The villas along the shore towards Posilippo face the sun all day in
winter, for they look due south from the water's edge, and their marble
steps lead down into the tideless sea, as though it were a landlocked
lagoon or a Swiss lake. In winter the roses blossom amongst the laurels,
and before the rose leaves are all fallen the violets peep out in the
borders; the broad, fan-like palms stand unsheltered in the south wind,
and the oranges and lemons are left hanging on the trees for beauty's
sake. There are but two changes in the year, from spring to summer, and
from summer back to spring.
It is sometimes cold in Naples, high up in the city, when the northeast
wind comes screaming from the snowy Abruzzi, and when Vesuvius is clad
in white almost to the lower villages. In Naples it is sometimes dreary
when the water-laden southwest sends up its mountains of black clouds.
But somehow in soft Posilippo the wind is tempered and the rain seems
but a shower, and spring and summer, summer and spring, ever join hands
amongst the ilexes and the laurels and the orange trees.
On this day it was all summer, for there was not a cloud in the air nor
a whitecap on the sea as the water gently lapped against the steps at
the foot of Bianca Corleone's garden. It was so warm that she was
sitting there herself, a book unread on her knees, her marvellous face
towards the day, her small feet resting on the lower rail of another
chair before her, just because the gravel might possibly be damp.
Beside her, and turned towards her, looking earnestly to her averted
eyes, sat Pietro Ghisleri, the man who many years afterwards married
Lady Herbert Arden, of whom many have heard,--a man young at that time
and not world-worn as he was later, nor prematurely gaunt and
weather-beaten. He was only five-and-twenty years of age, then, and the
beautiful Bianca was but twenty-one, and had already been married two
years to Corleone. But the suffering of a lifetime had been crushed into
those two years; for Corleone was bad, from his head to his heart, all
through, and she had believed that she loved him.
Then, half broken-hearted, she had listened to Ghisleri; and he loved
her truly, with all his heart. Even society found little to say at that,
and perhaps there was little enough to be said. To all intents and
purposes, Corleone had abandoned her, and Ghisleri was often with her.
It was not until later that her brother, Gianforte Campodonico, lifted
up his hand against Ghisleri for the first time.
So Ghisleri was sitting beside Bianca on that morning, in her garden,
when there was a sound of wheels, behind the house; and then,
unannounced, as one familiar with the place, Veronica Serra came swiftly
down the walk towards the pair. Ghisleri rose to his feet,--a tall, fair
man, sunburnt, lean and strong, with bright blue eyes,--and Bianca
turned in her chair, with a smile, and held out her hand, as she sat, to
the young girl.
"You do not mind?" asked Veronica, smiling innocently. "Am I not
interrupting you?"
"No, dear--no." A very faint dawn of colour rose in Bianca's almost
unnatural pallor.
"Something so strange has happened," said Veronica.
Then she nodded to Pietro Ghisleri, realizing that she had forgotten
him. He moved forward for her the chair on which he had been sitting,
while he continued to stand. Veronica had often met him there before.
"Donna Veronica has something to say to you," he said to Bianca. "If you
will allow me, I will go up to the stable and look at that dog."
Bianca nodded, as though it were a matter of course that Pietro should
look after her dogs when there was anything the matter with them, and
Veronica sat down. Her expression was strange, Bianca thought, as
though she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Yet she looked fresh
and well and not tired. The girl told her story in half a dozen words,
as soon as Ghisleri was out of hearing.
"They want me to marry Bosio," she said, and then drew breath, holding
both of Bianca's hands and looking into her eyes.
"You? Marry Bosio Macomer? Oh! no--Veronica--no!"
Bianca's voice expressed the greatest apprehension, for Veronica was
almost her only intimate friend. Veronica seemed surprised.
"Why not?" she asked. "That is, if I wished to. Why do you speak in that
way? Do you know anything about him which I do not know? You must have
some reason."
Bianca's exquisite face grew calm and grave, and she looked away, and
waited some seconds before she spoke. The sins of the earth were
familiar to her before her time, and suffering and the payment. But
Veronica was a child.
