CHOOSING.
Four days later the Marchese Gasparo was on his way to Andrea's
boat-house.
There was no brighter appearance in the street that day than the
countenance of this young soldier as he walked briskly along, with
alert glances, his head well up, and his mind full of pleasant
thoughts, which every now and then made his handsome face flush with an
unconscious gleam of interest and amusement. Life was full of
interesting things to Gasparo--and flattering things as well. Only
this morning he had heard from the Colonel of his regiment that he had
been selected to act as one of the King's body-guard on the occasion of
the approaching review at Rome. He had the letter now in his pocket.
His mother, too, had been unexpectedly generous of late in the matter
of supplies; at the present moment he had quite a little stock of crisp
bank-notes carefully stowed away in that inner pocket. Altogether he
felt himself in a brilliant and successful vein of luck.
It seemed almost a pity that so much confident good-humour should be
exposed to any unwelcome shock or jar, and it was with a distinct
feeling of annoyance that, as he turned out of the noisy Via Grande
into the quieter expanse of the quay, his quick eyes recognised a
familiar figure in the person of a short, middle-aged man coming slowly
towards him.
They were too near to one another for any affectation of ignorance to
seem possible. Gasparo looked sharply up and down the street, then,
with a peremptory nod and a careless greeting of 'Well, Valdez!'
attempted to pass on.
Unfortunately the driver of a heavy cart laden with white blocks of
Carrara marble had also selected that especial moment in which to cross
into one of the narrower streets. The road was completely blocked by
the unwieldy mass of stone and the four straining white oxen. The two
men would be forced to wait at the same corner; Gasparo took in the
awkwardness of the situation at a glance.
'I hear that you have called three times at my house for the purpose of
seeing me,' he said; 'I have no objection to your calling there, not in
the least. That is a matter for you to settle with my servants who
answer the door, But if you have any hope of the Contessa Paula taking
you back on my recommendation, why, I may as well tell you now, my good
man, that it was on my recommendation that you were dismissed.'
'So I understood from the signora Contessa herself,' Pietro Valdez
answered quietly; 'and that is precisely why I did myself the honour to
call upon you, Marchese Balbi. It interested me to know your reasons
for what you had done.'
'And pray, what leads you to suppose that I should think of giving you
a reason for whatever I may think fit to do?' Gasparo demanded, with a
short, scornful laugh.
Valdez shrugged his heavy shoulders; he seemed to consider that the
question required no answer. 'The signora Contessa Paula had engaged
me as her music master at a fixed salary for six months. I gave her
perfect satisfaction. It interests me to know what arguments you used
to secure my dismissal,' he repeated, with absolute self-command.
'I might, if I had chosen, have told her that you were an insolent
scoundrel. As it happens, your impertinent republican theories were
quite sufficient. We do not choose to assist socialists to live;
neither I nor my friends.'
Valdez bowed gravely. 'That is what I wished to know. I have only to
thank you, sir, for the information.' Then he smiled. 'I did not
know--I was not aware that you did me the honour of interesting
yourself in my political convictions.'
Gasparo's look of negligent scorn was fast passing into an expression
of quicker anger. He contemplated Valdez in silence for a moment, then
he said sharply: 'You are uncommonly mistaken if you think I care a rap
how you get yourself into the hands of the police. You're safe to do
that sooner or later. But I do mind about your leading Dino de Rossi
into mischief. You've got him turned out of one place already through
your infernal rubbishing nonsense; you had better be careful how you do
it again.'
Valdez laughed.
'I've known Dino de' Rossi since he was a little chap of ten years old.
He's a good fellow is Dino; and very loyal to his friends. Will the
signor Marchese excuse my suggesting that it might be well if all
Dino's friends were equally loyal to him?'
'And what the devil do you mean by that, sir?' said Gasparo, facing
around abruptly and speaking in a fiercely challenging tone.
'This is the direct way to the house of old Drea, the fisherman, whose
daughter is Dino's sweetheart. I have had the pleasure of seeing her:
she is a very good, modest, innocent young girl. But there are other
boatmen in Leghorn, signor Marchese; men to whom it might matter less
in the end if you took to frequenting their houses every day.'
