The opportunity which Giovanni sought of being alone with Corona was long
in coming. Sister Gabrielle retired immediately after dinner, and the
Duchessa was left alone with the two men. Old Saracinesca would gladly
have left his son with the hostess, but the thing was evidently
impossible. The manners of the time would not allow it, and the result
was that the Prince spent the evening in making conversation for two
rather indifferent listeners. He tried to pick a friendly quarrel with
Giovanni, but the latter was too absent-minded even to be annoyed; he
tried to excite the Duchessa's interest, but she only smiled gently,
making a remark from time to time which was conspicuous for its
irrelevancy. But old Saracinesca was in a good humour, and he bore up
bravely until ten o'clock, when Corona gave the signal for retiring. They
were to start very early in the morning, she said, and she must have
rest.
When the two men were alone, the Prince turned upon his son in semi-comic
anger, and upbraided him with his obstinate dulness during the evening.
Giovanni only smiled calmly, and shrugged his shoulders. There was
nothing more to be said.
But on the following morning, soon after six o'clock, Giovanni had
the supreme satisfaction of installing Corona beside him upon the
driving-seat of his cart, while his father and Sister Gabrielle sat
together behind him. The sun was not yet above the hills, and the
mountain air was keen and fresh; the stamping of the horses sounded crisp
and sharp, and their bells rang merrily as they shook their sturdy necks
and pricked their short ears to catch Giovanni's voice.
"Have you forgotten nothing, Duchessa?" asked Giovanni, gathering the
reins in his hand.
"Nothing, thanks. I have sent our things on mules--by the bridle-path."
She smiled involuntarily as she recalled her adventure, and half turned
her face away.
"Ah, yes--the bridle-path," repeated Giovanni, as he nodded to the groom
to stand clear of the horses' heads. In a moment they were briskly
descending the winding road through the town of Astrardente: the streets
were quiet and cool, for the peasants had all gone to their occupations
two hours before, and the children were not yet turned loose.
"I never hoped to have the honour of myself driving you to Saracinesca,"
said Giovanni. "It is a wild place enough, in its way. You will be able
to fancy yourself in Switzerland."
"I would rather be in Italy," answered Corona. "I do not care for the
Alps. Our own mountains are as beautiful, and are not infested by
tourists."
"You are a tourist to-day," said Giovanni. "And it has pleased Heaven to
make me your guide."
"I will listen to your explanations of the sights with interest."
"It is a reversal of the situation, is it not? When we last met, it was
you who guided me, and I humbly followed your instructions. I did
precisely as you told me."
"Had I doubted that you would do as I asked, I would not have spoken,"
answered Corona.
"There was one thing you advised me to do which I have not even
attempted."
"What was that?"
"You told me to forget you. I have spent six months in constantly
remembering you, and in looking forward to this moment. Was I wrong?"
"Of course," replied the Duchessa, with a little laugh. "You should by
this time have forgotten my existence. They said you were gone to the
North Pole--why did you change your mind?"
"I followed my load-star. It led me from Rome to Saracinesca by the way
of Paris. I should have remained at Saracinesca--but you also changed
your mind. I began to think you never would."
"How long do you think of staying up there?" asked Corona, to turn the
conversation.
"Just so long as you stay at Astrardente," he answered. "You will not
forbid me to follow you to Rome?"
"How can I prevent you if you choose to do it?"
"By a word, as you did before."
"Do you think I would speak that word?" she asked.
"I trust not. Why should you cause me needless pain and suffering? It
was right then, it is not right now. Besides, you know me too well to
think that I would annoy you or thrust myself upon you. But I will do as
you wish."
