March, the very name of which makes a New Englander shiver, is a
glorious month in Rome. Then a warmer tone steals into the sky, the
clouds become airier and more buoyant in color and outline, and the
Sabine Mountains display, with the varying moods of the day, tints of
the most exquisite softness and delicacy. Cranbrook, from his lofty
hermitage, had an excellent opportunity to observe this ever-changing
panorama of earth and sky; but it had lost its charm to him. The long,
cool vistas between the cloud-banks no more lifted the mind above
itself, pointing the way into a great and glorious future. A vague
dread was perpetually haunting him; he feared that Annunciata did not
love him as he wished to be loved; that she regretted, perhaps, having
bound herself to him and was not unwilling to break loose from him.
But what was life to him without Annunciata? He must bide his time,
and by daily kindness teach her to love him. That she was not happy
might have other causes, unknown to him. Her vehement self-accusations
and tearful protestations that she was not true to him might be merely
the manifestations of a morbidly sensitive conscience.
Vincent in the meanwhile had changed his attitude completely toward
the old masters. After his first meeting with Annunciata, his artistic
sense had been singularly quickened. He might be seen almost daily
wending his way, with a red-covered Baedeker under his arm, to the
gate of a certain villa, where he would breathe the musty air of the
deserted gallery for hours together, gaze abstractedly out of the
windows, and sometimes, when he was observed, even make a pretence of
sketching. Usually it was Monna Nina or Pietro who came to open the
gate for him on such occasions, but, at rare intervals, it happened
that Annunciata was sent to be his cicerone. She always met him with
fear and trembling, but so irresistible was the fascination which he
exerted over her, that he seemed to be able to change her mood at
will. When he greeted her with his lazy smile her heart gave a great
thump, and she laughed responsively, almost in spite of herself. If he
scowled, which he was sometimes pleased to do when Monna Nina or
Pietro had taken her place for several successive days, she looked
apprehensive and inquired about his health. The costly presents of
jewelry which he had given her, she hid guiltily in the most secret
drawer of her chest, and then sat up late into the night and rejoiced
and wept over them.
As for Vincent, it must be admitted that his own infatuation was no
less complete. He had a feeling as if some new force had entered his
life and filled it with a great, though dimly apprehended, meaning.
His thought had gained a sweep and a width of wing which were a
perpetual surprise to him. Not that he reasoned much about if he only
felt strong and young and mightily aroused. He had firmly resolved to
make Annunciata his wife, and he was utterly at a loss, and even
secretly irritated at her reluctance to have their relation revealed
to her parents. He could brook no obstacle in his march of conquest,
and was constantly chafing at the necessity of concealment. He had
frequently thought of anticipating Annunciata's decision, by
presenting himself to her parents as a Croesus from beyond the sea,
who entertained the laudable intention of marrying their fair
daughter; but somehow the character of Cophetua was ridiculously
melodramatic, and Annunciata, with her imperial air, would have made a
poor job of the beggar-maid.
It was on the tenth of March, 186--, a memorable date in the lives of
the three persons concerned in this narrative. Cranbrook had just
finished a semi-æsthetic and semi-political letter to a transatlantic
journal, in which he figured twice a month as "our own correspondent."
It was already late in the night; but the excitement of writing had
made him abnormally wakeful, and knowing that it was of no use to go
to bed, he blew out his lamp, lit a cigar and walked out upon the
_loggia_. There was a warm and fitful spring wind blowing, and the
unceasing rustling of the ilex leaves seemed cool and soothing to his
hot and overwrought senses. In the upper strata of the air, a stronger
gale was chasing dense masses and torn shreds of cloud with a fierce
speed before the lunar crescent; and the broad terrace beyond the
trees was alternately illuminated and plunged in gloom. In one of
these sudden illuminations, Cranbrook thought he saw a man leaning
against the marble balustrade; something appeared to be unwinding
itself slowly from his arms, and presently there stood a woman at his
side. Then the moon vanished behind a cloud, and all was darkness.
Cranbrook began to tremble; a strange numbness stole over him. He
stood for a while motionless, then lifted his hand to his forehead;
but he hardly felt its touch; he only felt that it was cold and wet.
Several minutes passed; a damp gust of wind swept through the
tree-tops and a night-hawk screamed somewhere in the darkness.
Presently the moon sailed out into the blue space, and he saw again
the two figures locked in a close embrace. The wind bore toward him a
dear familiar voice which sounded tender and appealing; his blood
swept like fire through his veins. Hardly knowing what he did, he
leaped down the stairs which led from the _loggia_ into the court
rushed through the garden toward the terrace, grappled for a moment
with somebody, thrust against something hard which suddenly yielded,
and then fell down--down into a deep and dark abyss.
When he awoke he felt a pair of cold hands fumbling with his
shirt-collar; trees were all about him and the blue moonlit sky above
him. He arose, not without difficulty, and recognized Annunciata's
face close to his; she looked frightened and strove to avoid his
glance.
"The Holy Virgin be praised, Signore Giovanni!" she whispered. "But
Signore Enrico, he seems to be badly hurt."
He suddenly remembered what had happened; but he could bring forth no
sound; he had a choking sensation in his throat and his lips seemed
numb and lifeless. He saw Annunciata stooping down over a form that
lay outstretched on the ground, but the sight of her was repulsive to
him and he turned away.
"Help me, Signore Giovanni," she begged in a hoarse whisper. "He may
be dead and there is no one to help him."
Half mechanically he stooped down--gracious heavens! It was Vincent!
In an instant all his anger and misery were forgotten.
"Hurry, Annunciata," he cried; "run for a doctor. Great God! what have
you done?"