In the bright morning he entered Bianchi's workshop. He started
as the haggard, pallid face of his friend looked up to him from the
work-table. His hair seemed to have grown suddenly greyer, his eyes
darker; and yet a kindly expression played about the compressed lips
when he recognised Theodore.
"You have passed a bad night." said Theodore, "and I am the cause of
it."
"I lay awake." said Bianchi, calmly; "but why do you trouble yourself
about the fancies that now and then drive my rest from me? Let us talk
about better things--talk, read, and, above all, stay if you can. Let
it be so--it gives me a strange pleasure to-day to hear your voice."
"Bianchi, it is useless to hide yourself under a cloak of words when
your whole heart lies open before me--I know all!"
"You know all!--then keep secret what you know," said Bianchi,
vehemently; "keep it secret--never speak a word to me about it. It
lies behind me, far behind me! Ay!" he continued, "think of it as you
will, only let all be as it was--promise me that."
Theodore stood deeply pained; he remembered that he, too, in a few days
would look upon all here as if it lay far, far behind him; but he could
not confess that to him, for fear of being unable to perform what he
had now to do.
"I must speak, nevertheless," he said, at last. "Had I kept silent
yesterday, when I shivered your happiness with my foolish words, I
should have spared you much; then you had not cast away the pearl, to
which I, poor fool! in a presumptuous, self-forgetting moment,
stretched out my hand."
Bianchi was silent--a hot flush passed over him, he tried to speak. "If
I brought her back to you, and said, 'there you have her again; I do
not envy you, for my heart hangs on another jewel, and it requires no
sacrifice to bind us to each other,'--would you believe me, Carlo?"
He saw the shifting of overwhelming emotions flit across the face of
his friend. The artist supported himself against the table, his head
pressed against his breast which laboured violently; his lips moved
themselves, soundless. Theodore went to the door, and called
"Caterina!" She had stood without, death and life before her; as she
stepped slowly and with hesitating foot over the threshold, she saw
Carlo standing by the table with arms outstretched towards her. His
knees shook under him--with a cry of joy she cast herself upon his
neck.
The door had remained open--Theodore had his back turned towards it,
lost in reverie over the relief of Edward, which stood sideways on its
scaffolding. He heard a light rustling behind him, and turned round. At
the same moment Caterina freed herself from Bianchi's arms, and
started. They saw three stranger forms standing hesitating in the open
doorway--an elderly pair and a fair young girl. Theodore remembered
her.
"We disturb you," said the old gentleman; "pray pardon us; but the door
was wide open--we will come again at a more convenient time, Signor
Bianchi."
"Enter," said Bianchi; "you do not disturb me. Those whom you see here
are a friend and--my wife--Signora Bianchi." He laid an emphasis on the
last words, and glanced at Caterina, who looked up to him in a
transport of happiness. Meanwhile, Theodore had retreated from before
the monument. The father greeted him with his old heartiness, and then
turned towards the relief. He exchanged no greeting with the women. The
old lady had, at Bianchi's first word, advanced towards the artist's
work, and stood speechless before it. Mary's glance rested but for a
short time on the statue of her brother, and then flew to Caterina. She
remembered her well. Whilst her parents stood leaning upon each other,
deeply affected, before the relief, unable to tear themselves away
from it, she approached Theodore; she spoke gently to him, she took
his hand, her eyes overflowed. They interchanged vows, confessions,
self-accusations--each anticipating the other, each outbidding the
other in assurances of boundless love.
No one overheard them; for even Bianchi, though he spoke not, forgot
all in the eyes of his wife.
At last Mary's father went to him and pressed his hand--his eyes were
moistened--the mother wept silently in her handkerchief. "You know
enough," said the old man; "it is needless for us to speak only one
thing--when do you begin its execution in marble! I have altered my
plan; I only wish a stone to be placed over my son's grave, bearing a
simple inscription. This relief I must place in the room where he
lived, on the place where stood his couch; we cannot consecrate the
spot better. But the time will seem very long to me till it is our own.
You will be the best judge of the marble. Do not delay for an hour!"
Meanwhile the mother had recovered her composure. She turned and gave
Theodore her hand, drew him towards her and kissed him on the lips,
which she had done but once before, on the day when she betrothed her
child to him--then they all left the studio. The sky was clear and
serene, and brightly shone the sun over the banks of the Tiber.
THE END.
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PRINTED BY COX AND WYMAN, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.