She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, for she had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety.

The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first to her lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the convulsive sob that was so near.

But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at the fire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably no man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a woman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himself and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strong man, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turned upon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, his heart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. But Bosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow was moist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heart and tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold, but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamed of the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forget the things she had said.

If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but his silence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that she was strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marry Veronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before a man weaker than herself, though she may be near it.

"You must marry her," said Matilde, with returning steadiness. "You owe it to your brother and to me. Should I say, 'to me,' first? It is to save us from disgrace--from being prosecuted as well as ruined, from being dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded--that is the word they would use!--for having wilfully defrauded Veronica Serra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians and responsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that--your brother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believe that I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant of his affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio--I believe that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power on earth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything but Veronica's money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much, but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marry her, she will never know--no one will know--no one will ever guess. As her husband you will have control of everything, and no one then will blame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife's money to save your brother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean, too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? What is the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, a conviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, Count Macomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife."

"My G.o.d! What a choice!" exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold hands to his wet forehead.

"There is no choice!" answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis.

"Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I do not care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half in love with you--what other man does she know? And if she did--she would not repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make her happy--as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talk of choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and the galleys,--a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!"

Her large eyes flashed with the furious determination to make him do what she desired. His hands had fallen from his face, and he was looking at her almost quietly, not yielding so much as she thought, but at least listening gravely instead of telling her that she asked the impossible.

The door opened discreetly, and a servant appeared upon the threshold.

"The Signor Duca della Spina begs your Excellency to receive him for a moment, if it is not too late."

"Certainly," answered the countess, instantly, and with perfect self-control.

The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message.

Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so that she might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person of importance. She looked keenly at Bosio.

"Do not go away," she said quickly, in a low voice. "Your forehead is wet--dry it--compose yourself--be natural!"

Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door opened again, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait. He had weak and inquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked. His head was bald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damask hangings. His gait was not firm, and as he pa.s.sed Bosio in order to reach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, as though he were inclined to speak to him first. Matilde had risen, however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking at the same time, as though to direct him to herself, with the somewhat maternal air which even young women sometimes a.s.sume in greeting old men.

The Duca della Spina smiled rather feebly as he took the outstretched hand, and slowly sat down upon the sofa beside Matilde.

"I feared it might be too late," he began, and his watery blue eyes sought her face anxiously. "But my son insisted that I should come this evening, when he found that I had not been able to see you this afternoon."

"How is he?" asked the countess, suddenly a.s.suming an expression of great concern.

"Eh! How he is! He is--so," answered the Duca, with a gesture which meant uncertainty. "Signora Contessa," he added, "he is not well at all.

It is natural with the young. It is pa.s.sion. What else can I tell you?

He is impatient. His nerves shake him, and he does not eat. Morning and evening he asks, 'Father, what will it be?' So, to content him, I have come to disturb you."

"Not in the least, dear Duca!"

The door opened again, and Gregorio Macomer entered the room, having been informed of the presence of a visitor. The Duca looked up, and his head shook involuntarily, as he at once began the slow process of getting upon his legs. But Macomer was already pressing him into his seat again, holding the old hand in both of his with an appearance of much cordiality.

"I hope that Gianluca is no worse?" he said, with an interrogation that expressed friendly interest.

"Better he is not," answered the Duca, sadly. "What would you? It is pa.s.sion. That is why I have come at this hour, and I have made my excuses to the Signora Contessa for disturbing her."

"Excuses?" cried Gregorio, promptly. "We are delighted to see you, dear friend!"

But as he spoke he turned a look of inquiry upon his wife, and she answered by a scarcely perceptible sign of negation.

They had been taken by surprise, for they had not expected the Duca's visit. Not heeding them, his heart full of his son, the old man continued to speak, in short, almost tremulous sentences.

"It is certain that Gianluca is very ill," he said. "Taquisara has been with him to-day, and Pietro Ghisleri--but Taquisara is his best friend.

You know Taquisara, do you not?"

"A Sicilian?" asked the countess, encouraging the old man to go on.

"Yes," said Macomer, answering for the Duca, for he was proud of his genealogical knowledge, "The only son of the old Baron of Guardia. But every one calls him Taquisara, though his father is dead. There is a story which says that they are descended from Tancred."

