The porter unbarred the door and looked out. It was nearly noon and the
southerly breeze was blowing. The footway was almost deserted. On the
other side of the canal, in the shadow of the Beroviero house, an old
man who sold melons in slices had gone to sleep under a bit of ragged
awning, and the flies had their will of him and his wares. A small boy
simply dressed in a shirt, and nothing else, stood at a little distance,
looking at the fruit and listening attentively to the voice of the
tempter that bade him help himself.
Pasquale looked at the house opposite. Everything was quiet, and the
shutters were drawn together, but not quite closed. The flowers outside
Marietta's window waved in the light breeze.
"Nella!" cried Pasquale, just as he was accustomed to call the maid when
Marietta wanted her.
At the sound of his voice the little boy, who was about to deal
effectually with his temptation by yielding to it at once, took to his
heels and ran away. But no one looked out from the house. Pasquale
called again, somewhat louder. The shutters of Marietta's window were
slowly opened inward and Marietta herself appeared, all in white and
pale, looking over the flowers.
"What is it?" she asked. "Why do you want Nella?"
The canal was narrow, so that one could talk across it almost in an
ordinary tone.
"Your pardon, lady," answered Pasquale. "I did not mean to disturb you.
There has been a little accident here, saving your grace."
This he added to avert possible ill fortune. Marietta instantly thought
of Zorzi. She leaned forward upon the window-sill above the flowers and
spoke anxiously.
"What has happened? Tell me quickly!"
"A man has had his foot badly burned--it must be dressed at once."
"Who is it?"
"Zorzi."
Pasquale saw that Marietta started a little and drew back. Then she
leaned forward again.
"Wait there a minute," she said, and disappeared quickly.
The porter heard her calling Nella from an inner room, and then he heard
Nella's voice indistinctly. He waited before the open door.
Nella was a born chatterer, but she had her good qualities, and in an
emergency she was silent and skilful.
"Leave it to me," she said. "He will need no surgeon."
In her room she had a small store of simple remedies, sweet oil, a pot
of balsam, old linen carefully rolled up in little bundles, a precious
ointment made from the fat of vipers, which was a marvellous cure for
rheumatism in the joints, some syrup of poppies in a stumpy phial, a box
of powdered iris root, and another of saffron. She took the sweet oil,
the balsam, and some linen. She also took a small pair of scissors which
were among her most precious possessions. She threw her large black
kerchief over her head and pinned it together under her chin.
When she came back to Marietta's room, her mistress was wrapped in a
dark mantle that covered hear thin white dress entirely, and one corner
of it was drawn up over her head so as to hide her hair and almost all
her face. She was waiting by the door.
"I am going with you," she said, and her voice was not very steady.
"But you will be seen--" began Nella.
"By the porter."
"Your brother may see you--"
"He is welcome. Come, we are losing time." She opened the door and went
out quickly.
"I shall certainly be sent away for letting you come!" protested Nella,
hurrying after her.
Marietta did not even answer this, which Nella thought very unkind of
her. From the main staircase Marietta turned off at the first landing,
and went down a short corridor to the back stairs of the house, which
led to the narrow lane beside the building. Nella snorted softly in
approval, for she had feared that her mistress would boldly pass through
the hall where there were always one or two idle men-servants in
waiting. The front door was closed against the heat, they had met no one
and they reached the door of the glass-house without being seen.
Pasquale looked at Marietta but said nothing until all three were
inside. Then he took hold of Marietta's mantle at her elbow, and held
her back. She turned and looked at him in amazement.
"You must not go in, lady," he said. "It is an ugly wound to see."
Marietta pushed him aside quietly, and led the way. Nella followed her
as fast as she could, and Pasquale came last. He knew that the two women
would need help.
Zorzi lay quite still where he had fallen, with one hand on the billet
of beech wood, the other arm doubled under him, his cheek on the dusty
stone. With a sharp cry Marietta ran forward and knelt beside his head,
dropping her long mantle as she crossed the room. Pasquale uttered an
uncompromising exclamation of surprise.
"O, most holy Mary!" cried Nella, holding up her hands with the things
she carried.
Marietta believed that Zorzi was dead, for he was very white and he lay
quite still. At first she opened her eyes wide in horror, but in a
moment she sank down, covering her face. Pasquale knelt opposite her on
one knee, and began to turn Zorzi on his back. Nella was at his feet,
and she helped, with great gentleness.
"Do not be frightened, lady," said Pasquale reassuringly. "He has only
fainted. I left him on the bench, but you see he must have tried to get
up to feed the fire."
