Veronica did not appear at dinner that evening, but remained in her
room, sending word to the countess that she had a headache and wished to
be alone. Matilde thought it not unnatural that the girl should wish to
reflect in solitude upon the grave problem which had been given her for
consideration. It would be wiser, too, not to disturb her, but to leave
her to herself to reach her own conclusions. Matilde knew that Veronica
had considerable gifts of contrariety, and that it would be a mistake to
press her too closely for a definite answer. Besides, it was always a
tradition in such cases that a young girl should have, in name at least,
perfect independence of action, and the ultimate right to refuse an
offer or accept it.
It was hard to sit still at the dinner table and behave with an
appearance of being reasonable, while knowing that the fate of the
household depended upon the answer of the young girl--from the personal
liberty of two out of the three persons who sat at the meal, to the
disposal of the forks and spoons with which they were eating, and the
roof over their heads. It was very hard even to make a pretence of
swallowing a little food, when all three knew the truth, and none dared
to refer to it in any way lest the servants should guess at what was
taking place. They spent a terribly uncomfortable hour in one another's
society. The two men exchanged indifferent remarks. Matilde occasionally
said something, but her mind ran constantly on absurd details, such as
the incident of the hiding of the will. As soon as her husband had left
her, she had taken it from the drawer, relocking the latter, and again
placing the key under the carpet. Then she had taken the will into her
dressing-room and had hidden it temporarily in another drawer. To
distract her mind during dinner, she tried to think of a better place
for it, and at last determined to unscrew the wooden back of a large old
silver mirror which stood on her dressing-table, and to lay the two open
sheets of the document upon the back of the looking-glass. When it was
all screwed up again, it would not be easy to find Veronica's will.
Matilde also thought of the aconite which Gregorio had recommended her
to keep, and of where she could put it, out of the way of the servants.
Once, towards the end of dinner, Gregorio's terrifying laugh broke out
suddenly, as the butler was offering him something. The man started back
a little and stared, and the spoon and fork clattered to the ground over
the edge of the silver dish. Bosio started, too, but Matilde fixed her
eyes sternly on Gregorio's face. He saw that she looked at him, and he
nodded, suddenly assuming the expression of docility she had noticed for
the first time in the afternoon.
Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciating
state of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation that
his brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or word
must ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-shell.
And all the while Veronica sat peacefully in her room, before her fire,
wrapped in a loose soft dressing-gown, her little feet upon the fender
before her and a book in her hand. A lamp in an upright sliding stand
was on one side of her, and on the other stood a small table. From time
to time her maid brought her something from dinner, of which she ate a
mouthful or two between two paragraphs of her novel.
It was a great pleasure to her to dine in this way, alone, but it was
one she rarely had an opportunity of indulging. Even when her aunt and
uncle dined out she generally had her dinner in the dining-room with
Bosio, who scarcely ever went into society at all. On such occasions
they generally sat together half an hour after the meal was over, before
separating, and it was then that they really enjoyed each other's
conversation. It was very rarely that Veronica yielded to her wish to
be alone and pleaded a more or less imaginary indisposition in order to
stay in her room. Even then, she was not quite sure of being alone for
the whole evening, for Matilde sometimes came in after dinner and
remained with her for half an hour. It had always been the countess's
habit to show the greatest concern and consideration for her niece. But
to-night Veronica knew that she should not be disturbed; for she
understood that this was to be an important epoch in her life, upon
which all the future must depend, and that, since she had asked time for
consideration, Matilde would not intrude upon her solitude. Knowing that
she had as many hours before her as she pleased to take, she began the
arduous task of self-examination by greedily reading a novel which Bosio
had given her two days earlier, and which she had not opened. Somehow,
she fancied that while she was reading her mind would decide itself. The
immediate question was not really whether she should accept Bosio or
not, but whether she should go again on the morrow to her friend Bianca
Corleone, between eleven and, twelve o'clock. That Gianluca della Spina
would be there, she had not a doubt, and the idea of going there to meet
him presented itself to her mind as a dangerous and mad adventure. If
she hesitated, however, it was not on account of meeting the man who was
dying of love for her, but rather for fear of what Taquisara might
think of her if she thus answered his summons to the interview. He had
promised that he would not be present, and this gave her courage; but
Bianca would see and understand, for Bianca had first spoken to her of
Gianluca, that very morning, and as for Taquisara, he would, of course,
soon know all about it from his friend.
