Taquisara went immediately to find Don Teodoro, who was generally at
home at that hour, in his little house just opposite the castle gate. He
found him with his silver spectacles pushed up to the top of his head,
his long nose buried in a musty volume, a cup of untasted coffee at his
elbow, absorbed in study. The small room was filled with books, old and
new, and smelt of them. As Taquisara entered, the old priest looked up,
screwing his lids together in the attempt to recognize his visitor
without using his spectacles. He took him for the syndic of Muro, a
respectable countryman of fifty years, come to consult with him about
some public matters.
"Be seated," he said. "If you will pardon me, for a moment--I was
just--"
In an instant his nose almost touched the page again, and he did not
complete the sentence, before he was lost in study once more. Taquisara
sat down upon the only chair there was and waited a few moments, not
realizing that he had not been recognized. But the priest forgot his
existence immediately and if not disturbed would probably have gone on
reading till noon.
"Don Teodoro!" said Taquisara, rousing him. "Pray excuse me--"
The old man looked up suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise.
"Dear me!" he cried. "Are you there, Baron? I beg your pardon. I think I
took you for some one else."
He drew his spectacles down to the level of his eyes, and let the big
book fall back upon the table.
"Our friend is very ill," said Taquisara, gravely. "That is why I have
come to disturb you."
He told the priest what the doctor had said about Gianluca's condition.
Don Teodoro listened with an expression of concern and anxiety, for he
had become fond of the sick man during the past weeks, and Gianluca
liked him, too. Almost every day they talked together, and the refined
taste and sincere love of literature of the younger man delighted in the
profound learning of the old student, while the latter found a rare
pleasure in speaking of his favourite occupations to such an
appreciative listener.
"The fact is," Taquisara concluded, "though I have not much faith in
doctors, I really believe that he may die at any moment. You know what
kind of man he is. Go and sit with him after luncheon to-day--or
before--the sooner, the better. Do not frighten him--do not tell him
that I have spoken to you about his condition. I believe that he knows
it himself, and if he is alone with you for some time, and you speak of
the uncertainty of life, as a priest can, he will probably himself
propose to make his confession. You understand those things, Don
Teodoro--it is your business. It is our business to give you a chance."
"Yes--yes," answered the old man. "I daresay you are right. I suppose
that is what I should do." There was a reluctance in his voice which
surprised Taquisara.
"You do not seem convinced," said the latter.
"I wish there were another priest here," replied Don Teodoro,
thoughtfully, and his clear eyes looked away, avoiding the other's
direct glance.
"Why?" inquired the Sicilian, with increasing astonishment.
"It is a painful office to perform for a friend." The curate looked down
now, and fingered the corner of his old book, in evident hesitation. "It
is quite another thing to assist the poor."
"I do not understand you," said Taquisara. "I suppose that priests have
especial sensibilities of their own--"
"Sometimes--sometimes," interrupted Don Teodoro, as though speaking to
himself. "Yes--I have especial sensibilities."
"It cannot be helped," answered Taquisara, in a tone that had something
of authority in it. "Of course we laymen do not appreciate those nice
questions. A man is dying. He wants a priest. It is your place to go to
him, whether he is your own father, or a swineherd. You are alone here,
and you have no choice."
"Yes, I am alone. I wish I were not. I wish that the princess would get
me an assistant."
"It will be best if you come to the castle in about an hour," said
Taquisara, paying no attention to Don Teodoro's last remark. "By that
time Gianluca will be in his sitting-room, and I shall be with him. The
Duca and Duchessa will be out for their walk, for the weather is cool
and fine, and they do not know of his imminent danger. Come in without
warning, as though you had just come to pay him a visit of a quarter of
an hour. You have done the same thing before. I will go away after five
minutes and leave you together. Donna Veronica will not interrupt you."
"Very well," replied the priest, in a tone that was still reluctant. "If
it must be, it must be."
