Possibly he may find his own way there in time," answers Orazio, with a sneer. He rises so as to increase the distance between himself and Prince Ruspoli. "But as yet the wretch crawls on mother earth."
"Silence, Orazio!" shouts Ruspoli, "or you may go there yourself quicker than Marescotti."
"Marescotti! Is that the name?" cries Nobili, with a hungry eye, that seems to thirst for vengeance. "Who is Marescotti?"
"This is some horrid fiction," Nobili mutters to himself. Stay!—Where had he heard that name lately? He gnawed his fingers until the blood came, and a crimson drop fell upon the marble floor. Suddenly an icy chill rose at his heart. He could not breathe. He sank into a chair—then rose again, and stood before Orsetti with a face out of which ten years of youth had fled. Yes, Marescotti—that is the very man Enrica had mentioned to him under the trees at Corellia. Each letter of it blazes in fire before his eyes. Yes—she had said Marescotti had read her eyes. "O God!" and Nobili groans aloud, and buries his face within his hands.
"You take this too much to heart, my dear Mario," Count Orsetti said; "indeed you do, else I would not say so. Remember there is nothing proved. Be careful," Orsetti whispered in the other's ear, glancing round. Every eye was riveted on Nobili.
Orsetti felt that Nobili had forgotten the public place and the others present—such as Count Malatesta, Orazio Franchi, and Baldassare, who, though they had not spoken, had devoured every word.
"It is nothing but a sonnet found among Marescotti's papers." Orsetti now was speaking. "Marescotti has fled from the police. Nothing but a sonnet addressed to the lady—a poet's day-dream—untrue of course."
"Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?" demanded Nobili. He had mastered himself for the moment.
"Stuff, stuff!" cried Ruspoli. "Every pretty woman has heaps of sonnets and admirers. It is a brevet of beauty. After all this row, it was only an offer of marriage made to Count Marescotti and refused by him. Probably the lady never knew it."
"Oh, yes, she did, she accepted him," sounded from behind. It was Baldassare, whose vanity was piqued because no one had referred to him for information.
"Accepted! Refused by Count Marescotti!" Nobili caught and repeated the words in a voice so strange, it sounded like the echo from a vault.
"Wall! by Jove! It's five o'clock!" exclaimed Prince Ruspoli, looking at his watch. "My dear fellow," he said, addressing Nobili, "I have an appointment on the ramparts; will you go with me?" He passed his arm through that of Nobili. It was a painful scene, which Ruspoli desired to end. Nobili shook his head. He was so stunned and dazed he could not speak.
"If it is five o'clock," said Malatesta, "I must go too."
Malatesta drew Nobili a little apart. "Don't think too much of this, Nobili. It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month. Take your wife a trip to Paris or London. We shall hear no more of it, believe me. Good-by."
"Count Nobili," called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico, making a languid bow, "after all that I have heard, I congratulate you on your marriage most sincerely."
Nobili did not hear him. All were gone. He was alone with Ruspoli. His head had dropped upon his breast. There was the shadow of a tear in Prince Ruspoli's steely eye. It was not enough to be brushed off, for it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.
"Wall, Mario," he said, apparently unmoved, "it seems to me the club is made too hot to hold you. Come home."
Nobili nodded. He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince Ruspoli's arm as they crossed the piazza. Prince Ruspoli did not leave him until he saw him safe to his own door.
"You will judge what is right to do," were Ruspoli's last words. "But do not be guided by those young scamps. They live in mischief. If you love the girl, marry her—that is my advice."
I have seen a valley canopied by a sky of blue and opaline, girt in by wooded heights, on which the sun poured down in mid-day splendor. A broad river sparkled downward, giving back ray for ray. The forest glowed without a shadow. Each little detail of leaf or stone, even a blade of grass, was turned to flame. The corn lay smooth and golden. The grapes and olives hung safe upon the branch. The flax—a goodly crop—reached to the trees. The peasants labored in the rich brown soil, singing to the oxen. The women sat spinning beside their doors. A little maid led out her snowy lamb to graze among the woods, and children played at "morra" beside the river, which ran at peace, lapping the silver sand.
A cloud gathers behind the mountains—yonder, where they come interlacing down, narrowing the valley. It is a little cloud, no one observes it; yet it gathers and spreads and blackens, until the sky is veiled. The sun grows pale. A greenish light steals over the earth. In the still air there is a sudden freshness. The tall canes growing in the brakes among the vineyards rustle as if shaken by a spectral hand. The white-leaved aspens quiver. An icy wind sweeps down the mountain-sides. A flash of lightning shoots across the sky. Then the storm bursts. Thunder rolls, and cracks, and crashes; as if the brazen gates of heaven clashed to and fro. The peasants fly, driving their cattle before them. The pig's run grunting homeward. The helpless lamb is stricken where it stands, crouching in a deep gorge; the little maid sits weeping by. Down beats the hail like pebbles. It strikes upon the vines, scorches and blackens them. The wheat is leveled to the ground. The river suddenly swells into a raging torrent. Its turbid waters bear away the riches of the poor—the cow that served a little household and followed the children, lowing, to reedy meadows bathed by limpid streams—a horse caught browsing in a peaceful vale, thinking no ill—great trees hurling destruction with them. Rafters, roofs of houses, sometimes a battered corpse, float by.
The roads are broken up. The bridge is snapped. Years will not repair the fearful ravage. The evening sun sets on a desolate waste. Men sit along the road-side wringing their hands beside their ruined crops. Children creep out upon their naked feet, and look and wonder. Where is the little kid that ran before and licked their hands? Where is the gray-skinned, soft-eyed cow that hardly needed a cord to lead her? The shapely cob, so brave with its tinkling bells and crimson tassels? The cob that daddy drove to market, and many merry fairs? Gone with the storm! all gone!
* * * * *
Count Nobili was like the Italian climate—in extremes. Like his native soil, he must live in the sunshine. His was not a nature to endure a secret sorrow. He must be kissed, caressed, and smoothed by tender hands and loving voices. He must have applause, approval, be flattered, envied, and followed. Hitherto all this had come naturally to him. His gracious temper, generous heart, and great wealth, had made all bright about him. Now a sudden storm had swept over him and brought despair into his heart.
