At this point the conversation was interrupted by the return of the maid. The belt, as was to be expected, did not fit at all, and Veronica put on her own again. The maid moved about the room, setting things in order.
“Give him a sign, if you wish him to speak when you meet,” said Matilde, in a low voice. “It will be so much easier for him. Wear a flower in your frock to-night at dinner — any flower. May I tell him that?”
“Yes,” answered Veronica, for it seemed a charitable suggestion so far as Bosio was concerned. “I am going out, now,” she added suddenly. “May I have the carriage?”
“Certainly. Shall we go together?”
“Oh, no! I do not want you at all!” cried the young girl, frankly and laughing. “I have a secret. I will take Elettra with me.”
Elettra was the name of the maid.
“Very well,” replied Matilde. “I suppose you will tell me the secret some day. Is it connected with New Year’s presents? There are three weeks yet. You have plenty of time.”
Veronica laughed again, which was undoubtedly equivalent to admitting her aunt’s explanation, and therefore not, in theory, perfectly truthful. But she did not wish the countess to know that she was going to Bianca Corleone’s house, since Matilde would of course suppose, if she knew it, that she was going to consult Bianca about accepting Bosio, which was not true either. She laughed, therefore, and said nothing, having got the use of the carriage, which was all she wanted.
“It is horrible weather,” observed Matilde, looking at the window, upon which the rain was beating like wet whips, making the panes rattle and shake.
“Yes, but I want some air,” answered Veronica, in a tone of decision.
At such a time it was not safe to irritate the girl even about the smallest matter, and Matilde said nothing more, though under other circumstances she would have made objections. As it was not yet time to go out, and in order to get rid of her aunt, Veronica bade Elettra take out a ball gown which needed some change and improvement, Matilde understood well enough that it was useless to wait longer for the chance of being again alone with her niece, and in a few minutes she went away.
On the whole, she had the impression that the prospect was very good. But after she had closed the door, she turned in the outer room, stood still a moment and looked back, allowing her face for a moment to betray what she felt. The expression was a strange one; for it showed doubt, fear, conditional hatred, and potential vengeance — a complicated state of mind, which the cleverest judge of human faces could hardly have understood from Matilde’s features. Then, with bent head, and closed hands hanging by her sides, she went on her way.
An hour later Veronica and her maid were driving through the rain westward, towards Bianca’s villa. As they approached their destination, Veronica felt that she was by no means as calm and indifferent as she had expected to be. Yesterday, it had seemed a very simple matter to go to the garden, to find Gianluca there, to walk ten or twenty paces with him out of hearing of Bianca, and to listen to what he had to say. In a manner it had seemed, indeed, a wild and romantic adventure, which she should remember all her life. But it had looked easy to do, whereas now, all at once, it looked very hard. Again and again, on the way, she was on the point of stopping the carriage and returning. It all looked so different, at the last minute, from what she had expected.
It was raining, and she should find Bianca indoors. Probably she would be sitting in her boudoir, beyond the drawing-room, and Pietro Ghisleri would be with her. Veronica would have to give some little excuse or reason for coming, on his account, even though Bianca was her intimate friend. Probably Gianluca would be there already, for it was past eleven o’clock, and Bianca would understand that his coming was the result of what Taquisara had said to Veronica on the previous day. She would not show that she understood, even to Veronica, because she was tactful, but Veronica knew that she was sure to blush, in spite of herself, at the thought that Bianca knew why she had come. Then, too, in the drawing-room, or the boudoir, it would not be easy to be alone with Gianluca. She could not get up and go and stare stupidly out of the window at the rain, taking him with her.
She was naturally too obstinate to change her mind, and turn back; yet by the time the brougham drove into Bianca’s gate, she really hoped that Gianluca might not come at all. But when she crossed the threshold of the house, she already hoped that he might be there. Her doubts were soon set at rest by the sight of his thin face and almost colourless beard, in the distance, as the servant opened the door of the drawing-room. Bianca was seated at the piano, and Gianluca was standing on one side of her, while Ghisleri bent over her on the other, looking at the sheet of music before her. She rose, as Veronica entered, — a queenly young figure, with a lovely, fateful face. To-day her eyes were dark and shadowy, and Veronica thought that she must have been crying in the night.
Gianluca had started visibly when Veronica had appeared, but she did not look at him until she had kissed Bianca, and had spoken to Ghisleri, who now, for the first time, understood the meaning of Gianluca’s unexpected morning visit. Bianca had guessed it almost immediately, and had purposely sat down to the piano to look over the music. It would seem natural, she thought, when Veronica came, that she should resume her seat, and play or sing, with Ghisleri to turn over the pages for her, while Veronica and Gianluca could talk. She was too loyal to her friend, and too discreet, to have given Ghisleri a hint, even had she been able to do so after Gianluca had come. But events proved to her that she was right.
When Veronica, at last, spoke to the younger man, there was an evident constraint in her manner. He, on his part, blushed suddenly pink, and then turned white again, almost in a moment. He put out his hand nervously, and then withdrew it, not finding Veronica’s, but before he had quite taken it back, hers came forward, and hesitated in the air. Then he took it, and both smiled in momentary embarrassment over the incident, and a little at the thought of having shaken hands at all, for it is a custom reserved in the south for married women.