While he spoke he was lifting Zorzi as well as he could. Marietta
dropped her hands and slowly opened her eyes, and she knew that Zorzi
was alive when she saw his face, though it was ghastly and smeared with
grey ashes. But in those few moments she had felt what she could never
forget. It had been as if a vast sword-stroke had severed her body at
the waist, and yet left her heart alive.
"Can you help a little?" asked Pasquale. "If I could get him into my
arms, I could carry him alone."
Marietta sprang to her feet, all her energy and strength returning in a
moment. The three carried the unconscious man easily enough to the bench
and laid him down, as he had lain before, with his head on the leathern
cushion. Then Nella set to work quickly and skilfully, for she hoped to
dress the wound while he was still insensible. Marietta helped her,
instinctively doing what was right. It was a hideous wound.
"It will heal more quickly than you think," said Nella, confidently.
"The burning has cauterised it."
Marietta, delicately reared and unused to such sights, would have felt
faint if the man had not been Zorzi. As it was she only felt sharp pain,
each time that Nella touched the foot. Pasquale looked on, helpless but
approving.
Zorzi groaned, then opened his eyes and moved one hand. Nella had almost
finished.
"If only he can be kept quiet a few moments longer," she said, "it will
be well done."
Zorzi writhed in pain, only half conscious yet. Marietta left Nella to
put on the last bandages, and came and looked down into his face, taking
one of his hands in hers. He recognised her, and stared in wild
surprise.
"You must try and not move," she said softly. "Nella has almost
finished."
He forgot what he suffered, and the agonised contraction of his brows
and mouth relaxed. Marietta wiped away the ashes from his forehead and
cheeks, and smoothed back his thick hair. No woman's hand had touched
him thus since his mother's when he had been a little child. He was too
weak to question what was happening to him, but a soft light came into
his eyes, and he unconsciously pressed Marietta's hand.
She blushed at the pressure, without knowing why, and first the maiden
instinct was to draw away her hand, but then she pitied him and let it
stay. She thought, too, that her touch helped to keep him quiet, and
indeed it did.
"How did you know?" he asked at length, for in his half consciousness it
had seemed natural that she should have come to him when she heard that
he was hurt.
"Pasquale called Nella," she answered simply, "and I came too. Is the
pain still very great?"
"It is much less. How can I thank you?"
She looked into his eyes and smiled as he had seen her smile once or
twice before in his life. His memory all came back now. He knew that
she ought not to have been there, since her father was away. His
expression changed suddenly.
"What is the matter?" asked Marietta. "Does it hurt very much?"
"No," he said. "I was thinking--" He checked himself, and glanced at the
porter.
A distant knocking was heard at the outer door, Pasquale shuffled off to
see who was there.
"I will wager that it is the surgeon!" he grumbled. "Evil befall his
soul! We do not want him."
"What were you going to say?" asked Marietta, bending down. "There is
only Nella here now."
"Nella should not have let you come," said Zorzi. "If it is known, your
father will be very angry."
"Ah, do you see?" cried Nella, rising, for she had finished. "Did I not
tell you so, my pretty lady? And if your brother finds out that you have
been here he will go into a fury like a wild beast! I told you so! And
as for your help, indeed, I could have brought another woman, and there
was Pasquale, too. I suppose he has hands. Oh, there will be a beautiful
revolution in the house when this is known!"
But Marietta did not mean to acknowledge that she had done anything but
what was perfectly right and natural under the circumstances; to admit
that would have been to confess that she had not come merely out of pity
and human kindness.
"It is absurd," she said with a little indignation. "I shall tell my
brother myself that Zorzi was hurt, and that I helped you to dress his
wound. And what is more, Nella, you will have to come; again, and I
shall come with you as often as I please. All Murano may know it for
anything I care."
"And Venice too?" asked Nella, shaking her head in disapproval. "What
will they say in Casa Contarini when they hear that you have actually
gone out of the house to help a wounded young man in your father's
glass-house?"
"If they are human, they will say that I was quite right," answered
Marietta promptly. "If they are not, why should I care what they say?"
Zorzi smiled. At that moment Pasquale passed the window, and then came
in by the open door, growling. His ugly face was transfigured by rage,
until it had a sort of grotesque grandeur, and he clenched his fist as
he began to speak.
"Animals! Beasts! Brutes! Worse than savages! He was almost incoherent.
"Well? What has happened now?" asked. Nella. "You talk like a mad dog.
Remember the young lady!"