The arguments in favour of going were very strong, since she was asked
to say, at short notice, whether she would marry Bosio Macomer or not.
In all that Matilde had told Bosio the elder woman had been quite right.
Veronica was strongly prejudiced in his favour, and what Taquisara had
managed to say in a few words about the interested nature of the
proposal, not only had little weight with Veronica, but was the only
point which had not pleased her in her interview with the Sicilian.
After all, he had attacked her only near relatives in hinting, and more
than hinting, that they wished to gain possession of her wealth. She was
really ignorant of the fact that Cardinal Campodonico had so rarely even
made a pretence of inquiring about the state of her fortune. She met him
occasionally, and he never failed to say something pleasant to her,
which she afterwards remembered. Whenever Gregorio Macomer spoke to her
of business, he used the cardinal's name to give weight to his
statements, and Veronica naturally supposed that the princely prelate
was informed of all that took place, and approved of everything which
Macomer did. It was no wonder that she turned a deaf ear to Taquisara's
warning, which, as coming from Gianluca's friend, seemed calculated
purposely to influence her against marrying Bosio.
In reality, and apart from the little superficial argumentation with
which Veronica had diverted her own mind during the late hours of the
afternoon, she had made up her mind that before seriously considering
the question of marrying Bosio, she would see Gianluca and give him just
such an opportunity of speaking with her alone, as she had given his
friend Taquisara. There was really much directness of understanding and
purpose in her young character, together with a fair share of tenacity;
for, as Matilde had told Bosio, Veronica was a Serra, which was at least
equivalent to saying that she was not an insignificant person of weak
will and feeble intelligence. She was indeed the last of her name, but
the race had not decayed. It was by accident and by force of
circumstances that it had come to be represented by the solitary young
girl who sat reading a novel over her fire on that evening, caring very
little for the fact that she was a very great personage, related to many
royal families, a Grandee of Spain and a Princess of the Holy Roman
Empire, all in her own right alone, as Veronica Serra--all of which
advantages Taquisara had hastily recapitulated to her that morning. So
long as she should live, the race was certainly not extinct, nor worn
out; for she had as much vitality as all the tribe of the Spina family
taken together. She was not, indeed, conscious of her untried strength,
for she had never yet had any opportunity of using it; and in the matter
of the will, which was the only one that had yet arisen in which she
might have tried herself, she had yielded in the simple desire to get
rid of a perpetual importunity. Beyond that she had attached very little
importance to it. Her aunt might be miserly, but Veronica, in her youth
and health, could not think it even faintly probable that she should die
before the elder woman and leave the latter her fortune. Taquisara's
hasty counsel had therefore fallen in barren ground. She scouted the
idea that Gregorio Macomer had ruined himself in speculations, for she
believed him to be a man of extraordinary caution, and probably
something of a miser.
Taquisara had therefore not prejudiced her at all against Bosio, nor
against the idea of marrying the latter. And Matilde, as has been said,
was quite right in supposing that Veronica would see much in favour of
the marriage.
