Ortensia heard the bells strike midnight. She was lying on her back, her
eyes wide open, and staring at the rosette in the middle of the pink
canopy over her head. She could see it plainly by the dim light of the
tiny oil-lamp that hung above the kneeling-stool at which she said her
prayers. She had said them with great fervour to-night, and had gone to
bed with the firm intention of repeating the last one over and over to
herself till she fell asleep.
But in this she had not succeeded. She had heard the bells at eleven
o'clock and had been wide awake; at that moment Stradella was stepping
over the marble balustrade into the loggia. She tried to say her prayer
again, but it was of no use at all; she knew that he was standing there
just outside the great closed window, waiting, and that to see him she
had only to pass through her dressing-room, where Pina slept on a
trestle-bed, which was taken away every morning. There was only one door
to Ortensia's bedroom, which was the last on that floor of the house;
for it was proper that a noble Venetian girl should be safely guarded,
and every night the Senator locked both the outer doors of the
sitting-room where she had her lessons, and he kept the key under his
pillow. Pina and Ortensia were in prison together from ten o'clock at
night till seven every morning, and the girl could not leave her own
room without passing Pina.
To the Senator's insufficient imagination two things were out of the
question; he was convinced that no one could get up into the loggia from
below, and he was persuaded that Pina, unswerving in her devotion to his
interests and honour, would guard Ortensia as jealously as the dragon
guarded the Golden Fleece. Moreover, as to getting in by the window, a
man would first have to get access to the walled garden below, which
Pignaver regarded as another impossibility, for the wall was high, he
himself kept the key of the postern that opened on the canal, and the
gardener entered through the house.
Nevertheless Stradella was standing in the loggia at eleven o'clock;
Ortensia was sure he was there, and at midnight she was still lying on
her back, staring up at the canopy, with outstretched hands that
clutched the edges of the bed on each side. Her idea of what was
possible was quite different from her uncle's; the one thing which
seemed to her out of the question was that she should lie where she was
much longer, and she only succeeded by giving herself the illusion that
her own hands held her down by main force. By and by they would be
tired, she supposed, and then she would have to go to him.
She held fast and listened, hoping to hear the bells again, as if an
hour could slip by as in a moment while she was awake; and suddenly she
started, and one hand left its hold, for she heard a noise at her own
window, a sharp tap, followed by another and another. Then there came a
sharp rattling, and she knew that it was only raining, and tried to
laugh at herself. The first big drops of the squall had struck the panes
like little pebbles. Her hand went down to the edge of the bed again and
clutched the mattress desperately, while she listened.
He was in the loggia, and the rain was driving in upon him as it was
driving against her window. He would not move; he would wait there in
the wet till dawn, for he had said so and she believed him. It was hard
to hold herself down now, knowing that he was being wet through. He must
have left his cloak behind, too, for he could not have been able to
climb if hampered by the folds.
It was pouring now, and there was wind with the rain, since otherwise it
could not have made such a noise against the glass. She had often stood
inside the closed window of the sitting-room when it was raining from
the same quarter, and she had seen how the gusts drove the water in
sheets against the panes, till it ran down and made a river along the
loggia and boiled at the grated gutter-sinks through which it ran off.
He was perhaps nearly up to his ankles in the little flood by this time,
but he would not go away for that. She knew he would wait.
Her hands let go and she was suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed,
feeling for her slippers with her bare feet; with bare arms raised, she
instinctively put up both hands to her hair at the same time, to be sure
that it would not come down, for Pina always did it up at night in a
thick coil on the top of her head.
She heard the rain even more distinctly now; it was coming down in
torrents. She looked up at the little lamp burning quietly before
Robbia's blue and white bas-relief of the infant Christ, and she thought
of her prayers again; but it was positively wicked to let any one stand
outside in the rain for hours, to catch his death of cold.
She slipped a silk skirt over her thin night-dress and put on her
fur-edged dressing-gown over that, for those were the days of wonderful
dressing-gowns, quilted with down, bordered with sable or ermine, and
trimmed with lace. She drew the cords tightly round her slim waist, and
she was ready.
