On that same night, when Veronica had gone to her room, Bosio Macomer
remained alone with the countess in the small drawing-room in which the
family generally spent the evening. Gregorio was presumably in his
study, busy with his perpetual accounts or otherwise occupied. He very
often spent the hours between dinner and bed-time by himself, leaving
his brother to keep his wife company if Veronica chose to retire early.
The room was small and the first impression of colour which it gave was
that of a strong, deep yellow. There was yellow damask on the walls, the
curtains were of an old sort of silk material in stripes of yellow and
chocolate, and most of the furniture was covered with yellow satin. The
whole was in the style of the early part of this century, modified by
the bad taste of the Second Empire, with much gilded carving about the
doors and the corners of the big panels in which the damask was
stretched, while the low, vaulted ceiling was a mass of gilt stucco,
modelled in heavy acanthus leaves and arabesques, from the centre of
which hung a chandelier of white Venetian glass. There were no pictures
on the walls, and there were no flowers nor plants in pots, to relieve
the strong colour which filled the eye. Nevertheless the room had the
air of being inhabited, and was less glaring and stiff and old-fashioned
than it might seem from this description. There were a good many books
on the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; and
there were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or three
open notes. A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adorned
with marble and gilt brass.
Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood across
a corner of the room far from the fire. One hand lay idly in her lap,
the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa,
and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down. She had fixed her
eyes upon a point of the carpet and had not moved from her position for
a long time. The folds of her black gown made graceful lines from her
knees to her feet, and her imposing figure was thrown into strong relief
against the yellow background as she leaned to the corner, one foot just
touching the floor.
Bosio sat at a distance from her, on a low chair, his elbows on his
knees, staring at the fire. Neither had spoken for several minutes.
Matilde broke the silence first, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.
"You must marry Veronica," she said slowly; "nothing else can save us."
It was clear that the idea was not new to Bosio, for he showed no
surprise. But he turned deliberately and looked at the countess before
he answered her. There were unusual lines in his quiet face--lines of
great distress and perplexity.
"It is a crime," he said in a low voice.
Matilda raised her eyes, with an almost imperceptible movement of the
shoulders.
"Murder is a crime," she answered simply. Then Bosio started violently
and turned very white, almost rising from his seat.
"Murder?" he cried; "what do you mean?"
Matilde's smooth red lips smiled.
"I merely mentioned it as an instance of a crime," she said, without any
change of tone. "You said it would be a crime for you to marry Veronica.
It did not strike me that it could be called by that name. Crimes are
murder, stealing, forgery--such things. Who would say that it was
criminal for Bosio Macomer to marry Veronica Serra? There is no reason
against it. I daresay that many people wonder why you have not married
her already, and that many others suppose that you will before long. You
are young, you have never been married, you have a very good name and a
small fortune of your own."
"Take it, then!" exclaimed Bosio, impulsively. "You shall have it all
to-morrow--everything I possess. God knows, I am ready to give you all I
have. Take it. I can live somehow. What do I care? I have given you my
life--what is a little money? But do not ask me to marry her, your
niece, here, under your very roof. I am not a saint, but I cannot do
that!"
"No," answered the countess, "we are not saints, you and I, it is true.
For my part, I make no pretences. But the trouble is desperate, Bosio. I
do not know what to do. It is desperate!" she repeated with sudden
energy. "Desperate, I tell you!"
"I suppose that all I have would be of no use, then?" asked Bosio,
disheartened.
"It would pay the interest for a few months longer. That would be all.
Then we should be where we are now, or shall be in three weeks."
"Throw yourself upon her mercy. Ask her to forgive you and to lend you
money," suggested Bosio. "She is kind--she will do it, when she knows
the truth."
"I had thought of that," answered Matilde. "But, in the first place, you
do not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico."
"Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio's hands, he
will not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the guardianship
is at an end--"
"The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing the
accounts--that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection well
enough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him of
our trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell Bianca
Corleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowing
the truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better for
us to escape before the crash--if we could. It comes to that--unless you
will help us."
"By marrying Veronica?" asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural to
him.
"I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could be
married, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would never
know, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and still
be the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It would
be peace--at last, at last!" she repeated, with a sudden change of tone
that ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. "You do not know
half there is to tell," she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment's
pause. "We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years.
Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago,
though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helped
himself, as he could--with her money. It was easy, for he controlled
everything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarci
said so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber,
anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house is
mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three
weeks. We have nothing left--nothing but the hope of Veronica's
charity--or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation
and disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was--"
The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring
which she wore. She was pale.
"There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.
"There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January,"
said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, you
know--very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of course
it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would be
lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see her
at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"
Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with
frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.
