Veronica left Bianca Corleone's house with a very painful sense of
disappointment, and as she drove homeward through the wet streets, she
could not get rid of Gianluca's tearful blue eyes, which seemed to
follow her into the carriage; and in the rattling and jolting, she heard
again and again that one weak sob which had so disturbed her. At that
moment she would rather have gone directly back to the convent in Rome,
to stay there for the rest of her life, than have married such an
unmanly man as she believed him to be. His words had left her cold, his
face had frozen her, his tears had disgusted her. She pitied him for his
weakness, not for his love of her, and she hoped that she might never
again hear any man speak to her as he had spoken. Nevertheless there had
been in his tone, at the last, the doubt-splitting accent of a sharp
truth that hurt him to tears. She wondered why he had not moved her at
all. The day seemed more grey and wet and desolate than ever. She
thought that everybody in the street looked draggled and disappointed.
Near Santa Lucia she passed a wretched vender of strung filberts and
doubtful cakes, mounting guard over his poor little handcart with a
dilapidated umbrella, under the half-shelter of a projecting balcony. A
couple of barefooted boys crouched on the wet pavement by the
sea-stairs, with a piece of sacking drawn over both their heads
together, gnawing hard-tack, and as the rain struck the stones, it
splashed up in their faces under their sack. On the left, the coral
shops showed their brilliant wares dimly through the rain-streaks, with
closed glass doors through which here and there the disconsolate face of
the shopkeeper was visible, as he stood gazing out upon the dismal,
dripping scene. A sailor man came out of the marine headquarters at the
turning of the Strada dei Giganti, bending his flat cap against the rain
and burying his ears in the blue linen collar of his shirt, which was
turned back over his thick jacket. The water splashed out from under his
heavy shoes, to the right and left, as he walked quickly up the hill.
Beyond that, the Piazza San Ferdinando was deserted, and the broad wet
pavement lay flat and darkly gleaming upward to the broad, watery sky
that stretched grey and even, without shading, like a sheet of wet
india-rubber over all the city. Then the Toledo, where the gutters could
not swallow the deluge, but sent their overflow in dark yellow streams
down each side of the street--then the narrower, darker ways and lanes
between the high houses and the low, black doorways, through the heart
of old Naples, home at last to the Palazzo Macomer.
Veronica was glad to get back to the fire in her own room, and to feel
dry again--for seeing so much water had given her the sensation of being
drenched. And she sat down to think over what had happened in the
morning, trying to understand her own disappointment, because she
believed that she had expected nothing, and therefore that she could not
be disappointed. She was very glad to get back to her own room. So far
as she at all knew what a home meant, the Palazzo Macomer was home to
her, and she had no distinct recollection of any other. Gregorio and
Matilde and Bosio were her own family, so far as she had ever known what
to understand by the word. They were more familiar to her than any other
people in the world possibly could be, and if she felt that she had
little affection for her aunt and uncle, yet she knew that there was a
bond; and she was sincerely attached to Bosio for his own sake.
She had photographs of all three on the mantelpiece, in silver
frames,--that of her aunt standing in the middle, and one of the men on
either side. She looked at Bosio's, taking it down from its place. She
looked at it critically, and seeing a speck of dust on the glass, just
over the face, she passed her handkerchief over it, polishing the
surface, and looking at it again. From the photograph any one would
have said that Bosio was a handsome man, for he photographed well, as
the phrase goes. His clear, pale complexion, his well-cut, refined
features, his smooth, thick, silky hair looked singularly well against
the smoked background, and had at once the strength and the transparency
which make a good photograph by adding an illusion of relief to the
flatness of mere outline and light and shade. Probably the likeness was
flattered. But Veronica did not think so just then, coming as she did
from a disillusionment which had affected her more strongly than she
knew. She compared Bosio with Gianluca, in appearance, and Gianluca
lacked almost everything which could bear comparison. She compared Bosio
with Taquisara, and she preferred the quiet refinement of the one to the
bold eyes and high aquiline features of the other. At least, she thought
so. But she also preferred Taquisara to Gianluca, by many degrees of
preference. Yet both these men were commonly spoken of as handsome.