When Prince Ruspoli left him, Nobili felt as battered and sore as if a whirlwind had caught him, then let him go, and he had dropped to earth a broken man. Yet in the turmoil of his brain a pale, scared little face, with wild, beseeching eyes, was ever before him. It would not leave him. What was this horrible nightmare that had come over him in the heyday of his joy? It was so vague, yet so tangible if judged by its effect on others. Others held Enrica dishonored, that was clear. Was she dishonored? He was bound to her by every tie of honor. He loved her. She had a charm for him no other woman ever possessed, and she loved him. A women's eye, he told himself, had never deceived him. Yes, she loved him. Yet if Enrica were as guileless as she seemed, how could she conceal from him she had another lover—less loved perhaps than he—but still a lover? And this lover had refused to marry her? That was the stab. That every one in Lucca should know his future bride had been scouted by another man who had turned a rhyme upon her, and left her! Could he bear this?
What were Enrica's relations with Marescotti? Some one had said she had accepted him. Nobili was sure he had heard this. He, Marescotti, must have approached her nearly by her own confession. He had celebrated her in sonnets, amorous sonnets—damnable thought!—gone with her to the Guinigi Tower—then rejected her! A mist seemed to gather about Nobili as he thought of this. He grew stupid in long vistas of speculation. Had Enrica not dared to meet him—Nobili—clandestinely? Was not this very act unmaidenly? (Such are men: they urge the slip, the fall, then judge a woman by the force of their own urging!) Had Enrica met Marescotti in secret also? No—impossible! The scared, white face was before Nobili, now plainer than ever. No—he hated himself for the very thought. All the chivalry of his nature rose up to acquit her.
Still there was a mystery. How far was Enrica concerned in it? Would she have married Count Marescotti? Trenta was away, or he would question him.Had he better ask? What might he hear? Some one had deceived him grossly. The marchesa would stick at nothing; yet what could the marchesa have done without Enrica? Nobili was perplexed beyond expression. He buried his head within his arms, and leaned upon a table in an agony of doubt. Then he paced up and down the splendid room, painted with frescoed walls, and hung with rose and silver draperies from Paris (it was to have been Enrica's boudoir), looking south into a delicious town-garden, with statues, and flower-beds, and terraces of marble diamonded in brilliant colors. To be so cheated!—to be the laughing-stock of Lucca! Good God! how could he bear it? To marry a wife who would be pointed at with whispered words! Of all earthly things this was the bitterest! Could he bear it?—and Enrica—would she not suffer? And if she did, what then? Why, she deserved it—she must deserve it, else why was she accused? Enrica was treacherous—the tool of her aunt. He could not doubt it. If she cared for him at all, it was for the sake of his money—hateful thought!—yet, having signed the contract, he supposed hemustgive her the name of wife. But the future mother of his children was branded.
Oh, the golden days at mountain-capped Corellia!—that watching in the perfumed woods—that pleading with the stars that shone over Enrica to bear her his love-sick sighs! Oh, the triumph of saving her dear life!—the sweetness of her lips in that first embrace under the magnolia-tree! Fra Pacifico too, with his honest, sturdy ways—and the white-haired cavaliere, so wise and courteous. Cheats, cheats—all! It made him sick to think how they must have laughed and jeered at him when he was gone. Oh, it was damnable!
His teeth were set. He started up as if he had been stung, and stamped upon the floor. Then like a madman he rushed up and down the spacious floor. After a time, brushing the drops of perspiration from his forehead, Nobili grew calmer. He sat down to think.
Must he marry Enrica?—he asked himself (he had come to that)—marry the lady of the sonnet—Marescotti's love? He did not see how he could help it. The contract was signed, and nothing proved against her. Well—life was long, and the world wide, and full of pleasant things. Well—he must bear it—unless there had been sin! Nobili did not see it, nor did he hear it; but much that is never seen, nor heard, nor known, is yet true—horribly true. He did see it, but as he thought these cruel thoughts, and hardened himself in them, a pale, scared face, with wild, pleading eyes, vanished with a shriek of anguish.
Others had loved him well, Nobili reasoned—other women—"Not so well as I" an inaudible voice would have whispered, but it was no longer there to answer—others that had not been rejected—others fairer than Enrica—Nera!
With that name there came a world of comfort to him. Nera loved him—she loved him! He had not seen Nera since that memorable night she lay like one dead before him. Before he took a final resolve (by-and-by he must investigate, inquire, know when, and how, and by whom, all this talk had come), would it not be well to see Nera? It was a duty, he told himself, he owed her; a duty delayed too long; only Enrica had so absorbed him. Nera would have heard the town-talk. How would she take it? Would she be glad, or sorry, he wondered? Then came a longing upon Nobili he could not resist, to know if Nera still loved him. If so, what constancy! It deserved reward. He had treated her shamefully. How sweet her company would be if she would see him! At all events, he could but try. At this point he rose and rang the bell.
When the servant came, Nobili ordered his dinner. He was hungry, he said, and would eat at once. His carriage he should require later.
Close to the Church of San Michele, where a brazen archangel with outstretched wings flaunts in the blue sky, is the narrow, crypt-like street of San Salvador. Here stands the Boccarini Palace. It is an ancient structure, square and large, with an overhanging roof and open, pillared gallery. On the first floor there is a stone balcony. Four rows of windows divide the front. The lower ones, barred with iron, are dismal to the eye. Over the principal entrance are the Boccarini arms, carved on a stone escutcheon, supported by two angels, the whole so moss-eaten the details cannot be traced. Above is a marquis's coronet in which a swallow has built its nest. Both in and out it is a house where poverty has set its seal. The family is dying out. When Marchesa Boccarini dies, the palace will be sold, and the money divided among her daughters.
As dusk was settling into night a carriage rattled along the deserted street. The horses—a pair of splendid bays—struck sparks out of the granite pavement. With a bang they draw up at the entrance, under an archway, guarded by agrilleof rusty iron. A bell is rung; it only echoes through the gloomy court. The bell was rung again, but no one came. At last steps were heard, and a dried-up old man, with a face like parchment, and little ferret eyes, appeared, hastily dragging his arms into a coat much too large for him.
He shuffled to the front and bowed. Taking a key from his pocket he unlocked the iron gates, then planted himself on the threshold, and turned his ear toward the well-appointed brougham, and Count Nobili seated within.
"Do the ladies receive?" Nobili called out. The old man nodded, bringing his best ear and ferret eyes to bear upon him.
"Yes, the ladies do receive. Will the excellency descend?"
Count Nobili jumped out and hurried through the archway into a court surrounded by a colonnade.