“Do you mind if I go on trying this song?” asked Bianca, sitting down to the piano again. “Talk as much as you please,” she added. “I do not know it — I only wish to look it over.”
Veronica was surprised at the ease and simplicity with which matters were arranged, and in a few seconds she found herself sitting beside Gianluca, on a narrow sofa at some distance from Bianca and Ghisleri. Gianluca looked at her sideways, and then a moment later she looked at him; but their eyes did not meet. She had only glanced at him once, and for an instant after they had sat down, side by side, but she had got a good view of his face in that one look. It was evident to her that he was really ill, whatever might be the cause of his illness. The delicate features were unnaturally thin and drawn, and there were blue shadows at the temples such as consumptive men often have. The blue eyes were sunk too deep, and there were hollows above the lids, under the brows. His figure, too, though tall and well proportioned, had seemed frail to her when she had seen him standing by the piano, and his hands were positively emaciated.
She could not help pitying him. But it is only pity for sorrow, or for trouble, that is akin to love, not pity for physical weakness; unless, perhaps, a woman is very certainly sure that such weakness is indeed the result of love for herself, wearing the man out night and day — and then the pity she feels is instantly all but love itself and in fact often more than love in deeds. But Veronica had no such certainty. She still believed that Taquisara had overshot the mark of truth. She waited for Gianluca to speak.
“We have met — I have had the honour of meeting you — several times already, Donna Veronica, since you came from the convent,” he said at last, after a little preliminary cough.
“Oh yes!” answered Veronica, with a smile. “We have often met. I know you very well.”
“I was not quite sure whether you remembered me,” he said.
He looked at her, and the blood rose and fell quickly in his cheeks, and his hands moved
uneasily as he clasped them upon one of his knees.
“You must think that I have a very poor memory,” observed Veronica, still smiling, not intentionally, but because she was young enough, and therefore cruel enough, to be amused by his embarrassment. “The last time I saw you was at the theatre, I think — at the opening night, last week — ten days ago — when was it?”
“Yes,” he answered quickly. “That was the last time I saw you; but the last time we spoke was at the San Giuliano’s.”
“Was it? I do not remember. We have often talked — a little — at different places.”
“I remember very well,” said Gianluca, with a good deal of emphasis and looking earnestly at her.
Veronica tried to recall the conversation on the occasion to which he referred, but could not remember a word of it.
“Did I say anything especial, that time?” she asked, wondering whether she had then unfortunately answered ‘yes,’ in a fit of absence of mind, to some question of hidden import which he had perhaps addressed to her.
“Oh yes!” he answered promptly. “You told me that you liked white roses better than red ones. You see, I have a good memory.”
“That was a tremendously important statement.” Veronica laughed, somewhat relieved by the information.
“I always remember everything you say,” said Gianluca. “I think I know by heart all you have ever said to me.”
He spoke with a sort of grave and almost child-like conviction.
“I shall remember everything you say to-day,” he added, after a moment’s pause.
“I hope not!” exclaimed Veronica. “I sometimes say very foolish things, not at all worth remembering, I assure you.”
“But what you say is worth everything to me,” he said, with another sudden blush, and a quick glance, while his hands twitched.
He was painfully shy and embarrassed, and was producing anything but a favourable impression upon Veronica. She was sorry for him, indeed, in a superior sort of fashion, but she thought of Taquisara’s bold eyes and strong face, and of Bosio Macomer’s quiet and refined assurance of manner, and Gianluca seemed to her slightly ridiculous. It was in her blood, and she could not help it. Some of her people had been bad, and some good, but most of them had been strong, and she liked strength, as a natural consequence. Moreover, she had not enough experience of the world to put Gianluca at his ease; and a sort of girlish feeling that she must not encourage him to say too much made her answer in such a way as to throw him off his track.
“It is very kind of you to say so,” she answered lightly. “But I am sure I do not recollect ever saying anything important enough for you to remember. Take what we are saying now, for instance—”
“I shall know it all, when you are gone,” interrupted Gianluca, harking back again. “Indeed — I hope you will not think me rude or presumptuous — but I thought that perhaps I might meet you here — if I came often, I mean; for Taquisara—”
“Oh yes,” said Veronica, as he hesitated. “I met Baron Taquisara here yesterday. I daresay that he told you so.”
As his embarrassment had increased, hers had completely disappeared — which was a bad sign for him and his hopes.
“Yes — yes. He told me—”
Gianluca leaned back suddenly in his seat, overcome with a sort of shame at the thought that Taquisara had spoken to her for him, and that he himself could find nothing to say. His face pale and red, and his hands trembled.
“I like your friend,” said Veronica, quietly, wondering whether he felt ill.
“Yes — I am glad,” answered Gianluca. “He is a true friend, a good friend. If you knew him as well as I do, you would like him still better.”
Veronica thought this probable, but refrained from saying so, and remained silent. Bianca was touching gentle chords at the piano. Now and then a few words, sung in deep, soft notes, sad as the south wind, floated through the room, and then she and Ghisleri talked about the song, paying no attention whatever to the pair on the sofa.
