A STORM AT THE VILLA.
A footstep was heard upon the gravel. The dogs shut up in the cave
scratched furiously, then barked loudly. Following the footsteps a
bareheaded peasant appeared, his red shirt open, showing his sunburnt
chest. He ran up to the open door, a letter in his hand. Seeing Enrica
sitting on the low wall, he stopped and made her a rustic bow.
"Who are you?" Enrica asked, her heart beating wildly.
"Illustrissima," and the man bowed again, "I am Giacomo--Giacomo
protected by his reverence Fra Pacifico. You have heard of Giacomo?"
Enrica shook her head impatiently.
"Surely you are the Signorina Enrica?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then this letter is for you." And Giacomo stepped up and gave it
into her outstretched hand. "I was to tell the illustrissima that the
letter had come express from Lucca to Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico could
not bring it down himself, because the wife of the baker Pietro is
ill, and he is nursing her."
Enrica took the letter, then stared at Giacomo so fixedly, before he
turned to go, it haunted him many days after, for fear the signorina
had given him the evil-eye.
Enrica held the letter in her hand. She gazed at it (standing on the
spot where she had taken it, midway between the door and the low wall,
a glint of sunshine striking upon her hair, turning it to threads of
gold) in silent ecstasy. It was Nobili's first letter to her. His name
was in the corner, his monogram on the seal. The letter came to her in
her loneliness like Nobili's visible presence. Ah! who does not recall
the rapture of a first love-letter!--the tangible assurance it brings
that our lover is still our own--the hungry eye that runs over every
line traced by that dear hand--the oft-repeated words his voice
has spoken stamped on the page--the hidden sense--the half-dropped
sentences--all echoing within us as note to note in chords of music!
Enrica's eyes wandered over the address, "To the Noble Signorina
Enrica Guinigi, Corellia," as if each word had been some wonder. She
dwelt upon every crooked line and twist, each tail and flourish, that
Nobili's hand had traced. She pressed the letter to her lips, then
laid it upon her lap and gazed at it, eking out every second of
suspense to its utmost limit. Suddenly a burning curiosity possessed
her to know when he would come. With a gasp that almost stopped her
breath she tore the cover open. The paper shook so violently in her
unsteady hand that the lines seemed to run up and down and dance.
She could distinguish nothing. She pressed her hand to her forehead,
steadied herself, then read:
ENRICA: When this comes to you I am gone from you forever. You have
betrayed me--how much I do not care to know. Perhaps I think you less
guilty than you are. Of all women, my heart clung to you. I loved you
as men only love once in their lives. For the sake of that love, I
will still screen you all I can. But it is known in Lucca that Count
Marescotti was your accepted lover when you promised yourself to me.
Also, that Count Marescotti refused to marry you when you were offered
by the Marchesa Guinigi. From this knowledge I cannot screen you.
God is my witness, I go, not desiring by my presence or my words to
reproach you further. But, as a man who prizes the honor of his house
and home, I cannot marry you. Tell the marchesa I shall keep my word
to her, although I break the marriage-contract. She will find the
money placed as she desired.
MARIO NOBILI.
"PALAZZO NOBILI, LUCCA."
Little by little Enrica read the whole, sentence by sentence. At first
the full horror of the words was veiled. They came to her in a dazed,
stupid way. A mist gathered about her. There was a buzzing in her ears
that deadened her brain. She forced herself to read over the letter
again. Then her heart stood still with terror--her cheeks burned--her
head reeled. A deadly cold came over her. Of all within that letter
she understood nothing but the words, "I am gone from you forever."
Gone!--Nobili gone! Never to speak to her again in that sweet
voice!--never to press his lips to hers!--never to gather her to him
in those firm, strong arms! O God! then she must die! If Nobili were
gone, she must die! A terrible pang shot through her; then a great
calmness came over her, and she was very still. "Die!--yes--why
not?--Die!"
Clutching the letter in her icy hand, Enrica looked round with pale,
tremulous eyes, from which the light has faded. It could not be the
same world of an hour ago. Death had come into it--she is about to
die. Yet the sun shone fiercely upon her face as she turned it upward
and struck upon her eyes. The children laughed over the chestnuts
spluttering in the ashes. Pipa sang merrily above at the open window.
A bird--was it a raven?--poised itself in the air; the cattle grazed
peacefully on the green slopes of the opposite mountain, and a drove
of pigs ran downward to drink at a little pool. She alone has changed.
A dull, dim consciousness drew her forward toward the low wall, and
the abyss that yawned beneath. There she should lie at peace. There
the stillness would quiet her heart that beat so hard against her
side--surely her heart must burst! She had a dumb instinct that she
should like to sleep; she was so weary. Stronger grew the passion of
her longing to cast herself on that cold bed--deep, deep below--to
rest forever. She tried to move, but could not. She tottered and
almost fell. Then all swam before her. She sank backward against the
door; with her two hands she clutched the post. Her white face was
set. But in her agony not a sound escaped her. Her secret--Nobili's
secret--must be kept, she told herself. No one must ever know that
Nobili had left her--that she was about to die--no one, no one!
With a last effort she tried to rush forward to take that leap below
which would end all. In vain. All nature rushed in a wild whirlwind
around her! A deadly sickness seized her. Her eyes closed. She dropped
beside the door, a little ruffled heap upon the ground, Nobili's
letter clasped tightly in her hand.
"My love he is to Lucca gone,
To Lucca fair, a lord to be,
And I would fain a message send,
But who will tell my tale for me?"
Sang out Pipa from above.
"All the folk say that I am brown;
The earth is brown, yet gives good corn;
The clove-pink, too, although 'tis brown,
In hands of gentlefolk is borne."
"They say my love is brown; but he
Shines like an angel-form to me;
They say my love is dark as night,
To me he seems an angel bright!"
Not hearing the children's voices, and fearing some trick of naughty
Angelo against the peace of her precious Gigi, Pipa leaned put over
the window-sill. "My babe, my babe, where art thou?" was on her lips
to cry; instead, Pipa gave a piercing scream. It broke the mid-day
silence. Argo barked loudly.
"Dio Gesù!" Pipa cried wildly out. "The signorina, she is dead! Help!
help!"