It is very dark. The palace rises upward four lofty stories. Above is a square patch of sky, on which a star trembles. The court is full of damp, unwholesome odors. The foot slips upon the slimy pavement. Nobili stopped. The old man came limping after, buttoning his coat together.
"Ah! poor me!—The excellency is young!" He spoke in the odd, muffled voice, peculiar to the deaf. "The excellency goes so fast he will fall if he does not mind. Our court-yard is very damp; the stairs are old."
"Which is the way up-stairs?" Nobili asked, impatiently. "It is so dark I have forgotten the turn."
"Here, excellency—here to the right. By the Madonna there, in the niche, with the light before it. A thousand excuses! The excellency will excuse me, but I have not yet lit the lamp on the stairs. I was resting. There are so many visitors to the Signora Marchesa. The excellency will not tell the Signora Marchesa that it was dark upon the stairs? Per pieta!"
The shriveled old man placed himself full in Nobili's path, and held out his hands like claws entreatingly.
"A thousand devils!—no," was Nobili's irate reply, pushing him back."Let me go up; I shall say nothing. Cospetto! What is it to me?"
"Thanks! thanks! The excellency is full of mercy to an old, overworked servant. There was a time when the Boccarini—"
Nobili did not wait to hear more, but strode through the darkness at hazard, to find the stairs.
"Stop! stop! the excellency will break his limbs against the wall!" the old man shouted.
He fumbled in his pocket, and drew out some matches. He struck one against the wall, held it above his head, and pointed with his bony finger to a broad stone stair under an inner arch.
Nobili ascended rapidly; he was in no mood for delay. The old man, standing at the foot, struck match after match to light him.
"Above, excellency, you will find our usual lamps. You must go on to the second story."
On the landing at the first floor there was still a little daylight from a window as big as if set in the tribune of a cathedral. Here a lamp was placed on an old painted table. Some moth-eaten tapestry hung from a mildewed wall. Here and there a rusty nail had given way, and the stuff fell in downward folds. Nobili paused. His head was hot and dizzy. He had dined well, and he had drunk freely. His eyes traveled upward to the old tapestry—(it was the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod the cancan of the day). Something in the face and figure of the girl recalled Nera to him, or he fancied it—his mind being full of her. Nobili envied Herod in a dreamy way, who, with round, leaden eyes, a crown upon his head—watched the dancing girl as she flung about her lissome limbs. Nobili envied Herod—and the thought came across him, how pleasant it would be to sit royally enthroned, and see Nera gambol so! From that—quicker than I can write it—his thoughts traveled backward to that night when he had danced with Nera at the Orsetti ball. Again the refrain of that waltz buzzed in his ear. Again the measure rose and fell in floods of luscious sweetness—again Nera lay within his arms—her breath was on his cheek—the perfume of the flowers in her flossy hair was wafted in the air—the blood stirred in his veins.
The old man said truly. All the way up the second stair was lit by little lamps, fed by mouldy oil; and all the way up that waltz rang in Nobili's ear. It mounted to his brain like fumes of new wine tapped from the skin. A green door of faded baize faced him on the upper landing, and another bell—a red tassel fastened to a bit of whipcord. He rang it hastily. This time a servant came promptly. He carried in his hand a lamp of brass.
"Did the ladies receive?"
"They did," was the answer; and the servant held the lamp aloft to light Nobili into the anteroom.
This anteroom was as naked as a barrack. The walls were painted in a Raphaelesque pattern, the coronet and arms of the Boccarini in the centre.
Count Nobili and the servant passed through many lofty rooms of faded splendor. Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, and reflected the light of the brass lamp on a thousand crystal facets. The tall mirrors in the antique frames repeated it. In a cavern-like saloon, hung with rows of dark pictures upon amber satin, Nobili and the servant stopped before a door. The servant knocked; A voice said, "Enter." It was the voice of Marchesa Boccarini. She was sitting with her three daughters. A lamp, with a colored shade, stood in the centre of a small room, bearing some aspect of life and comfort. The marchesa and two of her daughters were working at some mysterious garments, which rapidly vanished out of sight. Nera was leaning back on a sofa, superbly idle—staring idly at an opposite window, where the daylight still lingered. When Count Nobili was announced, they all rose and spoke together with the loud peacock voices, and the rapid utterance, which in Italy are supposed to mark a special welcome. Strange that in the land of song the talking voices of women should be so harsh and strident! Yet so it is.
"How long is it since we have seen you, Count Nobili?" It was the sad-faced marchesa who spoke, and tried to smile a welcome to him. "I have to thank you for many inquiries, and all sorts of luxuries sent to my dear child. But we expected you. You never came."
The two sisters echoed, "You never came."
Nera did not speak then, but when they had finished, she rose from the sofa and stood before Nobili drawn up to her full height, radiant in sovereign beauty. "I have to thank you most." As Nera spoke, her cheeks flushed, and she dropped her hand into his. It was a simple act, but full of purpose as Nera did it. Nera intended it should be so. She reseated herself. As his eye met hers, Nobili grew crimson. The twilight and the shaded lamp hid this in part, but Nera observed it, and noted it for future use.
Count Nobili placed himself beside the marchesa.
"I am overwhelmed with shame," he said. "What you say is too true. I had intended coming. Indeed, I waited until your daughter"—and he glanced at Nera—"could receive me, and satisfy me herself she was not hurt. I longed to make my penitent excuses for the accident."
"Oh! it was nothing," said Nera, with a smile, answering for her mother.
"What I suffered, no words can tell," continued, Nobili. "Even now I shudder to think of it—to be the cause—"
"No, not the cause," answered Marchesa Boccarini.
The elder sisters echoed—
"Not the cause."
"It was the ribbon," continued the marchesa. "Nera was entangled with the ribbon when she rose; she did not know it."
"I ought to have held her up," returned Nobili with a glance at Nera, who, with a kind of queenly calm, looked him full in the face with her bold, black eyes.
"I assure you, marchesa, it was the horror of what I had done that kept me from calling on you."
This was not true, and Nera knew it was not true. Nobili had not come, because he dreaded his weakness and her power. Nobili had not come, because he doted on Enrica to that excess, a thought alien to her seemed then to him a crime. What folly! Now he knew Enrica better! All that was changed.
"We have felt very grateful," went on to say the marchesa, "I assure you, Count Nobili, very grateful."
The poor lady was much exercised in spirit as to how she could frame an available excuse for leaving the count alone with Nera. Had she only known beforehand, she would have arranged a little plan to do so, naturally. But it must be done, she knew. It must be done at any price, or Nera would never forgive her.
