"I think--I assure you that nobody knows anything--but I think that Don
Gianluca will improve rapidly after this crisis."
That was the opinion of the great doctor, when he had seen the patient
on the afternoon of that memorable day. For Veronica, Taquisara, and Don
Teodoro had all three been mistaken when they had thought that Gianluca
was dead. As the doctor said, there had been a crisis, an inward
convulsion of the nerves, a fainting which had been almost a catalepsy,
and, several hours later, a return to consciousness with a greatly
increased chance of life, though with extreme momentary exhaustion.
It was Taquisara who went to find the doctor, leaving Veronica on her
knees, while Don Teodoro stood motionless at the foot of the couch, his
hands gripping each other till his nails cut the flesh, his grotesque
face invested for the moment with an almost sublime horror of what he
had unwittingly done.
And then had come the physician's systematic and painful search for
life, his doubts, his hopes, his suspicions, his increasing hope again,
his certainty at last that all was not over--and then the necessity for
instantly carrying out his orders, the getting of all things needed for
the sick man snatched out of death, and all the confusion that rises
when the whole being of a great household must exert its utmost strength
in one direction, to save one life.
Amidst it all, too, the helpless father and mother ran about tearful,
incoherent, wringing their hands, believing no one and yet believing the
impossible, praying, crying, talking, hindering everything in their
supreme parents' right to be in the way and nearest to what they loved
best--hysterical with joy, both of them, at the end, when the physician
said that Gianluca was to live, and was not dead as they had thought
him, and wildly, pathetically, insanely grateful to Veronica.
"I saw that he was dying," she told them simply, when he was out of
danger. "I sent for Don Teodoro, and we were married."
They fell upon her neck, the old man and the prematurely old woman,
kissing her, pressing her in their arms, crying over her, not knowing
what they did.
When he saw that she was telling them, Taquisara went away from them to
his own room and stayed there some time. And Don Teodoro also went home,
and for the second time on that day he bolted his battered door and made
sure that he was alone. But he did not sit at his table playing with
his spectacles, as in the morning. He knelt in a corner, against one of
his rough bookcases, bowed to the ground as though a mountain had come
upon him unawares, and now and then he beat his forehead against the
parchment bindings of his favourite folio Muratori, as certain wild
beasts crouch on their knees and with a swinging of slow despair strike
their heads against the bars of their cage many times in succession.
For Taquisara and Don Teodoro knew, each knowing also that the other
knew, that what Veronica believed to have been done that day had not
been really done, save in the intention, and that what had really been
done must by Church law and right be undone before she could be truly
married to Gianluca della Spina. That is to say, if the thing done had
any value whatsoever before God and man.
It is easy to say that in other lands and under other practices of faith
the four persons concerned in what had happened might have honestly told
themselves that such a marriage was no marriage at all. An unbelieving
Italian, and there are many in the cities, though few in the country,
would have laughed and said that the important point was the legal union
pronounced by the municipal authority, and that since there had been
none here, there was nothing to undo. Yet if by any similar
chance--more difficult to imagine, of course, but conceivable for
argument's sake--the same mistake had occurred in a legal marriage by a
syndic, that same unbelieving Italian would have felt in regard to it
precisely what Taquisara and Don Teodoro felt, namely, that the union
was well nigh indissoluble. For Italy, as a nation and a whole, while
imitating other nations in many respects, has again and again refused to
listen to any suggestion embodying a law of divorce. To all Italians,
high, low, atheists, bigots, monarchists, republicans,--whatever they
may be,--marriage is an absolutely indissoluble bond. The most that they
will allow, and have always allowed, is that in such cases as
Veronica's, it is in the power of the highest authority, ecclesiastic or
legal, according to their persuasion, to annul a marriage altogether and
declare that it never took place at all, on the ground that the
requirements of the Church or of the law have not been properly
fulfilled.