She thought of another point, too, and with her blood it was natural
that she should think of it. If she married Bosio, he would take her
name and titles; not she, his. She would rule the house and be
independent--not of him, exactly, for she was fond of him and had no
desire to be despotic over him, but of parents and elders and relations
who would think it their right to advise and guide. All this would be
different with Gianluca for her husband. The Della Spina were proud of
their name and would expect her to bear it. They were numerous, too; the
old father and mother would oppress and burden her life, and the
brothers and sisters of Gianluca would grow up to be more or less of a
perpetual annoyance to their elder brother's wife. Of that side of life
her aunt had given her more than one picture, intentionally exaggerating
a little, perhaps, for her own purposes. And from Bianca she had heard
many things of the same kind. Married to Bosio, she would be free
altogether from any one's interference in her household.
She met them all at luncheon, and was struck by the fact that both men,
as well as Matilde, looked pale and harassed, as though they had slept
little. For there was little sleep or rest, except for Veronica, during
those days of gnawing anxiety. She was struck, too, and startled, by
Gregorio's hideous laugh, which broke out twice during the meal without
any apparent reason. Even the servants seemed to shudder at it and
looked at him anxiously, and Matilde's dark eyes tried to control him.
Indeed, when she looked at him, he seemed docile enough, except that his
face twitched very strangely as he nodded to her.
But they all talked, with the evident intention of seeming at their
ease; and in a measure they succeeded, for they were not weaklings like
Gianluca. Bosio was by far the least strong in character, but his very
remarkable self-possession made him their equal in the present case. On
the previous evening, when Veronica had not been present, they had
scarcely made an effort; but now that she was seated at table with them,
they performed their parts conscientiously and not without success.
They were encouraged, too, by Veronica's manner to Bosio. After her
experience in the morning it was a distinct pleasure to be again in his
society, and she talked enthusiastically to him of the Bride of
Lammermoor--the book he had given her and which she had begun to read
during her solitary dinner on the previous evening. She was sure of the
response to what she said, before she said it, and it came surely
enough. She felt that he understood her, and that she should be glad to
talk with him every day. Several days had passed since they had been
alone together for half an hour.
She compared him with the photograph of him, too, and she came to the
conclusion that the likeness was not so much flattered, after all. His
unusual pallor to-day had something luminous in it, and the features, in
two days of suffering, had grown thinner with a sort of finely chiselled
accentuation of their natural refinement. To-day, he reminded her of
certain portraits of Van Dyck. But when luncheon was over, she avoided
being alone with him, for she had not yet come to any decision. It would
be more true, perhaps, to say that she distrusted herself in the
decision she now seemed to have reached too suddenly. For in the
expansion of sympathy she enjoyed so much it all at once seemed to her
that she could never marry any one but Bosio, who understood her so
well, who anticipated what she was going to say, and knew beforehand
what she thought upon almost any subject of conversation.
She had never been exactly opposed to the idea, from the first; but now
it took possession of her strongly, as it had never done before, and she
might almost have taken her genuine affection for the man for love, if
she had ever been taught to suppose that love was necessary before
marriage. She had been far too carefully brought up in Italian ideas of
the old school, however, to make any such self-examination necessary.
She had been told that it was important that she should like and respect
the man she was to marry. She had no reason for not respecting Bosio, so
far as she knew, and she certainly liked him very much indeed.
But she meant to wait until the evening, and give herself a chance to
change her mind once more. After luncheon there was the usual
adjournment to another room for coffee, over which the two men smoked
cigarettes. Veronica expected that Matilde would ask her by a gesture,
or a word in a low tone, whether she were any nearer to a conclusion
than before, but the countess did nothing of the sort, for she was far
too wise; and Veronica was grateful for being left entirely to her own
thoughts in the matter. Nor did Bosio bestow upon her any questioning
glance, nor betray his anxiety in any way except by his pallor, which he
could not help, of course. Veronica thought that once or twice his eyes
brightened unnaturally, in the course of conversation; and in his manner
towards her she might have fancied that there was a shade more than
usual of that sort of affectionate deference which all women love,
though they love it most in the strong, and it sometimes irritates them
a little in the weak, for a passing moment, when their caprice would
rather be ruled than flattered. Bosio made no attempt to be alone with
her, and at the end of half an hour both he and his brother departed to
their own quarters.