"You have been so agreeably occupied, too," Nera said, in a firm, full voice. "No wonder, Count Nobili, you had no time to visit us."
There was a mute reproach in these few words that made Nobili wince.
"I have been absent," he replied, much confused.
"Yes, absent in mind and body," and Nera laughed a cruel little laugh. "You have been at Corellia, I believe?" she added, significantly, fixing him with her lustrous eyes.
"Yes, I have been at Corellia, shooting." Nobili shrank from shame at the lack of courtesy on his part which had made these social lies needful. How brilliant Nera was!
A type of perfect womanhood. Fresh, and strong, and healthy—a mother for heroes.
"We have heard of you," went on Nera, throwing her grand head backward, a quiet deliberation in each word, as if she were dropping them out, word by word, like poison. "A case of Perseus and Andromeda, only you rescued the lady from the flames. You half killed me, Count Nobili, anden revancheyou have saved another lady. She must be very grateful."
"O Nera!" one of her sisters exclaimed, reproachfully. These innocent sisters never could accommodate themselves to Nera's caustic tongue.
Nera gave her sister a look. She rose at once; then the other sister rose also. They both slipped out of the room.
"Now," thought the marchesa, "I must go, too."
"May I be permitted," she said, rising, "before I leave the room to speak to my confessor, who is waiting for me, on a matter of business"—this was an excellent sham, and sounded decorous and natural—"may I be permitted, Count Nobili, to congratulate you on your approaching marriage? I do not know Enrica Guinigi, but I hear that she is lovely."
Nobili bowed with evident constraint.
"And I," said Nera, softly, directing a broadside upon him from her brilliant eyes—"allow me to congratulate you also."
"Thank you," murmured Nobili, scarcely able to form the words.
"Excuse me," the marchesa said. She courtesied to Nobili and left the room.
Nobili and Nera were now alone. Nobili watched her under his eyelids. Yes, she was splendid. A luxuriant form, a skin mellow and ruddy as a ripe peach, and such eyes!
Nera was silent. She guessed his thoughts. She knew men so well. Men had been her special study. Nera was only twenty-four, but she was clever, and would have excelled in any thing she pleased. To draw men to her, as the magnet draws the needle, was the passion of her life; whether she cared for them or not, to draw them. Not to succeed argued a want of skill. That maddened her. She was keen and hot upon the scent, knocking over her man as a sportsman does his bird, full in the breast. Her aim was marriage. Count Nobili would have suited her exactly. She had felt for him a warmth that rarely quickened her pulses. Nobili had evaded her. But revenge is sweet. Now his hour is come.
"Count Nobili"—Nera's tempting looks spoke more than words—"come and sit down by me." She signed to him to place himself upon the sofa.
Nobili rose as she bade him. He came upon his fate without a word. Seated so near to Nera, he gazed into her starry eyes, and felt it did him good.
"You look ill," Nera said, tuning her voice to a tone of tender pity; "you have grown older too since I last saw you. Is it love, or grief, or jealousy, or what?"
Nobili heaved a deep sigh. His hand, which rested near hers, slipped forward, and touched her fingers. Nera withdrew them to smooth the braids of her glossy hair. While she did so she scanned Nobili closely. "You are not a triumphant lover, certainly. What is the matter?"
"You are very good to care," answered Nobili, sighing again, gazing into her face; "once I thought that my fate did touch you."
"Yes, once," Nera rejoined. "Once—long ago." She gave an airy laugh that grated on Nobili's ears. "But we meet so seldom."
"True, true," he answered hurriedly, "too seldom." His manner was most constrained. It was plain his mind was running upon some unspoken thought.
"Yes," Nera said. "Spite of your absence, however you make yourself remembered. You give us so much to talk of! Such a succession of surprises!"
One by one Nera's phrases dropped out, suggesting so much behind.
Nobili, greatly excited, felt he must speak or flee.
"I must confess," she added, giving a stealthy glance out of the corners of her eyes, "you have surprised me. When do you bring your wife home, Count Nobili?" As Nera asked this question she bent over Nobili, so that her breath just swept his heated cheek.
"Never, perhaps!" cried Nobili, wildly. He could contain himself no longer. His heart beat almost to bursting. A desperate seduction was stealing over him. "Never, perhaps!" he repeated.
Nera gave a little start; then she drew back and leaned against the sofa, gazing at him.
"I am come to you, Nera"—Nobili spoke in a hoarse voice—his features worked with agitation—"I am come to tell you all; to ask you what I shall do. I am distracted, heart-broken, degraded! Nera, dear Nera, will you help me? In mercy say you will!"
He had grasped her hand—he was covering it with hot kisses. He was so heated with wine and beauty, and a sense of wrong, he had lost all self-command.
Nera did not withdraw her hand. Her eyelids dropped, and she replied, softly:
"Help you? Oh! so willingly. Could you see my heart you would understand me."
She stopped.
"You can make all right," urged Nobili, maddened by her seductions.
Again that waltz was buzzing in his ears. Nobili was about to clasp her in his arms, and ask her he knew not what, when Nera rose, and seated herself upon a chair opposite to him.
"You leave me," cried Nobili, piteously, seizing her dress. "That is not helping me."
"I must know what you want," she answered, settling the folds of her dress about her. "Of course, in making this marriage, you have weighed all the consequences? I take that for granted."
As Nera spoke she leaned her head upon her hand; the rich beauty of her face was brought under the lamp's full light.
"I thought I had," was Nobili's reply, recalled by her movement to himself, and speaking with more composure—"I thought I had—but within the last three hours every thing is changed. I have been insulted at the club."
"Ah!—you must expect that sort of thing if you marry Enrica Guinigi.That is inevitable."
Nobili knit his brows. This was hard from her.
"What reason do you give for this?" he asked, trying to master his feelings. "I came to ask you this."
"Reason, my dear count?" and a smile parted Nera's lips. "A very obvious reason. Why force me to name it? No one can respect you if you make such a marriage. You will be always liked—you are so charming." She paused to fling an amorous glance upon him. "Why did you select the Guinigi girl?" The question was sharply put. "The marchesa would never receive you. Why choose her niece?"
"Because I liked her." Nobili was driven to bay. "A man chooses the woman he likes."
"How strange!" exclaimed Nera, throwing up her hands. "How strange!—A pale-faced school-girl! But—ha! ha!"—(that discordant laugh almost betrayed her)—"she is not so, it seems."
