She was probably selfish in the common sense of that ill-used word. It is generally applied to persons who do not love those that love them, but are glad of their existence, as it were, for the sake of something they receive and perhaps return—as Veronica did. But she did not ask herself questions, for she had never had the smallest inclination to analysis or introspection. It was as clear to her as ever that she did not love Gianluca in the least, but that she should find it hard to be happy without him. She had been nearer to loving poor Bosio than Gianluca, though the truth was that she had never loved any one yet.

But she pitied Gianluca with all her heart. That was the most she could do for that part of him which was nothing to her, and her face grew very sad as she thought of what he might be suffering, and of how hard it must be to die so young, with all the world before one. She could not imagine herself as ever dying.

She sat still a long time and tried to think of what she should do. But her thoughts wandered, and presently she found that she was asking herself whether it were her destiny to be fatal to those who loved her. But the mere idea of fatality displeased her as something which could oppose her, and perhaps defy her. After all, Gianluca might not die. She looked over Taquisara's letter again.

He was a man who meant what he said, and he wrote in earnest. There was something in him that appealed to her, as like to like. He had been rude and had spoken almost insolently, and even now he dared to write that he meant what he had said and only regretted the words he had used. For them, indeed, his apology was sufficient—for the rest, she was undecided. She went on to what referred to Gianluca, and her face grew grave and sad again. It must be true.

She laid the letter in the drawer where she kept Gianluca's, but in a separate corner, by itself. Then she took up her pen to write to Gianluca, intending to take up the daily written conversation at the point where she had last broken off, on the previous evening. With an effort, she wrote a few words, and then stopped short and leaned back in her chair, staring at the tapestry. It was a grim farce to write about her streets and her houses and her charities to a man who was dying—and who loved her. Yet she could not speak of his illness without letting him know that Taquisara had informed her of it. She tried to go on, and stopped again. Poor Gianluca—he was so young! All at once her pity overflowed unexpectedly, and she felt the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. She brushed them away, and left her letter unfinished.

Half an hour later she was with Don Teodoro, busy about her usual occupations and plans. But she was absent-minded, and matters did not go well. She left him earlier than usual and shut herself up in her own room. She had not been there a quarter of an hour, however, before she felt stifled and oppressed by the close solitude, and she came out again and climbed to the top of the dungeon tower, where the little plot of cabbages had been converted into a tiny flower garden, and the roses were all in bloom.

With the rising of her pity had come the desire to see Gianluca and talk with him. She could not tell why she wished it so much, after having felt so horribly indifferent at first, but the wish was there, and like all her wishes, now, it must be satisfied without delay. She was supremely powerful in her little mountain town, and on the whole she was using her power very wisely. But her dominant character was rapidly growing despotic, and it irritated her strangely to want anything which she could not have. She had almost forgotten that society had any general claims upon people who chance to belong to it, and the sudden recollection that if she went down to Naples, she could not go and see Gianluca, even under his father's and mother's roof, and talk with him if she pleased, was indescribably offensive to her over-grown sense of independence. Nor could she invite herself to Avellino to pay a visit to Gianluca's mother. She understood enough of the customs of the world with which she had really lived so little, to know that such a thing was impossible.

If she could not see him in Naples and could not go to see him at his father's place, he must come to Muro. It flashed upon her that she had a right to ask the whole Della Spina family to spend a week with her if she chose. They might think it extraordinary if they pleased—it would be an invitation, after all, and the worst that could happen would be that the old Duchessa might refuse it. But Veronica never anticipated refusals.

As for Gianluca, if he were well enough to be taken to Avellino, he could be brought to Muro. A journey by carriage was no more tiring than one by railway, and the change and excitement would perhaps do him good. The more she thought of the possibility of her plan as compared with the impracticable nature of any other which suggested itself, the more she looked forward with pleasure to seeing him—and the more clearly it seemed to her an act of kindness to give him an opportunity of seeing her.

And between her reflexions, strengthening her intention and hastening her action, there returned the real and deep sorrow she felt at the thought of losing her best friend, and the genuine pity she now felt for him, apart from the selfish consideration which had come first.

In the singular and anomalous position she had created for herself, there was no one whom she could consult. As for asking Don Teodoro's opinion, it never entered her head, for it would have been impossible to do so without confiding to him the nature of her friendship with Gianluca. She would not do that now. She had first told Bianca Corleone frankly enough of the exchange of letters, but she herself had not then known what that secret friendship was to mean in her life, nor how she and Gianluca would almost conceal it from each other. Besides, she was accustomed now to impose her will upon the old priest as she imposed it upon every one in her surroundings. When she asked his advice, it was about matters of expediency, and that happened every day, but she would not have thought of taking counsel with him about any action which concerned herself. If society chanced to be in opposition to her, society must either give way or make the best of it, or break with her. But it was certainly within the bounds of social tradition and custom that she should ask such of her friends as she chose, to stay with her under her own roof.

One small practical difficulty met her, and it was characteristic of her that it was the only one to which she paid any attention after she had made up her mind. She could have found fifty rooms for guests in the castle, but there were certainly not three which were now sufficiently furnished to be habitable as bedrooms. She had changed the face of the town in three months, but she had not at all improved her own establishment. There were foresters and men occupied upon the estates who came and went as their work required, and there were generally four or five of them in the house; but she was served by women, and there was not a man-servant in the place. She had only five horses in her stable. She glanced at the black frock she wore and smiled, realizing for the first time what Elettra had meant by protesting against her wearing it any longer.

But none of the details were of a nature to check such a woman in anything she really wished. If she chose to be waited on by women and to wear old clothes, that was her affair and concerned no one else. As for a little furniture more or less, she could get all she wanted from Naples in three or four days.



CHAPTER XXI.

Veronica had little doubt but that her invitation would be accepted by the Della Spina. Had she been as worldly wise, as she was practical in most things, she would have had no doubts at all, though she would have hesitated long before writing to the Duchessa. For, of two things, one or the other must happen. Gianluca must either die, or not die; in the first case the least which his family could do would be to give him the opportunity of seeing the woman he loved, before his death, and, in the second, such an invitation on Veronica's part was almost equivalent to consenting to marry him if he recovered. To every one except Veronica herself, the marriage would have seemed in every way as desirable as any that could be proposed to her, both for herself and for Gianluca.

Her invitation was received with mingled astonishment and delight and was duly communicated to Gianluca himself. Veronica had written to him at the same time, and he had already read her letter telling him of her plan, when his father and mother entered the room where he was lying near his open window, towards evening. They were good people, and simple, according to their lights, and they were devotedly attached to their eldest son. The love of Italians for their children often goes to lengths which would amaze northern people. It may be that where there are few love-matches, as in the old Italian society, the natural ties of blood are stronger than in countries where men leave everything for the women they love.

The Duchessa's chief preoccupation and anxiety concerned her son's strength to bear the journey. From day to day the family had been on the point of moving to Avellino, and the departure had been put off because Gianluca's condition seemed altogether too precarious. It would be an even more serious matter to convey him safely to Muro; and between her extreme anxiety for his health, and her wish that he might be able to go, the Duchessa was almost distracted. But neither she nor her husband knew that the doctors despaired of his life. The truth had been kept from them, and Taquisara had extracted it from one of the physicians with considerable difficulty, having more than half guessed it during the past two months.

At the mere suggestion of going to Muro, Gianluca had revived, reading Veronica's letter alone to himself in his room. When he heard that the invitation had actually come, he seemed suddenly so much better that the tears started to the old Duca's weak eyes.

"We must go," said the old gentleman to his wife, as they left Gianluca to consult together. "What is the use of denying it? It is passion. If he does not marry that girl, he will die of it."

"Of course she means to marry him," answered the Duchessa, her voice tremulous with nervous delight. "It is not imaginable that she should ask us to visit her, unless she means that she has changed her mind! It would be an outrage—an insult—it would be nothing short of an abominable action—I would strangle her with these hands!"

The prematurely old woman shook her weak fingers in the air, and her passionate love for her son lent her feeble features the momentary dignity of righteous anger.

"I should hardly doubt that she would marry him after this," said the Duca, thoughtfully. "And besides—where could she find a better husband? It is passion that has made him ill."