Even then, when she was alone with Veronica, Matilde did not return to
the subject which was uppermost and above all important in her mind.
With amazing tact and self-control she talked pleasantly enough, though
she managed to place herself with her back to the light, so that
Veronica could not see her expression clearly. At last she rose and said
that she must go out. The weather had improved a little, and she asked
Veronica to go with her. But the young girl had no desire to be driven
through Naples in a closed carriage a second time that day, and she went
away to her own room, with the intention of spending a quiet afternoon
by the fire with her novel.
On the previous evening she had read a little over her dinner, and from
time to time during the short evening she had returned to the book,
feeling that it was easier to read than to think, and much more
satisfactory. She took the volume now, but she could not read at all.
She was overcome by a wish which seemed wholly unaccountable, to send
for Bosio to meet her in the drawing-room, and to tell him outright that
she was willing to marry him. Nothing but maidenly self-respect
prevented her from doing so at once, and the hours seemed very long
before dinner. Many times she rose from her seat by the fire and moved
about her room in an objectless way, touching things uselessly and
looking for things which were not lost, which she did not want, but
which she could not find. She wished that she had her great jewels. She
would have tried them on before the mirror--anything to pass the time.
But they were all safely stored in one of the safest banks.
She grew more and more restless as the minutes passed and the dinner
hour approached. Looking at herself in the glass, she said that her
cheeks were no longer sallow, as they had seemed to be in the morning.
There was a fresh colour in them, and it was becoming to her and pleased
her. Her soft hair had fallen a little upon each side of her brows, and
her eyes were brilliantly bright. She looked at them when the twilight
was coming on, and they seemed to shine, with wide pupils, having a
light of their own.
At last the time came. Before she rang for her maid, who had brought
lights and had gone away again, she stood a moment before the fire and
looked once more at Bosio's photograph, asking herself seriously for the
last time whether she should marry him or not. But the answer was there
before the question, and she had made up her mind.
At the last minute, she had forgotten the flower she had promised to
wear, and she sent her maid in haste to see whether she could find one
of any sort in the house. It was the middle of December, and it was not
probable that such a thing could be found in the Palazzo Macomer. The
maid came back empty-handed. Veronica told her to find an artificial
one, and Elettra, after some searching, produced a very beautiful
artificial gardenia, which Veronica pinned in her white bodice, with a
smile. She glanced at herself once more, and saw that the colour was
still in her cheeks, and she was satisfied with herself.
When she entered the drawing-room, the other three were already there,
and she saw the faces of Matilde and Bosio change as they caught sight of
the flower. Gregorio apparently knew nothing of the arrangement--another
instance of Matilde's tact which pleased Veronica. Matilde herself
was no longer pale. She had seen how desperate she looked and had put
a little rouge upon her cheeks so deftly and artistically that the young
girl did not at first detect the deception. But her features had still
been drawn and weary. They relaxed suddenly in a genuine smile when she
saw the gardenia. But Bosio grew paler, Veronica thought, and looked
very nervous. At table, he was opposite Veronica, and he reminded her
more than ever of Van Dyck's portraits, so that she wondered why she
had never before thought of the general resemblance. He talked less than
at luncheon, and sometimes his eyes rested on hers with an expression
which she could not understand. But there was admiration in it, as well
as something else. Veronica herself was animated, and had never looked
so well before, in the recollection of the other three.
After dinner Gregorio disappeared almost immediately, and at the end of
a quarter of an hour Matilde left the room, merely observing that she
was going to write letters and would come back when she had finished.
Bosio and Veronica were alone.
To her, it seemed to have come suddenly at the end, and she did not
quite realize how it was that she found herself standing on one side of
the fireplace, while he stood on the other.
They looked at each other a moment. Then Veronica smiled faintly, and
drew herself up--or lengthened herself--as slight young girls have a way
of doing when they are pleased, and she turned a little in the movement,
and glanced at the clock, still faintly smiling.