"It seems unfitting," she said quietly. "He is almost like your uncle.
Of course, one may marry one's uncle--but he is too old for you, dear.
And, after all, with your name, and all you have--"
"But I like Bosio," answered Veronica, simply. "He is always good to me.
I talk with him a great deal. And he is really not old, though his hair
is a little grey. I think I would perhaps rather have him just for a
friend, instead of a husband. But then, he would be both. I do not know
what to do, so I came to you for advice."
"Why do you not marry Gianluca della Spina?" asked Bianca, suddenly.
"Don Gianluca?" repeated Veronica, rather blankly. "Why him,
particularly? I have only seen him three or four times."
"He is dying of love for you, my dear," said Bianca. "At least, every
one says so. I have heard it from Taquisara and from Signor Ghisleri,
who are friends of his."
"Dying of love for me?" Veronica broke out in a girlish laugh. "How
absurd! Why does he not ask for me, if that is true? Not that I would
ever marry him! He is like a Perugino angel, with his yellow hair and
blue eyes."
She laughed again. Bianca knew from Ghisleri that Gianluca's father had
done his best to bring about the marriage. She was amazed to find that
Veronica knew nothing of the negotiations.
"It is very strange," she said thoughtfully, and hesitating as to how
much she should tell of what she had heard.
"What is strange?" asked the young girl.
"That you should not have known about Gianluca. They go to see him every
day. He is really madly in love with you, and is positively ill about
it. That is why I say that you should marry him, if you marry at
all--but not your uncle Bosio."
"He is not my uncle," said Veronica. "He is my aunt's brother-in-law."
"It is the same thing--"
"No. It is not the same. Tell me all about Don Gianluca. It is
interesting--I feel like a heroine in a book--a man dying for love of
me, whom I scarcely know! It is too ridiculous! He must be in love with
my fortune, as my aunt says that so many people are."
"No, dear," said Bianca, gravely, "do not say that. It is for yourself,
and he does not need your fortune."
"I did not mean to say anything unkind," answered Veronica. "But I
scarcely know him--and I have heard nothing about it. Have they spoken
of the marriage?"
"Yes."
They were interrupted by a servant, who came quickly down from the
house. The man asked if the princess would receive Baron Taquisara.
Bianca ordered him to be admitted, and told the man to ask Ghisleri to
come back from the stables.
"Do you know Taquisara?" she asked Veronica.
"A Sicilian? With a bronze face and fiery eyes? I have seen him once or
twice at balls, I think. Yes--he was introduced to me somewhere. I
remember him because they say he is descended from Tancred."
"Yes," said Bianca. "I could not refuse to receive him, because Signor
Ghisleri is here. They will both go away before long, and then we can
talk. Can you stay to breakfast with me?"
"Oh, no! I should not dare to do that!" Veronica laughed a little. "No
one knows where I am," she added. "My aunt thinks I have gone for a
drive to think over the matter. I just pulled down the curtain of the
brougham and told the man to bring me here--all alone."
At this moment Taquisara and Ghisleri appeared on the gravel path,
walking side by side, two men strongly contrasted with each other,
Italians of the Lombard and the Saracen types, fine specimens both, in
the prime of youth and strength. Bianca gave the Sicilian her hand, and
he bowed gravely to Veronica. Ghisleri brought out more chairs, and
without the slightest hesitation sat down beside Bianca, forcing
Taquisara to place himself near the young girl.
Taquisara was a man almost incapable of anything like social timidity,
in whatever position he might be placed, and he was in reality delighted
at thus being thrust upon Donna Veronica, from whom he felt sure that he
should learn something about the projected marriage. For he had great
and unaffected confidence in himself. But he hesitated a moment before
he spoke, for he did not now remember that he had ever before entered
intentionally into a serious conversation with a young girl, in the
whole course of his life. The customs of the society in which he lived
made such things well-nigh impossible. As usual with him, he meditated
going straight to the matter in hand, and he only paused to consider
what words he should use. Veronica, as she had been taught to do in such
a position, looked vacantly before her at the roots of the trees,
waiting for him to say something.