In society, of the two forms, which are both looked upon as necessary
together, the blessing of the Church is considered by far the more
indispensable, though most people acknowledge the importance and
validity of the other, as well as its wisdom; and society, as an
aristocratic body, as a rule refuses absolutely to receive within its
doors an Italian couple who have not been married by a priest. Among all
society's many traditions and prejudices, there is none more ancient,
more deep-rooted, or more rigorous to-day than this one.
Under these circumstances it is not surprising that Taquisara, strong,
loyal, and simple as he was, should honestly believe with all his heart
that he had been married to Veronica; nor that Don Teodoro himself
should look upon what he had unwittingly done as being something which
he alone had no power to undo, if, in all conscience and truth, it had
been done at all.
The worst point of all, in the opinion of those two men, was that
Veronica sincerely believed herself married to Gianluca, as in her
intention she really was, while Gianluca himself, having pronounced the
solemn 'I will' with his last conscious breath and being told on coming
to himself that the sacramental words had been spoken, had no reason at
all for doubting that he was actually her husband. The position was as
full of difficulties as could be imagined. To let Gianluca know the
truth would have been almost certain to kill him. To speak of it to
Veronica for the present seemed almost equally impracticable, though it
was quite impossible to take any steps towards the annulling of the
marriage without her open concurrence and help, as well as Taquisara's.
Meanwhile, not only she and Gianluca, but the Duca and Duchessa, too,
regarded the matter as altogether settled and accomplished. At any
moment Veronica had it in her power to send for the syndic of Muro and
cause the necessary formalities of the municipal marriage to be properly
executed. She would then be legally married to Gianluca, while in the
eyes of the Church she was already Taquisara's wife, by the fact of form
though not by the intention of any one.
It did not occur either to Taquisara or to the priest that they could
keep their secret forever and allow matters to proceed to such a
conclusion. Don Teodoro was far too earnest a believer and a churchman
at heart to allow what he should consider a great sin to be committed
without any attempt to hinder it, and with the Sicilian the point of
honour was concerned, as well as a deeply rooted adherence to social
tradition and to the forms and ceremonies of religion in which he had
been brought up. They were neither of them men to have so repudiated all
they held the most sacred in faith and honour, even if either of them
had held the secret alone without the other's knowledge.
But each knew that the other knew the truth, and on that first day, each
departed to his own room lest he should be suddenly brought face to face
again with the other.
It was his unwillingness to allow a thing to be done which, as a man and
a gentleman, he thought both dishonourable and wrong, that prevented
Taquisara from leaving Muro at once. For himself, his first impulse was
to escape from the situation, from the horrible temptation he endured
when he was with Veronica, from the barest possibility of any
unfaithfulness to his friend. At that time the Italians were fighting in
Massowah and as an officer of the reserve he could have volunteered for
active service at a moment's notice--with a terribly good prospect of
never coming back alive.
But even his death would hardly have mended matters, in his scrupulous
opinion, unless Veronica should of her own accord and without any
especial reason insist upon being again married in church, contrary to
the Church's own rule, but on the reasonable ground that Gianluca had
been unconscious during a part of the ceremony. If Taquisara were dead,
such a marriage would be valid, of course; but the prospect of his death
gave him no assurance that she would ever do such a thing at all; and,
moreover, in spite of his passionate temperament, he was far too
sensible a man to think deliberately of sacrificing his life for such
reasons. Like many another man suddenly placed in a hard position as an
obstacle in the path of a loved woman, he asked himself the question,
whether, in honour and against religion, he should not commit suicide.
But the answer was a foregone conclusion, and it was plainly his duty to
stand by his friend and by Veronica, alive and able to do the best he
could for them both. In immediate present circumstances his presence
was of the greatest importance to Gianluca, who depended on him almost
entirely for help, in his sensitive dislike of being touched and moved
by servants.
And the man who was thus thrust into a situation from which it seemed
hard to escape at all, loved Veronica Serra with all his heart, with all
his soul, with the broad, deep, simple passion of simpler times, having
in him much of that old plainness of character which made men take
without question the things they wanted, and hold them by main strength
and stoutness of heart against all comers while they lived.