Taquisara looked at him curiously and went away to arrange matters as he
proposed. But Don Teodoro, though he wore his spectacles, with the help
of which he really could see very well, did not notice the young man's
glance of curiosity, as he went with him to the door, and carefully
fastened it after him, which was an unusual proceeding on his part; for
though he lived quite alone, the poor people never found that door
locked by day or night. An old woman came every day to do the little
household work that was necessary, and to cook something for him, when
he ate at home. But to-day, for once, he drew the rusty old bolt across,
before he went back to his study. He did nothing which could seem to
have justified the precaution, after he had sat down again in his big
wooden easy-chair; and if the door had been wide open, and if any one
had come in without warning, the visitor would have found the priest
before the table, slowly lifting one long, bent shank of his silver
spectacles and letting it fall upon the other, in a slow and
absent-minded fashion to which no one could have attached any especial
importance. People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep it
when they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave of
their hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to see
if it could get a vampire's dead life for a night, and come out, and
draw blood.
Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly than
was his wont. In the narrow court within, he stopped before passing
through the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of a
marble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which was
built into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained white
while the surrounding blocks had grown black with age. There was no more
apparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of the
inscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses,
all alone in his room. But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro. He
had a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible from
himself.
But that was not easy. The thing which had taken hold of him was as
strong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold for
hold, wrench for wrench. It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that to
yield a hair's breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one. He had almost
relaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alone
with Veronica.
He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turned
sharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself that
to waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable,
since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica. And
he had set himself to arrange the meeting between Gianluca and Don
Teodoro, and each hour was precious.
His face helped him, for he did not easily betray emotion; he rarely
changed colour at all, and was not a man of mobile features. But he had
grown thinner since he had been in Muro, and the clearly cut curves that
marked the Saracen strain in him were sharper and more defined.
He went in and met Veronica in the large room in which they usually
fenced, and which lay between what was really the drawing-room and the
apartment set aside for Gianluca and Taquisara. She was standing alone
beside the table, her face very white, and as she turned to Taquisara,
he saw something desperate in her eyes.
"I have seen the doctor again," she said, not waiting for any greeting,
and knowing that he would understand.
"And I have seen the priest," answered Taquisara.
She started, and pressed her lips tightly to suppress something. Her
eyes wandered slowly and then came back to the Sicilian before she
spoke.
"You have done right," she said, and then paused a second. "He is going
to die to-day," she added, very low.
"That is not sure," replied Taquisara. "The doctor says that he has
known cases--"
"No," interrupted Veronica. "I know it--I feel it."
She was resting one hand on the heavy table, and as she spoke she bent
down, as though bowed in bodily pain. Taquisara saw the sharp lines in
the smooth young forehead, and his teeth bit hard on one another as he
watched her. He could not speak. With a quick-drawn breath she
straightened herself suddenly and looked at him again. He thought he
saw the very slightest moisture, not in her eyes, but on the lower lids
and just below them. It was very hard to shed tears, and not like her.
"Hope!" he said gently.
During what seemed a long time they stood looking at each other with
unchanging faces, and neither spoke. Some people know that dead silence
which descends while fate's great hand is working in the dark, and men
hold their breath and shut their eyes, listening speechless for the dull
footfall of near destiny.
At last Veronica, without a word, turned from the table and went slowly
towards a door. Taquisara did not move. When her hand was on the lock,
she turned her head.
"Stand by me, whatever I do to-day," she said earnestly.
"Yes. I will."
He did not find any eloquent words nor oaths of protest, but she saw his
face and believed him. She bent her head once, as though acknowledging
his promise, and she went out quietly, closing the door behind her.
Some minutes passed before Taquisara also left the room in the other
direction. He wondered why she had said those last words, for he had
seen again that desperate look in her face and did not understand it.
Perhaps she meant to marry Gianluca before he died, and at the thought
Taquisara felt as though a strong man had struck him a heavy blow just
on his heart, and for one instant he steadied himself by the table and
swallowed hard, as though the breath were out of him. It did not last a
moment. Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend.
Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning. He had
evidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisara
standing by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anything
of so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection. He
certainly did not remember having spoken of dying. But he was very weak,
and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usually
seemed.
Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings,
and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room.