"Thank you," she said quietly. But she turned her dark face toward him,
and looked at him for a moment very gently, almost lovingly. Where was
the use of trying to conceal what would not be hidden? Every word he
spoke told of his unchanged love, although the phrases were short and
simple. Why should she conceal what she felt? She knew it was a foregone
conclusion. They loved each other, and she would certainly marry him in
the course of a year. The long pent up forces of her nature were
beginning to assert themselves; she had conquered and fought down her
natural being in the effort to be all things to her old husband, to
quench her growing interest in Giovanni, to resist his declared love, to
drive him from her in her widowhood; but now it seemed as though all
obstacles were suddenly removed. She saw clearly how well she loved him,
and it seemed folly to try and conceal it. As she sat by his side she
was unboundedly happy, as she had never been in her life before: the cool
morning breeze fanned her cheeks, and the music of his low voice soothed
her, while the delicious sense of rapid motion lent a thrill of pleasure
to every breath she drew. It was no matter what she said; it was as
though she spoke unconsciously. All seemed predestined and foreplanned
from all time, to be acted out to the end. The past vanished slowly as a
retreating landscape. The weary traveller, exhausted with the heat of the
scorching Campagna, slowly climbs the ascent towards Tivoli, the haven of
cool waters, and pausing now and then upon the path, looks back and sees
how the dreary waste of undulating hillocks beneath him seems gradually
to subside into a dim flat plain, while, in the far distance, the mighty
domes and towers of Rome dwindle to an unreal mirage in the warm haze of
the western sky; then advancing again, he feels the breath of the
mountains upon him, and hears the fresh plunge of the cold cataract, till
at last, when his strength is almost failing, it is renewed within him,
and the dust and the heat of the day's journey are forgotten in the
fulness of refreshment. So Corona d'Astrardente, wearied though not
broken by the fatigues and the troubles and the temptations of the past
five years, seemed suddenly to be taken up and borne swiftly through the
gardens of an earthly paradise, where there was neither care nor
temptation, and where, in the cool air of a new life, the one voice she
loved was ever murmuring gentle things to her willing ear.
As the road began to ascend, sweeping round the base of the mountain and
upwards by even gradations upon its southern flank, the sun rose higher
in the heavens, and the locusts broke into their summer song among the
hedges with that even, long-drawn, humming note, so sweet to southern
ears. But Corona did not feel the heat, nor notice the dust upon the way;
she was in a new state, wherein such things could not trouble her. The
first embarrassment of a renewed intimacy was fast disappearing, and she
talked easily to Giovanni of many things, reviewing past scenes and
speaking of mutual acquaintances, turning the conversation when it
concerned Giovanni or herself too directly, yet ever and again coming
back to that sweet ground which was no longer dangerous now. At last, at
a turn in the road, the grim towers of ancient Saracinesca loomed in the
distance, and the carriage entered a vast forest of chestnut trees, shady
and cool after the sunny ascent. So they reached the castle, and the
sturdy horses sprang wildly forward up the last incline till their hoofs
struck noisily upon the flagstones of the bridge, and with a rush and a
plunge they dashed under the black archway, and halted in the broad court
beyond.
Corona was surprised at the size of the old fortress. It seemed an
endless irregular mass of towers and buildings, all of rough grey stone,
surrounded by battlements and ramparts, kept in perfect repair, but
destitute of any kind of ornament whatever. It might have been even now a
military stronghold, and it was evident that there were traditions of
precision and obedience within its walls which would have done credit to
any barracks. The dominant temper of the master made itself felt at every
turn, and the servants moved quickly and silently about their duties.
There was something intensely attractive to Corona in the air of strength
that pervaded the place, and Giovanni had never seemed to her so manly
and so much in his element as under the grey walls of his ancestral home.
The place, too, was associated in history with so many events,--the two
men, Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca, stood there beside her, where their
ancestors of the same names had stood nearly a thousand years before,
their strong dark faces having the same characteristics that for
centuries had marked their race, features familiar to Romans by countless
statues and pictures, as the stones of Rome themselves--but for a detail
of dress, it seemed to Corona as though she had been suddenly transported
back to the thirteenth century. The idea fascinated her. The two men led
her up the broad stone staircase, and ushered her and Sister Gabrielle
into the apartments of state which had been prepared for them.
"We have done our best," said the Prince, "but it is long since we have
entertained ladies at Saracinesca."
"It is magnificent!" exclaimed Corona, as she entered the ante-chamber.
The walls were hung from end to end with priceless tapestries, and the
stone floor was covered with long eastern carpets. Corona paused.