He had not seen her, except from a distance, since Gianluca had fallen
so madly in love with her, and while she looked away from him, his bold
eyes scrutinized her face. He saw what she had seen, when she had looked
into the glass on the previous evening--neither more nor less, except
that she was dressed for walking, and something feathery was around her
slender throat--and she wore a hat, which, in her own opinion, changed
her appearance very much. But, as he looked, he was aware that there was
more in her face than he had supposed.
There was something in the expression which was, all at once, far more
beautiful to him, than anything he had ever discovered in the sad and
faultless features of the already famous beauty who sat beside her.
Unconsciously, as he realized it, he forgot that he was expected to
speak.
Then, wondering at his silence, and conscious of his gaze, Veronica
turned her face to his, with a shy look of girlish inquiry, and their
eyes met. Taquisara was too dark to blush, but to his own surprise he
felt that the blood had mounted in his face, and in Veronica's own thin,
young cheeks there was a faint and lovely tinge which lasted but a
moment and then faded, coming again more strongly as she turned her eyes
away. Then he felt that he must speak. Ghisleri and Bianca, on the other
side, had begun at once to talk, and their voices, unknown to
themselves, had sunk to a low key.
"I am very glad I have met you here, this morning, Donna Veronica," said
Taquisara, leaning forward so as to speak close to her, but looking down
at the gravel under his feet. "I had something especial to say to you."
Veronica glanced at him, half startled. His tone and manner were quite
different from anything she had hitherto heard and seen. She saw that he
was not looking at her, and her eyes went back to the roots of the
trees.
"Yes," she said, almost inaudibly, for she did not know whether he
expected her to say anything.
"I have a very good friend, Donna Veronica," he continued; "I have been
with him this morning. You have heard his name often of late, I think,
and you know him--Gianluca della Spina."
Veronica started a little, and again the colour came and went in her
delicate face.
"Yes," she said. "I--I know him a little."
"He loves you, Donna Veronica," Taquisara said, his voice softening
almost to a whisper, for he did not wish Bianca Corleone to hear him.
"He loves you so much that he is almost dangerously ill--indeed, I think
it is dangerous--because you will not marry him."
He paused to see what she would do. She quickly turned her startled eyes
to him, and her lips parted, but she said nothing. He raised his face
and met her look as he went on.
"Last night, his father was at your house, and he was told that there
was no hope, because you were betrothed to Count Bosio Macomer."
"They told him that?" asked Veronica, quickly, and the colour mounted a
third time in her cheeks. "But it is not true!" she added; and her eyes
set themselves sharply, for she was angry.
"No," said Taquisara, "I know that it is not quite true, for I have been
to see Count Bosio. I was there half an hour ago."
"You have quarrelled?" asked Veronica, in sudden anxiety.
"Quarrelled? no. Why should we quarrel? He gave me to understand that
nothing was settled. I thanked him, and came away. I did not hope to see
you; but I knew that the Princess Corleone was your best friend, as I
am Gianluca's. I thought I would speak to her. Since, by a miracle, we
have met, I have spoken directly to you. Do you forgive me? I hope so,
though I daresay that no mere acquaintance has ever talked as I am
talking. If you blame me, remember that it is for Gianluca, that he is
my friend, that he knows nothing of my speaking to you, since you and I
have met by chance, and that he is perhaps dying--dying for you, Donna
Veronica."
The girl's face was white and grave now, for Taquisara spoke in earnest.
"How dreadful!" she exclaimed.
Bianca turned her head, for she was not so much absorbed in her
conversation with Ghisleri as not to have noticed that Veronica and
Taquisara were speaking almost in whispers, which was strange conduct
for a young girl with a mere acquaintance, to say the least of it.
"What is so dreadful?" she asked, with a smile.
"Oh!--nothing," answered Veronica, glancing at her, and turning back
instantly to Taquisara.
A shade of annoyance was in his face, and Veronica felt suddenly that
this was the first real crisis in her life, and that she must hear all
he had to say, to the end, at any cost of propriety.
"Come!" she said to Taquisara.