But it was not. In what they said of Veronica's probable intention they were not altogether wrong, however, from their point of view. They were in complete ignorance of the long-continued correspondence between her and Gianluca, and had they known of it, they could not possibly have understood her way of looking at the matter. Such a character as hers was altogether beyond their comprehension, and they practically knew nothing of the circumstances that had lately developed it so quickly. As for her mode of life, they believed, as most people did, that she had a companion in the person of an elderly gentlewoman whom she had chosen for the purpose among her distant relations.

Even Taquisara thought substantially as they did, and he was a man singularly regardless of conventions. It was true that he was almost as ignorant of the state of affairs as Gianluca's father and mother. After the first exchange of letters Gianluca had grown suddenly reticent. So long as Veronica had seemed altogether beyond his reach he had not hesitated to confide in the brave and honourable man who was such a devoted friend to him; but as soon as he began to feel himself growing intimate with Veronica, he ceased to speak of her except in general terms. Taquisara, if he had ever felt the need of confidence, would have stopped at the same point, or earlier, and he understood, and did not press Gianluca with questions. The latter had said that from time to time Donna Veronica had been kind enough to write to him—but that was all, and he never said it again. When the Sicilian heard of the invitation to Muro, however, he felt that he had a right to express himself, since the matter was an open one and concerned the whole family. He felt, too, an immense satisfaction in having produced so great a result by his letter.

He had written to Veronica what the doctor had told him about the general verdict after the last consultation. For himself, his faith in doctors was not by any means blind, and he was not without some hope that Gianluca might recover. At all events, it was his duty to cheer the man as far as he could, and he imagined nothing more likely to produce a good effect than the now reasonable suggestion that Veronica might possibly change her mind.

"Of course," he said to Gianluca, "the whole situation is extraordinary beyond anything I ever knew. But since Donna Veronica has left her aunt, no one can dispute her right to do as she pleases. An invitation to you and your family means a reopening of the question of the marriage. There can be no doubt of that. In my opinion, she has reconsidered the matter and means to accept you, after all."

Gianluca smiled, and his sunken eyes brightened. But he would not admit that he really had any hopes.

"I wish I were as sanguine as you," he answered.

"If you had my temperament, you would not be where you are, my dear friend," replied Taquisara, with a dry laugh. "I look at the world differently. My life may not be worth much, but it is mine, and I would not let a man take it from me with his hands, nor a woman with her eyes—without fighting for it, if I had the chance."

"How can a man fight against a woman?" laughed Gianluca, for he was very happy.

"You fight a man by facing him, and a woman by turning your back on her," said Taquisara. "There are more women in the world than there are men to love them, after all. For one that will not have you, there are three who will. Take one of the three."

"What do you know about it? You always say that you were never really in love. How can you tell what you would do?"

"I suppose I cannot be quite sure. But then—the thing is ridiculous! A man must be half a poet, he must have sensibilities, ideals, visions, a nervous heart, an exaggerating eye and a mind sensitized like a photographer's plate to receive impressions! Do you see me provided with all that stuff?"

He laughed again, somewhat intentionally, for he meant to amuse Gianluca.

"Nor myself either," answered the latter. "I am much simpler than you imagine."

"Are you? So much the better. But it makes very little difference, since you are to be happy, after all. Seriously, I do not believe that this invitation can mean anything else. If it does—if she is not in earnest—" he checked himself.

Gianluca looked at him and did not understand his expression.

"What were you going to say?" asked the younger man, with some curiosity.

"Then take one of the other three!" said Taquisara, roughly, and he rose from his seat and walked to the window.

The Duchessa's answer to Veronica was dignified and friendly. After expressing her cordial thanks for the invitation, she went on to say that besides the pleasure it would give her and her son to spend a few days under Veronica's hospitable roof, she was too well acquainted by hearsay with the splendid climate and situation of Muro to refuse an offer, by accepting which she might contribute much to Gianluca's recovery, and she went on to speak of the high mountain air and the sunshine of the Basilicata. There was truth in what she said, of course, and she was too proud not to make the most of it, entirely passing over more personal matters in order to give it the greatest possible prominence. As for Taquisara, though she guessed that he was almost indispensable to Gianluca in Naples, she made no mention of him. It would have been easy for her to suggest that he also might be invited, but she suspected that her son could do without him well enough when privileged to see Veronica every day; moreover, he would be in the way, and would probably himself fall in love with his young hostess, who, in her turn, might take a sudden fancy to the handsome Sicilian.

It was not until the things which Veronica hastily ordered from Naples arrived in huge carts from Eboli that she began to reflect seriously upon what she had done under a sudden impulse. The Duchessa wrote that she should require four or five days to reach Muro, by easy stages, and there was plenty of time to make preparations for receiving the party. After the letter had come, Veronica spoke to Don Teodoro, who had noticed her extreme preoccupation and was wondering what could have happened.

"I think I understand," he said, looking at her quietly. "It is right—you are young, but the years pass very quickly."

"What do you mean?" asked Veronica, whose sad face still puzzled him.

"What can their coming mean?" he asked, in reply, with a smile.

"What? It is I who do not understand—or you—or both of us. Don Gianluca and I are friends. He is very, very ill. The doctors say that he cannot live many months, and unless I see him now, I shall never see him again."

The old priest gazed at her in distressed surprise, and for a long time he found nothing to say. Veronica remained silent, scarcely conscious of his presence, leaning back in her chair, with folded hands and sorrowful eyes. The thought that Gianluca was to die was becoming more and more unceasingly painful, day by day. The fact that he wrote regularly to her, and yet never spoke of his condition, made it worse; for it proved to her that he could be brave rather than knowingly increase her anxiety, and the suffering of a brave man gets more true sympathy from women than the cruel death of many cowards.

"I think you are very rash," said Don Teodoro, gravely, breaking the silence at last.

Veronica turned upon him instantly, with wide and gleaming eyes, amazed at the slightest sign of opposition, criticism, or advice.

"Rash!" she exclaimed. "Why? Have I not the right to ask whom I please, and will, to stay under my own roof? Who has authority over me, to say that I shall have this one for a friend, or that one, old or young? Am I a free woman, or a schoolgirl, or a puppet doll, to which the world can tie strings to make me dance to its silly music? Rash! What rashness is there in asking my friend and his father and mother here? My dear Don Teodoro, you will be telling me before long that I should take some broken-down old lady for a companion!"

"I have sometimes wondered that you do not send for one of your relations," said the priest, who, mild as he was, could not easily be daunted when he believed himself right.

"I will make my house a refuge, or a hospital if need be, for our poor people," answered Veronica, "but not for my relations, whom I have never seen. I send them money sometimes, but they shall not come here to beg. That would be too much. I had enough of those I knew. I am willing to feed anything that needs food except vultures. I have chosen to live alone, and alone I will live. The world may scream itself mad and crack with horror at my doings, if it is so sensitive. It cannot hurt me, and if I choose to shut my gates, it cannot get in. Besides, they are coming, the Duca, the Duchessa, and Don Gianluca, and that ends the matter."

"Nevertheless—" began Don Teodoro, still obstinately unwilling to retract his word.

"Dear friend," interrupted Veronica, with sudden gentleness, for she was fond of him, "I like you very much. I respect you immensely. I could not do half I am doing without you. But you do not quite understand me. I am sorry that you should think me rash, if the idea of rashness is unpleasant to you—I will make any other concession in reason rather than quarrel with you. But please do not argue with me when I have made up my mind. I am quite sure that I shall have my own way in the end, and when the end comes, you will be very glad that you could not hinder me, because I am altogether right. Now we understand each other, do we not?"

Don Teodoro could not help smiling in a hopeless sort of way, and he lifted his hands a moment, spreading out the palms as though to express that he cleared his conscience of all possible responsibility. So they parted good friends, without further words.

But when Veronica was alone, she began to realize that Don Teodoro was not so altogether in the wrong as she believed herself to be in the right. People might certainly be found whom she could not class with the world she so frankly despised, and who would say that if Gianluca recovered she should marry him, after extending such an invitation to him and his people, and that, if she did not, she would deserve to be called a heartless flirt—from their point of view. Gianluca's father and mother might say so.