"You must show us all over the castle by-and-by," she said.
"Giovanni will show you everything," answered the Prince. "If it pleases
you, we will breakfast in half-an-hour." He turned away with his son, and
left the two ladies to refresh themselves before the mid-day meal.
Giovanni kept his word, and spared his guests no detail of the vast
stronghold, until at last poor Sister Gabrielle could go no farther.
Giovanni had anticipated that she would be tired, and with the
heartlessness of a lover seeking his opportunity, he had secretly longed
for the moment when she should, be obliged to stop.
"You have not yet seen the view from the great tower," he said. "It is
superb, and this is the very best hour for it. Are you tired, Duchessa?"
"No--I am never tired," answered Corona.
"Why not go with Giovanni?" suggested the Prince. "I will stay with
Sister Gabrielle, who has nearly exhausted herself with seeing our
sights."
Corona hesitated. The idea of being alone with Giovanni for a quarter of
an hour was delightful, but somehow it did not seem altogether fitting
for her to be wandering over the castle with him. On the other hand, to
refuse would seem almost an affectation: she was not in Rome, where her
every movement was a subject for remark; moreover, she was not only a
married woman, but a widow, and she had known Giovanni for years--it
would be ridiculous to refuse.
"Very well," said she. "Let us see the view before it is too late."
Sister Gabrielle and old Saracinesea sat down on a stone seat upon the
rampart to wait, and the Duchessa disappeared with Giovanni through the
low door that led into the great tower.
"What a wonderful woman you are!" exclaimed Giovanni, as they reached the
top of the winding stair, which was indeed broader than the staircase of
many great houses in Rome. "You seem to be never tired."
"No--I am very strong," answered Corona, with a smile. She was not even
out of breath. "What a wonderful view!" she exclaimed, as they emerged
upon the stone platform at the top of the tower. Giovanni was silent for
a moment. The two stood together and looked far out at the purple
mountains to eastward that caught the last rays of the sun high up above
the shadows of the valley; and then looking down, they saw the Prince and
the Sister a hundred feet below them upon the rampart.
Both were thinking of the same thing: three days ago, their meeting had
seemed infinitely far off, a thing dreamed of and hoped for--and now they
were standing alone upon the topmost turret of Giovanni's house, familiar
with each other by a long day's conversation, feeling as though they had
never been parted, feeling also that most certainly they would not be
parted again.
"It is very strange," said Giovanni, "how things happen in this world,
and how little we ever know of what is before us. Last week I wondered
whether I should ever see you--now I cannot imagine not seeing you. Is
it not strange?"
"Yes," answered Corona, in a low voice.
"That, yesterday, we should have seemed parted by an insurmountable
barrier, and that to-day--" he stopped. "Oh, if to-day could only last
for ever!" he exclaimed, suddenly.
Corona gazed out upon the purple hills in silence, but her face caught
some of the radiance of the distant glow, and her dark eyes had strange
lights in them. She could not have prevented him from speaking; she had
loosed the bonds that had held her life so long; the anchor was up, and
the breath of love fanned the sails, and gently bore the craft in which
she trusted out to seaward over the fair water. In seeing him she had
resigned herself to him, and she could not again get the mastery if she
would. It had come too soon, but it was sweet.
"And why not?" he said, very softly. "Why should it not remain so for
ever--till our last breath? Why will you not let it last?"
Still she was silent; but the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and
welled over and lay upon her velvet cheek like dewdrops on the leaves of
a soft dark tulip. Giovanni saw them, and knew that they were the jewels
which crowned his life.
"You will," he said, his broad brown hand gently covering her small
fingers and taking them in his. "You will--I know that you will."
She said nothing, and though she at first made a slight movement--not of
resistance, but of timid reluctance, utterly unlike herself--she suffered
him to hold her hand. He drew closer to her, himself more diffident in
the moment of success than he had ever been when he anticipated failure;
she was so unlike any woman he had ever known before. Very gently he put
his arm about her, and drew her to him.
"My beloved--at last," he whispered, as her head sank upon his shoulder.