'I---- _Perdio!_ if I thought you knew what you were saying---- If I
considered you anything but a meddlesome fool, I would----'
He raised his eyes, looking about him as if in search of some term
strong enough to express his meaning, and it so chanced that his gaze
fell upon the rubicund countenance of our old acquaintance of the
Telegraph Office, the leather merchant, Sor Giovanni.
The first syllables which the young Marchese had spoken in an angry
tone had reached that worthy tradesman's ears as he stood peaceably
behind his own counter; but as his sense of wonder grew great with what
it fed on, he had insensibly edged nearer and nearer to the scene of
the encounter, until there he stood in his own doorway, both thumbs
thrust into the band of his leather apron, his fat cheeks and glassy
eyes fairly beaming with gratified curiosity.
A very little thing appealed to Gasparo's light-hearted sense of the
ridiculous. He burst now into a fit of most unaffected laughter.
When he recovered himself he had lost the thread of his discourse.
'You may be sure of one thing, my man: the Countess Paula's is not the
only house you have lost by _this_ morning's work,' he said dryly; and
he turned on his heel and walked away whistling.
'By my blessed patron, San Giovanni! I should not like to be in _your_
shoes, friend Pietro,' observed the fat leather merchant in an awed
voice, gazing up the street with profound respect at the Marchese
Gasparo's receding figure. 'I should not choose to be in _your_ shoes,
not I. _I_ know the young gentleman,--Livornese born and Livornese
bred. It's no joke, let me tell you, to get on the wrong side of the
account book with a Balbi.'
'Well, well,' said Valdez, half impatiently; 'it's only another example
of the surprising contagion of folly. There were not fools enough in
the world this morning apparently, and I have taken care to add one
more to the number. 'Tis not a hanging matter; that's the best one can
say for it. And so good-day to you, Sor Giovanni.'
'Wait a bit, wait a bit, now,' said solid Sor Giovanni soothingly. 'I
just want to ask you a question or two now about Dino de Rossi. The
Signor Marchese was speaking about young De Rossi, eh! eh! I have
sharp ears, friend Pietro, and it seemed to me that there was talk of
our Dino's falling into doubtful ways. That's bad, you know--very bad.
I had some thought of offering him a place in my business once; he is a
good accountant, I am told, and would hardly expect much of a salary if
one took him in when he was under a cloud, so to speak. I thought of
it the day he left the Telegraph Office, but I waited--I waited to make
him the offer. There's many a man has turned up his nose over the
fresh loaf at breakfast-time who was ready to say his prayers over the
crust at supper. It's all a question of supply and demand. One sees
these things in the way of business.'
'Ay, there's small difficulty in seeing the duty one owes to oneself in
the way of business,' said Valdez in his quiet way.
'E--e--eh, friend Pietro! _che volete_? Half the world is for sale,
and the other half in pawn; you know the saying. But about this Dino,
now. He is a friend of yours? You could answer for him, eh?'
'I answer for no man, my good Giovanni. And as for this young De
Rossi; I have seen him, it is true. I knew his father; but----' He
shrugged his shoulders significantly.
'See there, now! and I who counted upon your telling me more about him;
for I know nothing against the young man myself, nothing but that he's
a little over fond of the sound of his own voice, and for that matter
he's young, he's young. He's at the age when every donkey loves his
own bray. I don't know any other harm in him.'
'Harm in him? No. There's no harm in a weathercock if what you want
to know is which way the wind is blowing,' said Valdez carelessly, and
apparently quite absorbed in arranging the heavy folds of his dark
circular cloak with the green lining. In reality his mind was full of
a new plan for hastening their journey to Pisa. Clearly it would not
do for Dino to show himself too often in his company.