He himself, at least, must know her better than that, she thought. And then, there was the terrible earnestness of Taquisara's letter, the sober statement of his best friend, next to herself, and a statement which it must have cost the man something to make, since it was necessarily accompanied by an apology. After all, though he had insulted her, she liked Taquisara for the whole-hearted way in which he took Gianluca's part in everything. There was that statement, and she felt that it was a true one. Gianluca was more to her than any one she knew, in a way which no one could understand, and she had a right to see him before he died. If, by any happy chance, he should live, people might perhaps talk. She should not care, for she should have done right. That was the way in which she accounted to herself for her action; but the consciousness that Don Teodoro was not quite wrong was there. She remembered it afterwards, when the fatality that was quietly lying in wait for her raised its head from ambush and stared her in the face. But then, at the first beginning, she was angry with the old priest for trying to oppose her.

There was not more than time to finish the preparations, after all, for she received a note from the Duchessa, written from Eboli, saying that they would arrive a day earlier than they had expected, as the heat in the plain was intense, and they were anxious to get Gianluca to a cooler region of the mountains as soon as possible. Veronica had written, too, placing the castle at Laviano at their disposal, as a resting-place, so as to break the journey more easily for the invalid, and she sent men over to see that all was in order and to take a few necessary things for the guests.

It was a sort of caravan that at last halted before the fountain of Muro, at the entrance to the village. Veronica had been warned of their near approach, and was there to meet them, with Don Teodoro by her side.

First came the Duca and Duchessa together in a huge carriage drawn by four horses, with three servants, two men and a maid. Veronica could not see past the vehicle, as it blocked the way, and she stopped beside it to greet the couple.

"My dear child!" cried the Duchessa. "We shall never forget your kindness, and all the trouble you have taken! Gianluca is in the next carriage. I think you have saved his life!"

There was a sort of inoffensive motherliness in her tone which surprised Veronica—a suggestion of possession that irritated her. But she smiled, said a few words, and ordered the carriage to move on,—an operation which, though difficult in such a narrow way, was possible since she had improved and paved the streets. A couple of her men walked before the horses to clear the way of the women and children and the few men who were not away at work, for the news of the arrival had spread, and the people flocked together to see whether the visitors would bear comparison with their princess.

As the carriage rolled into the street, Veronica went up to meet the next. It was a very long landau, and in it Gianluca was almost lying down, his pale face and golden beard in strong relief against a dark brown silk cushion. To Veronica's amazement, Taquisara sat beside him, calmly smoking one of those long black cigars which he preferred to all others. He threw it away, when he saw her. She shook hands frankly with Gianluca.

"I am very glad you are here," she said kindly and cheerfully. "You will get well here. How do you do?" she added, turning to Taquisara as naturally as though she had expected him, for she supposed that there must have been some misunderstanding.

He explained his coming in a few words, before Gianluca could finish the sentence he began.

"He hates strangers," he said, "and I came up with him, to be of use on the journey. I am going back at once."

"You will not go back this evening, at all events," answered Veronica, with a little hospitable smile.

She was grateful to him for Gianluca's sake, both for his letter and for having accompanied his friend. For what had gone before, he had apologized and was forgiven.

"I beg your pardon," he answered. "I think I shall be obliged to go back this afternoon."

"Has he any engagement that obliges him to return?" asked Veronica of Gianluca.

As she turned to him, she met his deep blue eyes, fixed on her face with a strange look, half happy, half hungry, half appealing.

"He has no engagement that I know of," he answered.

"Then you will stay," she said to Taquisara. "Go on!" she added to the coachman, without giving time for any further answer.

There was a note in her short speech which the Sicilian had never heard before then. It was the tone of command—not of the drill-sergeant, but of the conqueror. He almost laughed to himself as the carriage moved slowly on, while Veronica and Don Teodoro followed on foot.

"You must stay, if she wishes it," said Gianluca, in a low voice.

"I am not used to being ordered to quarters in that way," answered Taquisara, smiling in genuine amusement. "I can be of no more use to you when I have got you up to your room, and I think I shall go back as I intended."

"I would not, if I were you. After all, it is a hospitable invitation, and you cannot invent any reasonable excuse for refusing to stay at least one night. The horses are worn out, too. You have no pretext."

"Perhaps not. I will see."

The carriages moved at a foot pace. As Veronica walked along she nodded and spoke to many of the poor people, who drew back into their doors from the narrow way. Behind her came two more carriages laden with luggage, and one of her own men on horseback closed the procession. By urging his stout beast up all the short cuts, he had accomplished the feat of keeping up with the vehicles.

When they reached the castle gate, the Della Spina's two men-servants jumped down and got a sort of sedan chair from amongst the luggage, but Gianluca would not have it.

"I can walk to-day," he said. "Help me, Taquisara. Have you got my stick? Thank you. No, do not lift me. Let me get out alone! I am sure that I can do it."

Pale as he was, he blushed with annoyance at his feeble state, when he saw Veronica's anxious eyes watching his movements.

It was early yet, but the August sun sank behind the lofty heights to westward, as he set his foot upon the ground. Taquisara's arm was around him, and the Sicilian's face was quiet and unconcerned, but Veronica saw the straining of the brown hand that supported the tall invalid, and she knew that Gianluca could not have stood alone. But he would not let the servants come near him. The old Duca and his wife touched his sleeve and asked him nervous, futile questions, and begged him to allow himself to be carried. Veronica stood in front, ready to lead the way.

"No, no!" exclaimed Gianluca, answering his mother. "You see. I can walk very well to-day, with scarcely any help."

But his first step was unsteady, and the next was slow. Veronica heard the uncertain footfall on the flagstones and turned again.

"Will you take my arm on this side?" she asked gently, placing herself on his right, away from Taquisara.

He hesitated, smiled, and then laid his hand upon her arm, and she and Taquisara led him in together, the old couple following, and looking at each other in silence from time to time. Through the dark, inclined way, they all went up slowly into the courtyard and under the low door, dark even on that summer's afternoon, slowly, stopping at every dozen paces and then moving on again. Taquisara almost carrying his friend with his right arm, while Veronica steadied him on the other side, till they came out at last into a room which had been furnished as a sort of sitting-room and library, especially for Gianluca's use. He sank down into a deep chair facing the window, and drew breath, as he sought Veronica's eyes.

"You are very kind," he said faintly. "But you see how much better I am," he added at once, in a more cheerful tone. "It is the first walk I have taken for several days, Donna Veronica. I have really been ill, you know."

"I know you have," she said, and she turned quickly away, for she felt more than she cared to show just then.

Possibly the Duca and his wife were too much preoccupied about their son's condition to think seriously of what was taking place, but it was strange enough in its way, and Taquisara thought so as he looked on, and wondered what Neapolitan society would think if it could stand, as one man, in his place, and see with his eyes, knowing what he knew. But he had not much time for reflexion. Veronica's women had brought Gianluca wine, and his mother was giving him certain drops of a stimulant in a glass of fragrant old malvoisie, while his father bent over him anxiously, still asking useless questions. Veronica beckoned Taquisara aside, and they stood together behind Gianluca's chair.

"That is his bedroom," she said, pointing to one of the doors, "and that is yours," she added, pointing to one opposite.

"Mine? But you did not expect me—"

"I naturally supposed that he would have a man with him, to take care of him," she answered. "If you are really his friend as you say you are, stay with him. You see that he cannot get about without you. If either of you need anything, ask for it," she added, before he could reply.

"I would rather not stay," said Taquisara, looking gravely into her face.

"Have you a good reason? What is it?" Her features hardened a little.

"I cannot tell you my reason. It concerns myself."

"Then try and forget yourself, for you are needed here," she answered almost sternly.

For two or three seconds they looked into each other's eyes, neither yielding. Then Taquisara gave way.

"I will stay," he said shortly, and he turned his face from her with a sort of effort. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked, looking towards the group of persons who stood around Gianluca.

"Yes—a good one, whom I have lately brought. Shall I send for him? Do you think he is worse?" She asked the question anxiously.

"No. No doctors can do him any good—but if he should be suddenly worse, after the long journey—"

"Do you think it is likely?" asked Veronica, interrupting him in a tone of increasing anxiety.

He turned to her again, and watched her face, curiously, wondering whether she loved the man, after all.