She rose as calmly as a married woman, many years older than she, might
have done, and Taquisara was on his feet at the same moment. She led
the way down to the marble steps that descended to the sea, and stood on
the uppermost one, looking out. Bianca and Ghisleri watched her in
surprise and Bianca made a slight movement, as though to follow, but
then leaned back again. There was then, and still is, a very strong
feeling in Southern Italy against allowing a young girl to be out of
earshot with a man.
Though Bianca and Veronica had been children, together, and there was
little difference of age between them, Bianca felt that, as the married
woman, she was responsible for the observance of social custom. But in a
moment she realized that Taquisara was talking of Gianluca, and that
anything would be better than to allow Veronica to marry Bosio Macomer.
"I understand," she said to Ghisleri; "let them alone. It is better, so
long as only you and I see it."
Down by the steps, Veronica stood very still, looking out over the blue
water, and Taquisara was beside her. She waited for him to speak again,
sure that he had not said all.
"Such things seem improbable in these days," he said quietly. "You say
that it is dreadful. It is. I have seen it, and have been with him day
after day. I am not very sensitive, as a rule, but I have had a strange
impression which I shall never forget. Gianluca and I met when we were
serving our time as volunteers. He was unlike the rest of us, even then.
That was why we became friends--because he was unlike me, I suppose."
"Unlike--in what way?" asked Veronica, still looking at the sea.
"It is hard to explain. He is a man of ideals, a religious man, a good
man." Taquisara smiled gravely. "That was enough to make him quite
different from us all, was it not?"
"I do not know," said the young girl. "Are all men bad, as a rule?"
"Perhaps," answered the Sicilian, shortly. "At all events, Gianluca was
not. One saw that all the little that was bad in his life was only a
jest, while all the much that was good was real and true."
"You are indeed his friend," said Veronica, softly.
She was struck by the beauty of what the man had said so plainly and
unaffectedly.
"Yes, I am his friend," replied Taquisara. "One of his friends,
say,--for he has many. I am his friend as you are the friend of Donna
Bianca. You understand that, do you not? And you understand that there
is nothing you would not do for a friend? Not out of mere obligation,
because your friend has done much for you, but just for
friendship--love, if you choose to call it so. I have heard people speak
eloquently of friendship--so have you perhaps. And we both understand
what it means, though many do not. That is why I speak as I do, and if I
do not speak well, you must forgive me, and feel the meaning I cannot
express to your ears. Gianluca loves you, Donna Veronica, as men very
rarely love women, so immensely, so strongly, that his love is burning
up his life in him--and it has all been kept from you for some reason or
other, while your relations are doing their best to make you marry Bosio
Macomer, who can no more be compared with Gianluca della Spina than--"
He checked himself, for he felt that his tone was contemptuous, and
remembered that Veronica might perhaps like Bosio. She was listening,
her eyes fixed on the distance, her mind wide open to the new experience
of life which had come so unexpectedly.
"He cannot be compared with Gianluca," continued Taquisara, modifying
his sentence and omitting whatever simile had presented itself in his
thoughts. "If you knew Gianluca, you would understand. It is because I
know him well that I speak for him, that I implore you, pray you,
beseech you, to see him before you consent to marry Count Bosio--"
"To see him!" exclaimed Veronica, startled at the sudden proposition,
which was a blow to every tradition she had ever learned.
But the Sicilian was not a man to hesitate at trifles where women were
concerned, nor men either.
"Yes--to see him!" he answered with a certain vehemence. "Is it a sin?
