And she is merry enough when she has her tongue." I could afford to smile at this grudging admiration. "My dear girl," I said, "you little know her--but how should you? Tell me more. Did you speak to her?" She nodded her head and told her story. "I waited my time. I was washing the canon's linen in the little cloister. That was my job, week in and week out. She came through. She was scolding her old woman. I followed her round the cloister, and when the coast was clear, said, 'Hist, Madonna.'

She turned and looked at me with her eyes wide open. They are handsome eyes for a Sienese woman. That I allow. She said, 'Do you call me?' Says I, 'I do.' She says, 'Well?' I reply, 'He is well if you are.' 'Who, then?' says she. I say, 'Your lover.' This makes her jump like a flea on the bed. But she brazens it out finely, turning to her old crone with a 'What does the girl mean?' Bless you, THEY knew well enough. I folded my arms--so; I said, 'He has walked the stony hills barefoot to find you.

He will be out of his skin, standing on his head, to know you are here.'

She stamped her foot and flew into a pa.s.sion. 'How dare you?' she cries out. 'Tell me of whom you are talking this rubbish.' I nodded my head many times--so--and said, 'You are lucky to have him so fast.' She went away. After that she never pa.s.sed me without tossing her head; and presently I ran away." I was greatly perturbed by this tale of hers, and not unreasonably angry. I said, "Unhappy girl! you little know the harm you have done. Have I instructed you so badly in myself that you can think to serve me by your servant-girl mysteries and your nods and winks? I enjoin you to leave my affairs absolutely alone. You are to tell me no more, speak of me no more, see Donna Aurelia no more. Since you have left the convent and are in danger of punishment, you must, of course, stay here. You must be properly clothed and looked after. I will see to that. Now recover yourself, and remember what I have said." I was almost immediately sorry for my plain speaking; she was in extreme misery, I could see. Tears streamed through her fingers, her body was convulsed with grief. More than once she seemed upon the point of lashing out at me with some furious blast of indignation; but she always checked it, as it seemed, when it was at the edge of her lips.

Unthinking fool that I was! I little knew or guessed what she had endured at the convent for my sake; how, treated as a sinful woman, she had been the object of hard judgment and undeserved reproach--preached at, prayed over, lectured, scolded, made a slave of; how she had loved me and believed in me through all; and how, unable to bear her lot, coming to me at last, I had proved the most cruel of her oppressors--and precisely the most cruel because, from me, she deserved the least reproach. However, I must not extenuate myself, nor forestall my history. I begged her pardon for my severity and obtained her ready forgiveness. From that hour forward she kept herself apart from me as my servant, having arranged for her share of his duties with Scipione; and she never by word or look recalled the time when a much closer intimacy had existed between us.

One disturbing incident in my affairs with her must be mentioned in this place, although it did not occur until I had twice waited upon Donna Aurelia. It was indeed upon my return from the second of those visits that Scipione came into the room after me with some secret or another which he itched, evidently, to impart to me. After some hesitation, he asked leave to exhibit Virginia to me, dressed, said he, according to the best of his ability as such a fine girl should be dressed. I nodded my head--having little attention to give him just then--and he presently returned, leading Virginia by the hand.

"There, sir," said the jaunty rogue. "Now perhaps your honour will say that she is worth looking at." I stared at Virginia, who coloured finely, and hung her head.

I must say that, preoccupied as I was, I was astonished at what I saw.

He had transformed her by some means out of a sulky and dejected penitent into a young woman of n.o.ble appearance and refined beauty. I had seen that transformation once before--at Prato; but here was a more mature and a.s.sured fine lady. She wore her hair over a cushion, a handsome dress of yellow and white brocade upon a quilted petticoat, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes. Not only were the clothes fine of their kind and well fitted to her person, but she wore them surprisingly well; their colour set off her clear, chiselled and dark beauty; and that, as if stung by the rivalry, came fiercely out to meet them. The joy and pride of battle tingled in her cheeks and shone in her eyes. She was of that aquiline, keen type of feature which we are accustomed to call patrician. She looked at once superb and secure, at once eager to contend and sure of the prize. It may have been that, as her name of Strozzi implied, she was a scion of that n.o.ble house, sunk by no faults of her own in servitude and obscurity; suffice it to say that she was strikingly handsome and perfectly aware of it. I was too much astonished to be angry with Scipione, as I might reasonably have been. Nor could I have had the heart, I acknowledge, to have dashed her natural pleasure at her success by any abrupt expression of annoyance. I said, "Why, Virginia, you are become a fine lady!" She stepped quickly forward, knelt, and kissed my hand--an act of humility which touched me.