Nobili changed color. With every word Nera uttered, he grew hot or cold, soothed or wild, by turns. Nera watched it all. She read Nobili like a book.
"How cunning Enrica Guinigi must be!—very cunning!" Nera repeated as if the idea had just struck her. "The marchesa's tool!—They are so poor!—Her niece! Chè vuole!—The family blood! Anyhow, Enrica has caught you, Nobili."
Nera leaned back, drew out a fan from behind a cushion, and swayed it to and fro.
"Not yet," gasped Nobili—"not yet."
And Nobili had listened to Nera's cruel words, and had not risen up and torn out the lying tongue that uttered them! He had sat and heard Enrica torn to pieces as a panting dove is severed by a hawk limb by limb! Even now Nobili's better nature, spite of the glamour of this woman, told him he was a coward to listen to such words, but his good angel had veiled her wings and fled.
"I am glad you say 'not yet.' I hope you will take time to consider. If I can help you, you may command me, Count Nobili." And Nera paused and sighed.
"Help me, Nera!—You can save me!" He started to his feet. "I am so wretched—so wounded—so desperate!"
"Sit down," she answered, pointing to the sofa.
Mechanically he obeyed.
"You are nothing of all this if you do not marry Enrica Guinigi; if you do, you are all you say."
"What am I to do?" exclaimed Nobili. "I have signed the contract."
"Break it"—Nera spoke the words boldly out—"break it, or you will be dishonored. Do you think you can live in Lucca with a wife that you have bought?"
Nobili bounded from his chair.
"O God!" he said, and clinched his hands.
"You must be calm," she said, hastily, "or my mother will hear you." (All she can do, she thinks, is not worse than Nobili deserves, after that ball.) "Bought!—Yes. Will any one believe the marchesa would have given her niece to you otherwise?"
Nobili was pale and silent now. Nera's words had called up long trains of thought, opening out into horrible vistas. There was a dreadful logic about all she said that brought instant conviction with it. All the blood within him seemed whirling in his brain.
"But Nera, how can I—in honor—break this marriage?" he urged.
"Break it! well, by going away. No one can force you to marry a girl who allowed herself to be hawked about here and there—offered to Marescotti, and refused—to others probably."
"She may not have known it," said Nobili, roused by her bitter words.
"Oh, folly! Why come to me, Count Nobili? You are still in love with her."
At these words Nobili rose and approached Nera. Something in her expression checked him; he drew back. With all her allurements, there was a gulf between them Nobili dared not pass.
"O Nera! do not drive me mad! Help me, or banish me."
"I am helping you," she replied, with what seemed passionate earnestness. "Have you seen the sonnet?"
"No."
"If you mean to marry her, do not. Take advice. My mother has seen it," Nera added, with well-simulated horror. "She would not let me read it."
Now this was the sheerest malice. Madame Boccarini had never seen the sonnet. But if she had, there was not one word in the sonnet that might not have been addressed to the Blessed Virgin herself.
"No, I will not see the sonnet," said Nobili, firmly. "Not that I will marry her, but because I do not choose to see the woman I loved befouled. If it is what you say—and I believe you implicitly—let it lie like other dirt, I will not stir it."
"A generous fellow!" thought Nera. "How I could have loved him! But not now, not now."
"You have been the object of a base fraud," continued Nera. Nera would follow to the end artistically; not leave her work half done.
"She has deceived me. I know she has deceived me," cried Nobili, with a pang he could not hide. "She has deceived me, and I loved her!"
His voice sounded like the cry of a hunted animal.
Nera did not like this. Her work was not complete. Nobili's obstinate clinging to Enrica chafed her.
"Did Enrica ever speak to you of her engagement to Count Marescotti?" she asked. She grew impatient, and must probe the wound.
"Never," he answered, shrinking back.
"Heavens! What falseness! Why, she has passed days and days alone with him."
"No, not alone," interrupted Nobili, stung with a sense of his own shame.
"Oh, you excuse her!" Nera laughed bitterly. "Poor count, believe me.I tell you what others conceal."
Nobili shuddered. His face grew black as night.
"Do not see that sonnet if you persist in marriage. If not, your course is clear—fly. If Enrica Guinigi has the smallest sense of decency, she cannot urge the marriage."
And Nobili heard this in silence! Oh, shame, and weakness and passion of hot blood; and women's eyes, and cruel, bitter tongues; and jealousy, maddening jealousy, hideous, formless, vague, reaching he knew not whither I Oh, shame!
"Write to her, and say you have discovered that she was in league with her aunt, and had other lovers. Every one knows it."
"But, Nera, if I do, will you comfort me? I shall need it." Nobili opened both his arms. His eyes clung wildly to hers. She was his only hope.
Nera did not move; only she turned her head away to hide her face from him. She dared not let Nobili move her. Poor Nobili! She could have loved him dearly!
Seeing her thus, Nobili's arms dropped to his side hopelessly; a wan look came over his face.
"Forgive me! Oh, forgive me, Nera! I offer you a broken heart; have pity on me! Say, can you love me, Nera? Only a little. Speak! tell me!"
Nobili was on his knees before her; every feature of his bright young face formed into an agony of entreaty.
There was a flash of triumph in Nera's black eyes as she bent them on Nobili, that chilled him to the soul. Kneeling before her, he feels it. He doubts her love, doubts all. She has wrought upon him until he is desperate.
"Rise, dear Nobili," Nera whispered softly, touching his lips with hers, but so slightly. "To-morrow—come again to-morrow. I can say nothing now." Her manner was constrained. She spoke in little sentences. "It is late. Supper is ready. My mother waiting. To-morrow." She pressed the hand he had laid imploringly upon her knee. She touched the curls upon his brow with her light finger-tips; but those fixed, despairing eyes beneath she dared not meet.
"Not one word?" urged Nobili, in a faltering voice. "Send me away without one word of hope? I shall struggle with horrible thoughts all night. O Nera, speak one word—but one!" He clasped her hands, and looked up into her face. He dared do no more. "Love me a little, Nera," he pleaded, and he laid her warm, full hand upon his throbbing heart.
Nera trembled. She rose hastily from her chair, and raised Nobili up also.
"I—I—" (she hesitated, and avoided his passionate glance)—"I have given you good advice. To-morrow I will tell you more about myself."
"To-morrow, Nera! Why not to-night?"
Spite of himself Nobili was shocked at her reserve. She was so self-possessed. He had flung his all upon the die.
"You have advised me," he answered, stung by her coldness. "You have convinced me, I shall obey you. Now I must go, unless you bid me stay."