"Tell me," he said, "does it hurt you very much when I take you up?"
"It hurts," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "Hurting is relative, you
know. I can bear it very well. There are things that hurt more."
"What? When you try to move alone?"
"Oh no! Imaginary things. You hurt me very little--you are so careful.
What should I have done without you?"
Taquisara had never touched him so tenderly before, though he was
always as gentle as a woman with him. He lifted him, carried him from
his bedroom and laid him in his accustomed chair. The pale head rested
with a sigh upon the brown silk cushion.
"Thank you," he said faintly. "That was better than ever. But I am
better to-day, too."
The Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid's
small belongings near him,--his books, his cigarettes,--for he sometimes
smoked a little,--and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowers
which Elettra renewed every morning. Gianluca drew a breath of
satisfaction when all was done. He really felt a little better, and by
Taquisara's care had suffered less than usual in the moving. His father
and mother had been in to see him as usual, before he was up, and before
they went out for their daily walk. Veronica would not come yet, but he
had the true invalid's pleasure in anticipating the coming of a
well-loved woman. As often happens in such cases he seemed quite
unconscious of his approaching danger.
He was not surprised when Don Teodoro came in, a little later, and the
two very soon fell into conversation together. Taquisara presently went
away and left them, as he often did when they began to talk of books.
Half an hour had not passed since his meeting with Veronica, but as he
again entered the room where they had met, he found her standing before
the window, looking out, and twisting her handkerchief slowly with both
her hands. She started when she heard him come in, and she turned her
head to see who it was that had opened the door. To go on, he had to
pass near her, and she kept her eyes on his face as he approached her.
"How is he?" she asked in a voice hardly recognizable as her own.
She had an agonized look, and she raised her handkerchief to her mouth
quickly, and held it, almost biting it, while he answered her.
"He says that he feels better. Don Teodoro is there. He has just come.
Is there anything that I can do?"
She shook her head, still holding the handkerchief to her lips, and
again looked out of the window. He waited a moment longer and then
passed on, leaving her alone. He saw that she was half mad with anxiety,
and he neither trusted himself to speak, nor believed that speaking
could be of any use. He went down to the lower bastion, where he could
be alone, and for a long time he walked steadily up and down, trying
hard to think of nothing, and sometimes counting his steps as he walked,
in order to keep his mind from itself.
He did not idealize the woman he loved, for he was not a man of ideals,
nor of much imagination. Such defects as she might have, he did not
see, and if he had seen them he would have been indifferent to them. To
such a man, loving meant everything and admitted of no comment, because
there was no part of him left free to judge. He was a whole-souled man,
who asked no questions of himself and no advice of others. He had never
needed counsel, in his own opinion, and for the rest, what he felt was
himself and not a secondary, dual being of separate passions and
impressions which he could analyze and examine. He had never
comprehended that strange machine of nicely-balanced doubts and
certainties, forever in a state of half-morbid equilibrium between the
wish, the thought, and the deed--such a man as Pietro Ghisleri was, for
instance, who would refuse a beggar an alms lest the giving should be a
satisfaction to his own vanity, and then, perhaps, would turn back in
pity and give the poor wretch half a handful of silver. When Taquisara
once knew that he loved Veronica, he never reverted to a state of doubt.
He fought against it, because his friend had loved her first, and
rooting himself where he stood, as it were, he would have let the
passion tear him piecemeal rather than be moved by it. But he never had
the smallest doubt as to what the passion was in itself and might be, in
its consequences, if he should be weak for one moment. Simple struggles,
when they are for life and death, are more terrible than any
complicated conflict can possibly be.
Don Teodoro was a long time alone with Gianluca. Whatever reasons he had
of his own for not wishing to comply with Taquisara's request, he
overcame them and faithfully carried out the mission imposed upon him.
In itself it was no very hard one. Gianluca was a religious man, as
Taquisara had said that he was, and he knew that he was very ill, though
he did not believe himself to be dying. With his character and in his
condition, he was glad to talk seriously with such a man as Don Teodoro,
and then to lay before him the account of his few shortcomings according
to the practice of his belief.