There had been a time when he had been able to speak coldly to her, and
to seem to dislike her. That was past, and his devotion was even in his
hands and visible, if he did with them the smallest act for her service.
She saw it, and was glad, for he pleased her more and more in the days
that followed the great day, while Gianluca lay pale and happy and
gaining a little strength, and she, as his wife, sat through many hours
of the day by his bedside, reading to him, and telling him much about
her life, but not often allowing him to speak much, lest he should lose
ground and be in danger again. It seemed to her at that time that
Taquisara was learning to be another friend to her, less in most ways
than Gianluca had been, but having much that Gianluca had not--the
strength, the decision, the toughness. She did not miss those things in
Gianluca. She would not have had him otherwise than he was, but she saw
them all, and felt their influence, and admired them in the other man.
She felt, too, that she had often treated him with unnecessary and
almost unmannerly coldness, and repenting of it, she meant, in pure
innocence of maiden purpose, to make it up to him now, by being more
kind. Indeed, she could not understand why she had ever been so hard to
him in former days, excepting when he had spoken so rudely to her at
Bianca's house; and since she had seen and learned to value his loyal
affection for Gianluca, she had not only forgiven him for what he had
said, but had found that, on the whole, he had been right to say it.
As for her marriage with Gianluca, it seemed to her to have changed
nothing, beyond the great change it had wrought in him for the better.
She talked with him as before. She felt, as before, that he was her
dearest and best friend. To please him, she made plans with him for
their future, though sometimes the sharp fear for his life ran through
her heart like a needle of ice. They could live half the year in Naples
and the other six months in Muro, but sometimes, when he should be quite
well, they would travel and see the world together. It was pleasant to
think that they had the right to be always together, now, for it would
have seemed terrible even to Veronica to go back to the old days of
letter-writing. To her, their marriage had been the final cementing of
the most beautiful friendship in the world. She was glad that she had
given her life for him, since, after all, the giving of it now changed
it so little. It was clear, she thought, that she was made for
friendship and not for love; and since she was so made, she had done the
best in marrying her best friend.
One day, when Gianluca was asleep, she had gone alone to her little rose
garden up by the dungeon tower. The autumn was beginning in the
mountains; there were few roses left, and the northerly breeze blew up
to her out of the vast depth at her feet. Alone there, she thought of
all these things and of how she was intended by her nature for this
friendship of hers. Seasoning about it with herself, she took an
imaginary case. Suppose, she thought, that she had begun to be
Taquisara's friend, instead of Gianluca's, on that day in Bianca's
garden. Her mind worked quickly. She pictured to herself the long
correspondence, the intimacy of thought, the meeting and the destruction
of the dividing barrier, the daily, hourly growing friendship, and
then--the marriage, the touch of hands, the first kiss.
The scarlet blood leapt up like fire to her face. She started and
looked round, half dreading lest some one might be there to see. But she
was quite alone, and she wondered at herself. It must be shame, she
thought, at the mere idea of marrying another man when she was
Gianluca's wife. At all events, she said in her heart, she would not
think of such things again. It was probably a sin, and she would
remember to speak of it, at her next confession. Don Teodoro would tell
her what he thought. For in lonely Muro, she had no other confessor, nor
desired any. Her faults, great and small, were such as she would have
acknowledged and discussed with the good man, in her own drawing-room as
willingly as in church--as, indeed, she often did. But not wishing to be
alone with herself any longer on that day, she came down from the tower
and went to her room, where she spent an hour with Elettra in examining
the state of her very much reduced wardrobe.
"Your Excellency is in rags," observed the woman. "You cannot appear in
Naples as a bride with any of the things you have. In the first place,
you have scarcely anything that is not black or white. But also, though
some of these clothes had a cheerful youth, their old age is very sad."