Again his eyes pleaded with hers; again found no response. Nera held out her hand to him.
"To-morrow," the full, ripe lips uttered—"to-morrow."
Seeing that he hesitated, Nera pointed with a gesture toward the door, and Nobili departed.
When the door had closed, and the sound of his retreating footsteps along the empty rooms had ceased, Nera raised her hand, then let it fall heavily upon the table.
"I have done it!" she exclaimed, triumphantly. "Now I can bear to think of that Orsetti ball. Poor Nobili! if he had spoken then! But he did not. It is his own fault."
After standing a minute or two thinking, Nora uncovered the lamp. Then she took it up in both her hands, stepped to a mirror that hung near, and, turning the light hither and thither, looked at her blooming face, in full and in profile. Then she replaced the lamp upon the table, yawned, and left the room.
Next morning a note was put into Count Nobili's hand at breakfast. It bore the Boccarini arms and the initials of the marchesa. The contents were these:
MOST ESTEEMED COUNT: As a friend of our family, I have the honor of informing you that the marriage of my dear daughter Nera with Prince Ruspoli is arranged, and will take place in a week. I hope you will be present. I have the honor to assure you of my most sincere and distinguished sentiments.
In the night train from Lucca that evening, Count Nobili was seated."He was about to travel," he had informed his household. "Later hewould send them his address." Before he left, he wrote a letter toEnrica, and sent it to Corellia.
It was the morning of the fourth day since Count Nobili had left Corellia. All had been very quiet about the house. The marchesa herself took little heed of any thing. She sat much in her own room. She was silent and preoccupied; but she was not displeased. The one dominant passion of her soul—the triumph of the Guinigi name—was now attained. Now she could bear to think of the grand old palace at Lucca, the seigneurial throne, the nuptial-chamber; now she could gaze in peace on the countenance of the great Castruccio. No spoiler would dare to tread these sacred floors. No irreverent hand would presume to handle her ancestral treasures; no vulgar eye would rest on the effigies of her race gathered on these walls. All would now be safe—safe under the protection of wealth, enormous wealth—wealth to guard, to preserve, to possess.
Enrica had been the agent by which all this had been effected, therefore she regarded Enrica at this time with more consideration than she had ever done before. As to any real sentiments of affection, the marchesa was incapable of them—a cold, hard woman from her youth, now vindictive, as well as cold.
The day after the signing of the contract she called Enrica to her. Enrica trod lightly across the stuccoed floor to where her aunt was standing; then she stopped and waited for her to address her. The marchesa took Enrica's hand within her own for some minutes, and silently stroked each rosy finger.
"My child Enrica, are you content?" This question was accompanied by an inquiring look, as if she would read Enrica through and through. A sweet smile of ineffable happiness stole over Enrica's soft face. The marchesa, still holding her hand, uttered something which might almost be called a sigh. "I hope this will last, else—" She broke off abruptly.
Enrica, resenting the implied doubt, disengaged her hand, and drew back from her. The marchesa, not appearing to observe this, continued:
"I had other views for you, Enrica; but, before you knew any thing, you chose a husband for yourself. What do you know about a husband? It is a bad choice."
Again Enrica drew back still farther from her aunt, and lifted up her head as if in remonstrance. But the marchesa was not to be stopped.
"I hate Count Nobili!" she burst out. "I have had my eye upon him ever since he came to Lucca. I know him—you do not. It is possible he may change, but if he does not—"
For the second time the marchesa did not finish the sentence.
"And do you think he loves you?"
As she asked this question she seated herself, and contemplated Enrica with a cynical smile.
"Yes, he loves me. It is you who do not know him!" exclaimed Enrica. "He is so good, so generous, so true; there is no one in the world like him."
How pure Enrica looked, pleading for her lover!—her face thrown out in sharp profile against the dark wall; her short upper lip raised by her eager speech; the dazzling fairness of her complexion; and her soft hair hanging loose about her head and neck.
"I think I do—I think I know him better than you do," the marchesa answered, somewhat absently.
She was struck by Enrica's exceeding beauty, which seemed within the last few days to have suddenly developed and matured.
"The young man appreciates you, too, I do not doubt. I am told he is a lover of beauty."
This was added with a sneer. Enrica grew crimson.
"Well, well," the marchesa went on to say, "it is too late now—the thing is done. But remember I have warned you. You chose Count Nobili, not I. Enrica, I have done my duty to you and to my own name. Now go and tell the cavaliere I want him."
The marchesa was always wanting the cavaliere; she was closeted with him for hours at a time. These conferences all ended in one conclusion—that she was irretrievably ruined. No one knew this better than the marchesa herself; but her haughty reluctance either to accept Count Nobili's money, or to give up Enrica, was the cause of unknown distress to Trenta.
Meanwhile the prospect of the wedding had stirred up every one in the house to a sort of aimless activity. Adamo strode about, his sad, lazy eyes gazing nowhere in particular. Adamo affected to work hard, but in reality he did nothing but sweep the leaves away from the border of the fountain, and remove thedébriscaused by the fire. Then he would go down and feed the dogs, who, when at home, lived in a sort of cave cut out of the cliff under the tower—Argo, the long-haired mastiff, and Tootsey, the rat-terrier, and Juno, the lurcher, and the useless bull-dog, who grinned horribly—Adamo fed them, then let them out to run at will over the flowers, while he went to his mid-day meal.
Adamo had no soul for flowers, or he could not have done this; he could not have seen a bright, many-eyed balsam, or an amber-leaved zinnia with tufted yellow breast, die miserably on their earthy beds, trampled under the dogs' feet. Even the marchesa, who concerned herself so little with such things, had often hidden him for his carelessness; but Adamo had a way of his own, and by that way he abided, slowly returning to it, spite of argument or remonstrance.
"Domine Dio orders the weather, not I," Adamo said in a grunt to Pipa when his mistress had specially upbraided him for not watering the lemon-trees ranged along the terraces. "Am I expected to give holy oil to the plants as Fra Pacifico does to the sick? Chè! chè! what will be will be!"
So Adamo went to his dinner in all peace; and Argo and his friends knocked down the flowers, and scratched deep holes in the gravel, barking wildly all the time.
The marchesa, sitting in grave confabulation with Cavaliere Trenta, rubbed her white hands as she listened.
There was neither portcullis, nor moat, nor drawbridge to her feudal stronghold at Corellia, but there was big, white Argo. Argo alone would pin any one to the earth.