The old priest came out at last, grave and bent, and, going through the
rooms, he came upon Veronica standing alone where Taquisara had left
her. She did not know how long she had stood there, waiting for him. He
paused before her, and her eyes questioned him.
"He wishes to see you," he said simply.
"How is he?" He had not understood her unspoken question. "How is he?"
she repeated, as he hesitated a moment.
"To me he seems no worse. He says that he feels better to-day. But there
is something, some change--something, I cannot tell what it is, since I
last saw him."
"Stay here--please stay in the house!" said Veronica. "He may need you."
While she was speaking she had gone to the door, and she went out
without looking back. A moment later, she was by Gianluca's side. She
saw that what Don Teodoro had said was true. There was an undefinable
change in his features since the previous day, and at the first sight of
it her heart stood still an instant and the blood left her face, so that
she felt very cold. She kept her back to the light, that he might not
see that she was disturbed, and while she asked him how he was, her
hands touched, and displaced, and replaced the little objects on the
small table beside him,--the book, the glass, the flowers in the silver
cup, the silver cigarette case, the things which, being quite helpless,
he liked to have within his reach.
"I really feel better to-day," he said, watching her lovingly, as he
answered her question. "I wish I could go out."
"You can be carried out upon the balcony in a little while," she said.
"It is too cool, yet. It was a cold night, for we are getting near the
end of August."
"And in Naples they are sweltering in the heat," he answered, smiling.
"It is beautiful here. I can see the mountains through the open window,
and the flowers tell me what the hillsides are like, in the sunshine.
Taquisara says that your maid brings them every morning. Thank you--of
course it is one of your endless kind doings."
"No," replied Veronica, frankly. "It is her way of showing her devotion,
poor thing! Everybody loves you in the house--even the people who have
hardly ever seen you. The women, speak of you as 'that angel'!" She
tried to laugh cheerfully.
"I am glad they like me, though I have done nothing to be liked by them.
Please thank your maid for me. It is very kind of her."
There was a little disappointment in his voice; for he had been happy in
believing that Veronica sent the flowers herself, not because he needed
coin of kindness to prove her wealth of friendship, but because whatever
small thing came from her hand had so much more value for him than the
greatest and most that any one else could give.
She sat down beside him, and endeavoured to talk as though she were
quite unconcerned. She tried not to look at his face, upon which it
seemed to her that death was already fixing the last mask of life's
comedy. It was the more terrible, because he was so quiet and so sure of
life that morning, so convinced that he was better, so almost certain
that he should get well.
It seemed an awful thing to sit there, talking against death; but she
did her best not to think, and only to talk and talk on, and make him
believe that she was cheerful, while, in a kind way, she kept him from
coming back to within a phrase's length of his love for her. It was hard
for him, too, to make any effort. The doctor had said so. And all the
time, she fancied that his features became by degrees less mobile, and
that the transparent pallor so long familiar to her was turning to
another hue, grey and stony, which she had never seen.
Suddenly, while she was speaking of some indifferent thing, his eyelids
closed and twitched, and his hand went out towards hers, almost
spasmodically. She caught it and held it, bending far forward, and again
her heart stood still till she missed its beating.
"What is it?" she asked, staring into his face, and already half wild
with fear.
He could shake his head feebly, but for a moment he could not speak.
With one of her hands she still held his, and with the other she pressed
his brow. He smiled, as in a spasm, and then his face was a little
distorted. She felt his life slipping from her, under her very touch, as
though it were her fault because she would not hold it and keep it for
him.
"Gianluca!" she cried, repeating his name in an agonized tone.
"Gianluca! You must not die! I am here--"
He opened his eyes, and the faint smile came back, but without a spasm
this time.
"It was a little pain," he said. "I am sorry--it frightened you."
"Thank God!" she exclaimed, still bending over him. "Oh--I thought you
were gone!"
"Your voice--would bring me back--Veronica," he said, with many little
efforts, word by word, but with life in his face.
