"You look pale," she answered.
For a moment he did not speak. Then he said, "I have had a disappointment,
Edith."
She leaned toward him with a sigh and a hand half extended, compassion in
all her attitude.
He took the hand, and rose. "Let me tell you all, dear," he said. "I need
comfort. Come and let me tell you,--if it will not be a bore,"
She went at once, pain and delight struggling together in her heart. He
led her to the sofa, and sank down to the cushion at her feet, bowing his
head to her knees. And there he poured out his whole story, sparing her
nothing.
Perhaps an instinct of justice and mercy ran through his passion. Perhaps,
guessing in the soft, tremulous, soothing hands that touched his hair and
forehead the love that he had believed to be dead, and with an unconscious
feeling that she was to be the consoler and companion of his future life,
he felt also that all the pain she was to suffer for this love of his must
be gone through with now.
He could not understand that her only pain was for him, and that for
herself she was blest. For she had his confidence, and she could console
him.
From that night he became her constant escort and companion. He wrote a
brief note in answer to Mrs. Lindsay's, and then he seemed to forget that
he knew any one in Palazzo Pesaro.
"For the present I am _de trop_" he wrote, "but I will see you before you
go away. All happiness to Aurora and her chosen husband."
Impossibility is a wonderful extinguisher of desire; and what suffering
was left to him was not so much a sickness as the languor of
convalescence. He saw Aurora but seldom, and always at a distance; but he
knew that Venetian society was rejoicing over the engagement, and that the
duke was a devoted lover.
Once, in passing by, he glanced involuntarily at the windows, and saw a
group inside, the sight of which gave him a momentary pang. D'Rubiera
seemed to be placing something on Aurora's head, and Mrs. Lindsay clapped
her hands.
The duke was, in fact, trying a coronet on his future wife. He had sent
for the family jewels, and was to have them reset, and Mrs. Lindsay
clapped her hands at seeing the diamonds on Aurora's hair.
D'Rubiera was an impatient and peremptory wooer, and he won the day. They
were to be married in June; and the Lindsays would stay in Venice a month
longer to witness the ceremony.
Fra Antonio came from Sassovivo and joined their hands in Saint Mark's,
gold and rank smoothing away all obstacles. Then they went to England for
the boy, and came back in time for a week at Bellmar. After Bellmar, they
went to Sassovivo, unannounced, to break open the walled-up gate and carry
jubilee into the castle, the duke said.
In fact, they spent a whole day long in the castle, tranquilly watching
from its windows the visitors who went to the villa in vain to
_ossequiare_ the master and his new duchess. It was the last time that
they would enter the castle as master and mistress; for the Signora Paula
and Martina were coming to live there,--forever, if they pleased.
The Signora Paula had found herself _de trop_ in her brother's house. The
Count Clemente had offered himself to the younger of his two first lodgers,
the girl of fifty, and been beamingly accepted; and, though months must
elapse before all the necessary preparations could be made for their
marriage, the Sposa was now mistress of the house. She smiled as before,
but she had her way. The sacred dirt of centuries was being cleaned out,
and immemorial grime was growing pale before the soap and sand of a
civilization to which the Signora Paula was a stranger. Where duchesses
had swept their silks in uncomplaining tranquillity, the smiling Americana
walked on tiptoe with her skirts upheld, and pointed out her orders to the
wondering scrubbers with the toe of her slipper, both hands being employed.
In all these innovations every care was taken that the count should not be
disturbed. But he had his cross, and an unexpected one. When it became
time to talk of settlements, and it had to be owned that the gentleman had
nothing to settle on his wife but the shadow of a coronet, of which she
would have to buy the substance if she ever wore it, the lady announced
blandly that she would pay all their living-expenses and give her husband
five hundred dollars a year spending-money if he would pay the rent to the
duke,--this arrangement to hold as long as they should live together.
"But we shall always live together," said the count, with a contortion
meant for a smile.
"If we should live," the lady said. "But life is uncertain."
"Oh, in case of death, one makes different arrangements," the count said,
somewhat impatiently. "That is another question."
"But I want it so," persisted the lady coquettishly; "and I must have my
way. I have always had my way."
And, ever smiling, never appearing to dream that he was in earnest or to
suspect the rage that was gnawing his heart, she had her way. She smiled
at his coarse and open grasping, smiled at his scarcely hidden anger, and
smiled at the half-insulting consent he flung at her, as if it were all a
jest. And he believed her the simpleton she seemed, and did not know that
he had found a mistress who would rule him with a rod of iron.
On the second day of their stay in Sassovivo the duke and duchess drove
down early in the morning to the campagna, and left another brewing of
_ossequii_ to fizz itself out in unresponsive air.
Aurora was going to erect a memorial fountain to her mother in the midst
of the long, hot, dusty road to the station. A wild spring of delicious
water lay back in a rocky pasture. This was to be brought forward and run
into marble basins for man and beast. Above should be a carved relief of
Christ and the Samaritan woman at the well, with, underneath, "And the
woman said, Lord, give me of this water to drink, that I may never thirst
again."
An artist had come out from Rome to see the place and make suggestions;
and they walked over the green grass, and visited the spring in its own
home, and drank of its sparkling tide.
"Would you like to be a missionary, little spring?" Aurora asked, bending
toward it. "Many will call you blessed, and the image of your Master will
forever look down upon you."
The artist looked at her in surprise and smiling admiration. He had found
her a very dignified lady, and this unexpected turn reminded him that she
was a poetess as well as a duchess.
"What does it say?" D'Rubiera asked.
She took his arm, smiled into his face, but made no answer.
They went back to the carriage, took leave of their artist, and drove
slowly to the town.
"I hope that mamma likes the idea of the fountain," the duchess said
thoughtfully.