Then with a sudden movement she sprang to her height, and for one instant
gazed upon him. Her whole being was transfigured in the might of her
passion: her dark face was luminously pale, her lips almost white, and
from her eyes there seemed to flash a blazing fire. For one instant she
gazed upon him, and then her arms went round his neck, and she clasped
him fiercely to her breast.
"Ah, Giovanni," she cried, passionately, "you do not know what love
means!"
A moment later her arms dropped from him; she turned and buried her face
in her hands, leaning against the high stone parapet of the tower. She
was not weeping, but her face was white, and her bosom heaved with
quick and strong-drawn breath.
Giovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his right arm, and
again her head rested upon his shoulder.
"It is too soon--too soon," she murmured. "But how can I help it? I love
you so that there is no counting of time. It seems years since we met
last night, and I thought it would be years before I told you. Oh,
Giovanni, I am so happy! Is it possible that you love me as I love you?"
It is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who love each other
learn the gentle confidence that only love can bring. A few moments later
Giovanni and Corona were slowly pacing the platform, and his arm was
about her waist and her hand in his.
"Do you know," she was saying, "I used to wonder whether you would keep
your word, and never try to see me. The days were so long at
Astrardente."
"Not half so long as at Saracinesca," he answered. "I was going to call
my aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs; I will christen it now the Spring of
Love."
"I must go and see it to-morrow," said she.
"Or the next day--"
"The next day!" she exclaimed, with a happy laugh. "Do you think I am
going to stay--"
"For ever," interrupted Giovanni. "We have a priest here, you know,--he
can marry us to-morrow, and then you need never go away."
Corona's face grew grave.
"We must not talk of that yet," she said, gently, "even in jest."
"No; you are right. Forgive me," he answered; "I forget many things--it
seems to me I have forgotten everything, except that I love you."
"Giovanni,"--she lingered on the name,--"Giovanni, we must tell your
father at once."
"Are you willing I should?" he asked, eagerly.
"Of course--he ought to know; and Sister Gabrielle too. But no one else
must be told. There must be no talk of this in Rome until--until next
year."
"We will stay in the country until then, shall we not?" asked Giovanni,
anxiously. "It seems to me so much better. We can meet here, and nobody
will talk. I will go and live in the town at Astrardente, and play the
engineer, and build your roads for you."
"I hardly know," said Corona, with a doubtful smile. "You could not do
that. But you may come and spend the day once--in a week, perhaps."
"We will arrange all that," answered Giovanni, laughing. "If you think I
can exist by only seeing you once a week--well, you do not know me."
"We shall see," returned Corona, laughing too. "By the bye, how long have
we been here?"
"I do not know," said Giovanni; "but the view is magnificent, is it not?"
"Enchanting," she replied, looking into his eyes. Then suddenly the blood
mounted to her cheeks. "Oh, Giovanni," she said, "how could I do it?"
"I should have died if you had not," he answered, and clasped her once
more in his arms.
"Come," said she, "let us be going down. It is growing late."
When they reached the foot of the tower, they found the Prince walking
the rampart alone. Sister Gabrielle was afraid of the evening air, and
had retired into the house. Old Saracinesca faced them suddenly. He
looked like an old lion, his thick white hair and beard bristling about
his dark features.
"My father," said Giovanni, coming forward, "the Duchessa d'Astrardente
has consented to be my wife. I crave your blessing."
The old man started, and then stood stock-still. His son had fairly taken
his breath away, for he had not expected the news for three or four
months to come. Then he advanced and took Corona's hand, and kissed it.
"Madam," he said, "you have done my son an honour which extends to myself
and to every Saracinesca, dead, living, and to come."
Then he laid Corona's hand in Giovanni's, and held his own upon them
both.
"God bless you," he said, solemnly; and as Corona bent her proud head, he
touched her forehead with his lips. Then he embraced Giovanni, and his
joy broke out in wild enthusiasm.
"Ha, my children," he cried, "there has not been such a couple as you are
for generations--there has not been such good news told in these old
walls since they have stood here. We will illuminate the castle, the
whole town, in your honour--we will ring the bells and have a Te Deum
sung--we will have such a festival as was never seen before--we will go
to Rome to-morrow and celebrate the espousal--we will--"
"Softly, _padre mio_," interrupted Giovanni. "No one must know as yet.