She moved, and held the glass to his lips. Bravely he lifted his hand,
and tried to hold it himself. He drank a little of the stimulant, and
then his pale head sank back, with the short, fair hair about his
forehead, like a glory.
"Ah yes!" he said, speaking more easily, a moment later. "Death could
never be so near but that you might stand between him and me--if you
would," he added, so softly that the three words just reached her ears,
as the far echo of sad music, full of beseeching tenderness.
Still she held his hand, and gazed down into his face. They had told her
long ago that he was dying of love for her. In that moment she believed
it true. He seemed to tell her so, to be telling it with his last
breath. And each breath might be the last. Science could not save him.
Physicians disagreed--the great authority himself could not say whether
he was to live or die. He fainted, fell back, seemed dead already, and
her voice and touch brought him to life, happy for an instant, hoping
still and living only by the beating of hope's wings. And with all that,
though she did not love him, he was to her the dearest of all living
beings. Holding his hand still, she looked upward, as though to be alone
with herself for one breathing space. But as she stood there, she
pressed his fingers little by little more tightly, not knowing what she
did, so that he wondered.
Then she bent down again, and steadily gazed into the upturned blue
eyes, and once more smoothed away the fair hair from the pallid brow.
"Do you wish it very much?" she asked simply.
Half paralyzed though he was, he started, and the light that came
suddenly to his face, wavered and sank and rose once more. She seemed to
hear his words again, saying that she could stand between death and him,
were death ever so near.
"You?" he faltered. "Wish for you? Ah God! Veronica--" his face grew
dead again. "No--no--I did not understand--"
"But I mean it!" she said, in desperate, low tones, for she thought he
was sinking back. "I will marry you, Gianluca! I will, dear--I will--I
am in earnest!"
Slowly his eyes opened again and looked at her, wide, startled, and half
blind with joy. So the leader looks who, stunned to death between the
door-posts of the hard-won gate, wakes unhurt to life in the tide of the
victory he led, and hears the strong music of triumph, and the huge
shout of brave men whose bursting throats cry out his name for very
glory's sake, their own and his.
Gianluca's eyes opened, and with sudden pressure he grasped the hand
that had so long held his, believing because he held it and felt the
flesh and blood and the warmth in his own shadowy hold.
"Veronica--love!" She would not have thought that he could press her
fingers so hard, weak as he was.
The word smote her, even then, with a small icy chill, and though she
smiled, there was a shadow in her face. Again he doubted.
"Veronica--for the love of God--you are not deceiving me, to save my
life?" The vision of despair rose in his eyes.
"Deceive you? I?" she cried, with sudden energy. "Indeed, indeed, I mean
it, as I said it."
"Yes--but--but if, to-morrow--" Again his voice was failing, and she was
hand to hand with death, for him.
"No! There shall be no to-morrow for that--it shall be now!"
"Now? To-day? Now?"
He seemed to rise and sink, and sink and rise again, on the low-surging
waves of his life's ebbing tide.
"Yes--now!" she answered. "This moment Don Teodoro is in the house--I
will call him--let me go for a moment--only one moment!"
"No--no! Do not leave me!" He clung frantically to her hand.
"But--yes--call him--call him! And Taquisara. He is my friend--Oh! It
kills me to let you go!"
It was indeed the very supreme moment. The great burst of happiness had
almost killed him, and he was like a child, not knowing what he wanted.
Still he clutched her hand. A quick thought crossed her mind. She had
gone to the window for a moment, to fasten it back, and had seen
Taquisara walking under the vines. He might be there.
"Let me go to the window," she said, regaining her self-possession.
"Taquisara may be on the bastion--I saw him there. He will call Don
Teodoro, and I shall not have to leave you."
Any reasoning which kept her by his side was divinely good. Her words
calmed him a little, and his hands gradually loosened themselves. But as
she turned quickly, he uttered a very low cry, and tried to catch her
skirt. She did not hear him. She was already speaking from the window;
for the Sicilian was still there, walking up and down, as he had done
for more than an hour. She called to him. He started, and looked up
through the broad leaves.
"Get Don Teodoro at once, and bring him," she cried. "He is in the
house--somewhere."