Is it a crime? Is it dishonourable? Why should you cry out? What is
society that it should take you young girls by the throat, like martyrs,
and chain you with proprieties to the stake of its rigid law--to be
burnt to death afterwards by slow fire, like your best friend there,
Donna Bianca? Ah--you understand that. You know her life, and I know it
too. It is the life--or the death--to which you may look forward if you
will neither open your eyes to see, nor raise your hand to guard
yourself. And you cry out in outraged horror at the idea of seeing
Gianluca della Spina here, in this garden, by these steps, under God's
sunlight, as you see me here to-day by accident. It seems to you--what
shall I say?--unladylike!" Taquisara laughed scornfully. "What does it
matter whether you are unladylike or not, so long as you are womanly,
and kind, and brave? I am telling you truths you have never heard, but
you have a woman's right to hear them, whatever you may think of me. And
I speak for another. I have the holy right to say for him, for his life,
for his happiness, all that I would not say for myself, perhaps. And I
do say, what is to prevent Gianluca from being here to-morrow, or this
very afternoon, as I am here now, and why should it be such a dreadful
thing for you to come here, knowing that you will meet him? Do you think
that he would not give the last drop of his blood, at one word from your
lips, to save you from trouble, or danger, or insult? Do you think, if
he knew how I am speaking to you--speaking roughly, perhaps, because I
am rough--he would not turn upon me, his friend, who am fighting for his
life, and quarrel with me, and disown me, because my roughness comes
near you and may offend you? You do not know him. How should you? But
because you do not know him and cannot guess how he loves you, do not
throw his life away without seeing it, without understanding what you
despise, and learning that it is far above your contempt--a noble life,
an honest life, a true-hearted young life, which may be lived out for
you only--and, for you, I think it would be worth living."
Taquisara was a man who could be in earnest for his friend, and there
was a strong vibration in his low voice which few could have heard with
indifference. While he was speaking and forcing the appeal of his honest
black eyes upon Veronica's face, she could not help slowly turning to
meet them, and her lips parted a little as though in wonder, while she
drank in eagerly the words he spoke. It was the first time in her life
that she had ever heard a man speak to her of love, and, in his rough
eloquence, he spoke well and strongly, though it was not for himself. In
his own cause, the words might not have come so readily, but they were
not now the less evidently sincere, because they were many. She was glad
that she had boldly risen, and left Bianca's side, in order to hear him.
But when he paused, she scarcely knew what to answer. She wanted to hear
more. It was as though a dawn were rising, high and clear, in the dim
country through which childhood had led her, and she longed suddenly for
the full light of broad day.
"Indeed, you speak as though you loved him," she said.
"Yes, but I am trying to tell you how he loves you, and I cannot, though
I know it all. You must hear it for yourself, you must see him, you must
know him--"
"But it is impossible--" Veronica's protest broke off rather weakly in
the middle.
"It is impossible that you should be here to-morrow at this hour?
Perhaps--I do not know. But to-morrow at this hour Gianluca will be
here, though he has not been able to leave the house for a week; and if
you come, all the impossibility is gone. It is as simple as that--"
"That is an appointment--with a man--"
Again the blood rushed to the young girl's face but this time it was
genuine shame of doing a thing which she had been taught to think the
most dreadful in the whole world.
"An appointment!" Taquisara laughed contemptuously. "Do you not come
often to see the Princess Corleone? You will come again. And Gianluca
will come often, too--and if you chance to meet to-morrow, it will be an
accident of fate, that is all, as you chanced to see me here to-day. You
cannot forbid him to come here. You cannot, without a reason, ask Donna
Bianca to refuse to receive him--"
"Oh!--if she ever guessed--" Veronica checked herself, still blushing,
but Taquisara was too sincerely in earnest to smile at the slip she had
made.
"That is all," he said. "There is neither appointment, nor engagement,
nor anything but the possibility of a meeting which you cannot be sure
of avoiding, unless you never come to see your friend, or unless you
give her some unjust reason for not letting him come, in case he calls.
There is nothing but chance. How can I tell whether you will come
to-morrow, or not? I shall perhaps never know, for I shall not come with
him. I have been here to-day--what excuse could I give for calling again
to-morrow? Donna Bianca would think it strange. I can hope, for his
sake. I can tell you that no woman has the right to throw away such love
as his, to ruin such a life as his, to break such a heart without a
thought and without so much as hearing the man speak--whatever this
wretched society in which we live may say about proprieties and rights
and wrongs, and the difference between the proper behaviour for young
girls and married women. This is God's earth, Donna Veronica--not
society's!"
