The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, and
contributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about their
son and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation. They were
both too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage upon
Veronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel that
they were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they told
each other, in the privacy of the Duchessa's dressing-room, that after
what Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, to
marry him. That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted;
for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far as
the prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy of
belief. He had certainly been much better since they had brought him to
Muro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they were
until the autumn.
On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking very
plainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must not
be deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had no
intention of ever marrying at all. But she had been interrupted by the
coming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the first
opportunity, she did not purposely create another at once. She was not
skilful in such situations. When her directness came into conflict with
her sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious matters
she instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could be
hard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time rather
be over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most people
call tact. The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in a
glacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to know
certainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of any one of them,
nor how far it may lead. The little strengths of weak people are like
jagged rocks jutting up in shifting sands and changing tide, the more
dangerous to the unwary because they are few and unexpected, and no one
can tell where they lie, just below the surface. Many a brave enterprise
has gone to pieces upon the stupid, unforeseen obstinacy of a despised
weakling.
Veronica, like other people, even the very strongest, had weak points,
or moments when some points of her character were weak, which comes to
the same thing in result. She dreaded to hurt Gianluca, and since the
occasion had passed when she might have made everything clear, and
would have done so, she found it hard to decide how to act.
Taquisara had told her that the man was dying. If that were true, it
could make no difference, whether he believed that she would marry him
or not. The thought of his death was terribly painful, and she thrust it
from her; for she was not heartless, and in the days that followed their
conversation on the balcony, her affection grew to be as real and deep
as it could possibly have been for a most dearly loved brother. For her,
there had been none of those ties in which such affections live and grow
and become parts of life itself. Fatherless, motherless, without
brother, or sisters, the girl had grown up not knowing what she had to
give, and giving scarcely anything at all of what was best in her. She
was reticent and proud, and could never be attached to many people.
Bianca had been her friend, in a way, but Bianca's life was mysterious
to her, and Pietro Ghisleri had come between the two.
And now, through many months, by the intimacy of correspondence which
had suddenly turned to an intimacy of real converse in which she had not
been disappointed, she had grown--for it was a true growth--to the power
of a most devoted friendship, capable of great and lasting sacrifice. It
was a friendship, too, that was, as it were, pre-sanctified by the
rising shadow of near death, fore-hallowed by the sure suffering of its
coming end. It would be hard indeed to cut from Gianluca's heart the one
flower of his loving belief.
But then, when she sat beside him on the balcony in the shady hours, and
the great wave of life came up to her from the southern valley, she
could not believe that he was really to die. And then, she hesitated,
and she wished to do what was right and true by him, pain or no pain.
Sometimes there was a little colour in his face, and often the deep blue
light came into his beautiful eyes. He was to live, then, and she felt
that she was cruel, and base, and cowardly to let his thoughts of her
grow.
Those were the good days. There were worse ones, when he lay like a dead
angel before her, and only in his eyes there was a little life. Then
more than once, she gave him the magic of her touch, laid one hand
softly upon one of his, or smoothed his silk pillow and arranged the
shawl about him. Perhaps she was wrong to do such things, just because
she was so young; but when she did them he breathed freely again, and
the faint false dawn of a new day that might never brighten rose in the
alabaster cheeks.
Once, Taquisara, standing on the great round bastion below, unnoticed by
them both under the spreading vine, turned suddenly by chance and looked
up through the leaves, and he saw how Veronica was bending forward
towards his friend and touching one hand of his--for it was not far to
see. Taquisara did not look again, but presently he went in, and there
was less of unconcern in his handsome bronze face that day, and his dark
eyes were harder and colder than they were wont to be.
Veronica liked him, and forgot altogether the unpleasantness which there
had been between them. He was as gentle as a woman with Gianluca. He
seemed to be strong, too, for on the bad days when his friend could not
walk at all, he carried him like a child from room to room. Veronica saw
how necessary he was, and he knew it himself, for after his first
protest he made no attempt to go away. Gianluca, naturally sensitive and
abnormally impressionable, hated to be touched by servants, as some
invalids do, and Taquisara's constant presence saved him much suffering,
none the less acute because it was imaginary.