Bosio was watching her, and he could not help admiring her lithe figure
and small, well-poised head, that had a sort of girlish royalty of
carriage not at all connected with beauty; for she was not beautiful,
and she herself knew that there were times when she was almost ugly. He
saw and admired, and he cursed himself for what he meant to do. He was
not sure, even now, that he could do it.
There was no awkwardness in the silence, Veronica thought, for it seemed
to her that he understood, and that words were hardly necessary. If she
had meant to refuse him, she would have done so through Matilde. She
smiled, looking at the clock, and thinking about it all. Then she
realized that no word had been spoken on either side, and she turned her
head a little shyly, till she could just see his face, while the smile
still lingered on her lips. One hand rested on the mantelpiece, with
the other she touched the artificial gardenia in her bodice.
"That is my answer, you know," she said quietly, and her eyes waited for
his.
But he only glanced at her face, and for a moment he did not move. Then,
with a graceful inclination he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
She noticed even then that his own hand was dry and burning. He did not
trust himself to speak. When he looked up, the room whirled with him,
and he saw strange colours. He thought his teeth were chattering.
"Are you glad?" she asked, wondering a little at his silence now, and
the room seemed strangely still all at once.
"Is it quite of your own free will?" he asked, as though it cost him an
effort to say anything.
"Yes--quite. Of course!" Her face grew bright as though she were happy
in removing the one doubt he had.
"I am very glad of that," he said quietly.
"Do you think that I would marry any one under pressure?" asked
Veronica, with a soft laugh. "I will tell you something that will
convince you. It is a secret. You must not tell my aunt that I know. I
could have married Don Gianluca della Spina. Perhaps you know that. Did
you? I did; but I will not tell you how. Only, you see--I did not care
for him."
Bosio had recovered his self-possession, which had been only momentarily
shaken. For there had been no surprise--he had known what to expect.
"I only knew lately of the Spina's proposal," he said. "But--shall I
thank you, Veronica? Or do you understand without words? We have known
each other so long, that perhaps you may."
"I think I understand," she answered.
She put out her hand again and pressed his, and again he kissed her
fingers. The action was reverential, and had nothing in it of the man
who loves and is accepted. Her gentle hand, maidenly and innocent, was
stretched down into the hell of word and thought and deed in which his
real self had its being, and he touched it with his lips, and in his
heart he knelt to kiss it, as something too holy to be in this
world--just because it was innocent, and his own was not. For herself he
set her on no pedestal, he did not worship her, he did not love her, he
admired her with the cold judgment of a man of taste. It is the purity
of the unblemished and unspotted victim that makes the outward holiness
of the sacrifice. He thought of his own life and of hers, hitherto side
by side, and he thought of their joint life in, the future, she taking
him for what he was not, and he was ashamed.
In the first moment he had a brave impulse to tell her everything and be
a man, even if he ruined the woman he had loved so long, as well as the
brother who bore his name. It was only an impulse, and his lips remained
sealed and his face calm.
"I do thank you," he said in a low voice, when he had kissed her hand
that second time. "I will do what I can to make you happy."
Yet he knew now, from the strength of that passing impulse, that if she
had not spoken first, he would not have asked her directly to marry him.
Twenty times during that long day, alone in his room, he had sworn that
he would not marry her, whatever happened. For it was not enough that
Matilde had set him free, and that he had rejoiced for one hour in his
liberty. That was not enough. Matilde could not undo the work of many
years by a word and a gesture. His hell was already a desert without
her. But now, there was no drawing back.
Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he had
told Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra. And now, almost
on the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serra
that he would do his best to make her happy.
"I am sure you will," she answered.
"I should deserve evil things if I did not," he said, passing his hand
over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.
Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be
passionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set
her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the
love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting
heart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, and
heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man's
eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he must
say something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant,
how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours--and the
rest. As he thought what he should say, love's phrase-book turned to a
grim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears. But she expected it,
of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had
to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below
which there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had not
loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken
the truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weakness
of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for
Matilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find--lies against
himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even
while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not
clothe--lies against love, against manhood, against God.
"I have loved you long, Veronica," he began. "I had not hoped to see
this day."
The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a
strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he
spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to
deceive all living things to sin.
He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the
shelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the first
sound of his words, wondering and thrilled.