"Let out the dogs, Adamo," the marchesa would say. "I like to hear them. They are my soldiers—they defend me."
"Yes, padrona," Adamo would reply, stolidly. "Surely the Signora Marchesa wants no other. Argo has the sense of a man when I discourse to him."
So Argo barked and yelped, and tore up and down undisturbed, followed by the pack in full chase after imaginary enemies. Woe betide the calves of any stranger arriving at that period of the day at the villa! They might feel Argo's glistening teeth meeting in them, or be hurled on the ground, for Argo had a nasty trick of clutching stealthily from behind. Woe betide all but Fra Pacifico, who had so often licked him in drawn battles, when the dog had leaped upon him, that now Argo fled at sight of his priestly garments with a howl!
Adamo, who, after his mid-day meal, required tobacco and repose, would not move to save any one's soul, much less his body.
"Argo is a lunatic without me," he would observe, blandly, to Pipa, if roused by a special outburst of barking, the smoke of his pipe curling round his bullet-head the while. "Lunatics, either among men or beasts, are not worth attending to. A sweating horse, a crying woman, and a yelping cur, heed not."
Adamo added many more grave remarks between the puffs of his pipe, turning to Pipa, who sat beside him, distaff in hand, the silver pins, stuck into her glossy plaits, glistening in the sun.
When Adamo ceased he nodded his head like an oracle that had spoken, and dozed, leaning against the wall, until the sun had sunk to rest into a bed of orange and saffron, and the air was cooled by evening dews. Not till then did Adamo rise up to work.
Pipa, who, next to Adamo and the marchesa, loved Enrica with all the strength of her warm heart, sings all day those unwritten songs of Tuscany that rise and fall with such spontaneous cadence among the vineyards, and in the olive-grounds, that they seem bred in the air—Pipa sings all day for gladness that the signorina is going to marry a rich and handsome gentleman. Marriage, to Pipa's simple mind—especially marriage with money—must bring certain blessings, and crowds of children; she would as soon doubt the seven wounds of the Madonna as doubt this. Pipa has seen Count Nobili. She approves of him. His curly auburn hair, so short and crisp; his bold look and gracious smile—not to speak of certain notes he slipped into her hand—have quite conquered her. Besides, had Count Nobili not come down, the noble gentleman, like San Michele, with golden wings behind him, and a terrible lance in his hand, as set forth in a dingy fresco in the church at Corellia—come down and rescued the dear signorina when—oh, horrible!—she had been forgotten in the burning tower? Pipa's joy develops itself in a vain endeavor to clean the entire villa. With characteristic discernment, she has begun her labors in the upper story, which, being unfurnished, no one ever enters. Pipa has set open all the windows, and thrown back all the blinds; Pipa sweeps and sprinkles, and sweeps again, combating with dust, and fleas and insects innumerable, grown bold by a quiet tenancy of nearly fifty years. While she sweeps, Pipa sings:
"I'll build a house round, round, quite round,For us to live at ease, all three;Father and mother there shall dwell,And my true love with me."
Poor Pipa! It is so pleasant to hear her clear voice caroling overhead like a bird from the open window, and to see her bright face looking out now and then, her gold ear-rings bobbing to and fro—her black rippling hair, and her merry eyes blinded with dust and flue—to swallow a breath of air. Adamo does not work, but Pipa does. If she goes on like this, Pipa may hope to clean the entire floor in a month; of the great sala below, and the other rooms where people live, Pipa does not think. It is not her way to think; she lives by happy, rosy instinct.
Pipa chatters much to Enrica about Count Nobili and her marriage when she is not sweeping or spinning. Enrica continually catches sight of her staring at her with open mouth and curious eyes, her head a little on one side the better to observe her.
"Sweet innocent! she knows nothing that is coming on her," Pipa is thinking; and then Pipa winks, and laughs outright—laughs to the empty walls, which echo the laugh back with a hollow sound.
But if any thing lurks there that mocks Pipa's mirth, it is not visible to Pipa's outward eye, so she continues addressing herself to Enrica, who is utterly bewildered by her strange ways.
Pipa cannot bear to think that Enrica never dressed for her betrothed. "Poverina!" she says to her, "not dress—not dress! What degradation! Why, when the Gobbina—a little starved hump-backed bastard—married the blind beggar Gianni at Corellia, for the sake of the pence he got sitting all day shaking his box by thecafé—even the Gobbina had a white dress and a wreath—and you, beloved lady, not so much as to care to change your clothes! What must the Signore Conte have thought? Misera mia! We must all seem pagans to him!" And Pipa's heart smote her sorely, remembering the notes. "Caro Gesù! When you are to be married we must find you something to wear. To be sure, the marchesa's luggage was chiefly burnt in the fire, but one box is left. Out of that box something will come," Pipa feels sure (miracles are nothing to Pipa, who believes in pilgrimages and the evil-eye); she feels sure that it will be so. After much talk with Enrica, who only answers her with a smile, and says absently, looking at the mountains which she does not see—
"Dear Pipa, we will look in the box, as you say."
"But when, signorina?" insists Pipa, and she kisses Enrica's hand, and strokes her dress. "But when?"
"To-morrow," says Enrica, absently. "To-morrow, dear Pipa, not to-day."
"Holy mother!" is Pipa's reply, "it has been 'to-morrow' for four days." "Always to-morrow," mutters Pipa to herself, as she makes the dust fly with her broom; "and the Signore Conte is to return in a week! Always to-morrow. What can I do? Such a disgrace was never known. No bridal dress. No veil. The signorina is too young to understand such things, and the marchesa is not like other ladies, or one might venture to speak to her about it. She would only give me 'accidenti' if I did, and that is so unlucky! To-morrow I must make the signorina search that box. There will be a white dress and a veil. I dreamed so. Good dreams come from heaven. I have had a candle lighted for luck before the Santissima in the market-place, and fresh flowers put into the pots. There will be sure to be a white dress and a veil—the saints will send them to the signorina."
Pipa sweeps and sings. Her children, Angelo and Gigi, are roasting chestnuts under the window outside.
This time she sings a nursery rhyme:
"Little Trot, that trots so gayly,And without legs can walk so bravely!Trottolin! Trottolino!—Via! via!"