Veronica laughed at Elettra's way of expressing herself, and they went
over all the wardrobe together that afternoon.
As Taquisara saw how those around him seemed to have recovered from the
terrible emotions through which they had passed, and how the life in the
castle quickly subsided again to its monotonous level and ran on in its
old channel, the temptation to solve all difficulties by letting matters
alone presented itself to him with considerable force. Ten days had gone
by, and he had not once found himself alone with Don Teodoro. When they
met, they avoided each other's eyes, and each remained separately face
to face with the same trouble, while each had a trouble of his own with
which the other had nothing to do.
There was little or no change now from what had formerly been the daily
round. Again, as before, Taquisara carried his friend daily from his own
room to the large one in which Veronica and the Sicilian again fenced
almost every day. Sometimes, when it was fine and warm, Gianluca was
taken out upon the balcony for a couple of hours. He no longer suffered
in being moved; but his lower limbs were now completely paralyzed. He
hardly thought of the fact, in his constant and increasing happiness. It
was only when he saw the fencing that he sometimes looked down sadly at
his useless legs and thin hands, for fencing was the only exercise for
which he had ever cared. He had none of that sanguine vitality which
would have made such an existence intolerable to Taquisara, or even to
Veronica. With her beside him, or if he could not have her, with books
or conversation, he was not only contented, but happy. It must be
remembered, too, that he was not aware that his condition was hopeless
and that he might live a total cripple for many years to come. If he had
known that, he might have been less gay; not knowing it, married to the
woman he loved and looking forward to complete recovery, life was little
short of a paradise within sight of a heaven.
Veronica never tired of taking care of him, and one might have supposed
that she was satisfied with the prospect of nursing him all her life, or
all his. But she herself by no means believed the doctor's predictions.
She had been too sure that he was to die, and too much surprised and
delighted by his recovery, to accept on mere faith of any man's verdict
the assurance that he was never to walk again. There was the reaction,
too, after the strong emotion and the heart-rending anxiety, the
relaxation of mind and nerve, and the willingness to be happy again
after so much strain and stress.
As Gianluca's general health improved, the Duca and Duchessa began to
speak of an early departure for their own place near Avellino. Their
eldest son's illness had placed him first with them, but they had
several other children, all of whom had been under the care of a sister
of the Duchessa during the latter's stay at Muro. The motherly woman
was beginning to be anxious about them, and the old gentleman had a
fair-haired little daughter of eleven summers, whom he especially loved
and longed to see.
They thought that before long Gianluca might be moved. It was growing
colder, day by day, in the first chill of early autumn, and they
believed that a little warmth would do him good. Veronica should come
and pay them a visit, and Taquisara, too.
As for the marriage, they meant that it should be an open secret for a
little while longer. The servants knew of it, and would tell other
servants of course, and the Duchessa had written of it to her sister, on
hearing which fact Veronica had written to Bianca Corleone, telling her
exactly what had happened, lest Bianca should hear of it from some one
else. It was long before she had an answer to this letter, and when it
came Bianca's writing was full of her own desperate sadness, though
there were words of congratulation for Veronica, such as the occasion
seemed to require. Bianca wrote from a remote corner of Sicily, where
she was living almost alone on her husband's principal estate. There had
been trouble. Corleone had suddenly taken it into his head to come home
for a few weeks. Then Bianca's brother, Gianforte Campodonico, had
appeared and had taken a violent dislike to Pietro Ghisleri, so that
Bianca feared a quarrel between them. Before anything had happened, she
had induced Ghisleri to go to Switzerland, and she herself had gone to
Sicily, whither her brother had accompanied her. But he had been obliged
to leave her soon afterwards, and she suspected that he had followed
Ghisleri to the north in order to pick a quarrel with him. She was very
unhappy, and there was much more about herself in her letter than about
Veronica's marriage.