"I am afraid of you," he said.
"Of me?" Her presence of mind returned. "What an idea! just because I
suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in
this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And just
because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her
in the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talk
of such sad things?"
"It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them,"
answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. "You
are overwrought, Matilde--you are unhappy, afraid of the future--what
shall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way."
"Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too--"
"Do not say it--"
"Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace
into the house--for my sake, Bosio--for me!"
She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like a
gesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes.
"For your sake," repeated Bosio, dreamily. "For your sake? But you ask
the impossible, Matilde. Besides, she would not marry me. She would
laugh at the idea. And then--for you and me--it is horrible! You have no
right to ask it."
"No right? Ah, Bosio! Have I not the right to ask anything of you, after
all these years?"
"Anything--but not that! Your niece--under your roof! No--no--no! I
cannot, even if she would consent."
"Not even--" Matilda's splendid eyes, so cruelly close together,
fastened themselves upon the weak man's face, and she frowned.
"Not even if you thought it would be much better for her?" she asked
very slowly, completing the sentence.
Again he started and shrank from her.
"Just God!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That a woman should have
such thoughts!" Then he turned upon her with an instinctive revival of
manhood and honour. "You shall not hurt her!" he cried, as fiercely as
his voice could speak. "You shall not hurt a hair of her head, not even
to save yourself! I will warn her--I will have her protected--I will
tell everything! What is my life worth?"
"You would merely be told that you were mad, and we should have you
taken out to the asylum at Aversa--as mad as I am, or soon shall be, if
this goes on! You are mad to believe that I could do such things--I, a
woman! And yet, I know I say words that have no reason in them! And I
think crimes--horrible crimes, when I am alone--and I can tell no one
but you. Have pity on me, Bosio! I was not always what I am now--"
She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, for
she had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety.
The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first to
her lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise,
and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her
hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the
convulsive sob that was so near.
But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at the
fire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was
terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably no
man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived
the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a
woman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himself
and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strong
man, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turned
upon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, his
heart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. But
Bosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow was
moist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heart
and tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold,
but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamed
of the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forget
the things she had said.
If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but his
silence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that she
was strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marry
Veronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before a
man weaker than herself, though she may be near it.
"You must marry her," said Matilde, with returning steadiness. "You owe
it to your brother and to me. Should I say, 'to me,' first? It is to
save us from disgrace--from being prosecuted as well as ruined, from
being dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded--that
is the word they would use!--for having wilfully defrauded Veronica
Serra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians and
responsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that--your
brother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believe
that I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant of
his affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio--I
believe that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power on
earth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything but
Veronica's money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much,
but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marry
her, she will never know--no one will know--no one will ever guess. As
her husband you will have control of everything, and no one then will
blame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife's money to save your
brother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean,
too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? What
is the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, a
conviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, Count
Macomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife."
"My God! What a choice!" exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold hands
to his wet forehead.
"There is no choice!" answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis.
"Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I do
not care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half in
love with you--what other man does she know? And if she did--she would
not repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make her
happy--as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talk
of choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and the
galleys,--a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!"
Her large eyes flashed with the furious determination to make him do
what she desired. His hands had fallen from his face, and he was looking
at her almost quietly, not yielding so much as she thought, but at least
listening gravely instead of telling her that she asked the impossible.
The door opened discreetly, and a servant appeared upon the threshold.
"The Signor Duca della Spina begs your Excellency to receive him for a
moment, if it is not too late."
"Certainly," answered the countess, instantly, and with perfect
self-control.
The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message.
Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so that
she might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person of
importance. She looked keenly at Bosio.
"Do not go away," she said quickly, in a low voice. "Your forehead is
wet--dry it--compose yourself--be natural!"
Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door opened
again, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait. He had weak and
inquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked. His head was
bald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damask
hangings. His gait was not firm, and as he passed Bosio in order to
reach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, as
though he were inclined to speak to him first. Matilde had risen,
however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking at
the same time, as though to direct him to herself, with the somewhat
maternal air which even young women sometimes assume in greeting old
men.
The Duca della Spina smiled rather feebly as he took the outstretched
hand, and slowly sat down upon the sofa beside Matilde.
"I feared it might be too late," he began, and his watery blue eyes
sought her face anxiously. "But my son insisted that I should come this
evening, when he found that I had not been able to see you this
afternoon."
"How is he?" asked the countess, suddenly assuming an expression of
great concern.
"Eh! How he is! He is--so," answered the Duca, with a gesture which
meant uncertainty. "Signora Contessa," he added, "he is not well at all.
It is natural with the young. It is passion. What else can I tell you?
He is impatient. His nerves shake him, and he does not eat. Morning and
evening he asks, 'Father, what will it be?' So, to content him, I have
come to disturb you."
"Not in the least, dear Duca!"
The door opened again, and Gregorio Macomer entered the room, having
been informed of the presence of a visitor. The Duca looked up, and his
head shook involuntarily, as he at once began the slow process of
getting upon his legs. But Macomer was already pressing him into his
seat again, holding the old hand in both of his with an appearance of
much cordiality.
"I hope that Gianluca is no worse?" he said, with an interrogation that
expressed friendly interest.
"Better he is not," answered the Duca, sadly. "What would you? It is
passion. That is why I have come at this hour, and I have made my
excuses to the Signora Contessa for disturbing her."
"Excuses?" cried Gregorio, promptly. "We are delighted to see you, dear
friend!"
But as he spoke he turned a look of inquiry upon his wife, and she
answered by a scarcely perceptible sign of negation.
They had been taken by surprise, for they had not expected the Duca's
visit. Not heeding them, his heart full of his son, the old man
continued to speak, in short, almost tremulous sentences.
"It is certain that Gianluca is very ill," he said. "Taquisara has been
with him to-day, and Pietro Ghisleri--but Taquisara is his best friend.
You know Taquisara, do you not?"
"A Sicilian?" asked the countess, encouraging the old man to go on.
"Yes," said Macomer, answering for the Duca, for he was proud of his
genealogical knowledge, "The only son of the old Baron of Guardia. But
every one calls him Taquisara, though his father is dead. There is a
story which says that they are descended from Tancred."
"It may be," said the old Duca. "There are so many legends--but he is
Gianluca's best friend, and he comes to see him every day. The boy is
ill--very ill." He shook his head, and bent it almost to his breast. "He
wastes away, and I do not know what to do for him."
The Count and Countess Macomer also shook their heads gravely, but said
nothing. Bosio, seated at a little distance, looked on, his brain still
disturbed by what had gone before, and wondering at Matilde's power of
seeming at her ease in such a desperate situation; wondering, too, at
his brother's hard, cold face--the mask that had so well hidden the
passion of the gambler, and perhaps many other passions as well, of
which even Bosio knew nothing, nor cared to know anything, having
secrets of his own to keep.
All at once, and without warning, after the short pause, the old man
broke out in tremulous entreaty.
"Oh! my friends!" he cried. "Do not say no! I shall not have the courage
to take such a message to my poor son! Eh, they say that nowadays
old-fashioned love is not to be found. But look at Gianluca--he consumes
himself, he wastes away before my eyes, and one day follows another, and
I can do nothing. You do not believe? Go and see! One day follows
another--he is always in his room, consuming himself for love! He is
pale--paler than a sheet. He does not eat, he does not drink, he does
not smoke--he, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day! As for the theatre,
or going out, he will not hear of it. He says, 'I will not see her, for
if she will not have me, it is better to die quickly.' A father's heart,
dear Macomer--think of what I suffer, and have compassion! He is my only
one--such a beautiful boy, and so young--"
"We are sorry," said Matilde, with firm-voiced sympathy that was already
a refusal.
"You will not!" cried the old man, shakily, in his distress. "Say you
will not--but not that you are sorry! And Heaven knows it is not for
Donna Veronica's money! The contract shall be as you please--we do not
need--"
"Who has spoken of money?" The countess's tone expressed grave
indifference to such a trifle. "Dear Duca, do not be distressed. We
cannot help it. We cannot dictate to Providence. Had circumstances been
different, what better match could we have found for her than your dear
son? But I told you that the girl's inclinations must be consulted, and
that we had little hope of satisfying you. And now--" She looked
earnestly at her husband, as though to secure his consent
beforehand--"and now it has turned out as we foresaw. Courage, dear
Duca! Your son is young. He has seen Veronica but a few times, and they
have certainly never been alone together--what can it really be, such
love-passion as that? Veronica has made her choice."
Not a muscle of Macomer's hard face moved. He knew that if his wife had
a surprise for him on the spur of the moment, it must be for their joint
interest. But the Duca della Spina's jaw dropped, and his hands shook.
"Yes,"--continued the countess, calmly, "Veronica has made her choice.
It is hard for us to tell you, knowing how you feel for your son.
Veronica is engaged to be married to Bosio, here."
Bosio started violently, for he was a very nervously organized man; but
his brother's face did not change, though the small eyes suddenly
flashed into sight brightly from beneath the drooping, concealing lids.