"It would make a leaden statue speak!" answered Pasquale. "The Signor
Giovanni sends a boy to say that the Surgeon was not at home, because he
had gone to shave the arch-priest of San Piero!"
In spite of the great pain he still suffered, Zorzi laughed, a little.
"You said that you would throw, him into the canal if he came at all,"
he said.
"Yes, and so I meant to do!" cried Pasquale. "But that is no reason why
the inhuman monster should be shaving the arch-priest when a man might
be dying for need of him! Oh, let him come here! Oh, I advise him to
come! The miserable, cowardly, bloodletting, soap-sudding, shaving
little beast of a barber!"
Pasquale drew a long breath after this, and unclenched his fist, but his
lips still moved, as he said things to himself which would have shocked
Marietta if she could have had the least idea of what they meant.
"You cannot stay here," she said, turning to Zorzi again. "You cannot
lie on this bench all day."
"I shall soon be able to stand," answered Zorzi confidently. "I am much
better."
"You will not stand on that foot for many a day," said Nella, shaking
her head.
"Then Pasquale must get me a pair of crutches," replied Zorzi. "I cannot
lie on my back because I have hurt one foot. I must tend the furnace, I
must go on with my work, I must make the tests, I must--"
He stopped short and bit his lip, turning white again as a spasm of
excruciating pain shot along his right side, from his foot upwards.
Marietta bent over him, full of anxiety.
"You are suffering!" she said tenderly. "You must not try to move."
"It is nothing," he answered through his closed teeth. "It will pass, I
daresay."
"It will not pass to-day," said Nella. "But I will bring you some syrup
of poppies. That will make you sleep."
Marietta seemed to feel the pain herself. She smoothed the leathern
cushion under his head as well as she could, and softly touched his
forehead. It was hot and dry now.
"He is feverish," she said to Nella anxiously.
"I will bring him barley water with the syrup of poppies. What do you
expect? Do you think that such a wound and such a burn are cooling to
the blood, and refreshing to the brain? The man is badly hurt. Of course
he is feverish. He ought to be in his bed, like a decent Christian."
"Some one must help me with the work," said Zorzi faintly.
"There is no one but me," answered Marietta after a moment's pause.
"You?" cried Nella, greatly scandalised.
Even Pasquale stared at Marietta in silent astonishment.
"Yes," she said quietly. "There is no one else who knows enough about my
father's work."
"That is true," said Zorzi. "But you cannot come here and work with me."
Marietta turned away and walked to the window. In her thin dress she
stood there a few minutes, like a slender lily, all white and gold in
the summer light.
"It is out of the question!" protested Nella. "Her brother will never
allow her to come. He will lock her up in her own room for safety, till
the master comes home."
"I think I shall always do just what I think right," said Marietta
quietly, as if to herself.
"Lord!" cried Nella. "The young lady is going mad!"
Nella was gathering together the remains of the things she had brought.
Exhausted by the pain he had suffered, and by the efforts he had made to
hide it, Zorzi lay on his back, looking with half-closed eyes at the
graceful outline of the girl's figure, and vaguely wishing that she
would never move, and that he might be allowed to die while quietly
gazing at her.
"Lady," said Pasquale at last, and rather timidly, "I will take good
care of him. I will get him crutches to-morrow. I will come in the
daytime and keep the fire burning for him."
"It would be far better to let it go out," observed Nella, with much
sense.
"But the experiments!" cried Zorzi, suddenly coming back from his dream.
"I have promised the master to carry them out."
"You see what comes of your glass-working," retorted Nella, pointing to
his bandaged foot.
"How did it happen?" asked Marietta suddenly. "How did you do it?"
"It was done for him," said Pasquale, "and may the Last Judgment come a
hundred times over for him who did it!"
His intention was clearer than his words.
"Do you mean that it was done on purpose, out of spite?" asked Marietta,
looking from Pasquale to Zorzi.
"It was an accident," said the latter. "I was in the main furnace room
with your brother. The blow-pipe with the hot glass slipped from a man's
hand. Your brother saw it--he will tell you."
"I have been porter here for five-and-twenty years," retorted Pasquale,
"and there have been several accidents in that time. But I never heard
of one like that."
"It was nothing else," said Zorzi.
His voice was weak. Nella had finished collecting her belongings.
Marietta saw that she could not stay any longer at present, and she went
once more to Zorzi's side.
"Let Pasquale take care of you to-day," she said. "I will come and see
how you are to-morrow morning."
"I thank you," he answered. "I thank you with all my heart. I have no
words to tell you how much."
"You need none," said she quietly. "I have done nothing. It is Nella who
has helped you."