The old couple grew daily more anxious to leave for Avellino. They
proposed that as soon as Gianluca could safely travel, the whole party
should go there together. Before returning to Naples for the winter, the
legal formalities of the municipal wedding could be fulfilled, and the
marriage should then be formally announced. Gianluca and Veronica would
come and spend the winter in the Della Spina palace, wherein, as in all
Italian patriarchal establishments, there was a spacious apartment for
the establishment of the eldest son whenever he should marry.
Once, when this was discussed before them, Taquisara met Don Teodoro's
eyes, and the two men looked steadily at each other for several seconds.
But even after that they avoided a meeting. It did not seem absolutely
necessary yet, and each knew that the other had not yet found the
solution of the difficulty. To every one's surprise, Gianluca opposed
the plan altogether. They all seemed to have taken it for granted that
he need not be consulted, and Veronica, in her complete self-sacrifice,
would have been willing to do whatever pleased the rest. But Gianluca
quietly refused to go to Avellino at all. So long as his wife would give
him hospitality, he said with a proud smile, he would stay in Muro.
After that, he should prefer to return directly to Naples. It was not
easy to argue against an invalid's prerogative. After some fruitless
attempts to move him, his father and mother temporarily desisted.
"You shall not go to Avellino," he said to Veronica, when they were
alone. "It is a den of wild children and intolerable relations, and you
would not have a moment's peace. You have no idea how detestable that
sort of existence would be after this heavenly calm. I am very fond of
my father and mother, and my brothers and sisters, and my relations, and
most of them are very good people in their way. But that is no reason
why you and I should be set up to be looked at, and tallied at, by them
all, twelve hours every day."
"I would certainly much rather stay here," answered Veronica, with a
little laugh. "That is, if you can induce them to stay here, too."
"For that matter, they are quite unnecessary," said Gianluca. "There is
no reason in the world why, if you like, we should not have the legal
marriage here since you have a syndic and a municipality. Then we could
announce it, and there would be no objection to our staying here alone."
"That is true," replied Veronica, thoughtfully. "We could always do
that, if we chose."
But she did not propose to do it at once, and he did not like to press
her. He saw no harm, however, in speaking of the project with Taquisara.
The Sicilian looked at him, said nothing, and then carefully examined a
cigar before lighting it. He had long expected that such a proposal
would come either from Gianluca or Veronica, and he was not surprised.
But when he at last heard it made he held his breath for a moment or two
and then began to smoke in silence.
"You say nothing," observed Gianluca. "Do you see any possible objection
to our doing that? Society ought to be satisfied."
"I should think so," answered Taquisara. "I should think that anything
would be better than Avellino and all the relations. As for going back
to Naples and having a municipal wedding there, and no religious
ceremony, I would not do it if I were you. The two marriages are always
supposed to take place on consecutive days, or at least very near
together, since both are necessary nowadays."
"I know," said Gianluca.
Taquisara made up his mind that he must take the initiative and speak
with Don Teodoro. He had been willing and ready to give up all right to
hope for the woman he loved, in order that his friend might marry her,
but the idea that there should be an irregularity about the marriage, or
no real marriage at all, as he believed was the case, was more than he
could, or would, bear. To speak with Veronica was out of the question.
He knew enough of women to understand that if she ever knew how, by an
accident, she had held his hand instead of Gianluca's at the moment when
she was giving her very soul to save the dying man, she might never
forgive him. She might even turn and hate him. She would never believe
that he himself had not known what he was doing. If it were possible, he
would not incur such risk. Anything in reason and honour would be better
than to be hated by her. He had seen her change of manner, of late, and
he knew very well that she was beginning to like him much more than
formerly.
In the morning, after Don Teodoro had said mass, Taquisara went to him
and found him over his books. This time the priest recognized him at
once and rose to greet him gravely, as though he had expected his visit.
"Have you made up your mind what to do?" asked the Sicilian, as he sat
down.
It was as though they had been in the habit of discussing the situation
together, and were about to renew a conversation which had been broken
off.
"I know what I shall have to do, if matters go any further," answered
the priest, in a dull voice, unlike his own.