Gianluca sighed and caught his breath. Veronica glanced quickly at him, and then looked again at the top of Ghisleri’s head, as the latter bent down. She had not thought that she had expected so much of the meeting. She certainly had not the slightest personal feeling for the man beside her. And yet, somehow, she was dismally disappointed. If this was the man who was dying of love, she infinitely preferred Bosio Macomer. Gianluca was evidently in bad health. He looked as though he might be in a decline, and he was clearly very nervous and ill at ease. But he did not speak at all as she supposed that a man would who was deeply in love. Taquisara had spoken far better. He had seemed so much in earnest that if he had suddenly substituted himself for Gianluca as the subject of his phrases, Veronica could have believed him easily enough.
“Then I may hope that you will forgive me for coming here, thinking that
I might meet you?” said the young man, with a question in his voice.
“Why should you not come?” asked Veronica, not unkindly, but with the least possible inflexion of impatience.
“There can certainly be no reason, if you are not offended,” he answered. “But if I thought that I had offended you, by coming, I should never forgive myself.”
“But I should certainly forgive you, if you offended me unintentionally. Besides, there is no reason in the world why you should not come here to see Bianca whenever you like, if she will receive you. She goes out very little. She is glad to see people.”
He was a man born to throw away opportunities, an older woman would have thought; but Veronica grew impatient at his insistence upon useless things, and his thin, nervous hands irritated her vaguely as, looking down, or in front of her, she could not help seeing them clasped upon his knee. Once, too, she was aware that Bianca leaned to one side and looked towards her, round the side of the sheet of music, as though to see how matters were progressing. Veronica began to feel that she was in a ridiculous position. The hesitation and pauses and silences had made the brief conversation already last nearly a quarter of an hour. In that time Taquisara had said all he had to say. Veronica made a little movement, a very slight indication that she would presently leave her seat. Gianluca started and suddenly gazed earnestly into her face, so that she turned her head and met his eyes.
“Please do not go yet!” he cried in a low and earnest voice that had real entreaty in it.
“No,” she answered quickly. “I am not going. But I must go soon. I cannot stay long, for I must go home to luncheon, and I have not talked with Bianca at all yet.”
“Yes — I know — and I must be going too,” he said nervously. “But if you knew what it is to me to sit here beside you for a few minutes—” He stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed to his face.
“In what way?” asked Veronica, with an impatient, womanly impulse to make him speak and have done with it, in order that there might be no more misunderstanding.
“Because — because I love you, Donna Veronica!” He turned quite white as he found words at last. “I must say it this once, even if you never forgive me. This is the first happy moment I have had since I saw you the last time. I love you — let me tell you so before I die, and I shall die happy if you will forgive me, for I have dreamed of saying it, and longed to say it, so often. You are my whole life, and my days and nights only have the hours of my thoughts of you to mark them.”
His words came confusedly and uncontrolled, but his voice had a longing pathetic ring in it, as of a very hopeless appeal. Veronica had been startled at first, and her eyes were wide and girlish as she looked at him. It was the first time that any man had ever told her that he loved her, and for that reason it was to be memorable; but it did not seem to be the first time. Taquisara’s manly pleading and fervent voice when he had spoken yesterday had left her ears dull to this real first time of hearing love speeches, so that this seemed the second, and the words she heard, after the first little shock of realizing what they were, touched no chord that would respond.
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She did not answer at first, but half unconsciously she shook her head, as she turned from him and looked away once more. Perhaps that was the most unkind thing she could have done; for it was so natural, and simple, and unaffected a refusal, that he could hardly be mistaken as to her meaning; and, after all, she had led him on to speak. She herself was shocked at her own heartlessness a moment later, and in one of those absurd concatenations of ideas which run through the mind at important moments, she felt as though she had been giving a merchant an infinity of trouble to show his wares, only to buy nothing and go away. Then, the brutality of the involuntary simile distressed her, too, and she felt that she ought to say something to destroy the effect of it on her own mind, as well as to comfort Gianluca. But she could not find much to say. Very young women rarely do, under the circumstances.
“I am very sorry,” she said gently.
She felt that he might have a right to reproach her for coming there, and she was grateful to him for not doing so, having really very little idea of the nature of the over-submissive and humble love which sapped his manliness instead of rousing his courage.
“Ah, I knew it!” he almost moaned, and resting his elbows upon his knees he covered his face with his delicate, white hands, that trembled spasmodically now and then. “I knew it,” he repeated in his broken voice. “You were kind to let me speak — I kiss your hands — for your kindness — I thank you—”
His voice broke altogether. Veronica heard a smothered sob, and glancing at him nervously, saw the tears trickling down between his fingers. She looked up quickly to see whether Bianca had noticed anything, but the sweet, deep voice was singing softly to the subdued chords of the piano, and Veronica sat quite still, waiting for Gianluca to recover his self-control.
She felt that she pitied him, but at the same time considered him in some way an inferior being; and as the idea of marrying him crossed her mind again, her heart started in repugnance at the mere thought.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 831