"I hope not," he answered quietly. "But it was a fatiguing drive, and he hardly slept at all last night. I suppose that the excitement kept him awake. He should rest as soon as possible."

"Very well," said Veronica. "I will take his father and mother away and give them tea. Stay with him and make him lie down and sleep, if possible. Dinner is at half-past seven. Let me know if we are to wait for him."

She went to Gianluca's side and spoke to the Duchessa.

"Shall I show you your rooms?" she asked. "Then we can have tea. Don Gianluca must be tired, and he should have quiet and rest before dinner—or if he prefers it, we will not expect him to-night. Sleep first, and decide afterwards," she added, addressing Gianluca himself, and her tone grew suddenly gentle as she spoke to him.

"You are very wise for your age, my dear child!" answered the Duchessa, in the motherly tone that irritated Veronica.

The old gentleman nodded gravely, being quite too much preoccupied and surprised to judge at all of his hostess's wisdom, but delighted with the effect which the change of air seemed already to have produced upon Gianluca.

They went away together, leaving the invalid with Taquisara and his own servant. Veronica led them to her favourite room, then showed them their own, and went back to wait for them, while Elettra brought the tea, just as she had done of old in the Palazzo Macomer. Veronica watched her while she was arranging the tea-table. Elettra, who rarely spoke unbidden, ventured to make a remark.

"Their Excellencies will be surprised at being waited on by women," she said; for though she hated all men-servants, she had pride for the great old house her fathers had served.

"They will be surprised at so many things that they will not notice it," answered her mistress, thoughtfully.

Elettra glanced at her quickly, but said nothing and went away, leaving her alone. She sat quite still, and did not move until the old couple came back, ten minutes later. She moved chairs forward for them to sit in, and poured out a cup of tea for each. Meanwhile they all three made little idle observations about the weather and the place.

The Duchessa, holding her cup in her hand, looked at the door from time to time, as though expecting some one to come in. At last she could contain her curiosity no longer.

"And where is your companion, my dear?" she asked suddenly.

"In the imagination of society, Duchessa," answered Veronica. "I have none. I live alone."

The Duchessa almost dropped her cup.

"Alone?" she cried, in amazement. "You live alone? In such a place as this!" She could not believe her ears.

"Yes," said Veronica, smiling. "Does it seem so very terrible to you? I live alone—and I am waited on only by women. I daresay that surprises you, too."

"Alone?" The Duca had got his breath, and sat open-mouthed, holding his tea-cup low between his knees, in both hands. "Alone! At your age! A young girl! But the world—society? What will it think?"

"Unless it thinks as I do, I do not care to know," answered Veronica, indifferently. "Let me give you some bread and butter, Duca."

"Bread and butter? No—no thank you—no—I—I am very much astonished! I am stupefied! It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!"

"Of course everybody thinks that you have an elderly companion—" chimed in the Duchessa.

"One of your Spanish relations," said the Duca, with anxious eyes. "Surely, she was here—"

"And is away just now," suggested his wife. "That accounts for—"

"Not at all," said Veronica, almost laughing. "She never existed. I came here alone, I live here alone, and I mean to live here alone as long as I please. The world may say what it pleases. I shall be three-and-twenty years of age on my next birthday. Ask Don Teodoro whether I am not able to take care of myself—and of Muro, too, for that matter!"

"Who is Don Teodoro?" asked the Duchessa, nervously, and still altogether horrified.

"The parish priest," said Veronica. "A very learned and charitable old man. He dines with me every evening."

"Then," replied the Duchessa, with a beginning of relief, "then you, and your good priest, and your woman, make a sort of—of what shall I say—a sort of little religious community here? Is that it?"

"We are not irreligious," Veronica replied, still at the point of laughter. "Most of us hear mass every morning—the church is close by the gate, on the other side of the great tower, you know—and we do not eat meat on fast days—"

"Yes, yes, I understand!" interrupted the Duchessa, grasping at any straw by which she could drag the extraordinary young princess within conceivable distance of what she herself considered socially proper. "And you spend your time in good works, in the village, of course, and in edifying conversation with Don Teodoro. Yes—I see! As you put it at first, it was a little startling, but I understand it better now. You understand it, Pompeo, do you not? It is quite clear, now."

The Duca rejoiced in the baptismal name of Pompey, like many of his class in the south, whereas the name of Caesar is more common about Rome.

"I have at least done something for the village," said Veronica. "It was in a bad state when I came here."

"It is a very clean village," observed the Duca, whose eyes still had a puzzled look in them, though his jaw had slowly recovered from its fall of amazement. "I saw no pigs in the streets. One generally sees a great many pigs in these mountain towns."

"I turned them out," said Veronica.

She went on to give a little account of the improvements she had introduced, not in vanity, but to keep them from returning to the subject of her living alone. They listened with profound interest, and with almost as much astonishment as they had shown at first.

"But do you find no opposition here?" asked the Duca. "You seem to do just as you please."

"Of course," answered Veronica. "The place belongs to me. Why should I not do as I like? There are a few tolerably well-to-do people here, who own a little property. Everything I do is to their advantage as well as to that of the poor peasants, so that they all side with me. No," she concluded thoughtfully, "I do not think that any one would oppose me in Muro. But if any one should, I have decided what to do!"

"And what should you do?" asked the Duchessa, rather nervously.

"I should send the whole family to America, with a little money in their pockets. They are always glad to emigrate, and the opposition would be quite out of the way in the Argentine Republic." Veronica laughed quietly.

When the Duca and his wife went to dress for dinner they had some very disturbing ideas concerning the character of the young Princess of Acireale.



CHAPTER XXII.

Taquisara, almost for the first time in his life, did not know how to act, but in accepting Veronica's invitation he felt that he could really be of use to Gianluca, and he saw how unbendingly determined the young princess was that he should stay. He had very good reasons for not staying, but they were of such a nature that he could not explain them to her. He had the power, he thought, to leave Muro at a moment's notice, and in yielding to Veronica's insistence, he was only submitting, as a gentleman should, in small matters, rather than engage in a contest of will with a woman. Yet he knew the matter was neither small nor indifferent, when he gave way to her, and afterwards.

Gianluca appeared at the dinner hour and reached the dining-room with his friend's help. He was placed on Veronica's left, in consideration of being an invalid, though Taquisara should have been there, according to Italian laws of precedence. Veronica had insisted that Don Teodoro should come, at all events on this first evening. She did not choose that the learned old priest should be merely the companion of her loneliness; and besides, she knew that his presence would probably prevent the Duca and Duchessa from returning to the question of her solitary mode of life. She was also willing to let them see that the humble curate was a man of the world.

It was a day of surprises for the old couple, and their manners were hard put to it to conceal their astonishment at the way in which Veronica dined. They were, indeed, accustomed to a singular simplicity in the country, and to country dishes, as almost all the more old-fashioned Italians are, but in the whole course of their highly and rigidly aristocratic lives they had never been waited on by two women in plain black frocks and white aprons. The Duca, indeed, found some consolation in the delicious mountain trout, the tender lamb, the perfect salad, and the fine old malvoisie, for he liked good things and appreciated them; but the Duchessa's nature was more austerely indifferent to the taste of what she ate, while her love of established law insisted with equal austerity that any food, good or bad, should be brought before her in a certain way, by a certain number of men, arrayed in coats of a certain cut, and shaven till their faces shone like marble. In a measure, it was a slight upon her dignity, she thought, that Veronica should let her be served by waitresses. On the other hand, she reflected upon the conversation which had taken place at tea, and was forced to admit that she had then discovered the only theory on which she could accept Veronica's anomalous position, and conscientiously remain in the house. Either she must look upon the castle of Muro and its inhabitants as a sort of semi-religious community of women, or else, in her duty to the world, and the station to which she had always belonged, she must raise her voice in protests, loud and many. For many reasons, she did not wish to insist too much, and she did her best to seem indifferent, keeping her arguments before her mind while she ate. The chief of them was, indeed, that she clung desperately to the hope of a marriage; but in her heart there was something else, and she knew that she was afraid of Veronica. It seemed ridiculous, but it was true. And her husband was even more afraid of the dominating young princess than she. They never acknowledged the fact to each other, when they exchanged moralities, and discussed Veronica, but each was afraid, and suspected the other of similar cowardice.