"What would that be?"
"It is in my power to cause the marriage to be declared null and void."
"By appealing to your bishop, I suppose. In that event Donna Veronica
would have to be told."
"There is another way."
"Then why do you not take it and act at once? Why do you hesitate?"
Taquisara watched him keenly.
"Because it would mean the sacrifice of my whole existence. I am human.
I hesitate, as long as there is any other hope."
"I do not understand. As for sacrificing your existence--that must be an
exaggeration."
"Not at all. If it were only my own, I should not have hesitated,
perhaps. I do not know. But what I should do would involve a great and
direct injury to many others--to hundreds of other people."
Taquisara looked at him harder than ever, understanding him less and
less.
"You seem to have a secret," he said at last, thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered the priest, resting his elbow on the old table and
shading his eyes with his hand, though there was no strong light to
dazzle him. "Yes--yes," he repeated. "I have a secret, a great secret.
I cannot tell it to you--not even to you, though you are one of the most
discreet men I ever met. You must forgive me, but I cannot."
"I do not wish to know it," replied Taquisara. "Especially not, if it
concerns many people."
A short silence followed, during which neither moved, nor looked at the
other.
"Don Teodoro," asked the Sicilian, at last, in a low voice, "please tell
me your view of the case, as a priest. Am I, at the present moment, in
consequence of what happened a fortnight ago, actually married to Donna
Veronica, or not?"
The priest hesitated, looked down, took off his spectacles, and put them
on again, before he answered the question.
"I think," he said, "that most people, if any had been present, would be
of opinion that it was enough of a marriage to require a formal
annullation before any other could take place. I should certainly not
dare to consider the princess and Don Gianluca as married, when it was
you who held her right hand, and received the benediction with her in
the prescribed attitude."
"Yes," answered Taquisara; "but in your own individual opinion, as a
priest, am I married to her, or not?"
"As a priest, I can have no individual opinion. I can tell you, of
course, that the marriage can be annulled. In the first place, you
neither of you had the intention of being married to each other. In all
the sacraments, the intention of those to whom they are administered is
the prime consideration. It would only be necessary for you and the
princess to swear that you had no intention of being married, and that
it was, to the best of your knowledge, entirely an accident, and all
difficulties could be removed."
"Ah, yes! But then Donna Veronica would know, and Gianluca would have to
know it, too. I came here to tell you that they are seriously thinking
of sending for the syndic, to publish the banns of marriage at the
municipality and marry them legally, after which the Duca and Duchessa
will go to Avellino, and leave them here together. Whether it costs your
existence or mine, Don Teodoro, this thing shall not be done."
"No," said Don Teodoro. "It shall not. You are in a terrible position
yourself. I feel for you."
"I?" Taquisara bent his brows. "I, in a terrible position?"
"Do not be angry," answered the priest, gently. "I know your secret well
enough, though she does not guess it yet. Do not think me indiscreet
because I mention the fact. It would be far better if you could go away
for the present. But I know how you are situated, and you are helping to
prevent mischief. We must help each other. If it is to cost the
existence of one of us, it shall be mine. You are young, and I am old.
And that is not the only reason. My secret is not like yours. I cannot
let it go down into the grave with me. I have kept it long enough, and I
should have kept it longer, if this had not happened. I shall probably
go to Naples to-morrow. You must prevent them from publishing the banns
until I come back, or until you hear from me. I may never come back. It
is possible."
"What do you mean?" asked Taquisara, for he saw a strange look in the
old man's clear eyes.
"I shall not end my life here," he said quietly.
"You? End your life? You, commit suicide? Are you mad, Don Teodoro?"
"Oh no! I may live many years yet. I hope that I may, for I have much to
repent of. But I shall not live here."
"I hope you will," said Taquisara. "But if you know my secret--keep it."
"As I have kept mine till now," answered the old man.
So they parted, and Taquisara went back to the castle, leaving the
lonely priest among his books.