Bosio was distinctly a desirable man for a husband. Nine women out of
ten would have admitted this without hesitation. The strongest argument
against the statement seemed to lie in the fact that there were a few
faintly grey streaks in his thick and silky hair. For the rest, whatever
he chose to say of himself, he was still within the limits of what one
may call second youth. He was only between fifteen and sixteen years
older than Veronica, and such a difference of age between man and wife
does not generally begin to be felt as a disadvantage until the man is
nearly sixty. He was not at all a worn-out dandy, with no illusions, and
no constitution to speak of; for circumstances, as well as his own sober
tastes, had caused him to lead a quiet and restful life, admirably
adapted to his sound but delicately organized nature. He was decidedly
good-looking, especially in a city where beauty is almost the exclusive
distinction of the other sex. His figure, though slightly inclined to
stoutness, was still graceful, and he carried himself with a good
bearing and a quiet manner, which, might well pass for dignity. So much
for his appearance. Intellectually, in Veronica's narrow experience of
the world, he was quite beyond comparison with any one she knew. It is
true that she really knew hardly any one. But her own intelligence
enabled her to judge with tolerable fairness of his capacities, and she
had found these varied and broadly developed, precisely in the direction
of her own tastes.
Lastly, Matilde was right in counting upon the existing intimacy as a
factor in the case. The idea of being suddenly betrothed to marry an
almost total stranger was as strongly repugnant to Veronica as it seems
to be attractive to most girls of her age and class in Southern Italy.
The fact is, perhaps, that the majority of such young girls learn to
think of themselves as being sure to lead hopeless and helpless lives,
unless they are married; and as very few of them possess such
attractions or advantages as to make it a positive certainty that they
can marry well, they grow up with the idea that it is better to take the
first chance than to risk waiting for a second, which may never come. To
these, marriage is a very uncertain lottery; and if they draw a prize,
they are not easily persuaded to throw it back into fate's bag, and play
for another. The very element of uncertainty lends excitement to the
game, and they readily attribute all sorts of perfections to the
imaginary stranger who is to be the partner of their lives.
But in this, Veronica's ideas were quite different. She had assuredly not
been brought up in vanity and pride of station, and though naturally
proud, she was not at all vain. From her childhood, however, she had
received something of that sort of constant consideration which is the
portion of those born to exalted fortunes. She had never had less of it,
perhaps, than in her aunt's house; for the Countess Macomer was not
only of her own race and name, and therefore too near to her to show her
any such little formalities of respect, but had also, as a matter of
policy and with considerable tact, managed to keep the dominant position
in her own house. She had shut out the little court of young friends who
would very probably have gathered round her niece--acquaintances of
Veronica's convent days, older than herself, but anxious enough to be
called her friends--and the tribe of men, old and young, who, in the
extremely complicated relationships of the Neapolitan nobility, claimed
some right to be treated as cousins and connexions of the family. All
these Matilde had strenuously kept away, isolating Veronica as much as
possible from young people of her own age, and proportionately
diminishing both the girl's power to choose a husband for herself and
her appreciation of her own right to make the choice. Nevertheless,
Veronica knew that she had that right, and she intended to exercise it.
Unconsciously, however, her judgment had been guided towards the
selection of Bosio, so that she was now by no means so free an agent as
she supposed herself to be. She did not love him at all; but she liked
him very much, and admired him, and since it was time for her to be
married, she was strongly inclined to choose for her husband the only
man of her acquaintance whom she both admired and liked.
These long and tedious explanations are necessary in order to explain
how it came about that Veronica Serra, with her great position and vast
estates, seriously thought of uniting herself with such a comparatively
obscure personage as Count Bosio Macomer. Taquisara had very fairly
described the latter's position to her that morning as that of an
insignificant poor gentleman, in no point of name or fortune the
superior of five hundred others, and who might naturally be supposed to
covet the dignities and the wealth which Veronica could confer upon
him. But Veronica had resented both the description and the suggestions
which had accompanied it, which showed well enough, how strong her
inclination really was.
On the other side, there remained the impression made upon her by what
Taquisara had said for Gianluca, and last of all the impression made
upon her by Taquisara himself, as a man, and as a standard by which to
measure other men in the future.