The Duchessa did her best to seem indifferent; but now and then, when one of the women changed her plate, or poured something into her glass, she could not help slowly looking round, with an air of bewilderment, as though expecting to see a man in livery at her elbow.

As for Gianluca, Veronica had described in her letters the way in which she lived; and Taquisara's face more often betrayed amusement than surprise at what he saw in the world. On the present occasion, having accepted the situation into which his affection for his friend had led him, he had accepted it altogether, and behaved as though he were at a dinner party in Naples, cheerfully making conversation, telling amazing stories of brigandage in Sicily, asking Veronica questions about the surrounding country, and giving such scraps of news about mutual friends as his letters had recently brought him.

Veronica had never seen the man under such circumstances, and she was surprised by his readiness and by his ability to help her in a rather difficult situation. He said nothing which she could compare with what Gianluca wrote. He never spoke of himself, and she did not afterwards remember that he had made any very brilliant observation; and yet, when dinner was over, she wished to hear him talk more, just as she had once longed to hear him say again the things he had said to her for Gianluca's sake in Bianca's garden. She had never met any one who seemed to have such a decided personality, without the slightest apparent desire to assert it. Instinctively, as women know such things, she felt that he was a very manly man, very simple and brave, and vain, if at all, with the sort of vanity which well becomes a soldierly character—the little touch of willing recklessness that easily stirs woman's admiration. What women hate most, next to cowardice, is, perhaps, the caution of the very experienced brave man—and they hate it all the more because they cannot despise it with any show of reason.

Gianluca was silently happy, perfectly satisfied to hear Veronica's voice, to watch the face he loved, and to feel that between her and him there was something which no one knew. When they spoke, there was a little constraint on both sides; but when they were silent, the bond was instantly renewed. In silence and in imagination, they were writing to each other the impressions of which they would not speak. Gianluca was telling her how grateful he was to her for insisting that Taquisara should stay, after all, and was pointing out to her that his friend was bravely bearing the burden of a conversation which kept his father and mother from prosing about the necessity of a companion for Veronica. Veronica was replying that Taquisara was more agreeable than she had expected, but that if he had been as silent as the Sphinx, or as noisy as Alexander the Coppersmith, she would have pressed him to stay because he was her friend's friend. There was a good deal about Taquisara in their imaginary correspondence.

But both felt a little more constraint, when they talked, than they had ever felt before, for both knew that on the morrow, or on the next day, at the latest, they were sure to be alone together,—quite alone,—for the first time; and they wondered whether the curious duality of their acquaintance and intimacy by word and by letter could be maintained hereafter, or whether it would suddenly resolve itself into a unity in the shape of a friendship in which they should speak to each other as they wrote.

They knew that something of the sort must happen. The Duca and his wife would certainly not stand sentry from morning till night over the young people, when they themselves so ardently desired the marriage; and Taquisara was not the man to be in the way when he was not wanted. It would be in Veronica's power to put off the meeting, if she chose to do so; but she knew, and Gianluca guessed, that she would not. Whatever society might say about it, she had assumed the position and the independence of a married woman, and had gone further than married women of her age would generally have the courage to go. To hesitate now, and to draw back from the possibility of being left alone with any one of her guests, would be absurd. She would not seek the interview, nor she would not do anything to avoid it. But she did not wish to be forced into the necessity of talking alone with Taquisara, if it could be helped. She was sure, though she had forgiven him, and liked him better than before, that she should certainly quarrel with him, though she did not know why there should be any further disagreement between them.

Possibly she recognized in him a will less despotic than her own, but quite as unbending when he chose to exercise it. The certainty of strong opposition, which is fear in cowards, becomes combativeness in brave people, and the fighting instinct takes the place of the inclination to run away. But Veronica had no further reason for quarrelling with Taquisara; and because she liked him, she determined to avoid him as much as possible, lest at the very first point of difference in conversation there should be war between them about some insignificant matter perfectly indifferent to both.

Her guests went to bed early. While Gianluca was before her, Veronica had not retained the impression she had received from Taquisara, that her friend was a doomed man. Her own vitality lent the sure certainty of life, in her imagination, to those about her. He was faint and tired from the journey, of course, but he was by no means the utterly helpless invalid she had expected to see, and she had not believed, so long as she could watch him, that he was in mortal danger. But when she was in her own room, his face came back to her, a pale shade out of dark shadow, and she saw the hollows about his deep blue eyes, his thin, bluish temples, his transparent features, and his emaciated throat, that seemed to have fallen away under his white ears. She was so suddenly and violently disturbed by the recollection that she spoke to Elettra of him. The woman had seen him go by when the party had arrived.

"Do you think that Don Gianluca looks very ill?" Veronica asked.

"Excellency—" the maid hesitated. "I wish that all may live—but he seems a dead man."

Veronica said nothing, but it was long before she got to sleep that night, and the vision of his face came again and again to her, pale, haggard, haunting, distressing her exceedingly. She rose even earlier than usual.

She did not mean that the presence of her guests should interfere with what had now become a connected work, to interrupt which would be an injury to the whole and an injustice to the people who had learned to expect it of her, looking for more, as she gave them more, and turning to her in every difficulty. But for the arrival of the party on the previous afternoon she would have gone down to an outlying farm in the valley, where the farmhouse needed repairs and there was a question of cutting down a number of olive trees so old that they hardly bore any fruit. She had ordered her mare at half-past seven in the morning, and she rode down the long, winding road, saw, judged, and gave orders, galloped most of the way up, and exchanged her riding-habit for her morning frock before the clock struck ten.

One after another, her guests appeared, and everything happened as she had foreseen. The old couple said that they were accustomed to take a little walk before the midday meal, for the sake of their appetite; Taquisara disappeared when he had helped Gianluca to a big chair in a balcony, in the shade, outside the drawing-room, and Gianluca was left alone with her, as she had expected. She established herself opposite to him, for the balcony was so narrow that two chairs could not be placed upon it side by side.

It was a magnificent summer's day, one of those days in which the whole glory of the south fills heaven and earth and air, and the stupendous tide of universal life pours into every sense, to very overflowing, as the ocean fills its world-wide bed. And the world was ripe and ripening, the corn and wheat, and olive and vine, and fruit and flower and tree, from the rich valley below, up the rough hills, as far as sun and soil and rain could draw the dress of beauty over the mountains' grand bare strength. Down there, in the vast garden, the hot air quivered with sheer living; above, the solemn peaks faced God in the still sun. The breath of the high breeze, between earth and heaven, blew upon Veronica's cheek.

They looked at each other and sat silent, and looked again and smiled, both happy in those ever-written, never-spoken thoughts which were theirs together, both fearing speech as a common thing which must jar and shake them rudely back to their other selves, which were formal, and constrained, and not at all intimate.

Gianluca lay quite still in his deep chair, his white hands motionless upon the edge of the grey shawl which was thrown over his knees. Suddenly, Veronica, sitting close and opposite to him, bent far forward and gently laid her hand upon one of his. She smiled.

"I am glad that you are here," she said simply, looking into his face.

His own brightened, and the blue eyes grew dark and tender, while her hand lingered a second.

"How good you are to me!" he exclaimed, in a low voice. "How endlessly good!"

She was still smiling as she withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair once more. A little pause followed, during which both were quite happy, in different ways—he, perhaps, in all ways at once, and she, because she felt she had broken through something like a sheet of ice by a mere gesture and half a dozen words, when it had seemed so hard to do.

"No," she said thoughtfully, at last. "It is not a question of goodness. I am natural—that is all. I do not believe that many people are. And we had got into an absurd position, you and I!" She laughed, looking at him. "We could write, but we could not speak. We each knew what the other was thinking of, and yet, somehow, neither of us could say what we thought. Was it not as I say?"

"Yes." Gianluca laughed, too, very faintly because he was weak, though he was so happy.

"It could not last," Veronica continued, "and I am glad it is over. For it is over, is it not? We can talk quite frankly now. Last night, for instance. I am sure I know what you were thinking about."

"About Taquisara? At dinner?"