At luncheon, at dinner, whenever the Duca and Duchessa were present,
Taquisara did his best to help the conversation and always seemed
cheerful, unconcerned, and hopeful for Gianluca's recovery. It was on
rare occasions, when Veronica found herself alone with him for a few
moments, or together with him and Don Teodoro, that the man appeared to
her silent, morose, and sometimes almost ill-tempered. He did not again
speak rudely in her presence, but she guessed that the unspoken thought
was constantly in his mind--that, and something else which she could not
understand. Daily, hourly perhaps, he was inwardly accusing her of
playing with Gianluca, as he had expressed it.
Strange to say, she began to care for his opinion and to wish that he
could understand her better; and because he could not, she resented the
opinion which she thought he held of her. When she was with him, she
felt something which she did not recognize in herself--a desire to
attack him, for no reason whatever, and at the same time a wish that he
might like her better. Even in her childhood she had never cared very
much whether people liked her or not.
One day it rained,--for it was in August,--and from time to time the
enormous thunder-storms rolled up out of the valley and crashed and
split themselves upon the sharp peak above Muro, and rumbled away to
northward up the pass, while the deluge of cold rain descended in their
track.
It was afternoon. The windows were all shut, the Duca and Duchessa had
disappeared for their daily sleep, as they always did, and Veronica and
Taquisara kept Gianluca company in one of the big rooms. He was better
than usual, but Veronica found it hard to amuse him, and tried to
imagine some diversion for the long hours.
"Can you fence?" she asked suddenly, of Taquisara.
"Of course--after a fashion," he answered, with a laugh of surprise at
the question, which seemed absurd to him.
"Will you fence with me?"
"I? Oh--I remember hearing that you took fencing lessons at the Princess
Corleone's. If it amuses you, of course I will."
"I have all my things here," said Veronica. "There are any number of
foils, and I got two men's jackets and masks, just in the hope that they
might be wanted some day. I am very fond of it, you know. We can move
the table away from the middle of the room--it will be something to do.
It is dull, when it rains, and Don Gianluca can watch us and tell me
when I make mistakes. It will amuse us all."
"Gianluca could give us both lessons," said Taquisara. "He fences
beautifully."
"Ah--if I only could!" exclaimed Gianluca, in a tone that hurt Veronica.
The invalid looked down at his long, thin legs and emaciated hands, and
he tried to smile bravely.
"You would rather not see us--we will not do it," said Veronica, gently,
bending a little to see his face, as she stood near him.
"Oh no! Please do!" he answered. "I have never seen a woman fence--I
cannot imagine how you could. It would amuse me very much. Please send
for the foils."
The things were brought, the tables and chairs were moved away,
Taquisara drew Gianluca's big easy-chair, with him in it, towards the
window, and Veronica put on her leathern jacket and glove, and stood
holding her mask in her hand, as she bent over the foils looking for her
favourite one. She found it, and came forward, carrying both mask and
foil, while Taquisara got ready. Gianluca looked at her and smiled.
There was something defiant and warlike about the small, well-poised
head, the aquiline features, and the bright eyes. With one foot a little
in advance she stood up, straight and daring, in the middle of the room,
waiting for her adversary. The grey light of the rainy afternoon gleamed
coldly along the steel.
Taquisara took the one of the two masks which fitted him the better, and
picked out a foil. He did not think of putting on a jacket to fence with
a woman.
"No jacket?" asked Veronica, with a short laugh, as she slipped her mask
over her head.
He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course,
and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil.
She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were to
fence a bout for a prize. Taquisara did the same.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard.
"Are you left-handed?"
"Yes--did you never notice it?" She laughed again, as her foil played
upon his for a second. "Now then!" she cried.
Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent very
little time in the study of the art. He was bold, quick, and somewhat
reckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men of
his society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he had
wounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his own
safety, than by any superior skill. He had expected that Veronica would
make a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sport
in a few minutes. To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she could
really fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her a
great advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary. He had of
course intended and expected only to defend himself without ever really
attacking, as men generally do when they fence with women. But he was
mistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted.