"It may be," said the old Duca. "There are so many legends--but he is Gianluca's best friend, and he comes to see him every day. The boy is ill--very ill." He shook his head, and bent it almost to his breast. "He wastes away, and I do not know what to do for him."

The Count and Countess Macomer also shook their heads gravely, but said nothing. Bosio, seated at a little distance, looked on, his brain still disturbed by what had gone before, and wondering at Matilde's power of seeming at her ease in such a desperate situation; wondering, too, at his brother's hard, cold face--the mask that had so well hidden the pa.s.sion of the gambler, and perhaps many other pa.s.sions as well, of which even Bosio knew nothing, nor cared to know anything, having secrets of his own to keep.

All at once, and without warning, after the short pause, the old man broke out in tremulous entreaty.

"Oh! my friends!" he cried. "Do not say no! I shall not have the courage to take such a message to my poor son! Eh, they say that nowadays old-fashioned love is not to be found. But look at Gianluca--he consumes himself, he wastes away before my eyes, and one day follows another, and I can do nothing. You do not believe? Go and see! One day follows another--he is always in his room, consuming himself for love! He is pale--paler than a sheet. He does not eat, he does not drink, he does not smoke--he, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day! As for the theatre, or going out, he will not hear of it. He says, 'I will not see her, for if she will not have me, it is better to die quickly.' A father's heart, dear Macomer--think of what I suffer, and have compa.s.sion! He is my only one--such a beautiful boy, and so young--"

"We are sorry," said Matilde, with firm-voiced sympathy that was already a refusal.

"You will not!" cried the old man, shakily, in his distress. "Say you will not--but not that you are sorry! And Heaven knows it is not for Donna Veronica's money! The contract shall be as you please--we do not need--"

"Who has spoken of money?" The countess's tone expressed grave indifference to such a trifle. "Dear Duca, do not be distressed. We cannot help it. We cannot dictate to Providence. Had circ.u.mstances been different, what better match could we have found for her than your dear son? But I told you that the girl's inclinations must be consulted, and that we had little hope of satisfying you. And now--" She looked earnestly at her husband, as though to secure his consent beforehand--"and now it has turned out as we foresaw. Courage, dear Duca! Your son is young. He has seen Veronica but a few times, and they have certainly never been alone together--what can it really be, such love-pa.s.sion as that? Veronica has made her choice."

Not a muscle of Macomer's hard face moved. He knew that if his wife had a surprise for him on the spur of the moment, it must be for their joint interest. But the Duca della Spina's jaw dropped, and his hands shook.

"Yes,"--continued the countess, calmly, "Veronica has made her choice.

It is hard for us to tell you, knowing how you feel for your son.

Veronica is engaged to be married to Bosio, here."

Bosio started violently, for he was a very nervously organized man; but his brother's face did not change, though the small eyes suddenly flashed into sight brightly from beneath the drooping, concealing lids.

A dead silence followed, which lasted several seconds. Matilde had laid her hand upon the Duca's arm, as though to give him courage, and she felt it tremble under her touch, for he loved his son very dearly.

"You might have written me this news," he said at last, in a low voice and with a dazed look. "You might--you might have spared me--oh, my son!

My poor Gianluca!" His voice broke, and the weak, sincere tears broke from the watery eyes and trickled down the wasted cheeks piteously, while his head turned slowly from side to side in sorrowfully hopeless regret.

"It has only been decided this evening," said Matilde. "We should have written to you in the morning."

"Of course," echoed her husband, gravely. "It was our duty to let you know at once."

The Duca della Spina rose painfully to his feet. He seemed quite unconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leave with any formality. Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, and his face was white. The old man pa.s.sed him without a word, going to the door.

"My poor son! my poor Gianluca!" he repeated to himself, as Gregorio Macomer accompanied him.

Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that the count would return at once. They stood still, looking each at the other, with very different expressions.

Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have done something, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or would have left the room rather than accept the situation in submissive silence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should have understood the protest. She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval of his conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from the predominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction, and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sure of doing with him as she pleases. Yet she was not so sure of herself as she seemed, and wished to seem, for she dreaded Bosio's sense of honour, which was not wholly dead.

"Do not deny it to Gregorio," she said, in a low tone, when she heard her husband's footstep returning through the room beyond.