"Of course. He is so much more agreeable than I expected, and I am so glad that I made him stay. And then, last night, too—did you see how your mother looked at the serving-woman, expecting to see the butler? It was so natural. It was just what I should have done in her place, and I could hardly keep from laughing."

"My dear old mother is not used to such surprises," answered Gianluca. "Of course I saw it, and knew that you did."

"Yes—but do you not think that I am quite right?" asked Veronica, her tone changing suddenly as she seemed to appeal to him for support—she, who needed so little from anybody.

"Of course you are," he answered promptly.

He felt unaccountably flattered and pleased by the mere fact of her asking him the question. He felt instinctively that she had never asked any one's opinion about her conduct, and that she really desired his approval. She, on her part, was perhaps glad to speak freely at last about the position she had assumed. If he had called her rash just then, she would not have answered him as she had answered Don Teodoro when he had used the same word.

"You see," she said, "I am not like other women. I was brought up in a convent, like most of them, but the rest of my life has been quite different. Well—you know, if any one does. I used to write you all about what I meant to do while I was still living with Bianca, and you know that I have begun to carry out most of my ideas. Yesterday afternoon, while you were resting, your father and mother and I had tea together, and she found out for the first time that I had no companion. You should have seen her face! And then, when I tried to explain, she got the impression at once that I meant to live here in a sort of amateur convent, surrounded by women. I think she rather liked the idea. It seemed to settle her disturbed prejudices a little. Of course—it must seem stranger to people who all live in the same way as she does. Oh! how glad I am that we can talk about it, you and I!"

Again she laughed happily. To Gianluca, as his eyes met hers, it seemed as though a great wave of the huge, exuberant life that filled the full-blossoming world that day had rolled up out of the broad valley to his feet and were lifting him and penetrating him and sweeping its hot tide through the ebb of his failing blood.

"Yes," he answered her. "To be able to talk at last—at last, after so much waiting, that was only half talking."

He sighed gently, and his hand stroked the grey shawl on his knees, smoothing it first in one way and then backwards in the other. She watched him, and thought that she had never seen a hand so thin.

"We shall never go back to the old way, shall we?" he asked, before she spoke again.

"I hope not!" she answered. "It was so absurd, sometimes. Do you remember at Bianca's house—"

"The night before you left? When I forgot my stick?"

"Yes; but before that. You seemed to think that there was to be no more writing because I was coming here."

"Of course—that is, I supposed that it might make a difference—"

"And then you asked me. You should have seen your face! I can remember it now. It changed all at once."

"It is no wonder. You changed the whole future with one word. You seemed really to want my letters much more than I had imagined that you did."

As by the quick lifting of a dividing veil, all the awkward little incidents and memories of constraint had suddenly become parts of the much larger and more pleasant recollection of their semi-secret intimacy, and in blending with the broader picture the little ones somehow ceased to have anything disagreeable in them, and instead, there was a touch of humour and a suggestion of laughter each time that they compared what they had said and done with what they had written and felt. It was no wonder that the fascination grew on Gianluca with every dancing beat of the happy man's pulse.

They talked on, and in the way she talked Veronica showed that while her character had grown in three-quarters of a year from girlhood to womanhood, and from womanhood to the half-imperial masculinity of a dictatress, her heart was younger than the youngest, was as unsuspicious of itself as a child's, ready to give itself in an innocent generosity which could not conceive that giving might mean being taken, or be as like it as to deceive such a willing, love-sick man as poor Gianluca. She did not say that she loved him, she did not love him, she did not wish him to think that she could love him. Why should he think that she did? Surely, that he loved her, or thought so, could make no difference.

She was so very young, under her armour of despotism, that she might almost have loved him, as she had all but loved Bosio, had there been anything to love. But there was not. Gianluca was a shadow, an unmaterial being, a thought—anything ethereal, but not a man.

The dream-driven ghost of her dead betrothed was ten times more human and real than Gianluca was to her now, with his white angel's face and misty hands that seemed to hang weightless in the air before him when he moved them. There was more of living humanity in the fast fainting echo of Bosio's last words to her than in Gianluca's clear, sweet tones. If he should tell her that he loved her now, she should perhaps not even blush; for his whole being was sifted and refined and distilled, as the very spirit of star dust, in which there was nothing left of that sweet, earthly living, breathing, dying, loving flesh and blood without which love itself is but a scholar's word, and passion means but a vague, spiritual suffering, in which there is neither hope of joy to come nor memory of any past.

Yet Gianluca breathed, and was a human man, and loved her, and he would have been strangely surprised had he suddenly seen into her heart and understood that she looked upon him as though he were a being out of another world. The moment when she had first laid her hand upon his had been the supremest of his life yet lived, and all the moments since had been as supremely happy. It was something which he had not dared to hope—to hear her speaking as though there had never been that veil between them, against which he had so often struggled, to feel her warm touch, to see the happy light in her young eyes as she sat there looking at him, to be sure at last, beyond the half assurance of uncertain written words.

But he was wise, and he bridled back the words that most readily of all others would have come to his lips. Perhaps even in the midst of his new happiness, there was the unacknowledged fear of evil chance if he should speak too soon and put the beautiful gold to the touch while the magic transmutation was still so dazzlingly fresh. The present was so immeasurably better than the past, so near a perfection of its own, that he could wait in it a while before he opened wide his arms to take in the very whole of happiness itself, wherewith the beautiful future stood full laden before him.

As they talked, they went over and over much that they had written to each other during the long months of their correspondence, and at last Veronica came back to the question she had at first asked him.

"So you think that I am sensible in living as I do," she said. "I am glad. I value your opinion, you know."

She had perhaps never said as much as that to any one.

"You have made it what it is," he answered.

"How do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"You cannot do wrong," he replied, with his faint, far-off laugh. "If I had read in a book, of an imaginary person, all that you have written me of yourself, I should have said that most of it was absolutely impossible, or wildly rash, or foolishly unwise. You know how we are all brought up. We are nursed in the arms of tradition, we are fed on ideas of custom—we are taken to walk, as children, by incarnate prejudice for a nursery maid, and taught to see things that used to be, where modern things are. What can you expect? We have not much originality by the time we grow up."

"Yes—you know that I was educated in a convent."

"That is better than being educated at home by a priest." Gianluca smiled again. "Besides, you are different. That is why I say that if I have an opinion, you have made it for me. You are doing all those things which I could not have believed in a book, and they are turning out well. If society could see you here, it would not find it necessary to invent a duenna to chaperon you. But it is not everybody who could do what you have done, and succeed. I do not wonder that my mother is astonished, and my father, too. But at the same time, since you can do such things, it seems to me that you would have made a great mistake in doing anything else—as great a mistake as Julius Caesar would have made if he had chosen to remain a fashionable lawyer instead of mixing in politics, or Achilles, if he had taken a necklace or a bracelet and left the sword in Ulysses' basket. You would have found your mythical duenna a nuisance in real life."

Veronica laughed.

"At the end of the first week I should have locked her up in the dungeon tower, to get rid of her," she said.

"I have no doubt that you would, and your people would have thought it the most natural thing in the world. You could do anything you pleased in this place, I fancy. They would not think it strange if you tried and condemned a cheating steward and had him executed in that gloomy courtyard we passed through when we came in yesterday."

"The law might find fault with my vivacity," said Veronica. "But my people would say that I had done right if the man had really cheated them. It is quite true, I think. I could do almost anything here. I had a man locked up in the municipal prison the other day for forty-eight hours, because he was tipsy and swore at Don Teodoro in the street. Of course, it is nominally the syndic who does that sort of thing; but he belongs to me, like everything else here, and I do as I please, just as my grandfather did, when he really had power of life and death in Muro, including the privilege of torture. The first article mentioned in the old inventory was forty palms of stout rope for giving the cord, as they called it. They did it under the main gate,—that is why it came first,—and they used to pull them up to the vault and then drop them with a jerk to within two feet of the ground. The ring is still there, just inside the gate."

"My mother's uncle—the old Marchese di Rionero—once hanged a ruffian for mutilating one of his horses out of spite. And they say that Italy has not progressed! There is no hanging, not even for murder, nowadays."

"Yes," answered Veronica, thoughtfully, "we have progressed, in a way. That is our trouble—we have progressed too fast and improved too little, I think."