"Is it long? I do not know," he continued. "It is more than a year,
since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in my
life--little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, for
all I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica,
all of it--the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and die
for you, in trust and faith, and love of you. You wonder? Beloved--if
you knew yourself, you would not wonder that I love you so! There is no
man who could save himself, if he lived by your side, as I have lived.
You smile at that? Well--you are too young to know yourself, but I am
not--I know--I know--I thought I knew too well, and must pay dear for
knowing how one might love you and live. But it is not too well, now.
It is life, not death. It is hope, not despair--it is all that life and
joy can mean, in the highest."
He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying on
the shelf. Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light in
her face, for she believed. And he, in his suffering within, was moved;
as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truth
and splendid passion on a stage, and the contrast that is between being
and seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will,
born of certain despair.
"I am glad," said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her hand
still lingered in his, and he went on.
"It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the world
in his grasp--in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives.
But you are making me believe it now--all that I did not dare to think
of as even most dimly possible in my lonely life--that is why I thank
you, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as I
can never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that a
man may love a woman. That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if God
willed that I might!"
The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth. His hand burned
hers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in the
terrible play of acted earnestness. Even his eyes brightened and filled
themselves, determined to lie with all of him that lied to her.
Had he hated her, had it been a vengeance to make her love him in
payment of a past debt of wrong, it would have seemed less foully base
in his own eyes. But he liked her. She had always trusted him and liked
him too, and there had been only kindness between them always. That made
it worse, and he knew it. But he could do the worst now, he thought, for
he had altogether given over his soul, to leave it in hell, without
hope.
"I pray God that I may be worthy of your love," said Veronica, gently
and earnestly.
He drew her towards him by her little hand, and himself came softly
nearer to her, till his other hand was on her shoulder, drawing her
still. She yielded, not knowing what she should do. Quite close she was,
and he held her, unresisting, and kissed her. She had known, but she had
not realized. The scarlet blood leapt up in maiden shame, and she
started back a little. But she thought that he had the right to do it.
"Good night," she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she could
not stay to look at him.
"Good night, love," he whispered.
He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing in
his place. The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and
pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the
depth of its meaning.
He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not
have done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were
burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders,
palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to
the end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He had
even kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.
He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter of
an hour or more; but though he watched the clock's face, his eyes saw no
movement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room was
dark.
Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing
lest Veronica might have come back--or her ghost, for he felt as though
he had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. She
glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.
"Well?" she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing,
pale as death under her rouge.
He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.
"It is all over" he said slowly.
She started forward, not understanding him.
"Over? Broken off?" she cried, in horror.
"Oh no!" he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. "It is done. It
is agreed. She accepts me."
Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for one
moment--she, who was so strong.
"You almost killed me!" she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught the
words.
Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face,
blending with the tinge of the paint. He did not move, and she came and
stood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning to
him.
"You have saved me," she said. "I thank you."
Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spoke
simply, as she looked at him. She had been almost terrible to look at a
few moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks. No
one could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, as
she stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands while
her deep eyes melted in his.
He knew the difference between her and Veronica, and he straightened
himself, till he looked rigid, and an unnatural smile just wreathed his
lips, half hidden in his silky beard. He told himself that he had fallen
the last fall, to the very depths; yet he knew that there was a depth
below them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge in
the thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do.
"I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon," she
said gently. "I meant it, you know--I meant it all."
"I trust to Heaven you did!" answered Bosio.
"Yes, dear, I meant it," she said in a voice of gold and velvet. "I will
try to mean it still. But--Bosio--look at me!"
He turned his eyes, but not his face.
"Yes?" His voice was not above his breath.
"Yes--but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?"
"Yes, we must." He spoke louder, with an effort.
She drew nearer to him, strong and soft.
"Yes? Well--but say goodbye--not as yesterday--not as though it were
good bye--one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss--one, dear--one--"
And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and she
had her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then he
trembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant later
he was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as he
left her and went to the door without turning.
He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his face
was livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but one
thought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, and
out upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in,
till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stopping
then, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, and
hand and weapon.
Before the woman's kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, Bosio
Macomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remote
room.
Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of Almighty
God. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he would
not do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it,
and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he cast
himself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave.