Veronica did not wish the people of Muro to believe that she was
marrying a cripple. That was the reason why she did not at once agree to
Gianluca's proposal and send for the syndic to perform the legal
ceremony. She had persuaded herself that by quick degrees of
improvement, he would recover the power to stand upright, at least to
the extent to which he had still retained his strength when he had first
arrived. Since he had lived through the crisis, she grew sanguine for
him and hoped much.
Her feeling was natural enough in the matter, though it was made up of
several undefined instincts about which she troubled herself very
little--pride of race, pride of personal wholeness and soundness, pride
of womanhood in the manhood of a husband. Veronica named none of these
in her thoughts, but they were all in her heart. Few women would not
have felt the same in her place.
She was sure that he was to get better, if not quite well, and she
wished that he might be well enough to stand beside her on his feet when
they should be formally married. If he continued to improve as rapidly
as during the past fortnight, she believed that the day could not be far
off. When he could stand, in another month, perhaps, the syndic should
come. It was even possible that by that time he might be able to walk a
little with her in the village.
Her people were a sort of family to her. That was a remnant of feudalism
in her character, perhaps, which had suddenly developed during the
months she had spent in Muro. But that, too, was natural, as it was
natural that they should love her and almost worship the ground she
trod. For the poorer classes of Italians are sometimes very forgetful of
benefits, but are rarely ungrateful. She had done in a few months, for
their real advantage, so that they felt it, enough to make up for the
oppression of generations of Serra, and almost enough to atone for the
extortions of Gregorio Macomer. She was the last of her name, and her
husband, if he lived, was to be the father of a new stock, which would
be called Serra della Spina, and whose men would hold the lands and take
the rents and do good, or not, according to their hearts, each in his
generation. It seemed to her that the people had a right to see Gianluca
standing on his feet beside her, since her marriage was to mean so much
to them.
Don Teodoro came to her, soon after Taquisara had left him, to tell her
that he must go to Naples without delay. She looked at him in
astonishment at the proposal, and as she looked, she saw that his face
was changed. Oddly enough, he held himself much more erect than usual;
but his features were drawn down as though by much suffering, and his
eyes, usually so clear and steady, wandered nervously about the room.
"You are not well," said Veronica. "Why must you go now?"
"It is because I must go now that I am not well," answered the priest,
shaking his head. "I am very sorry to be obliged to leave you at this
time. I only hope that, if you are thinking of fulfilling the legal
formalities of your marriage, you will give me notice of the fact, so
that I may come back, if I can. You know that all that concerns you
concerns my life."
Veronica looked at him, and wondered why he was so much disturbed. But
his words gave her an opportunity of speaking to him about her own
decision. She did not wish him to think her capricious, much less to
imagine that she looked upon the marriage as a mere piece of sentiment,
which was not to change her life at all, except to bind her as a nurse
to the bedside of a hopeless invalid. That idea itself was beginning to
be repugnant to her, and the hope that Gianluca might recover was
becoming a necessary part of her happiness, though she scarcely knew
it.
"My dear Don Teodoro," she said, "so far as that is concerned, you may
be quite sure that I will let you know in time. I have not the slightest
intention of fulfilling any legal formalities until my husband is well
enough to stand on his feet with me before the syndic; and I am afraid
that he will not be well enough for that in less than a month, at the
earliest."
The wandering eyes suddenly fixed themselves on her face, the strange
great features relaxed, and the wide, thin lips smiled at her. His
happiness was strangely founded, but it was genuine, though not
altogether noble. Her words were a reprieve; and he could keep his
secret longer, almost, perhaps, until he died, and when he should be
dying, it would be easier to tell. But that was far from being all. He
loved her, as the source of great charity and kindness from which the
people were drawing life, with all his own passionate charity; and he
loved her for herself, for her gentleness and her hardness, because she
ruled him, and because she touched his heart. All other thoughts away,
he could not bear to think of her as bound for life to be the actual
wife of a helpless cripple.
And something of her own heart he half guessed and half knew. For in her
innocence she had confessed to him how she had thought of Taquisara,
when she had been alone that day, and how the blood had flowed in her
face, and burned her so that she was almost sure that such thoughts
must be wrong. It was because she had told him these things that he had
watched Taquisara ever since, and he had seen that the man loved her
silently.
But he knew also, as well as any one could know it, that Gianluca would
never stand upon his feet again. And, moreover, he knew that though it
would seem wrong to Veronica to love Taquisara, and would be wrong, if
she had intention, as it were, yet there could be no real sin in it, for
she was not Gianluca's wife. Had she been truly married, Don Teodoro,
gentle and old, would have found strength to force Taquisara to go
away--had anything more than the force of honour been needed in such a
case.
"I am very glad, my dear Princess," he said, and his voice trembled in
the reaction after his own anxiety. "You do not wish me to go to Naples,
now?" he said with an interrogation, after a brief pause. "You would
rather that I should wait until Christmas?"
"Of course--if you can," answered Veronica, somewhat surprised at his
change of tone. "But if you really must go, if you are so very anxious
to go at once, I must not hinder you."
"I will see," said Don Teodoro. "I will think of it. Perhaps it can be
arranged--indeed, I think it can."
He was old, she thought, and he had never been decided in character,
except about doing good to poor people, and studying Church history. So
she did not press him with questions, but let him do as he would; and he
did not go to Naples then, but he went and found Taquisara within the
hour, and told him what Veronica had said about her marriage.
The Sicilian heard him in silence, as they stood together on the lower
bastion where they had met, but Don Teodoro saw the high-cut nostrils
quiver, while the even lips set themselves to betray nothing.
"If matters go no further than they have gone," he said at last, as the
priest waited, "we need do nothing."
So they did nothing, and Don Teodoro did not go to Naples.
The daily life ran on in its channel. But Gianluca did not continue to
improve so fast. Then it seemed as though improvement had reached its
limit, and still he was helpless to stand, being completely and
hopelessly paralyzed in his lower limbs. At first, neither the old
couple nor Veronica realized that he was no longer getting better,
though he was no worse. He himself did not believe it; but Taquisara saw
and understood. Gianluca refused to be moved, insisting that he was
gaining strength, and that some day the sensation would come suddenly to
his feet, and he should stand upright. Otherwise, he was now almost as
well as when he had come to Muro. They sent for a wheel-chair from
Naples, and he wheeled himself through the endless rooms, and to
luncheon, and to dinner, Veronica walking by his side. It gave his arms
exercise, and he became very expert at it, laughing cheerfully as he
made the wheels go round, and he went so fast that Veronica sometimes
had to run a few steps to keep up with him.
Then, one day, Taquisara carried him out to the gate, and set him in the
carriage, and Veronica took him for a short drive. The poor people were,
most of them, at their work, but the very old men and the boys and girls
turned out, and flocked after the victoria as it moved slowly through
the narrow street. Some of them called out words of simple blessing on
the couple, but others hushed them and said that the princess was not
really married yet. Gianluca smiled as he looked into Veronica's face,
and she smiled, too, but less happily.
The weather changed. There had been a short touch of cold in the air at
the end of August, and breezes from the north that poured down from the
heights behind the castle, into the tremendous abyss below, and shot up
again to the walls and the windows, even as high as the dungeon tower.
Then, at the new moon, the weather had changed, the sky grew warm again,
the little clouds hung high and motionless above the peaks, melting from
day to day to a serene, deep calm, in which, all the earth seemed to be
ripening in a great stillness while heaven held its breath, and the
mountains slept. In the rich valley the grapes grew full and dark, and
the last figs cracked with full sweetness in the sun, the pears grew
golden, and the apples red, and all the green silver of the olive groves
was dotted through and through its shade, with myriad millions of dull
green points, where the oil-fruit hung by little stems beneath the
leaves.
An autumn began, such as no one in Muro remembered--an autumn of golden
days and dewy moonlight nights, soft, breathless, sweet, and tender. It
was a year of plenty and of much good wine, which is rare in the south,
for when the wine is much it is very seldom good. But this year all
prospered, and the people said that the Blessed Mother of God loved the
young princess and would bless her, and hers also, and give her husband
back his strength, even by a miracle if need should be.
Gianluca clung to the place where he was happy, and would not be taken
away. His mother humoured him, and the old Duca, yearning for his little
fair-haired daughter, went alone at last to Avellino.
Then came long conversations at night between the Duchessa and Veronica.
The Duchessa loved her son very dearly, but since he was so much better,
she was tired of Muro. She wished to see her other children. It was
ridiculous to expect that she and her husband should relieve each other
as sentries of propriety in Veronica's castle, the one not daring to go
till the other came back. Why should Veronica not send for the syndic
and have the formalities fulfilled? Once legally, as well as
christianly, man and wife, the two could stay in Muro as long as they
pleased.
But Veronica would not. Gianluca was improving, and before long he would
walk. She had set her heart upon it, that he should be strong again. She
would not have her people think that he was a cripple. The people were
peasants, the Duchessa answered, peasants like any others. Why should
the Princess of Acireale care what such creatures thought? But
Veronica's eyes gleamed, and she said that they were her own people and
a part of her life, and she told the Duchessa all that was in her mind,
very frankly, and so innocently, yet with such unbending determination
to have her way, that the Duchessa did not know what to do. Thereupon,
after the manner of futile people, she repeated herself, and the
struggle began again.
It was a tragedy that had begun. Veronica had escaped with her life from
Matilde Macomer to find out in the consequence of her own free deeds
what tragedy really meant, and how bitter the fruit of good could be.
Nor in the slightest degree had her affection for Gianluca diminished,
nor did it change in itself, as days followed days to full weeks, and
week choked week, cramming whole months back into time's sack, for time
to bear away and cast into the abyss of the useless and irrevocable
past.
Still he was her friend, still she would give her life to save him, and
would have given it again if it had been to give. Still she could talk
with him, and listen to him, and answer smile and word and gesture. She
could sit beside him through quiet hours, and drive with him in the
vast, still sunshine of that golden autumn, calling him by gentler names
than friend and touching his hand softly in the long silence. All this
she could do, and if there were ever any effort in it, that was surely
not an effort to be kind, but one of those little doubting, uncertain,
spontaneous efforts which we make whenever we unconsciously begin to
feel that it will not be enough to do right, but that we must also seem
to do right in other eyes, lest our right be thought half hearted.
The days were monotonous, but it was not their monotony which she felt,
so much as that irrevocable quality of them all which made a grey
background in her soul, against which something was moving, undefined,
strong as the unseen wind, yet mistily visible sometimes, having more
life than shape--a terrible thing which drew her to it against her will,
and yet a thing which had in it much besides terror.
She turned from it when she knew that it was there, and fixed her sight
upon Gianluca's face. Sometimes she found comfort in that, and she did
all that was required of her, and more also, and was glad to do it.
But the wrong done to nature was deeper and more real than all the good
she could do to hide it, and it cried out against her continually by the
voice of the woman's instinct. It was not Gianluca who became
intolerable to her, but she herself, and it was to escape from herself
that she clung to him closely, as well as out of affection for him; for
when she was by herself she was no longer alone. That other unshaped
something kept her company.
She was bound hand and foot, soul, body, and intelligence, for life.
She, the very strong, was tied to the helpless; she, the energetic, was
bound to apathy; she, the active, was nailed to the passive; she, the
free, the erect, was bowed under a burden which she must carry to her
life's end, never to be free again.
She could bear the burden, and she said none of these things to herself.
But the wrong was upon nature, and the mother of all turned against the
one child that would be unlike all the rest.
The man who was a man, soul and body, heart, hand, and spirit, stood
beside the other, who was a shadow, and beside her, who was a woman--and
the tragedy began in the prologue of contrast. Strength to weakness,
motion to immobility, the grace and carriage of manly youth to the sad
restfulness of helpless, hopeless limbs that never again could feel and
bear weight; that was the contrast from which there was no escaping. On
the steps of love's temple, at the very threshold, the one lay half
dead, never to rise again; and beside him stood the other, in the pride
and glory of the morning of life.
It would have been hard, even if the contrast had been less strong to
the eye, and the distance of the two souls greater one from the
other--even if Taquisara had not been what he was. But as the one, in
his being, was alive from head to heel, so the other was dead save in
the thoughts in which he still had a shadowy life. And for the
rest--flesh, blood, and life apart--they were equals. Was Gianluca true?
Taquisara was as honest and loyal as the brave daylight. Was the one
brave? So was the other, in thought and deed. Was Gianluca enduring? So
was Taquisara, and he had the more to endure, the more to fight, the
more to keep down in him.
She knew that he loved her. How it was that she knew it she could not
tell, but sometimes the music of the truth rang in her ears till the
flame shot up in her face and she shut her eyes to hide her soul--a
loud, triumphant music, stately and grand as might herald the marching
of archangels--till her inward cry of terror pierced it, and all was as
still as the grave. Then, for a space, the vision of sin stood dark in
the way, and she turned and fled from it back to Gianluca's side, back
to the care of him, back to his helpless love for her, back to his
pathetic, stricken restfulness, back to the maiden dreams of a life-long
friendship, unbroken as the calm of the summer ocean, perfect as the
cloudless sky of those golden autumn days.
For a time, the dark wraith of sin faded, and there was no music in the
air, and her cheek was cool, while she looked all the world in the face
with the fearless eyes of a child-empress. Again the monotonous, good
day rolled in the same grooves, noiselessly, and surely, as all the days
to come were to roll along, to the end of ends. She worked for her
people, talked with Don Teodoro, talked, smiled, laughed with Gianluca,
and bore the old Duchessa's ramblings with patience and kindness.
But all of a sudden, for a nothing, at the sight of a fencing foil, at
the smell of Gianluca's cigarette, at the sound of a footfall she knew,
there came the mad wish to be alone; and she resisted it, for it did not
seem good to her, and even as she struggled the blood rose in her throat
and was in her cheeks in a moment, so that if just then by chance
Taquisara came upon her suddenly, the room swam and for an instant her
brain reeled as she turned her face from him in mortal shame.
She knew so well that he loved her, and that he was suffering, too. It
was love's hands that had chiselled the bronze of his face to leaner
lines, and that threw a new darkness into his dark eyes. It was for her
that there was that other note in his voice that had never been there
before. It was for love of her that once or twice, when she took his
hand in greeting, it was icy cold--not like Gianluca's, half dead, and
dull, and chilly, and very thin--but cold from the heart, as it were,
and more wildly living than if it had burned like fire; trembling, and
not in weakness, with something that caught her own fingers and ran like
lightning to the very core and quick of her soul, hurting it overmuch
with its bolt of joy and fear. It was for her that, at the first, he had
been cold and silent, because he was afraid of himself, and of love, and
of the least, faintest breath that might tarnish the bright shield of
his spotless loyalty to Gianluca.
All the little changes in his speech and manner were clear to her now,
and each had its meaning, and all meant the same. His words, spoken from
time to time, came back to her, and she understood them, and saw how,
for his friend's sake, he had held his peace for himself, and had ever
urged her to marry Gianluca, in spite of everything.
If he had not loved her, or if she had thought that he did not, she
would have had the pride to tear her heart clean from love's terrible
hands, whole or broken, as might be, and to toss it, with the dead dull
weeks into old time's sack of irrevocably lost and useless things, and
so to live her life out, loveless, in the still haven of Gianluca's
friendship. But, having his love, she had not such pride; and the
loyalty she truly had was matched alone against all human nature since
the world began.
Do what she would, she yielded sometimes to that great wish to go
suddenly to her own room and be alone. Then, standing at her window when
the mist whitened in the valley under the broad moon, she listened, and
instantly the air was full of music again as love lifted up its voice,
and sweetly chanted the melody of life. With parted lips she listened,
till the moonlight filled her eyes, and her heart fluttered softly, and
her throat was warm.
And sometimes, too, while she was there, the man who loved her so
silently and so well was by his friend's side, tending as his own the
life that stood between him and the hope of happiness; loving both him
and her, but honour best. But sometimes he, too, was alone in his own
room, and even at his window, facing the same broad moon, the same white
mist in the sleeping valley, the same dark, crested hills, but not
hearing the music that the woman heard. He could be calm for a while as
he looked out; but presently, without warning, he swallowed hard, and
again, as on the fatal day, he held her little hand in his, under the
priest's great sign of the cross, and his own blood shrieked in his
ears. In cruel anger against himself, he turned from the window then and
paced the room with short, braced steps, till at last he threw himself
into a deep chair and sullenly took the first book at hand, to read
himself back to the monotony of all he had to bear.
And so those two fearless ones went through the days and weeks in
twofold terror of themselves and each of the other, and the slow,
wordless tragedy was acted before eyes that saw but did not understand.
Still Gianluca refused to go away, and still Veronica refused to send
for the syndic. She would not yield to the Duchessa, who found herself
opposed both by her son and her son's wife.
No one knew how much Veronica herself still hoped, when the bright
autumn days were broken at last by the first winter storm that rose out
of the dark south in monstrous wrath against such perpetual calm. She
herself did not know whether she still hoped for any improvement, or
whether, in her inmost thoughts, she had given up hope and had accepted
the certainty that Gianluca was never to be better than he was now.
There is something of habit in all hope that has been with us long, and
the habits we notice the least are sometimes the hardest of all to
break.
When Veronica said that Gianluca would yet stand up and walk, no one
contradicted her, except the doctors, and she had no faith in them.