"That sounds paradoxical."

"Oh no! It is common sense, as I mean it. Progress costs money, improvement brings it. Progress means wearing clothes like other people, having splendid cities like other nations, keeping up armies and navies like other great powers. Improvement means helping poor people to earn more wages and to live better—giving them a possibility of happiness, instead of taking the little they have in order to give ourselves the appearance of greatness. That is why I say that in Italy we have too much progress and too little improvement."

"Yes—how well you put it!" Gianluca looked at her with quick admiration.

"Do I? It is because you understand easily. Should you call me patriotic? I think I am. I am an Italian before anything else, before being a Serra, a woman, a member of society—anything! I feel as though I should like to give my heart for my people and my life for our country, if it would do any good. Of course, if it really came to making any great sacrifice, I suppose my courage would shrivel up and I should behave just like any one else."

"No—you would not," said Gianluca, gravely. "There have been women—the great Countess, and Saint Catherine of Siena—"

"Yes!" Veronica laughed. "And there were also my good ancestors, who tore Italy to pieces, joined hands with German Emperors, upset Popes, seized everything they could lay hands upon, and turned the country into a sort of perpetual gladiator's show. That is a proud and promising inheritance for an aspiring patriot, is it not? The less you and I talk of patriotism, the better—seeing what our people have done in history to make patriotism necessary in our time."

"Perhaps so. Doing is better than talking, and you have begun by doing good and trying to make people happy. You have succeeded in one case, already."

She looked at him with a glance of inquiry.

"What case?" she asked.

"I mean myself—of course. You have made me perfectly happy to-day."

"I am glad," she answered. "I wish you to be always happy."

She spoke thoughtfully, gravely, and gently, and then turned from him a little, and looked through the iron railing of the balcony, down at the deep distance of the valley. She was wondering, and justly, whether during the past hour she had not made a mistake, very cruel to him, in breaking down all at once the barrier of excessive formality which hitherto had stood between them when they met. Words rose to her lips, which with the utmost gentleness should quickly undeceive him, if he had been deceived; but when she looked at him and saw his happy, appealing eyes and his transparent face, her courage was not ready. Perhaps he was dying, as she had been told. She turned again and watched the misty depths.

"Don Gianluca—" she began, with a little hesitation. But as she spoke there was a footfall in the embrasure.

"What were you going to say?" asked Gianluca, knowing from her tone that she had meant to speak of some grave matter.

"Nothing!" she answered with a little sharpness. "Pray take my chair, Duchessa," she said, turning to the good lady, who had come slowly forward till she stood with her head just out in the air. "It is time for luncheon," she added, as she made the Duchessa sit down, nodded quickly to Gianluca, and went in.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, and contributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about their son and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation. They were both too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage upon Veronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel that they were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they told each other, in the privacy of the Duchessa's dressing-room, that after what Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, to marry him. That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted; for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far as the prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy of belief. He had certainly been much better since they had brought him to Muro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they were until the autumn.

On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking very plainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must not be deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had no intention of ever marrying at all. But she had been interrupted by the coming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the first opportunity, she did not purposely create another at once. She was not skilful in such situations. When her directness came into conflict with her sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious matters she instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could be hard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time rather be over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most people call tact. The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in a glacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to know certainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of any one of them, nor how far it may lead. The little strengths of weak people are like jagged rocks jutting up in shifting sands and changing tide, the more dangerous to the unwary because they are few and unexpected, and no one can tell where they lie, just below the surface. Many a brave enterprise has gone to pieces upon the stupid, unforeseen obstinacy of a despised weakling.

Veronica, like other people, even the very strongest, had weak points, or moments when some points of her character were weak, which comes to the same thing in result. She dreaded to hurt Gianluca, and since the occasion had passed when she might have made everything clear, and would have done so, she found it hard to decide how to act.

Taquisara had told her that the man was dying. If that were true, it could make no difference, whether he believed that she would marry him or not. The thought of his death was terribly painful, and she thrust it from her; for she was not heartless, and in the days that followed their conversation on the balcony, her affection grew to be as real and deep as it could possibly have been for a most dearly loved brother. For her, there had been none of those ties in which such affections live and grow and become parts of life itself. Fatherless, motherless, without brother, or sisters, the girl had grown up not knowing what she had to give, and giving scarcely anything at all of what was best in her. She was reticent and proud, and could never be attached to many people. Bianca had been her friend, in a way, but Bianca's life was mysterious to her, and Pietro Ghisleri had come between the two.

And now, through many months, by the intimacy of correspondence which had suddenly turned to an intimacy of real converse in which she had not been disappointed, she had grown—for it was a true growth—to the power of a most devoted friendship, capable of great and lasting sacrifice. It was a friendship, too, that was, as it were, pre-sanctified by the rising shadow of near death, fore-hallowed by the sure suffering of its coming end. It would be hard indeed to cut from Gianluca's heart the one flower of his loving belief.

But then, when she sat beside him on the balcony in the shady hours, and the great wave of life came up to her from the southern valley, she could not believe that he was really to die. And then, she hesitated, and she wished to do what was right and true by him, pain or no pain. Sometimes there was a little colour in his face, and often the deep blue light came into his beautiful eyes. He was to live, then, and she felt that she was cruel, and base, and cowardly to let his thoughts of her grow.

Those were the good days. There were worse ones, when he lay like a dead angel before her, and only in his eyes there was a little life. Then more than once, she gave him the magic of her touch, laid one hand softly upon one of his, or smoothed his silk pillow and arranged the shawl about him. Perhaps she was wrong to do such things, just because she was so young; but when she did them he breathed freely again, and the faint false dawn of a new day that might never brighten rose in the alabaster cheeks.

Once, Taquisara, standing on the great round bastion below, unnoticed by them both under the spreading vine, turned suddenly by chance and looked up through the leaves, and he saw how Veronica was bending forward towards his friend and touching one hand of his—for it was not far to see. Taquisara did not look again, but presently he went in, and there was less of unconcern in his handsome bronze face that day, and his dark eyes were harder and colder than they were wont to be.

Veronica liked him, and forgot altogether the unpleasantness which there had been between them. He was as gentle as a woman with Gianluca. He seemed to be strong, too, for on the bad days when his friend could not walk at all, he carried him like a child from room to room. Veronica saw how necessary he was, and he knew it himself, for after his first protest he made no attempt to go away. Gianluca, naturally sensitive and abnormally impressionable, hated to be touched by servants, as some invalids do, and Taquisara's constant presence saved him much suffering, none the less acute because it was imaginary.

At luncheon, at dinner, whenever the Duca and Duchessa were present, Taquisara did his best to help the conversation and always seemed cheerful, unconcerned, and hopeful for Gianluca's recovery. It was on rare occasions, when Veronica found herself alone with him for a few moments, or together with him and Don Teodoro, that the man appeared to her silent, morose, and sometimes almost ill-tempered. He did not again speak rudely in her presence, but she guessed that the unspoken thought was constantly in his mind—that, and something else which she could not understand. Daily, hourly perhaps, he was inwardly accusing her of playing with Gianluca, as he had expressed it.

Strange to say, she began to care for his opinion and to wish that he could understand her better; and because he could not, she resented the opinion which she thought he held of her. When she was with him, she felt something which she did not recognize in herself—a desire to attack him, for no reason whatever, and at the same time a wish that he might like her better. Even in her childhood she had never cared very much whether people liked her or not.

One day it rained,—for it was in August,—and from time to time the enormous thunder-storms rolled up out of the valley and crashed and split themselves upon the sharp peak above Muro, and rumbled away to northward up the pass, while the deluge of cold rain descended in their track.

It was afternoon. The windows were all shut, the Duca and Duchessa had disappeared for their daily sleep, as they always did, and Veronica and Taquisara kept Gianluca company in one of the big rooms. He was better than usual, but Veronica found it hard to amuse him, and tried to imagine some diversion for the long hours.

"Can you fence?" she asked suddenly, of Taquisara.

"Of course—after a fashion," he answered, with a laugh of surprise at the question, which seemed absurd to him.

"Will you fence with me?"

"I? Oh—I remember hearing that you took fencing lessons at the Princess Corleone's. If it amuses you, of course I will."