You must consider--"
"Consider what? consider the marriage? Of course we will consider it, as
soon as you please. You shall have such a wedding as was never heard of--
you shall be married by the Cardinal Archpriest of Saint Peter's, by the
Holy Father himself. The whole country shall ring with it."
It was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his father's
excitement, and in recalling to his mind the circumstances which made it
necessary to conceal the engagement for the present. But at last the old
man reluctantly consented, and returned to a quieter humour. For some
time the three continued to pace the stone rampart.
"This is a case of arrant cruelty to a man of my temper," said the
Prince. "To be expected to behave like an ordinary creature, with grins
and smiles and decent paces, when I have just heard what I have longed to
hear for years. But I will revenge myself by making a noise about
it by-and-by. I will concoct schemes for your wedding, and dream of
nothing but illuminations and decorations. You shall be Prince of Sant'
Ilario, Giovanni, as I was before my father died; and I will give you
that estate outright, and the palace in the Corso to live in."
"Perhaps we might live in my palace," suggested Corona. It seemed strange
to her to be discussing her own marriage, but it was necessary to humour
the old Prince. "Of course," he said. "I forgot all about it. You have
places enough to live in. One forgets that you will in the end be the
richest couple in Italy. Ha!" he cried, in sudden enthusiasm, "the
Saracinesca are not dead yet! They are greater than ever--and our lands
here so near together, too. We will build a new road to Astrardente,
and when you are married you shall be the first to drive over it from
Astrardente here. We will do all kinds of things--we will tunnel the
mountain!"
"I am sure you will do that in the end," said Giovanni, laughing.
"Well--let us go to dinner," answered his father. "It has grown quite
dark since we have been talking, and we shall be falling over the edge if
we are not careful."
"I will go and tell Sister Gabrielle before dinner," said Corona to
Giovanni.
So they left her at the door of her apartment, and she went in. She found
the Sister in an inner room, with a book of devotions in her hand.
"Pray for me, my Sister," she said, quietly. "I have resolved upon a
great step. I am going to be married again."
Sister Gabrielle looked up, and a quiet smile stole over her thin face.
"It is soon, my friend," she said. "It is soon to think of that. But
perhaps you are right--is it the young Prince?"
"Yes," answered Corona, and sank into a deep tapestried chair. "It is
soon I know well. But it has been long--have struggled hard--I love him
very much--so much, you do not know!"
The Sister sighed faintly, and came and took her hand.
"It is right that you should marry," she said, gently. "You are too
young, too famously beautiful, too richly endowed, to lead the life you
have led at Astrardente these many months."
"It is not that," said Corona, an expression of strange beauty
illuminating her lovely face. "Not that I am young, beautiful as you say,
if it is so, or endowed with riches--those reasons are nothing. It is
this that tells me," she whispered, pressing her left hand to her heart.
"When one loves as I love, it is right."
"Indeed it is," assented the good Sister. "And I think you have chosen
wisely. When will you be married?"
"Hardly before next summer--I can hardly think connectedly yet--it has
been very sudden. I knew I should marry him in the end, but I never
thought I could consent so soon. Oh, Sister Gabrielle, you are so
good--were you never in love?"
The Sister was silent, and looked away.
"No--of course you cannot tell me," continued Corona; "but it is such a
wonderful thing. It makes days seem like hundreds of years, or makes them
pass in a flash of light, in a second. It oversets every idea of time,
and plays with one's resolutions as the wind with a feather. If once it
gets the mastery of one, it crowds a lifetime of pain and pleasure into
one day; it never leaves one for a moment. I cannot explain love--it is a
wonderful thing."
"My dear friend," said the Sister, "the explanation of love is life."
"But the end of it is not death. It cannot be," continued Corona,
earnestly. "It must last for ever and ever. It must grow better and purer
and stronger, until it is perfect in heaven at last: but where is the use
of trying to express such things?"
"I think it is enough to feel them," said Sister Gabrielle.