"I must wait and suffer," he said; "for Marina will not yield."
"It is new for a maiden of the people to know such pride," she answered,
scornfully.
"It is because none are like her, and her soul is beautiful as her face!
My mother, there are none prouder in all this palace; the little
Contessa Beata is a _contadina_ beside her! Yet, it is not pride, I
think, but love and care for my happiness," he added, grown suddenly
bold. "She will not come to bring me sorrow; and she hath said that my
duty being to Venice, she can wed me only with the consent of our house.
And Messer Magagnati----"
"There is a father, then, who would treat with thee?"
"Mother--use not that tone; thou dost not understand! Ask the Veronese.
Messer Magagnati knows not of this; for so tenderly doth his daughter
care for him that, to save him pain of knowing that she suffers for lack
of thy welcome, she hath not told him. Shall the Veronese plead with
thee better than thine own son? For he knoweth the maiden well; and the
father, who is most honorably reported in Venice for the wonder of his
discoveries in his industry of glass. He is of the people--of the
'original citizens'--for of the days before the _serrata_[1] hath his
family records; but he might well be of the Signoria, so grave he is and
full of dignity. And his name is old--_Mother_!"
[1] An important constitutional act, limiting the aristocracy to those
families who had at that period, sat in the Council; always referred
to as an era in Venetian history.
"Nay, Marco, lift thy sword; how should it lie there for lack of thy
mother's favor? I will not have thee suffer, if I can give thee aid. But
one may suffer in other ways--quite other--which thou hast no knowledge
of, for to thee there seemeth to be, in all the world, nothing worthy
but this wish of thine! But it is no promise; one must ponder in so
great a matter, my boy!"
They broke down in each other's arms, clasping the sword between them.
The Senator's firm step resounded on the marble floor; they had scant
time to recover themselves; but his eyes fell at once upon the
magnificent goblet, and there was pleasure in his stern face.
"This, then, is of thy designing, Marcantonio," he exclaimed, as he
stooped to examine it in its case of satin and velvet. "A veritable
gift-piece! And already thou hast won the favor of the Senate, since it
hath been reported to them by our Chief of the Ten, who hath the
industries of Murano in charge, that at the exhibit given yestere'en a
goblet more sumptuous than that prepared for his Majesty of France was
of thy designing. The Secretary will bring thee this night a summons
from the Ten to appear before them on the morrow to receive their
congratulations, because of the inspiration thou hast given to our most
valued industry.
"It is a rare mark of favor that it hath been confided to me,"
Giustinian continued, still examining the goblet with pride, "since
custom doth require that one should withdraw from the sitting of the
Council when any matter touching his house is treated. But Morosini, by
grace of the Signoria, hath been with me for a moment, that there may be
no misgivings of fear upon this fête-day of our house. And to-night this
summons to favor shall be presented, to honor the youngest member of the
Consiglio. Marcantonio, I am proud of thee; the Ten will be here--every
one! And verily the goblet is beautiful. It shall be well displayed in
the great banquet hall."
"Here, in my boudoir, where my boy hath placed it," said the mother
quickly, as the Senator would have lifted it, "since it is my gift. And,
Marco"--She turned to him a face softened and beautified by the
struggle, which had been very great, and her eyes were deep with a light
which bound him to her forever.
"Marco mio, it shall be well displayed. For I will bid my maidens circle
this table whereon it rests with a wreath of roses--white and very
beautiful--in token of thy mother's favor."
X
Marina, under the yellow glare of the lamp in the dark oak cabinet,
worked fitfully, with broken, lifeless strokes, at the designs before
her; while her father, feigning absorption in some new drawings which
lay spread out within touch of his strong-veined hands, watched her
furtively from the other side of the table.
"Thou art restless," he said, suddenly and sternly; "what aileth thee?"
Her lip quivered, but she did not look up, while with an effort she
steadied the movement of her hand and continued her work. "My hand hath
no cunning to-night, and it vexeth me, my father."
"It is poor work when the heart is lacking," he answered, in a tone
charged with irritation. "I also have seen a thing which hath taken my
heart from me."
The color deepened in her cheeks and the pencil strokes came more
falteringly, but she answered nothing.