For a moment she hesitated; there was no night-light where Pina slept,
nor in the day-room beyond; the stormy night must be so dark that she
would not be able to find her way to the windows. That thought decided
her, and she stopped to light a small hand-lamp. Then she cautiously
opened the door, shaded the flame from Pina's face with one hand, and
passed quickly through the dressing-room. The nurse lay in her
trestle-bed, well covered up, and did not move, and Ortensia shut the
next door noiselessly.
She hastened to the window, and when she got there she started; his
dripping face was flattened against the pane, so white and ghostly that
it was like a vision of him dead, but his eyes were alive and were
watching her, and when she was quite near the window he smiled. She set
down her lamp on the floor at a little distance and began to undo the
fastenings with the greatest caution, fearing to make any noise; but as
soon as the bolt was drawn the wind forced the frame open so violently
that it almost knocked her down. Stradella sprang in with the driving
wet and only succeeded in shutting the window after several efforts,
during which the lamp was almost blown out.
He stood before her then bare-headed, and the water ran down upon the
marble floor from his drenched clothes. He had neither hat nor cloak,
and his dark hair was matted with the rain; but his face was radiant.
'You are frozen! you are soaked through and through!' she cried
anxiously. 'You will get an illness, and I can do nothing! There is not
even a little wine here to warm you.'
He smiled and shook his head.
'Never mind me,' he answered. 'Or let me take your hand in mine for a
moment and the chill will pass!'
He put out his own, and when she felt that it was cold and wet, she took
it in both of hers and tried to dry it, and chafed it between her palms,
till he drew it away rather suddenly with a low laugh.
'Thank you,' he said. 'That is enough!'
'No, let me warm it better, or give me the other!'
'There is too much fire in your touch,' he answered. 'It burns through
cold and wet. It would burn through ice itself!'
His tone made her forget her first anxiety for him; but she felt that
she must explain why she was there, if only to quiet her own conscience.
'I would not have come if it had not rained,' she said, avoiding his
eyes, 'and now I must not stay with you. As soon as it stops you must
let yourself out and go away. It was only when I heard the rain----'
'Blessings on the rain!' answered Stradella devoutly. 'I never loved it
before!'
'You should not have come on such a night--I mean----'
She stopped and he saw her blush in the faint light that came up from
the lamp on the floor.
'I had no choice, since I had promised,' he answered. 'And I promise you
I will come to-morrow again----'
'Oh, do not promise--please!' She seemed distressed.
'Yes, I will come to-morrow and every night, until you come away with
me. I will bring you a disguise in which you can travel safely till we
are over the Venetian border and free.'
'But I cannot--I will not!' she protested. 'You speak as if--as if----'
'As if we loved each other, heart and soul, for life or death,' he said,
not letting her go on, and taking her hand again. 'I speak as if we had
been born into the world only for that, to love and live and die
together! As if there were no woman for me but you in all the earth, and
no man for you but me! As if our lips had promised and had met!'
She was drinking his words, and her eyes were in his as he bent to her
face. But then she started, in returning consciousness, and tried to
draw back.
'No, no!' she cried, in sudden maiden distress. 'Not yet! It is too
soon!'
He drew her nearer to him in spite of herself, with both her hands in
his, till he could speak close to her ear.
'Tell me you do not love me, love! Tell me you will not feel one little
regret if you never see me again! Come, say it in my ear, sweetheart!
Say that if I fall and am killed in climbing down when I leave you, it
will make no more difference to you than if a dog were drowned in the
canal! Is it not true, dear? Then say it quickly! Only whisper it in my
ear, and I will go away and never come back. But you must say it----'
'Yes--please go!' she answered faintly. 'Go at once----'
'No, you must say the rest first,' he insisted, and his lips were almost
touching her ear. 'Say it after me: "I hate you, I despise you, I loathe
you, I do not care whether you live or die." Why do you not begin to
repeat the words, heart of my heart?'
She turned suddenly in his hold, holding her head far back, wide-eyed
and very pale. But she could not speak, or would not, foreknowing what
must happen now that had never happened to her before.
He smiled faintly, and when he spoke again it was a sweet breath she
felt, rather than a sound that reached her ear.