Meanwhile Gasparo was hastening towards Drea's house, with just that
amount of additional pleasure in the action as would naturally follow
on the sense of successful opposition to somebody else's will. As for
Dino,--Gasparo saw no necessity of thinking about Dino. In any case,
Dino could not afford to marry, and even if he _did_,--for, in arguing
a point in one's own favour, why not take both sides of the
question?--even if he did marry, there were other girls in Leghorn
beside this brown-eyed Italia. 'Little witch! I wonder if she guesses
what she could make me do when she looks up at me with that innocent
baby face of hers?' He sauntered down the steps with an expression of
deepening enjoyment, a glance of expectation.
She was sitting in the old place, by the corner of the wall. Her sad
face brightened a little as she looked up at the sound of footsteps and
saw the young Marchese approaching her. She rose instantly, but she
waited for him to speak.
'My little Italia! you look very pale. What is the matter? Has
anything been troubling you?'
'I am quite well, sir, thank you. I am only tired.'
'And what has been tiring you, then? Too much pilgrimage, eh? Too
many prayers in a cold church; is that not so?'
He looked at her more closely.
'You are quite sure the father has not been scolding you?'
'Oh no, sir, my father never scolds me.'
'Because I have brought something with me to restore good humour to a
dozen angry fathers. See here, little one,'--it seemed at first sight
a curious name to apply to that tall, slender girl with the sad eyes,
but there was something childlike and unconscious about Italia's beauty
which suggested the use of caressing diminutives--'see!'
He drew a small fancifully-embroidered case out of an inner pocket and
opened it before her. Inside were five crisp pink bank-notes of a
hundred francs each.
'There, Italia _mia_! You can tell your father that is what my father
meant to give him,--and the other two hundred francs are for interest.
Tell him he has not lost by waiting.'
'Signor Marchese!'
It was pretty to see how the colour flushed all over her face and
throat, to the very border of her scarlet handkerchief. 'My father
will be so happy,--and so proud,' she said shyly. She did not dare to
touch the little portfolio until he tossed it gaily into her apron, and
then she turned it over with a childish pleasure in the bright colours
and gilt thread of the embroidery; it impressed her more than any
amount of money.
'I wonder what father will do with it? He will not know what to do.
We were never rich before,' she said at last, looking up at the young
man who stood before her with grateful shining eyes.
Gasparo was watching her intently. His own face flushed and softened
as their glances met. He tossed back his head with an air of bright
decision.
'Should you like more money,--a great deal of money, which would be all
yours to spend as you please. Should you like to be rich, Italia
_mia_?'
'Oh no,' said the girl quickly. And then she laughed. 'I should not
know what to do. My father always says it is not enough to have money,
one must have brains to spend it. And I should be miserable. I should
be like one of those ragged little sparrows over there if you put it in
a fine gold cage. I should always be wanting to get back to the old
ways. I think even the smallest bird must enjoy its wings.
'But suppose some one was with you in the cage? Some one who was very
good to you and looked after you? Do you think you would not like it
better then?' he asked in the gentlest voice. And then, as she did not
answer immediately: 'Listen, my Italia. I have heard some foolish
story of your betrothal to that young De Rossi,--to Dino, but it is not
true; is it? You are not _promessa_; your father told me so only the
other day.'
He moved a little nearer, so that his handsome glowing face was very
close to hers. He was very much in earnest now; inclination and the
sense of opposition were firing the old rebellious Balbi blood; with
that air of tender deference tempering the bright audacity of his
presence, he looked the very incarnation of persuasive joy; the divine
glamour of success was like an atmosphere about him; he carried himself
with the compelling confidence of a young god;--it was Bacchus wooing
Ariadne beside the rippling sea. 'My Italia, you are not betrothed?'
he repeated softly.
Her face had turned very pale: her lips quivered.
'No.'
'Ah,' said Gasparo, drawing in his breath quickly.
Her thick dark hair was loosely twisted into a heavy knot; and pinned
back just above the nape of her neck. One long waving lock had escaped
from its fastening, and lay across her shoulder. The young man looked
at it, and then just lifted it with the tip of a finger.