She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way.
Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that was
like a man's, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foil
bent nearly double, with the button full on his breast. She stepped
back, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca's, and
he laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted.
"I took you by surprise," she said. "You had better put on a jacket--it
is just as well."
"Oh no--but you can really fence! I had no idea. I shall be more
careful. Try again!"
They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious. His defence did not
compare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest.
He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently she
touched him on the arm.
"Why do you not attack me?" she asked impatiently. "You need not be
afraid--I can defend myself pretty well."
He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with a
man, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage. She felt an
unaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitement
she uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did more
than once. She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, and
she was glad that she should do better against him than against Bianca
or her fencing-master. There was a strange delight in it. He, on his
part, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a real
attack. He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failed
utterly. Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and she
was left-handed.
It was rather wild play, but it was amusing to watch, and Gianluca
looked on with delighted appreciation. She was so slight and graceful,
and yet so quick and strong. As for Taquisara, he was glad when she drew
back, took her mask from her face, and said that it was enough.
"You ought to know that you can hardly ever disarm a left-handed person
when you are engaged in carte," observed Gianluca, looking at Taquisara.
Though he had never been in a quarrel in his life, he had been
passionately fond of fencing, and in his real interest in what he had
seen he did not even think of complimenting Veronica. She was keen
enough to feel that his scientific remark was better than any flattery.
Taquisara shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Donna Veronica fences like a man," he said. "And I am not very good at
it either. She would have killed me two or three times!"
"You never really attacked me," she answered, flushed and happy. "By the
by," she added, seeing that he was looking over the other foils, "one of
those is sharp--the one with the green hilt--be careful not to take it
by mistake if we fence again, for you might really kill me."
"How did it come here?" he asked, taking up the one she indicated.
"It was lying about at the Princess Corleone's. I took it by mistake, I
suppose, with my things. I believe that Signor Ghisleri brought it to
show her, one day. I think he said it had been used."
She threw off her leathern jacket, and tossed the other things aside.
"Let us fence a little every day," she said. "That is, if you will
really fence, instead of playing with me."
"I am certainly not able to play with you," he answered. "And I shall
wear a jacket next time."
"You are wonderful," said Gianluca, still watching her with admiration.
The storm had passed, and the rain was over. Before long the Duca and
Duchessa would appear for tea, and Taquisara said that he would go for a
walk. Veronica rang and had the room set in order again, and sat down by
Gianluca. The exercise had done her good, and she still felt that fierce
little satisfaction at having fought with Taquisara. There was an
unwonted colour in her cheeks, and her brown hair had been somewhat
ruffled by the mask. Her hands were warm, and tingled, and she felt
intensely alive. It had been pleasant, for once, to put out all her
energy in something like a real struggle.
Little by little her sensations wore off, and she was quite quiet again,
but the recollection of them remained and made her wish to renew them
every day.
"You are wonderful," Gianluca repeated, when they had talked of other
things for a while. "Taquisara is not a fencing-master, but he is as
good as most men, and better than many. You gave him trouble, I could
see. It was all he could do to defend himself against you, sometimes."
"Did it amuse you to watch us?" asked Veronica.
"Yes--of course!"
"Then we will do it again, every day. I am glad of a little practice,
and it will not hurt him either. A descendant of Tancred ought to fence
better than that! I suppose that your mother would be horrified."
"She might be a little surprised."
"Shall we tell her?"
"Not unless we are obliged to," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "We do
not tell her everything."
"No," said Veronica, acquiescing rather thoughtfully.
Gianluca was in that state in which there is a delight in having little,
harmless secrets from the world in common with one much loved, but not
yet wholly won, and each small secrecy was to the bond that held him
what the silver threads are to Damascus steel, welded into the whole
that the blade may bend double without breaking. But to Veronica it was
different; for she guessed instinctively how he looked upon such
trifles, and she did not wish them to multiply unduly. Each one was a
sting to her conscience.