'Will you not say it?' he said, and his face came slowly nearer to hers.
'Would it not be true? No? Then say "I love you, love," or speak no word
aloud but let your lips make syllables on mine, and, like the blind, the
touch will tell me what you say.'
Her eyes closed of themselves, the speaking breath came nearer, and
then, as lightning flashes through a summer's night, flame ran from her
lips to her feet, and to her heart from her hands that lay in his and
felt his life stirring.
It was innocent enough, a girl's first love-kiss, and the kiss of a man
who loved in earnest for the first time, but it seemed a great and a
fearful thing to her, irrevocable as lost innocence itself; and he,
whose masculine light-heartedness made not much of mere kisses, and
laughed at the thought that love could do much wrong, felt that he had
given a pledge he must redeem and a promise he must honourably keep.
It was innocent enough. He held her by the hands as he bent and kissed
her, for the water was still trickling down his drenched clothes, and
her pretty dressing-gown would have been spoiled if he had even put one
arm round her waist. There was a dash of the ridiculous in that, which
would have made them both laugh if they had not been so simply and
utterly in earnest. And then when he let her hands go and she sank upon
a chair, he could not even sit down beside her, because the velvet seat
would have been ruined. So he stood bolt upright in the midst of the
little puddle the water had made round his feet.
She covered her face with her hands for a moment, not in any shame, but
trying to make herself think.
'You must go now,' she said presently, looking up at him. 'It is enough
to make the strongest man fall ill, to be drenched as you are. You will
lose your voice----'
'What does that matter, if I have found you?' he asked. 'But I will do
as you wish, for it has stopped raining at last, and it is growing
late--you will lose half your sleep to-night.'
'Or all of it!' she answered softly, thinking of his kiss. 'How did you
get up to the loggia? Have you a ladder?'
He had none. He had got over the outer wall by means of a rope with a
grappling-hook fastened to it, which he had thrown up from the canal.
Thence he had reached the loggia without much difficulty, for in the
short intervals during the lessons he had more than once looked down and
had seen that it was quite possible, and more a question of steady
nerves than of great strength and activity. At the level of the loggia a
stone ledge ran round the palace, and along this it was easy to creep on
hands and knees. He had drawn himself up to it from the top of the wall,
which joined the building at the corner of the garden.
'It is easy enough,' Stradella answered. 'And now good-bye. To-morrow
night again, love, an hour before midnight.'
She rose and they joined hands again.
'I ought to tell you not to come,' she said in a weak voice, like a
child's. 'But how can I say it--now--now that----'
If any other word would have followed, it could not. Once more her
closed eyes saw sweet summer lightnings, and the thrill of the flame ran
from her lips through every vital part.
He turned from her at last to unfasten the window, and for a moment she
was too dazed to stop him, though she would have kept him still. Then
she tried to follow him out into the loggia, but he would not let her.
'No, love,' he said, 'your wet shoes would tell tales.'
'But there is danger!' answered Ortensia, holding him by his drenched
sleeve. 'I must know you are safe!'
'When I reach my boat I will whistle softly,' he said.
He was gone in the dark, and she was listening by the open window, her
heart beating so that it seemed as if it must drown any other sound. But
he made no noise as he crept along the ledge to the corner, and then
cautiously let himself down upon the top of the wall, dropping astride
of it then to pull himself along in that position by his hands till he
found the grappling-hook of his rope. The wall rose perpendicularly from
the canal, and he had moored his little skiff to the only ring he could
find at the base of it, some distance from the corner.
Ortensia listened anxiously for the promised signal, and peered into the
darkness, her hand on the window, ready to close it as soon as she knew
he was safe.
But suddenly she heard the sound of oars striking the water, and a
yellow glare rose above the wall from the other side.
'Who goes there?' asked a deep voice.
No one answered, but instantly there was a heavy splash, as of a body
falling into the canal.
Half-an-hour later Ortensia was lying on her back again, staring up at
the rosette in the canopy. But her face was distorted with horror now,
and was whiter than the pillow itself.
In the day-room, by the light of Ortensia's little lamp, Pina was on her
knees, carefully mopping up the water that had run down from Stradella's
clothes, and drying the marble floor.