"Nella knows that I am very grateful."
"Of course, of course!" answered the woman kindly. "You have made him
talk too much," she added, speaking to Marietta. "Let us go away. I must
prepare the barley water. It takes a long time."
"Is he to have nothing but barley water?" asked Pasquale.
"I will send him what he is to have," answered Nella, with an air of
superiority.
Marietta looked back at Zorzi from the door, and his eyes were following
her. She bent her head gravely and went out, followed by the others, and
he was alone again. But it was very different now. The spasms of pain
came back now and then, but there was rest between them, for there was a
potent anodyne in the balsam with which Nella had soaked the first
dressing. Of all possible hurts, the pain from burning is the most acute
and lasting, and the wise little woman, who sometimes seemed so foolish,
had done all that science could have done for Zorzi, even at a much
later day. He could think connectedly now, he had been able to talk; had
it been possible for him to stand, he might even have gone on for a time
with the preparations for the next experiment. Yet he felt an
instinctive certainty that he was to be lame for life.
He was not thinking of the experiments just then; he could think of
nothing but Marietta. Four or five days had passed since he had talked
with her in the garden, and she was now formally promised to Jacopo
Contarini. He wondered why she had come with Nella, and he remembered
her earnest offer of friendship. She meant to show him that she was
still in earnest, he supposed. It had been perfect happiness to feel her
cool young hand on his forehead, to press it in his own. No one could
take that from him, as long as he lived. He remembered it through the
horrible pain it had soothed, and it was better than the touch of an
angel, for it was the touch of a loving woman. But he did not know that,
and be fancied that if she had ever guessed that he loved her, she
would not have come to him now. She would feel that the mere thought in
his heart was an offence. And besides, she was to marry Contarini, and
she was not of the kind that would promise to marry one man and yet
encourage love in another. It was well, thought Zorzi, that she had
never suspected the truth.
When Marietta reached her room again she listened patiently to Nella's
scolding and warning, for she did not hear a word the good woman said to
her. Nella brushed the dust from the silk mantle and from Marietta's
white skirt very industriously, lest it should betray the secret to
Giovanni or any other member of the household. For they had escaped
being seen, even when they came back.
Nella scolded on in a little sing-song voice, with many rising
inflections. In her whole life, she said, she had never connived at
anything more utterly shameless than this! She was humble, indeed, and
of no account in the world, but if she had run out in the middle of the
day to visit a young man when she was betrothed to her poor Vito,
blessed soul, and the Lord remember him, her poor Vito would have gone
to her father, might the Lord refresh his soul, and would have said,
"What ways are these? Do you think I will marry a girl who runs about in
this fashion?" That was what Vito would have said. And he would have
said, "Give me back the gold things I gave your daughter, and let me go
and find a wife who does not run about the city." And it would have
been well said. Did Marietta suppose that an educated person like the
lord Jacopo Contarini would be less particular about his bride's manners
than that good soul Vito? Not that Vito had been ignorant. Nella should
have liked any one to dare to say that she had married an ignorant man!
And so forth. And so on.
Marietta heard the voice without listening to the words, and the gentle,
half-complaining, half-reproving tone was rather soothing than
otherwise. She sat by the half-closed window with her bead work, while
Nella talked, and brushed, and moved about the room, making imaginary
small tasks in order to talk the more. But Marietta threaded the red and
blue beads and fastened them in patterns upon the piece of stuff she was
ornamenting, and when Nella looked at her every now and then, she seemed
quite calm and indifferent. There had always been something inscrutable
about her.
She was wondering why she had submitted to be betrothed to Contarini,
when she loved Zorzi; and the answer did not come. She could not
understand why it was that although she loved Zorzi with all her heart
she had been convinced that she hated him, during four long, miserable
days. Then, too, it was very strange that she should feel happy, that
she should know that she was really happy, her heart brimming over with
sunshine and joy, while Zorzi, whom she loved, was lying on that
uncomfortable bench in dreadful pain. It was true that when she thought
of his wound, the pain ran through her own limbs and made her move in
her seat. But the next moment she was perfectly happy again, and yet was
displeased with herself for it, as if it were not quite right.
Nella stood still at last, close to her, and spoke to her so directly
that she could not help hearing.
"My little lady," said the woman, "do not forget that the women are
coming early to-morrow morning to show you the stuffs which your father
has chosen for your wedding gown."
"Yes. I remember."