"I hate secrets," she said gravely, after a pause. "Let us tell her. It
is much better."
"As you like," answered Gianluca, with a little disappointment, which
she did not fail to notice.
"You think that she will be scandalized? And that we shall not fence any
more? Why? I am sure, if she could see us, she would think it very
proper. It is not improper, is it?" She asked the last question
anxiously, as though in an after-thought.
"Improper? No! How absurd! If everything that is unusual were to be
considered improper, our writing to each other would be improper, too.
But we kept it a secret, all the same. I cannot imagine talking about
it. For me--everything that belongs to you is a secret."
Veronica leaned back in her chair, and her face grew still more grave,
but she did not answer. The struggle had begun again, and the
hesitation. Should she tell him, once for all, that she really never
could love him? Should she leave him the illusion he loved so well? Was
he to die, or was he to live? The answer to each question seemed to lie
in the query of the next. He spoke again before she broke the silence.
"Do you not feel that--a little--not as I do, but just a little, about
me?" he asked in a voice not timid, but very soft.
"No," she answered sadly. "Not as you do. No; it is quite different."
She did not look at him at once, for she was almost afraid to meet his
eyes, but she heard him catch his breath, as though to strangle a sigh
by main force, and his head moved on the cushion.
She had begun to hurt him.
"I thought you might," he said, faintly but steadily. "I almost thought
you did."
"No," she repeated, with ever-increasing gentleness. "No. Do not think
that--please do not!"
He said nothing, but again he moved his head. Then, seeing that the
moment had come, and that she must face it with truth or lie to him
while he lived, she turned her face bravely towards him, to tell him all
her heart.
"You are the only real friend I have in the world," she said. "But I can
never love you--never, Gianluca--never. It is not in me. There is no one
in the whole world for whom I care as I do for you. I cannot imagine
anything that I could not do for your sake. But not love--not love. That
is something else. I do not know what it means. You could make me
understand anything but that. Oh--why must I say it, when it is so hard
to say?"
His face seemed cut, as a mask of pain, in alabaster, and the appealing,
hungry eyes waited for each fresh hurt.
"You made me think that you might love me," he said, the slow words
hardly forming themselves on his dry lips.
"Then God forgive me!" she cried, clasping her hands and bending her
face over them. "And yet--and yet I knew it. I felt it. I meant to tell
you, if you did not know! I only wished not to hurt you--it is so hard
to say."
"Yes," he answered, scarcely above his breath. "I see it is," he added,
after a long time.
As he lay in the deep chair, he turned his face from her, on the
cushion, till she could not see his eyes, and then was quite still. It
would have been easier if he had reproached her vehemently, if he had
turned and tried to win her again, and poured out his heart full of
love. But he lay there, like a dead angel, with his face turned from
her, hardly breathing.
"I have been cowardly, and base, and bad!" she cried, bending over her
clasped hands, and speaking to herself. "I should have said it--I said
it long ago, at Bianca's, and I should have said it again--but I was
afraid--afraid--oh! afraid!"
Her low voice trembled in anger against herself, in pity for him, in
sorrow for them both. She looked up and saw him still motionless. It
was as though she had killed him and were sitting beside his body. But
he still lived, and might live. For one instant she felt a mad impulse
to give him her life, to marry him, not loving him, to save him if she
could, to atone for what she had done. But a horrible under-thought told
her that it would be but gambling for her freedom with his existence,
and that if she did it, she should do it because she felt that he must
surely die. Even her simplicity seemed gone. She looked again; he had
not moved.
She threw herself upon her knees, beside his great chair, her clasped
hands on his thin shoulder, in a sort of agony of despair.
"Speak to me!" she cried. "Forgive me--say that I have not killed
you--Gianluca--dear!"
One shadowy hand of his was lifted, and touched hers. It was as cold as
though it had lain dead in the dew. She took it quickly and held it
fast. He did not turn his head.
"It has been my life," he said, "my whole life."
He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would.
There was still magic in her touch.