"Sir," said Scipione, "I told you that she had the makings. Your honour can do as you please now, and n.o.body have a word to say. I can a.s.sure you that the count lost his breath and his heart at once when he saw her."

"The count!" I cried; and he told me that Count Giraldi had called for me that afternoon and had entertained himself greatly with Virginia.

I sent Scipione away. It was necessary to know more of this. The moment he was out of the room I asked her what had brought about this masquerade of hers. She said timidly that Scipione had a sister who was woman to a great lady. This person had several times been in to see her brother, and this dress was of her providing. She said that they had teased her about her appearance at Prato, where Scipione's sister had seen her, it appears, and had dared to prove to them that she was indeed that handsome lady with whom I had been observed. She hoped I should not take it amiss, or be angry with "my servant," by which she meant herself. I a.s.sured her that I was not at all angry--which was true, and then begged her to tell me what the count had wanted. She said he had called to leave me a message--an invitation to dine, I think--and that Scipione, maliciously or ingenuously, had shown him into the room where she was queening it in her borrowed finery.

I guessed there was more. "What had his Excellency to say on your account, my child?" I asked her.

"He thought at first that I was what I seemed, and was most gallant,"

she replied, to my consternation. "I told him, however, that he was very much mistaken, that I was a poor girl and your servant, playing as I should not. This tickled his Excellency--or so it appeared."

"And he said--what, Virginia?" I was careful to hide from her my discomfort over this foolish business.

Virginia, with what I am sure was perfect innocence of any evil, said, "He was most kind. He praised my looks, and vowed that you were happily served."

"And so I am," I said rather ruefully. "He was right. What next?"

"Next, sir," said this strange girl, "he praised my figure, which he thought was mightily becoming this gown."

"Well, well, and he was right," I admitted. "But did he say nothing more?"

Virginia would not look at me, but I caught the words, "He said that he envied you the arrangements of your household."

"Well?" I asked her.

"And he said that he was sure I was as good as I was good-looking, and gave your honour every satisfaction. And then he gave me a gold piece and a salutation and was going away, when---"

"Well, well? Let me have the whole story."

"I shall vex you--but not more than I was vexed, I a.s.sure you. No harm had been done--for you don't suppose that I wanted his money, serving your honour. But just as he was going out what must that daughter of mischief--Scipione's sister--do but blurt out that she had seen me with your honour not near so well dressed at the fair at Prato. The count started and looked very much intrigued. He asked me a score of questions--artfully, you may be sure, as if to idle away the time. But I told him nothing at all, and he presently was tired of working a dry pump. He took his leave, and that Sataness went with him. G.o.d knows what she knows! If I come within distance of her I shall drag her tongue out of her throat, I promise you."

I told her not to trouble herself with what could not be helped. I did not see how she could be blamed, and after all the count was my friend and a man of honour. But I relieved my feelings by bestowing upon Master Scipione one of the handsomest drubbings his oily skin had ever received. I little knew then how richly he deserved it; but I found out before long, and then if I could have killed him I am sure I would have done it.

CHAPTER XXV

I PREPARE FOR BLISS

I must return to the natural order of my history, and relate my first interview with Aurelia in order that I may prepare the reader for the last. It was brought about by Father Carnesecchi, to whom I applied for it after my visit to the convent and reception of the note of forgiveness. I had a great respect for the good man, and owed him much for his kindness to me in my hour of need, but, as I never had the knack of concealing my feelings, I could not help showing him, I suppose, that I was aware that my mistress had been a week in Florence without my suspecting it. If I had thought to confuse him by any such reproach-- which I had not--I should have been quickly undeceived.