Pipa, in her motherly heart looking out, blesses little Gigi—a chubby child blackened by the sun—to see him sitting so meek and good beside his brother. Angelo is a naughty boy. Pipa does not love him so well as Gigi. Perhaps this is the reason Angelo is so ill-furnished in point of clothes. His patched and ragged trousers are hitched on with a piece of string. Shirt he has none; only a little dingy waistcoat buttoned over his chest, on which lies a silver medal of the Madonna. Angelo's arms are bare, his face mahogany-color, his head a hopeless tangle of colorless hair. But Angelo has a pair of eyes that dance, and a broad, red-lipped mouth, out of which two rows of white teeth shine like pearls. Angelo has just burnt his fingers picking a chestnut out of the ashes. He turns very red, but he is too proud to cry. Angelo's hands and feet are so hard he does not feel the pointed rocks that break the turf in the forest, nor does he fear the young snakes, as plenty as lizards, in the warm nooks. All yesterday Angelo had run up and down to look for chestnuts, on his naked feet. He dared not mount into the trees, for that would be stealing; but he leaped, and skipped, and slid when a russet-coated chestnut caught his eye. Gigi was with him, trusted to his care by Pipa, with many abjurations and terrible threats of future punishment should he ill-use him.
Ah! if Pipa knew!—if Pipa had only seen little Gigi lonely in the woods, and heard his roars for help! Angelo, having found Gigi troublesome, had tied him by a twisted cord of grass to the trunk of an ancient chestnut. Gigi was trepanned into this thralldom by a heap of flowers artful Angelo had brought him—purple crocuses and cyclamens, and Canterbury bells, and gaudy pea-stalks, all thrown before the child. Gigi, in his little torn petticoat, had swallowed the bait, and flung himself upon the bright blossoms, grasping them in his dirty fingers. Presently the delighted babe turned his eyes upon cunning Angelo standing behind him, showing his white teeth. Satisfied that Angelo was there, Gigi buried himself among the flowers. He crowed to them in his baby way, and flung them here and there. Gigi would run and catch them, too; but suddenly he felt something which stopped him. It was a grass cord which Angelo had secretly woven standing behind Gigi—then had made it fast round Gigi's waist and knotted it to a tree. A cloud came over Gigi's jolly little face—a momentary cloud—when he found he could not run after the flowers. But it soon passed away, and he squatted down upon the grass (the inveigled child), and again clutched the tempting blossoms. Then his little eyes peered round for Angelo to play with him. Alas!—Angelo was gone!
Gigi sobbed a little to himself silently, but the treacherous flowers had still power to console him; at least, he could tear them to pieces. But by-and-by when the sun mounted high over the tops of the forest-clad mountains, and poured down its burning rays, swallowing up all the shade and glittering like flame on every leaf, Gigi grew hot and weary. He was very empty, too; it was just the time that Pipa fed him. His stomach craved for food. He craved for Pipa, too, for home, for the soft pressure of Pipa's ample bosom, where he lay so snug.
Gigi looked round. He did not sob now, but set up a hideous roar, the big tears coursing down his fat cheeks, marking their course by furrows in the dirt and grime. The wood echoed to Gigi's roars. He roared for mammy, for daddy (Angelo Gigi cannot say, it is too long a word). He kicked away the flowers with his pretty dimpled feet, the false flowers that had betrayed him. The babe cannot reason, but instinct tells him that those painted leaves have wronged him. They are faded now, and lie soiled and crumpled, the ghosts of what they were. Again Gigi tries to rise and run, but he is drawn roughly down by the grass rope. He tries to tear it asunder, in vain; Angelo had taken care of that. At last, hoarse and weary, Gigi subsided into terrible sobs, that heave his little breast. Sobbing thus, with pouting lips and heavy eyes, he waits his fate.
It comes with Angelo!—Angelo, leaping downward through the checkered glades, his pockets stuffed with chestnuts. Like an angel with healing in his wings, Angelo comes to Gigi. When he spies him out, Gigi rises, unsteady on his little feet—rises up, forgetting all, and clasps his hands. When Angelo comes near, and stands beside him, Gigi flings his chubby arms about his neck, and nestles to him.
Angelo, when he sees Gigi's disfigured face and sodden eyes, feels his conscience prick him. With his pockets full of chestnuts he pities Gigi; he kisses him, he takes him up, and bears him in his arms quickly toward home. The happy child closes his weary eyes, and falls asleep on Angelo's shoulder. Pipa, when she sees Angelo return—so careful of his little brother—praises him, and gives him a new-baked cake. Gigi can tell no tales, and Angelo is silent.
While Pipa sweeps and sings, Angelo and Gigi are roasting these very chestnuts on a heap of ashes under the window outside. Enrica sat near them—a little apart—on a low wall, that bordered the summit of the cliff. The zone of mighty mountains rose sharp and clear before her. It seemed to her as if she had only to stretch out her hand to touch them. The morning lights rested on them with a fresh glory; the crisp air, laden with a scent of herbs, came circling round, and stirred the curls upon her pretty head. Enrica wore the same quaintly-cut dress, that swept upon the ground, as when Nobili was there. She had no other. All had been burnt in the fire. Sitting there, she plucked the moss that grew upon the wall, and watched it as it dropped into the abyss. This was shrouded in deepest shadow. The rush of the distant river in the valley below was audible. Enrica raised her head and listened. That river flowed round the walls of Lucca. Nobili was there. Happy river! Oh, that it would bear her to him on its frothy current!—Surely her life-path lay straight before her now!—straight into paradise! Not a stone is on that path; not a rise, not a fall.
"In a week I will return," Nobili had said. In a week. And his eyes had rested upon her as he spoke the words in a mist of love. Enrica's face was pale and almost stern, and her blue eyes had strange lights and shadows in them. How came it that, since he had left her, the world had grown so old and gray?—that all the impulse of her nature, the quick ebb and flow of youth and hope, was stilled and faded out, and all her thoughts absorbed into a dreadful longing? She could not tell, nor could she tell what ailed her; but she felt that she was changed. She tried to listen to the prattle of the two children—to Pipa singing above:
"Come out! come out!Never despair!Father and mother and sweetheart,All will be there!"
Enrica could not listen. It was the dark abyss below that drew her toward its silent bosom. She hung over the wall, her eyes measuring its depths. What ailed her? Was she smitten mad by the wild tumult of joy that had swept over her as she stood hand-in-hand with Nobili? Or was she on the eve of some crisis?—a crisis of life and death? Oh! why had Nobili left her? When would he return? She could not tell. All she knew was, that in the streaming sunlight of this wondrous morning, when earth and heaven were as fair as on the first creation-day, without him all was dark, sad, and dreary.