"Forgive me!" she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm of
the chair. "Forgive me!"
At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silk
cushion, and looked at her bent head. Instinctively she raised her hot
eyes.
"Forgive you?" He spoke very sorrowfully. "I love you. What is there to
forgive? It is not your fault--"
"It is--it is!" she cried, speaking into his sad eyes for forgiveness,
with all her soul.
"I shall die--but it is not your fault," he answered, and he sank back,
for he had raised himself a little. "It is not your fault," he repeated.
"Do not ask me to forgive you. Perhaps I should have lived longer--I do
not know, for I only lived for you. No--I am quiet now. I can speak
better than I could. You must not think that you have killed me, if I
die. Men live through worse, but not men like me, perhaps. Something
else is killing me slowly, but they will not tell me what it is. Never
mind. It will do as well without a name, and if I get well, it needs
none. After all, I am not dead yet, and while I am alive, I can love
you. You have been all to me. If you had loved me, I should have had
more than all the world, and that would have been too much. If I
deceived myself, loving you as I did,--as I do,--it is not your fault,
Veronica. It is not your fault. There was a time last year, when I would
have done anything, given everything, life and all, for one of a
thousand words you have written and said to me since then--when I would
have committed crimes for the touch of this little hand. Do you see? It
is all my fault. That is what I wanted you to understand."
He had said all he could, and his breath came with an effort at the
last. But his lips smiled bravely as he looked at her, still kneeling by
his side. Then he seemed to realize that she should not be there.
"Get up, dear," he said, with failing voice. "You must not kneel--some
one might come--they would think--that you meant--something."
His lids quivered and closed, and his lips trembled oddly. She felt his
hand relax, and she thought that he was gone. Instantly she sprang to
her feet beside him, and lifted his head, her face full of the horror
that goes before the wave of pain for those one loves. But he had not
even fainted. He opened his eyes, and smiled, and tried to speak again,
but could not.
Veronica's lips moved, too, as she stood there, supporting him a little
with her arm and stiffened with terror for his life. But she could not
speak either. She watched his face with most intense anxiety. Again and
again, he opened his eyes, and saw her, and he felt her arm under him.
"It is nothing," he said suddenly. "I was a little faint."
She drew away her arm with a deep breath of relief, and he sighed when
it was gone. But neither of them spoke. Veronica rang, and sent for his
favourite wine, and he drank a little of it. Then she sat down beside
him, where she had sat before, and the room was very still.
It was hot, too, for no one had opened the window since it had stopped
raining. Veronica rose and undid the fastenings and threw back the
glass, and the cool air rushed in, laden with the sweet smell of the wet
earth. As she came back, she saw that his eyes followed all her
movements, gravely, as a sick child watches its nurse moving about its
room. There was no reproach in their look, but they were still fixed on
her, when she sat down again by his side.
"Veronica," said the faint, far voice, presently. "May I ask you one
question, that I have no right to ask?"
"Anything," she answered. "And you have the right to ask anything."
"No--not this. Do you love another man?"
The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness.
"No, Gianluca. No--by the truth of God--no living man!"
"Nor one dead?" His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyes
were wide for her answer.
A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflected
from an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seen
it.
"There was Bosio," she said softly. "He spoke to me the night he
died--I could have married him--I should have loved him--perhaps."
If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemed
rather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning,
one by one, and word by word--and finding, wondered at what had once
been true.
And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closed
peacefully and naturally, opening again with another look. He was too
weak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some word
she had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, that
she had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living.
And Hope, that is ever last to leave a breaking heart, nestled back into
her own sweet place, breathing soft things of love, and life, and golden
years to be.
"Thank you," he said. "I should not have asked you. It was kind to
answer."
They did not speak again, and presently the door opened. The old Duca
held it back with a stately bow, and the Duchessa swept into the room
with that sort of uncertain swaying motion, which is all that weakness
leaves of grace. And the Duca shuffled in after her, and closed the door
most precisely, for he was a precise old man.
"I thought it was time for tea, my dear," said the Duchessa. "We have
had such a good sleep!"