Father Carnesecchi at once admitted that he had withheld, for what seemed very proper reasons, the fact of Aurelia's arrival. "The poor little lady," he said, "when she had recovered from fatigues which (without being harsh), I must say, were not brought upon her entirely una.s.sisted, developed a very becoming and dutiful state of the soul. I have seldom been more hopeful of a case of conscience. But it is a sensitive plant, the soul of a young and naturally amiable girl; rough blasts may bruise it; even excessive nurture may cause an exuberance of growth and weaken the roots. I do not doubt your real repentance, my Francis--Heaven forbid it me, but I confess I do gravely doubt the expediency of your a.s.suring Donna Aurelia of it otherwise than by a letter which I shall willingly convey to her. May I ask you now--since I stand to you in loco parentis; yes, yes, in loco parentis--how it was that you became acquainted with the fact of her having been a week in the Sienese convent?"

I told him the truth; and if the father was vexed he was not surprised.

"Beware," he said, "of that little parasite. You have a dangerous liking for female society, as I have told you before. Of your two intimacies, I much prefer that of Donna Aurelia for you. There, now, is a girl naturaliter Christiana--but that is characteristic of her nation: the elect city of Mary, indeed, as the pious Gigli has observed in a large volume. Come," he said suddenly, "come, Francis, I will take you to see Donna Aurelia this moment. There shall be no drawbacks to our mutual affection. What do you say?"

I stammered my thanks, shed tears and kissed my director's hands. The acts of the next half-hour were done to a wild and piercing music. I could scarcely breathe, let alone think or speak. I was swept along the streets, I achieved the portal, I achieved the parlour. Pictures of saints, wholly Sienese, reeled from the walls: a great white crucifix dipped and dazzled. Father Carnesecchi, after a time of shrill suspense, came in to fetch me, took me tottering up the stairs. My heart stood still; but the door was open. I blundered in, I saw her again--her lovely childish head, her innocent smile, her melting eyes, her colour of pale rose, her bounty, her fragrance, her exquisite, mysterious charm! Blushes made her divine; she curtseyed deeply to me; I fell upon my knee; and Count Giraldi rose from his seat and performed a graceful salute.

She told me that she freely forgave me an indiscretion natural to my youth and position, whose consequences, moreover, could not have been foreseen by either of us. She said that she was about to return to her husband, who would probably come to Florence to meet her--and she added that she hoped I should resume my studies at the university, and in serious preparation for the future obliterate all traces of the past. At these words, which I am inclined to fancy had been got by rote, she sighed and looked down. I promised her entire obedience in every particular, and growing bolder by her timidity, said that, with the doctor's permission, I should wait upon her at her convenience. Aurelia pressed me to come; and then told me that, thanks to the benevolence of Donna Giulia conveyed to her by the excellency of Count Giraldi, my visit might be made at the Villa San Giorgio at her ladyship's next reception. "I believe, Don Francis, that you know the way thither," she said. Very much affected, I kissed her hand again, and Father Carnesecchi, suggesting that she might be fatigued, took me away. My next visit to her was paid at the Villa San Giorgio, and on that occasion I saw her alone. Count Giraldi was, in fact, at that very hour, engaged with Virginia in my lodgings.

This time I was neither ridiculous nor thought to be so. My lady came into the saloon where I was and ran towards me, begging me not to kneel to her. She resumed for that happy moment at least her old part of guardian angel, sat on the couch by my side, and looking kindly at me from her beautiful eyes, said in the easiest way, "I see very well that you have not been cared for so well in Florence as in Padua. Now you are to be your good and obedient self again and do everything I tell you."

I murmured my long-meditated prayer for forgiveness, making a sad botch of its periods. She put her hand over my mouth.

"Not a word of that hateful affair," she said firmly. "You were absurd, of course, and I was to blame for allowing it; but I could not be angry with such a perfect little poet, and that monster should have known with whom he had to deal. He knows it now, I believe. He knows that a Gualandi of Siena is not at the beck and call of a pig of Padua. When he comes here, he will come in his right senses, you will see."