"Nay, then!" he exclaimed, more brusquely than his wont, as he stretched
out his hand and arrested her movement. "What I have to say to thee
importeth much."
She flushed and paled with the struggle of the moment, then a beautiful
calm came over her face; she laid down her pencil and, quietly dropping
her hands in her lap, she turned to him with a smile that might have
disarmed an angrier man--it was full of tenderness, though it was
shadowed by pain.
It relaxed his sternness, and, after a moment's hesitation, he came
around the table and sat down beside her.
"To-night is the fête at Ca' Giustiniani, for the young noble of their
house."
He waited for her to speak, but she did not tremble now, though he was
searching her face.
"Yes, father, I know."
"And, Marina--I do not understand--and it is a grief to me----"
She nestled to him closely and tried to slip one of her slender hands
between his, which were tightly strained together in a knotted clasp, as
if he would make them the outlet for some unbearable emotion.
The previous evening was the first they had not passed together since
the death of Zuanino; her father had sent her word that he had matter
which would occupy him alone, and all day Marina had been heavy-hearted,
going at matins and at vespers quite alone to the Madonna at the Duomo,
that she might take comfort and counsel.
Girolamo did not respond to her caress, though his tone softened a
little as he proceeded with his tale and her arm stole round him.
"Yesterday, at the stabilimento Beroviero, we were summoned by a call of
our Capo of the Ten to witness the approval that should be passed on the
exhibit of that stabilimento; we all, of the Guild of Murano, were there
as always. And foremost among the productions, most marvelous for
beauty, was a fabric of their lucent crystal--thou knowest it, Marina?
My child--how came thy face there? _Thy_ face, Marina--set round with
lustrous pearls!"
He folded her to his breast with sudden passion, and stooped his head to
her shoulder for an instant, lifting it quickly that she might not feel
the sobbing of his breath which, even more than his broken words,
betrayed his anguish.
"Dearest father, it was because I loved thee so much that I would not
have thee suffer from my pain, that I told thee not. Never again will I
hold aught from thee."
"Thy pain, Marina? and thy face--and for the young noble, Giustiniani? I
do not understand."
"Father, because I could grant him nothing and he would give me
everything, and because--because God sent the love and the Madonna hath
made me feel that it would be sweet, I granted him only this--my
portrait--because he pleaded so one could not resist; and because he
said it would win the consent of all to see that he treated me like a
queen!"
"Nay; one comes not in secret to steal the love of a queen."
"My father," answered the maiden proudly, for he had drawn away from
her, "there is no stealing of that which I would gladly yield him, if it
were thy pleasure and that of the Ca' Giustiniani! And there would have
been no secret; but I--to spare thee pain of knowing that I suffered--I
would not let him come to plead with thee."
"Why shouldst thou suffer?"
"It is hard to lose thy love when only I told thee not because I would
spare thee pain! Father--I have only thee!" Her courage broke in a quick
sob.
"Nay, then--nay, then," he faltered softly, stroking her bowed head; "he
is no man to love, if he would let thee suffer; he should take
thee--before them all--if he would be worthy----"
The low, intense, interrupted words were a brave surrender.
"Ay, my father, it is like Marco to hear thee speak!"
"Then let him come and make thee Lady of the Giustiniani, like a true
knight!" exclaimed the old man fiercely.
"Ay, father, so would he; but I have told him that thou and I are not
less proud than those of his own house, and without their consent it may
not be."
"Nay, I care not for their house--only for thy happiness; he shall wed
thee, and my home is thine; I have enough for thee and him; he shall not
make thee suffer."
They were close together now, father and daughter--a beautiful group in
the yellow lamplight against the dark background that surrounded them
like an impassible fate; her face was a study of happiness, tenderness,
suffering, and strength; her father wrapped her close in his protecting
arms, and thus she could bear everything. They were silent for a while:
he trying to accept the revelation in its strangeness, she planning how
she should make him understand.
"I am glad thou knowest it, dear father," she said at length, very
softly. "I have thy love--I can bear everything."
"Nay, thou shalt have nothing to bear! Thou shalt be Lady of the
Giustiniani--what means the portrait else?"