"I have all my things here," said Veronica. "There are any number of foils, and I got two men's jackets and masks, just in the hope that they might be wanted some day. I am very fond of it, you know. We can move the table away from the middle of the room—it will be something to do. It is dull, when it rains, and Don Gianluca can watch us and tell me when I make mistakes. It will amuse us all."

"Gianluca could give us both lessons," said Taquisara. "He fences beautifully."

"Ah—if I only could!" exclaimed Gianluca, in a tone that hurt Veronica.

The invalid looked down at his long, thin legs and emaciated hands, and he tried to smile bravely.

"You would rather not see us—we will not do it," said Veronica, gently, bending a little to see his face, as she stood near him.

"Oh no! Please do!" he answered. "I have never seen a woman fence—I cannot imagine how you could. It would amuse me very much. Please send for the foils."

The things were brought, the tables and chairs were moved away, Taquisara drew Gianluca's big easy-chair, with him in it, towards the window, and Veronica put on her leathern jacket and glove, and stood holding her mask in her hand, as she bent over the foils looking for her favourite one. She found it, and came forward, carrying both mask and foil, while Taquisara got ready. Gianluca looked at her and smiled. There was something defiant and warlike about the small, well-poised head, the aquiline features, and the bright eyes. With one foot a little in advance she stood up, straight and daring, in the middle of the room, waiting for her adversary. The grey light of the rainy afternoon gleamed coldly along the steel.

Taquisara took the one of the two masks which fitted him the better, and picked out a foil. He did not think of putting on a jacket to fence with a woman.

"No jacket?" asked Veronica, with a short laugh, as she slipped her mask over her head.

He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course, and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil. She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were to fence a bout for a prize. Taquisara did the same.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard. "Are you left-handed?"

"Yes—did you never notice it?" She laughed again, as her foil played upon his for a second. "Now then!" she cried.

Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent very little time in the study of the art. He was bold, quick, and somewhat reckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men of his society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he had wounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his own safety, than by any superior skill. He had expected that Veronica would make a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sport in a few minutes. To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she could really fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her a great advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary. He had of course intended and expected only to defend himself without ever really attacking, as men generally do when they fence with women. But he was mistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted.

She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way. Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that was like a man's, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foil bent nearly double, with the button full on his breast. She stepped back, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca's, and he laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted.

"I took you by surprise," she said. "You had better put on a jacket—it is just as well."

"Oh no—but you can really fence! I had no idea. I shall be more careful. Try again!"

They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious. His defence did not compare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest. He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently she touched him on the arm.

"Why do you not attack me?" she asked impatiently. "You need not be afraid—I can defend myself pretty well."

He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with a man, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage. She felt an unaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitement she uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did more than once. She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, and she was glad that she should do better against him than against Bianca or her fencing-master. There was a strange delight in it. He, on his part, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a real attack. He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failed utterly. Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and she was left-handed.

It was rather wild play, but it was amusing to watch, and Gianluca looked on with delighted appreciation. She was so slight and graceful, and yet so quick and strong. As for Taquisara, he was glad when she drew back, took her mask from her face, and said that it was enough.

"You ought to know that you can hardly ever disarm a left-handed person when you are engaged in carte," observed Gianluca, looking at Taquisara.

Though he had never been in a quarrel in his life, he had been passionately fond of fencing, and in his real interest in what he had seen he did not even think of complimenting Veronica. She was keen enough to feel that his scientific remark was better than any flattery.

Taquisara shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"Donna Veronica fences like a man," he said. "And I am not very good at it either. She would have killed me two or three times!"

"You never really attacked me," she answered, flushed and happy. "By the by," she added, seeing that he was looking over the other foils, "one of those is sharp—the one with the green hilt—be careful not to take it by mistake if we fence again, for you might really kill me."

"How did it come here?" he asked, taking up the one she indicated.

"It was lying about at the Princess Corleone's. I took it by mistake, I suppose, with my things. I believe that Signor Ghisleri brought it to show her, one day. I think he said it had been used."

She threw off her leathern jacket, and tossed the other things aside.

"Let us fence a little every day," she said. "That is, if you will really fence, instead of playing with me."

"I am certainly not able to play with you," he answered. "And I shall wear a jacket next time."

"You are wonderful," said Gianluca, still watching her with admiration.

The storm had passed, and the rain was over. Before long the Duca and Duchessa would appear for tea, and Taquisara said that he would go for a walk. Veronica rang and had the room set in order again, and sat down by Gianluca. The exercise had done her good, and she still felt that fierce little satisfaction at having fought with Taquisara. There was an unwonted colour in her cheeks, and her brown hair had been somewhat ruffled by the mask. Her hands were warm, and tingled, and she felt intensely alive. It had been pleasant, for once, to put out all her energy in something like a real struggle.

Little by little her sensations wore off, and she was quite quiet again, but the recollection of them remained and made her wish to renew them every day.

"You are wonderful," Gianluca repeated, when they had talked of other things for a while. "Taquisara is not a fencing-master, but he is as good as most men, and better than many. You gave him trouble, I could see. It was all he could do to defend himself against you, sometimes."

"Did it amuse you to watch us?" asked Veronica.

"Yes—of course!"

"Then we will do it again, every day. I am glad of a little practice, and it will not hurt him either. A descendant of Tancred ought to fence better than that! I suppose that your mother would be horrified."

"She might be a little surprised."

"Shall we tell her?"

"Not unless we are obliged to," answered Gianluca, with a smile. "We do not tell her everything."

"No," said Veronica, acquiescing rather thoughtfully.

Gianluca was in that state in which there is a delight in having little, harmless secrets from the world in common with one much loved, but not yet wholly won, and each small secrecy was to the bond that held him what the silver threads are to Damascus steel, welded into the whole that the blade may bend double without breaking. But to Veronica it was different; for she guessed instinctively how he looked upon such trifles, and she did not wish them to multiply unduly. Each one was a sting to her conscience.

"I hate secrets," she said gravely, after a pause. "Let us tell her. It is much better."

"As you like," answered Gianluca, with a little disappointment, which she did not fail to notice.

"You think that she will be scandalized? And that we shall not fence any more? Why? I am sure, if she could see us, she would think it very proper. It is not improper, is it?" She asked the last question anxiously, as though in an after-thought.

"Improper? No! How absurd! If everything that is unusual were to be considered improper, our writing to each other would be improper, too. But we kept it a secret, all the same. I cannot imagine talking about it. For me—everything that belongs to you is a secret."

Veronica leaned back in her chair, and her face grew still more grave, but she did not answer. The struggle had begun again, and the hesitation. Should she tell him, once for all, that she really never could love him? Should she leave him the illusion he loved so well? Was he to die, or was he to live? The answer to each question seemed to lie in the query of the next. He spoke again before she broke the silence.

"Do you not feel that—a little—not as I do, but just a little, about me?" he asked in a voice not timid, but very soft.

"No," she answered sadly. "Not as you do. No; it is quite different."

She did not look at him at once, for she was almost afraid to meet his eyes, but she heard him catch his breath, as though to strangle a sigh by main force, and his head moved on the cushion.

She had begun to hurt him.

"I thought you might," he said, faintly but steadily. "I almost thought you did."

"No," she repeated, with ever-increasing gentleness. "No. Do not think that—please do not!"

He said nothing, but again he moved his head. Then, seeing that the moment had come, and that she must face it with truth or lie to him while he lived, she turned her face bravely towards him, to tell him all her heart.

"You are the only real friend I have in the world," she said. "But I can never love you—never, Gianluca—never. It is not in me. There is no one in the whole world for whom I care as I do for you. I cannot imagine anything that I could not do for your sake. But not love—not love. That is something else. I do not know what it means. You could make me understand anything but that. Oh—why must I say it, when it is so hard to say?"

His face seemed cut, as a mask of pain, in alabaster, and the appealing, hungry eyes waited for each fresh hurt.

"You made me think that you might love me," he said, the slow words hardly forming themselves on his dry lips.

"Then God forgive me!" she cried, clasping her hands and bending her face over them. "And yet—and yet I knew it. I felt it. I meant to tell you, if you did not know! I only wished not to hurt you—it is so hard to say."