I begged her to tell me her story; but she said there was little to tell. She had not left Padua, as I had supposed, but had stayed with friends of hers in the hope that what she called the pazzeria of the doctor would be blown away. Finding that he was obstinate, she had gone to Modena, where she lived for a while as companion to an ancient lady, who became very fond of her. It needed, indeed, a convenient bronchitis to give her her liberty again. When this occurred she found herself provided with a pretty legacy--enough to make her independent of the doctor, but at the same time more necessary to his happiness. She had intended, she said, for Siena; but the hospitality of Donna Giulia was pressed upon her, and the good services of the count were freely hers.

There was talk of a judgeship for her husband; she would see how events turned about before she made any plans. "And you, Francis," she continued, "are not to be ridiculous any more, nor wander about without shoes, nor consort with rubbish any more. You are to go back to your studies and your books, and take your degree. You are to say good-bye to Aurelia as soon as you are well enough, and forget that you ever knew her, if you can."

"If I forget you, Aurelia, I shall forget Heaven," I said.

"We will talk about Heaven another time," said Aurelia. "Who was that saucy girl I met at the convent, who seemed to know all about you?"

I told her Virginia's story exactly. She said, "The piece is madly in love with you." I a.s.sured her that she was mistaken, but she shook her head, then nodded it many times. "Certainly, certainly she is in love with you," and after a pause--"and I don't wonder. You have greatly improved, Francis."

To this I said that nothing was further from my thoughts than to do Virginia any harm. I promised to marry her to my man Scipione as soon as possible, since protection of some sort was necessary to a bondswoman who had run away from the land to which she belonged. Aurelia heard me thoughtfully, tapping her little foot on the floor in that quick, impatient way I loved so well in her. "Marry her--yes," she said, "that will be only prudent on your part. Well! it is not for me to quarrel with you--but--" she shrugged and went on quickly--"Oh, I don't deny that the wench is well enough in her broomstick way!" she cried out.

I said, No, she looked very well when she was dressed. This was an unlucky speech.

"So I have understood, sir," cried Aurelia, breathing fast. "I hear that you were seen with her at Prato; that she was dressed in silk and a hoop, and had her hair on a cushion, and I dare say a fan, of the afternoons. And you think her very well? So--so--so!" My beloved Aurelia had tears in her eyes--one dropped and lay upon her bosom. I fell on my knees before her and would have kissed her foot, but she sprang from me, and went quickly out of the room.

I was left alone in the greatest agitation. It was the recollection of this scene which troubled me when, returning to my lodging, I found Virginia again in masquerade.

CHAPTER XXVI

I DISAPPOINT MY FRIENDS

My forebodings were more than fulfilled. The next time, which was at a week's interval, that I presented myself at the Villa San Giorgio, Donna Aurelia, in full reception, turned her back upon me and left the room in company of the Marchese Semifonte. I suffered the indignity as best I might--I did not quit the company; n.o.body, I flatter myself, knew what pangs of mortification I was feeling. I saw no more of Aurelia that evening, and a conversation which I had with Donna Giulia made matters no better. She spoke to me very plainly and with some warmth.

"Here you had, but a few days ago, your mistress in a most promising humour," she said, "detesting her doctor, yet resolved to have him back in order to give you a countenance. In Count Giraldi and myself you have, I take leave to say, two of the most complaisant friends in Europe; yet what are you doing? You maintain, for reasons best known to yourself, a pretty girl in your lodgings, pranked out in silks and furbelows--a runaway from a house of discipline--and (if it is all true that they tell me) one who, if she belongs to anybody, dare not belong, certainly, to you. Really, Don Francis, you are exorbitant. Pray, do you propose to us to keep Aurelia here in order that she may listen to your poetry, and then to return from your intellectual feast to the arms of your little peasant? And Aurelia is to know it and acquiesce? Good heavens! do you know that she is young, fresh, and charming, and of Siena? I ask your pardon, Don Francis--but oh, my perverse young friend, why on earth don't you take her?"