THE SCALES OF HONOUR
THAT Mario and Hera were taken in by the counterfeit despair and
make-believe submission of Tarsis proved how little they knew the man
with whom they had to deal. Tarsis had as much thought of giving up
Hera as he had of parting with his life. In the last words spoken to
him by Mario--“She is not to be your wife”--he knew that he had heard
the declaration of a resolute strike against his fondest design; and to
set about breaking it by means of craft instead of open resistance was
only the instinctive recourse of a character schooled in devices. The
art of throwing the antagonist off his guard had become a second nature
with him. Always this was the first move he made in a fight with his
fellow-man. He had achieved his earlier successes in the business world
by causing powerful rivals to despise him--to regard him as a factor
not worth reckoning with. He had won victories by feigning acceptance
of defeat.
He hated failure as a shark hates the land. All over Italy the wedding
day had been heralded, and he was determined that the marriage should
take place. Labour unions with which he had to do knew something of
his granite will when set to the breaking of a strike. While he moved
toward the villa, holding the motor car to the pace of Hera’s horse, he
had time to think out the details of his plan.
Arrived at the villa, a maid informed Hera that Donna Beatrice
was absent in Milan. As to Don Riccardo, the serving woman said,
_Gh’e minga_, which is the Lombardian equivalent for “not about” or
“missing.” He had set out on horseback in the direction of Lodi a
half-hour before. Sadly Hera reflected that with her father, whom she
loved for his endearing frailties, it had always been _G’he minga_. She
knew his soul rebelled against the alliance with Tarsis, but that he
lacked the strength to put away the cup of ease it held to his lips.
She had hoped that he would be at hand now, as one at least in the
household to rejoice at the course she had chosen. She noted that the
news of their being alone brought a gleam of satisfaction to the eyes
of Tarsis. When they entered the reception hall the old sternness had
settled on his countenance, replacing the broken-spirited humility that
had moved her so deeply in the chapel.
“I hope it will not be presuming on your favour,” were his opening
words, “if I ask you for light on one or two points?”
“No,” she answered. “It is your right. I wish to be frank--to tell you
all.”
“How long have you been under the influence of this man?”
“The question is unfair to him and to me,” she said. “I will answer any
question that you have a right to ask, but I will not quarrel with you.”
Tarsis rose from where he was seated, walked the width of the room and
back, and when he spoke again his manner was milder.
“How long have you known him?” he inquired.
“We met last week for the first time. It was on the day the bridge
broke.”
“Do you think it just to me that you have kept the affair secret?”
“Not until this hour have we spoken of our love.”
“But all the time you were plotting my disgrace,” he argued, eyeing her
shrewdly.
“There was no plot,” she averred, rising, impatiently. “If you cannot
be fair discussion is useless.”
“Be fair!” he flung out, drawing nearer to her. “Let me ask if you
think it fair to discard me at this hour--to degrade me before the
world?”
Without hesitation she answered: “I was on the point of doing you a
great injury. My love for Mario Forza has saved me.”
“Saved you from the crime of marrying me?” he suggested, querulously.
“Say, rather, the crime of marriage with a man I do not love,” she
corrected.
“As you will; but I cannot see how it has saved you,” he told her,
coolly.
“What do you mean?”
“Merely that engagements of marriage are contracts, and not to be
treated so lightly as you and your--friend seem to think. I hold you to
your promise.”
“In the chapel you said----”
“Oh, yes,” he broke in, with a shrug. “I accepted the situation, but it
was only pretence. I did not feel called upon to discuss the subject
then and there. The fact is, Donna Hera, the marriage must take place
to-morrow, just as it has been arranged.”
“No, no!” she exclaimed, a note of entreaty in her voice. “You must
release me.”
“I will not release you!” he declared, calmly, relentlessly. “You will
become my wife to-morrow in the cathedral of Milan. And do you know
why? Because the honour of a Barbiondi will hold you to the right.”
“Oh, I cannot!” she cried, and moved from him, but he followed.
“I am sure that you will,” he persisted. “I am sure that your better
self will guide you when you pause to think.”
“Oh, it is impossible!” was all she could answer.
“It was not so impossible a few days ago,” he reminded her, cynically.
“I know, I know,” she owned, helplessly, looking into his hard face.
“If you were a woman you would understand why it is different now.”
“I think I understand you,” he pursued. “For the moment you are
governed by notions of right and wrong that are not yours, that are
unworthy of you. You are swayed alone by a desire for your own
happiness. In the end you will look with less selfish eyes and see
where your duty is.”