A dead silence followed, which lasted several seconds. Matilde had laid
her hand upon the Duca's arm, as though to give him courage, and she
felt it tremble under her touch, for he loved his son very dearly.
"You might have written me this news," he said at last, in a low voice
and with a dazed look. "You might--you might have spared me--oh, my son!
My poor Gianluca!" His voice broke, and the weak, sincere tears broke
from the watery eyes and trickled down the wasted cheeks piteously,
while his head turned slowly from side to side in sorrowfully hopeless
regret.
"It has only been decided this evening," said Matilde. "We should have
written to you in the morning."
"Of course," echoed her husband, gravely. "It was our duty to let you
know at once."
The Duca della Spina rose painfully to his feet. He seemed quite
unconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leave
with any formality. Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, and
his face was white. The old man passed him without a word, going to the
door.
"My poor son! my poor Gianluca!" he repeated to himself, as Gregorio
Macomer accompanied him.
Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that the
count would return at once. They stood still, looking each at the other,
with very different expressions.
Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have done
something, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or would
have left the room rather than accept the situation in submissive
silence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should have
understood the protest. She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval of
his conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from the
predominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction,
and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sure
of doing with him as she pleases. Yet she was not so sure of herself as
she seemed, and wished to seem, for she dreaded Bosio's sense of honour,
which was not wholly dead.
"Do not deny it to Gregorio," she said, in a low tone, when she heard
her husband's footstep returning through the room beyond.
Old Macomer came back and closed the door behind him.
"What is this?" he asked, at once; but though his voice was hard, it was
trembling with the anticipation of a great victory. "Has Veronica
consented?"
"No one has spoken to her," answered Bosio, before Matilde could speak.
"As though that mattered!" cried the countess, with contempt. "There is
time for that!"
Gregorio's eyelids contracted with an expression of cunning.
"Oh!" he exclaimed thoughtfully, "I understand." He began to walk up and
down in the narrow space between the furniture of the small
sitting-room, bending his head between his high shoulders. "I see," he
repeated. "I understand. But if Veronica refuses? You have been rash,
Matilde."
"Veronica loves him," answered the countess. "And of course you know
that he loves her," she added, and her smooth lips smiled. "You need
not deny it before us, Bosio. You have loved her ever since she came
from the convent--"
"I?" Bosio's pale face reddened with anger.
"See how he blushes!" laughed Matilde. "As for Veronica, she will talk
to no one else. They are made for each other. She will die if she does
not marry Bosio soon."
The yellow reflexion danced in her eyes, as she fastened them upon her
brother-in-law's face, and he shuddered, remembering what she had said
before the Duca had come.
"If that is the case," said Macomer, "the sooner they are married, the
better. Save her life, Bosio! Save her life! Do not let her die of love
for you!"
He, who rarely laughed, laughed now, and the sound was horrible in his
brother's ears. Then he suddenly turned away and left the room, still
drily chuckling to himself. It was quite unconscious and an effect of
his overwrought and long-controlled nerves.
Matilde and Bosio were alone again, and they knew that he would not come
back. Bosio sank into his chair again, and pressed the palms of his
hands to his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.
"The infamy of it!" he groaned, in the bitterness of his weak misery.
Matilde stood beside him, and gently stroked his hair where it was
streaked with grey. He moved impatiently, as though to shake off her
strong hand.
"No," she said, and her voice grew as soft as velvet. "It is to save
me--to save us all."
He shook her off, and rose to his feet with spasmodic energy.
"I cannot--I will not--never!" he cried, walking away from her with
irregular steps.
"But it will be so much better--for Veronica, too," she said softly, for
she knew how to frighten him.
He turned with startled eyes. Then, with the impulse of a man escaping
from something which he is not strong enough to face, he reached the
door in two quick strides, and went out without looking back.
Matilde watched the door, as it closed, and stood still a few seconds
before she left the room. Her eyes wandered to the clock, and she saw
that it was nearly midnight.
The look of triumph faded slowly from her face, and the brows contracted
in a look which no one could easily have understood, except Bosio
himself, perhaps, had he still been there. The smooth lips were drawn in
and tightly compressed; and she held her breath, while her right hand
strained upon her left with all her might. Then the lips parted with a
sort of little snap as she drew breath again; and she turned her head
suddenly, and looked behind her, growing a trifle paler, as though she
expected to see something startling.
She tried to smile, and roused herself, rang the bell for the servant to
put out the lights, and left the room. It was long before she slept that
night. In the next room she could hear Gregorio's slow and regular
footsteps, as he walked up and down without ceasing. In his own room
upstairs, Bosio Macomer sat staring at the ashes of the burnt-out fire
on his hearth. Only Veronica was asleep, dreamless, young, and restful.