Taquisara thought that Gianluca was dying, and neither paused nor
answered, as he disappeared within.
Veronica came back instantly. She had not been gone thirty seconds, but
already the sick man's face was grey again, though his eyes were wide
and staring. His head had fallen to one side, on the brown silk cushion,
in his last attempt to reach her. With both hands, she raised him a
little, so that he lay straight again.
"They are coming--they are coming, dear one!" she repeated. "Live, live!
Gianluca--live, for me!"
In her agony of fighting for his life, she pushed his hair back, and
pressed her lips in one long kiss upon his forehead. A shiver ran
through him, and the sense came back to his eyes. But though she held
his hand, there was no more strength in it to grasp hers. He sighed the
words she heard.
"Love--is it you? Veronica--love--life! Ah, Christ!"
And his lids closed again. The door opened, and was shut, and Veronica
half turned her head to see, but she brought her face tenderly nearer to
his, as though to let him know that it was for his sake she looked away.
Don Teodoro and Taquisara were both in the room. Even before she spoke,
she had changed her hold upon Gianluca's fingers, and held his right
hand in hers, as those hold hands who are to be wedded.
"Bless us!" she said to the priest. "This is our marriage! Say the
words--quickly!"
Taquisara's face was livid, for he had as much of instant death in him
as the dying man, though he could not die. But he did not fail. He came
and knelt on the other side of the couch, away from Veronica. The priest
stood at the foot, in pale hesitation. Veronica's eyes commanded.
"Speak quickly!" she said. "I will marry him--I have said it!
Gianluca--say it--say that you will marry me!"
Holding his right hand, with her left thrust under his pillow she lifted
him so that he sat almost upright. It needed all her strength, and she
was very desperate for him.
"Volo!" The one word floated on the air, breathed, not spoken, and dead
silence followed.
Again Veronica turned to Don Teodoro.
"Say the words. I command you! I have the right--I am free!"
The priest's face was white now. He stretched out his arms, lifting his
eyes upwards.
A worse change was in Gianluca's face before Don Teodoro had spoken the
words he had to say. Taquisara saw it. Both he and Veronica bent over
the motionless head. Still Veronica held the cold hand in hers.
Taquisara knew that in another instant the priest would speak. Gently,
with womanly tenderness, though his soul was on the wheel of anguish, he
took Veronica's right hand and loosed it, and Gianluca's fell cold and
motionless from her fingers.
"He is gone," he whispered, close to her ear, and he held her right hand
firmly, in his horror at the thought that she might be wedded to a man
already dead.
Veronica made a slight effort of instinct, to loose his hold and to take
the hand that had fallen from hers. But it was only instinctive and
hardly conscious at all. Her eyes were on Gianluca's face, and the
blackness of a vast grief already darkened her soul.
There was but an instant. The tall old priest, with eyes lifted
heavenwards, neither saw nor heard.
"Ego conjungo vos--" He said all the words, and then, high in air, he
made the great sign of the cross. "Benedictas vos omnipotens Deus--" and
he spoke all the benediction.
He closed his eyes a moment in instant prayer. When he opened them and
looked down, his face turned whiter still. On each side, before him,
knelt the living, Veronica and Taquisara, their hands clasped and
wedded, as they had been when he had spoken the high sacramental words,
and between them, white, motionless, the halo of his fair hair about
his marble brow, lay Gianluca della Spina, like an angel dead on earth.
"Merciful Lord! What have I done!" cried the priest.
At the sound of his voice Taquisara turned quickly. But Veronica did not
hear. The Sicilian saw where Don Teodoro's starting eyes were fixed, and
he understood, and his own blood shrieked in his ears, for he was
married to Veronica Serra. Married--half married, wholly married,
married truly or falsely, by the sudden leap of violent chance--but a
marriage it was, of some sort. Both he and the priest knew that, and
that it must be a voice of more authority than Don Teodoro's which could
say that it was no marriage. For the Church's forms of office, that are
necessary, are few and very simple, but they mean much, and what is done
by them is not easily undone. But Veronica neither saw nor heard.