Marietta laid down her work in the little basket of beads and looked
away towards the window. Between the shutters she could just see one of
the scarlet flowers of the sweet geranium, waving in the sunlight. It
was true. The women were coming in the morning to begin the work. They
would measure her, and cut out patterns in buckram and fit them on her,
making her stand a long time. They would spread out silks and satins on
the bed and on the table, they would hold them up and make long
draperies with them, and make the light flash in the deep folds, and
they would tell her how beautiful she would be as a bride, and that her
skin was whiter than lilies and milk and snow, and her hair finer than
silk and richer than ropes of spun red gold. While they were saying
those things she would look very grave and indifferent, and nothing they
could show her would make her open her eyes wide; but her heart would
laugh long and sweetly, for she should be infinitely happy, though no
one would know it. She would give no opinion about the gown, no matter
how they pressed her with questions.
After that the pieces that were to be embroidered would be very
carefully weighed, the silk and the satin, and the weights of the pieces
would be written down. Also, each of the hired women who were to make
the embroidery would receive a certain amount of silver and gold thread,
of which the weight would be written down under that of the stuff, and
the two figures added together would mean just what the finished piece
of embroidery ought to weigh. For if this were not done, the women would
of course steal the gold and silver thread, a little every day, and take
it away in their mouths, because the housekeeper would always search
them every evening, in spite of the weighing. But they were well paid
for the work and did not object to being suspected, for it was part of
their business.
In time, Marietta would go to see the work they were doing, in the great
cool loft where they would sit all day, where the linen presses stood
side by side, and the great chests which held the hangings and curtains
and carpets that were used on great occasions. The housekeeper had her
little room up there, and could watch the sewing-women at their work and
scold them if they were idle, noting how much should be taken from their
pay. The women would sing long songs, answering each other for an hour
at a time, but no one would hear them below, because the house was so
big.
By and by the work would be almost finished, and then it would be quite
done, and the wedding day would be very near. There Marietta's vision
of the future suddenly came to a climax, as she tried to imagine what
would happen when she should boldly declare that neither her father, nor
the Council of Ten, nor the Doge himself, nor even His Holiness Pope
Paul, who was a Venetian too, could ever make her marry Jacopo
Contarini. There would be such a convulsion of the family as had never
taken place since she was born. In her imagination she fancied all
Murano taking sides for her or against her; even Venice itself would be
amazed at the temerity of a girl who dared to refuse the husband her
father had chosen for her. It would be an outrage on all authority, a
scandal never to be forgotten, an unheard-of rebellion against the
natural law by which unmarried children were held in bondage as slaves
to their parents. But Marietta was not frightened by the tremendous
consequences her fancy deduced from her refusal to marry. She was happy.
Some day, the man she loved would know that she had faced the world for
him, rather than be bound to any one else, and he would love her all the
more dearly for having risked so much. She had never been so happy
before. Only, now and then, when she thought of Zorzi's hurt, she felt a
sharp thrill of pain run through her.
All day the tide of joy was high in her heart. Towards evening, she sent
Nella over to the glass-house to see how Zorzi was doing, and as soon as
the woman was gone she stood at the open window, behind her flowers, to
watch her go in, Pasquale would look out, the door would be open for a
moment, she would be a little nearer.
Even in that small anticipation she was not disappointed. It was a new
joy to be able to look from her window into the dark entry that led to
the place where Zorzi was. To-morrow, or the next day, he would perhaps
come to the door, helped by Pasquale, but to-morrow morning she would go
and see him, come what might. She was not afraid of her brother
Giovanni, and it might be long before her father came back. Till then,
at all events, she would do what she thought right, no matter how Nella
might be scandalised.
Nella came back, and said that Zorzi was better, that he had slept all
the afternoon and now had very little pain, and he was not in any
anxiety about the furnace, for Pasquale had kept the fire burning
properly all day. Zorzi had begged Nella to deliver a message of thanks.
"Try and remember just what he told you," said Marietta.
"There was nothing especial," answered Nella with exasperating
indifference. "He said that I was to thank you very much. Something like
that--nothing else."
"I am sure that those were not his words. Why did you forget them?"
"If it had been an account of money spent, I should remember it
exactly," answered Nella. "A pennyworth of thread, beeswax a farthing,
so much for needles; I should forget nothing. But when a man says 'I
thank you,' what is there to remember? But you are never satisfied!
Nella may work her hands to the bone for you, Nella may run errands for
you till she is lame, you are never pleased with what Nella does! It is
always the same."
She tossed her brown head to show that she was offended. But Marietta
laughed softly and patted the little woman's cheek affectionately.
"You are a dear little old angel," she said.
Nella was pacified.