With regard to Gianluca, Veronica was indeed curious, but she was also
somewhat sceptical. She could not, of course, say surely that a young
man might not die of love for a girl whom he scarcely knew; and among
the acquaintances of her family she remembered at least one case in
converse, where a morbid maiden of eighteen years had died because she
was not allowed to marry the man she loved. Even there, it had been
hinted that the girl had caught a bad cold which had fastened upon her
delicate lungs. It was doubtless a romantic story, and if anything
appealed to her for Gianluca, it was the romance in his case. Her
reading had been very limited as yet, and the book she was reading so
eagerly was a French translation of the Bride of Lammermoor. The romance
of it spoke directly to her imagination; but when the book was closed
she did not believe that she had a romantic disposition. It is an
indisputable fact that the people to whom the strangest things happen
never regard themselves as romantic characters, whatever others may
think of them. They are, indeed, more often active and daring people, to
whom what others think extraordinary seems quite natural and easy. They
make the events out of which humanity's appetite for romance is fed, and
become, to humanity, themselves the unconscious embodiments of romance
itself. In her heart, therefore, Veronica was a little sceptical about
the reality of the terrific passion by which, according to Taquisara,
his friend was consumed. She recalled his face distinctly, as she had
seen him half a dozen times in the world, and she thought the definition
of him which she had given Bianca Corleone a very just one. He reminded
her of one of Perugino's angels--with a youthful beard. If angels had
beards, she thought, without a smile, they would have beards like
Gianluca della Spina's, very youthful, scanty, curling, and so fair as
to be almost colourless.
She remembered that he had looked at her rather sadly, and had spoken
little and to no purpose, making futile remarks about juvenile
amusements, and one or two harmless little jokes which she had quite
forgotten, but to which he had referred at the next short meeting, at
some other house, on the corner of some other similar sofa. That was all
that she could call up out of her memories. She had thought him insipid.
Once she remembered distinctly that while he had been talking to her,
she had been watching Bianca Corleone's handsome brother, Gianforte,
whom she had seen only once before, and that when her companion had
asked her to agree with him, she had said 'yes,' without having the
least idea of what he had been saying. He had produced only a very
slight and transparent shadow amongst the figures of her recollections.
It was a severe tax on her credulity to try and believe that he was
dying for love of her. If it were true, she thought, why had he not had
the courage to make her understand it? The fact that the offer made by
his family had not been communicated to her might have been hard to
explain, but she was not disturbed for want of an explanation. She did
not care for the man in the least, and there might be fifty reasons why
her aunt and uncle should think him undesirable. On the whole, she
believed that Taquisara had enormously exaggerated the state of the
case. The Sicilian himself impressed her as singularly honest and bold,
but she was much more ready to believe that the friend who had sent him
might have interested views, than that Bosio Macomer, whom she liked and
admired, was anxious to get possession of her fortune.
Taquisara himself had struck her as something new in the way of a man,
of a sort such as she had never seen nor dreamt of, and her mind dwelt
long on the recollection of the interview. In some way which she could
not explain, she vaguely connected him with the book she was now
reading--the Bride of Lammermoor; in other words, he appeared to her in
the light of a romantic character, and the first that had ever come
within the circle of her experience. His recklessness of formalities, of
all the limits supposed to be set upon the conversation of mere
acquaintance, of what she might or might not think of him individually,
so long as she would listen to what he had to say for his friend, seemed
to her to belong to a type of humanity with which she had never come in
contact. He, and he only, as yet had stirred some thought of another
existence than the one which seemed to lie straight before her,--a
broad, plain road, as the wife of Bosio.
Of love, indeed, there was nothing in her heart, for any man. Within her
all was yet dim and still as a sweet summer's night before the dawning.
In her firmament still shone the myriad stars that were her maiden
thoughts, not yet lost in the high twilight, to be forgotten when love's
sun should rise, in peace, or storm, as rise he must. Under her feet,
low, virgin flowers still bloomed in dusk, such as she should find not
again in the rose gardens or the thorn-land that lay before her. In
maidenhood's tender eyes the greater tenderness of woman awaited still
the coming day.