Veronica said nothing; but there was perplexity in her face, and she
looked down, and pulled at one finger of her glove. She was wondering
whether, if she came on the next day, and stood with Gianluca della
Spina on that very spot, he would speak for himself as strongly and well
as his friend had been speaking for him.
Somehow, she doubted it, and somehow, too, she knew that if by magic
Taquisara should all at once turn out to be the real Gianluca,--not the
Gianluca she knew,--she should be better satisfied with the world. For
as things seemed just then, she was not satisfied at all, and the future
was more dim and uncertain than ever. Still she looked down, thinking,
and Taquisara glanced at her occasionally, and respected her silence.
"You do not know Bosio Macomer," she said, at last. "Or you know him
little. If you chanced to be his friend, instead of Don Gianluca's, you
could speak as eloquently for him."
"I think not," answered Taquisara. And his lip curled a little, though
she did not see the expression.
"Why not? You do not know him. How can you tell? A little while ago, you
said that he was not to be compared to your friend. How can you be so
sure? Everything is not written in men's faces."
"I judge as I can, from what I see and know."
"So do I."
"From seeing and knowing the one and not the other. That is it. All I
ask is that you will wait until you know both, before you make up your
mind--a week--no more, if you can spare no more. It is not for me to
tell you what your rights are, that you are not in the position of the
average young girl, just from the convent, who accepts the choice her
father and mother make for her--because, perhaps, she may never have
another; and, at all events, because she cannot choose. You have the
world to choose from, and--forgive me for saying it--you have no one to
choose for you but those who are interested in the choice. May I speak?"
She hesitated, and their eyes met for a moment.
"Yes," she said suddenly.
"Count Bosio may be the best of men. I do not know. But he is the
middle-aged, younger brother of Count Macomer, with a very slender
fortune of his own and a position no better than the rest of us. If he
marries you, he becomes Prince of Acireale, a Prince of the Holy Roman
Empire, a Grandee of Spain of the First Class--and many times a
millionnaire. For you have all that to give the man you marry. Grant
that he is the best of men. Is his brother wholly disinterested? I speak
plainly. It is rumoured that Count Macomer has lost most of his fortune
in speculations. I do not know whether that is true. Even if it is not,
what was all his fortune compared to what it would mean to him if his
brother held yours?"
"My uncle never speculated in his life!" answered Veronica, rather
indignantly.
"Grant that. The other side remains. And the countess? Is she wholly
disinterested? Has she been disappointed by the marriage she made, or
not? She was born a Serra, like yourself, and she married Macomer in the
days of the old court, when he was a favourite with the old king and had
a brilliant position, and people said that he might be one of the first
men in the kingdom. But Garibaldi swept all that away, and Macomer's
chances with it, and the countess is a disappointed woman, for her
husband has remained just what he always was--plain Count Macomer, with
his name and his palace, neither of them extraordinary. Truly, Donna
Veronica, though you may refuse to speak to me again for what I say, I
will dare to tell you that you must be very unsuspicious! They conceal
from you the honourable offer of such a man as Gianluca della Spina, the
eldest son of a great old house, and they announce your betrothal with
Count Bosio before either you or he know of it. One need not be very
distrustful to think all that strange--even granting that Count Bosio is
the best of men, a matter of which you are a judge."
"I would rather that you should not say those things to me," said
Veronica, a little pale, and turning half round as though she would go
back to Bianca and Ghisleri.
"Forgive me--for I have risked such opinion of me as you may have, to
say them. There may be reasonable doubt about them. But of the
rest--there is no doubt. There is a man's life in it, and death is
beyond doubts, and a love that can take a man and tear him and hurt him
until he dies has a right to a woman's hearing--and to her
charity--before she throws it away. I ask no forgiveness of you for
saying that. Gianluca will come to-morrow at this time, and he will come
again until he sees you. I have kept you too long, Donna Veronica, and
you have been kind in listening to me. If you need service in your life,
use mine."
She said nothing, but gravely inclined her head a little when she had
once more looked into his eyes, before she turned towards Bianca and
walked slowly up the short, broad path by his side.