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.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 849