"It is like Marco again!" she cried, with a little pleased laugh. "He
said--because I would make him no promise until all consented--that he
would take me thus before all the world, and that should make them
consent."
"Nay, let him come out from his house and take thee! I also, of the
people, bear an ancient name, and I have kept it honorable. Pietro, the
earliest master of our beautiful art, was thine ancestor. The Giustinian
stoops not in taking thee."
"He is noble enough to be thy son, my father--and chivalrous as
thou--but we are too noble to let him do aught unbefitting his noble
house; for thou knowest the Giustiniani are like princes in Venice, and
Marco is their only son. He oweth duty to the Republic; and this day, in
the Ducal Palace, hath he sworn his oath of allegiance."
"First should it have been to thee!"
"Ay, first it was to me," she answered serenely; "he would not have it
otherwise; it is only _my_ promise that is lacking. This will I not give
until the Giustiniani make me welcome, or there would be no happiness
for Marco. He shall not lose, in loving me. The Signor Giustinian
Giustiniani is so stern--and one of the Chiefs--I would not vex him and
bring down the displeasure of the Ten; I would bring my Marco
happiness--not pain."
"Oh, the courage of young hearts!" the old man exclaimed with a thrill
of pride and amazement. "Never had Giustinian a prouder bride. And
already thou hast won my heart for this lover of thine, who hath hope
of taking thee from thy old father, yet stays at thy bidding."
"He hath said that he would be here ere the fête began," she answered
timidly, "since already, through the portrait, thou must know the truth;
and it would seem unknightly, or as if he feared thy displeasure, if he
came not this day to pay thee his duty. Father, methinks there is
already a stir below----"
"Thou shouldst make thyself brave!" her father exclaimed, with a quick,
anxious glance at her simple home toilette. "He will pass from thee to
many noble ladies in the palazzo Giustiniani--all in bravery of
festival."
"Nay, my father, so he found me; I would not hold him by devices, of
which I know naught. There will be much to suffer, and these trifles
cannot enter into anything so deep and real. I would rather he should
change to-day--if he could be light enough to change. Besides," she
faltered, with a quick, charming blush, "I think it is already his step
without; and to-night he will have so few moments to spare me--Marco!"
Coming forward through the shadow of the doorway, the young
noble--deferent, masterful, unrenouncing--was a suitor not easily to be
baffled by any claims of Venice.
Girolamo turned quickly to his child, then looked away, for her face
made a radiance in the room; he, her father, who had loved her through
all the days of her maiden life with a great tenderness, had never known
the fullness of her beauty until now; the soft folds of the simple robe
flowing away from her into the surrounding shadow left the pure young
charm of her head and face in luminous relief, as the brilliant young
noble, in embroidered velvet and silken hose and jeweled clasps--a type
of sumptuous modern day Venice--stepped forward into the little circle
of light, bowing before her with courtly deference.
The vision of those youthful faces made it easy to forget the outward
contrast--a mere accident of birth.
Girolamo Magagnati had promised himself that he would be a true knight
to his beloved child; he would question and prove this bold young noble
who claimed, with such presumption, so great a prize--not humbly suing,
as he should have done; he would make him tremble and wait; he should
learn that his daughter was not to be the more easily won because she
was of the people! Then, with the fullness of his vow upon him, and with
a heart loving indeed, but brave as proud, he had raised his eyes and
beheld a vision in which neither nobles nor people held part--only a
maiden, glorified by her love and trust; and a lover--prince or peasant
it mattered not--for on his face it was luminously written that in all
the world there was for him none other than she. And the vision, like an
apprehension of Truth--rare and very beautiful--conquered Girolamo,
because he was strong enough to yield.
"It is but a moment that I have for this dearest claim of the day," said
Marcantonio Giustiniani, turning to the older man with winning courtesy;
"and sooner should I have come to the father of Marina to crave the
grace I cannot do without, but that she bade me tarry. Yet now--she
herself hath spoken?"
He looked from one to the other questioningly.
"There are no secrets between us," Girolamo answered with dignity, while
weighing some words that should welcome his daughter's suitor with
discretion and reserve.