They came and went. The great professor came three times from Naples and
saw the patient, ate his dinner, slept soundly, and went away assuring
Veronica that it was useless to send for him unless some great change
took place. To please her, he recommended a little electricity, baths,
light treatment such as could give little trouble, and he carefully
instructed the young doctor of Muro in all he was to do. When he had
finished, and the young man had promised to do everything regularly,
they looked at each other, smiled sadly, but professionally, and parted
with mutual good will and understanding, both knowing that the case was
now perfectly hopeless. Their coming and going made little intervals in
the tragic play of life, but never broke its continuity.
The old Duca appeared again, and slipped quietly into his place, as
before. But at the end of a week there was an unexpected flaring-up of
energy, as it were, in his docile and affectionate being. When he and
his wife and Veronica were with Gianluca, he suddenly declared that the
situation must end, and that they must all go down to Naples. Veronica
should send for the syndic, and have the legal marriage at once, and
then they would all go down together. It was quite clear in his mind, as
simple as daylight, as easy of performance as breathing, as satisfactory
as satisfaction itself. The Duchessa was with him, and supported all he
said with approving nods and futile gestures and incoherent phrases
thrown in, as one throws straws upon a stream to see the current carry
them away.
Gianluca said nothing, and Veronica stood alone against them all, for
she knew that he was on his father's side. She guessed, perhaps, that
Gianluca had made up his mind never to leave her roof except as her
lawful husband, clinging to her, as he had tried to cling to her skirt
on that most eventful day when she had gone to the window for a moment;
and she understood why, having spoken once, he would not speak again. He
was too proud to repeat such a request, but his love was far too
obstinate to be satisfied with less than its fulfilment. But his own
hope for his recovery was more alive than hers.
Instinctively, as she opposed them all, Veronica looked round for
Taquisara. It was not often that she needed help, and she knew that he
could have helped her, had he been there. But she had to speak for
herself. She said what she could; but in that self-examination which
self-defence forces upon those who have never dissected their own
hearts, a new and fearful truth sprang up, clear of all others, bright,
keen, and terrible.
It was no longer for her people's sake that she was waiting in the hope
of Gianluca's recovery. It was no longer for her own, nor for his. It
was out of her deadly love for Taquisara that all her nature rose
against that final bond of the law, and the world, and society. So long
as that was not yet welded and made fast upon her, there was the
fleeting shadow of a desperate hope that she might still be free.
It rose and smote her between the eyes, and clutched at her heart; and
when she knew its face, she stopped in the midst of her speech, and
turned white, even to her lips and her throat.
"I do not know. I will think about it," she said faintly.
As her power to oppose gave way, the Duca's astonishment at his victory
swelled his weakness to violence; and he raved of duties and
obligations, of paternal authority, of the obedience of children and
children-in-law, in all the boundless, self-assured incoherence of
feebleness suddenly let loose against smitten strength.
Veronica seemed to hear nothing. She had resumed her seat beside
Gianluca, and was stroking his white hand,--less thin than it had been,
but somehow even more lifeless,--and she looked down at it very
thoughtfully, while he watched her face. He was happier than he had been
for a long time, for he knew that she was going to make a concession,
and that he had not asked for it.
There was silence, and Veronica raised her head. The old Duca's face
was red with the exertion of much speaking. He was a good man and meant
well, but in that moment Veronica hated him as she had never hated any
one, not even Matilde Macomer. And yet she knew that his intention was
all for the best, and that it was natural that he should press his point
and exult when she gave up the fight. She opened her lips to speak.
At that moment the door turned on its hinges opposite her eyes, and
Taquisara stood before her. He came in quietly and not knowing that
anything extraordinary was occurring. But his eyes met hers for one
moment, and instantly her cheek reddened in the evening light.
"I will give you a promise," she said slowly. "This is the first week in
December. If Gianluca is not much better by the first of January, I will
do as you ask. The civil marriage shall take place here, and if he
wishes to go down to Naples, we will all go together."
The Duca began to speak again, sure that he could press her further. But
she interrupted him. Taquisara had gone to the window and was turning
his back on them all.
"No," said Veronica. "That is what I will do, and I will do it--I have
promised--that, and nothing else."
She had risen, and as she pronounced the last words, she left Gianluca's
side and, with her eyes fixed before her, went straight to the door,
pale and erect. She felt that she had given her life a second time.
Taquisara heard her footsteps, left the window, and opened the door for
her to pass, standing aside while she went by. He saw her head move a
little, as though she would turn and look at him, and he saw how
resolutely she resisted and looked before her. He understood that she
would not trust herself to see his eyes again, and he quietly closed the
door behind her. She knew what he must have felt when she had spoken,
and he felt a lofty pride that she should trust him to bear the knife
without warning, sure that he would utter no cry.