'One of my ancestors married an Infanta of Spain. But I am Gasparo
Balbi; I can do what I choose, and nothing can alter that. A Balbi
does as he pleases.' He put his hand against her cheek and turned the
averted face towards his own, very gently. 'Look at me, Italia. Don't
you know that you can make me commit any sort of folly when you look at
me with those big eyes of yours? My little Italia, next week I shall
have to go away, back to Rome. But I care too much for you,--very much
too much,--to leave you as I found you, you little sorceress! Now
listen. Before I go I want you to promise me that some day you will
marry me. Do you hear, Italia? I want you to say that some day, very
soon, you will be my wife.'
'Oh, no--no!' she said, in a frightened whisper, keeping her eyes fixed
upon him and starting back.
'But I say--yes!' repeated Gasparo smiling. Now that the die was cast,
he could scarcely understand how he had hesitated; she was so simple,
so sweet, so well worth the winning--in any fashion--this brown-eyed
daughter of the people.
He would have taken her hand, but she drew back and stood against the
old stone buttress of the bridge. Her face had grown grave with the
expression it wore when she was singing. She shrank back, her two
little sunburnt hands hanging down and clasped tightly before her.
'Signor Marchese----'
She hesitated for an instant, and her eyelids dropped. 'It is--it is
very good of you to take so much trouble about me. But what you say is
quite impossible. I could never marry you, never. I am not a lady,
and I don't want to be rich or--or--anything.'
Then the colour rushed back to her cheeks, and she lifted her head and
looked at him full in the face.
'You have been very good to my father,--and to me, sir. And I knew you
when we were all children, so you will forgive me if I take a liberty.
I _never_ should care for you, sir: I love Dino. We are not
betrothed'--her eyes filled with tears,--'he can never marry me; and he
and my father have quarrelled. Perhaps I shall never see my Dino
again. But I do love him,--dearly,' she said, with a half sob.
When Gasparo had gone the sobs came fast and faster. Life had suddenly
grown full of confusing pain; it was bewildering. And Dino seemed so
far off. She knelt before her bed, in the little inner chamber, and
pressed her hands hard before her face in the effort to recall the very
sound of his voice when he spoke to her. She tried to feel again the
warm strong pressure of his hand upon hers. And she loved him so! she
loved him so! the poor child repeated to herself over and over. How
_could_ he bear to leave her? how _could_ he let anything come between
his love and her?
But after a while the sobs grew quieter: she still knelt, gazing
straight before her with an expression of sweet and ardent belief upon
her tear-stained face. The words he had spoken at the church door had
come back to her. '_You know I never meant to hurt you, dear. Italia,
you do know that I love you._' She said them over in a whisper, like a
prayer, looking up at the little picture of the Madonna above her bed.
No other words would come, but surely our pitiful Lady of Sorrows would
hear and understand.
She was not altogether to be pitied, this grief-stricken Italia. For
to her, at least, in time, could come that great reward,--the sense of
having lived a faithful life; in which the first indeed could be the
last; a life wherein no loved thing has been forgotten, and memory and
belief are alike sacred.
When Drea came home from his morning's work he found everything in
order. His dinner was ready for him beside the fire. He ate it in
silence; seeming to take very little notice of his daughter's white
cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But as he sat smoking his pipe after
dinner, he put out his rough hard hand as she passed by in front of
him, and drew her down gently upon his knee.
'Don't fret, my little girl; don't fret now,' he said tenderly, and
stroked her ruffled hair.
Then he added cheerfully. 'Come now! you said the young Padrone was
going to make me a present. Let us hear about it. Good Lord, it must
be a matter of twenty years since any one has thought of making me a
present.--And I'll tell you what, my girl. It's full moon to-night.
If you like, I will take you out in the boat with me, when I go to look
after the nets. And so courage, my little one, courage! Lord bless
you! it's only in a storm one can find out who's a good sailor. And so
cheer up for--what's an old father good for if it isn't to keep those
pretty eyes from getting red with crying? And the good God lets a man
do, but He doesn't let him overdo. He's no fool, is Dino. We're not
at the end of the matter yet.'