Chapter 21

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_ 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. _

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