To her mind rose the assertion of Mario that from a sense of duty
great wrongs might spring, and she knew the force of it now, with her
promised husband demanding the sacrifice of her love, and conscience
whispering that his demand was just. Tarsis smiled in content to
perceive that he had brought her to a troubled state of mind.
“I am convinced,” he went on, “that you do not realise the extent of
the cruelty, the wickedness of the act you contemplate. You can not be
aware of the severity of the blow you would deal me. I have bought the
old Barbiondi palace in Milan, and men are at work preparing it for our
occupancy. I have the promise of the King to dine with us on our return
from abroad. All Italy awaits--but enough. You need not be told the
details. To consummate the deed you have undertaken would be infamous.
For me it means a disaster that time could not repair, and for you--you
would reproach yourself for ever; it would haunt you all your days, and
be a curse to you. But you will not do it, Donna Hera. Ah, no; you
will not. Nor would Mario Forza have asked it of you had he paused to
see the terrible injustice to me. I say he would not, provided, of
course, he is the high-souled gentleman you believe him to be. Could he
see the wrong in the magnitude that you see it now, I am sure that he
as well as I would beg you to desist--to stand true to your promise.”
It was not by chance that Tarsis brought the name of Mario into his
plea, and in the effect he perceived it had on Hera he knew he had
reckoned well. She stood with her back to him now, a hand pressed to
each temple.
“So confident am I that Signor Forza would do me justice,” Tarsis
continued, “that I beg you in the name of your honour to appeal to him,
to send for him at once and put my fate in his hands. I pledge myself
to abide by what he says.”
Slowly she moved away and sank into a chair, preoccupied with the
thought he had suggested.
“I will do as you wish,” she said, presently, confident that Mario
would hold her to the path their love had chosen. “But that is
impossible,” she added, after a glance at the clock. “He said he would
leave Viadetta in time to join the Roman express at Milan.”
“Signor Forza goes to Rome to-night?” the other asked, in astonishment
that was spurious, for he had heard all that Mario said to her at the
parting in the chapel.
“Yes; and it is too late to reach him,” she replied, precisely as
Tarsis had expected.
“Signor Forza’s departure for Rome,” he hastened to tell her, “does not
present any serious difficulty in the way of communicating with him, if
it is still your wish to pursue that course.”
“It is my wish; of that you may be assured,” she said, positively, in
the full belief that there could be only one decision by Mario Forza.
“How can I communicate with him?”
“By making use of the telegraph. A message to Rome, delivered in the
railway station at the instant of his arrival, if answered at once,
would make it possible for you to have his advice by midnight.”
“Ahem!”
It was Donna Beatrice. She had paused on the threshold, and stood
looking from one to the other, puzzled by the serious aspect of the
scene.
“Ah, how do you do, Signor Tarsis?” she said, breezily, going forward
to take his hand. “I have come from Milan. The finishing touch has been
given to the arrangements. All is in readiness. They say there has been
a terrible hailstorm. Hera, my dear, I warned you a storm was brewing.
I hope you were not caught in it, and you, Signor Tarsis?”
He answered that they both had been overtaken and both had found
shelter in the monastery.
“Indeed! How interesting!” Donna Beatrice exclaimed. “A most romantic
coincidence, upon my word!”
Neither of the others joined to her tittering the shadow of a smile,
but Donna Beatrice was not surprised, for she had guessed that some
grave disturbance of the peace had occurred. She shivered at the
thought that the great consummation booked for to-morrow might be in
jeopardy.
“I beg your pardon, Signor Tarsis,” she chirped, “but I am going to ask
Hera to come with me for a little while--just a moment before dinner.
You will not mind, I am sure. It is--let us say--the last pre-nuptial
secret. After to-day no more secrets.”
Her small laugh sounded again, and slipping her arm within Hera’s
she drew her toward the door. Hera held back a little as they passed
Tarsis, and, to the elder woman’s deeper mystification, said to him,
softly:
“I will write the telegram.”
Tarsis returned a low bow, saying, “At your pleasure.”
They ascended to Donna Beatrice’s apartments. “Hera, I am positive that
something dreadful has happened!” the aunt announced, when they were
alone.
“Something dreadful was about to happen,” Hera explained, “but I have
averted it.”
“I beseech you,” cried Donna Beatrice, “not to speak in riddles. In the
name of heaven, what have you done?”
“I have told Signor Tarsis that I cannot be his wife.”