"Rise," cries the marchesa, sternly, not in the least touched by this outburst of natural feeling. "I care not for words--your acts show you have defied me. The project which for years I have silently nursed in my bosom, waiting for the fitting time to disclose it to you--the project of building up through you the great Guinigi name."

The marchesa pauses; she gasps, as if for breath. A quick flush steals over her white face, and for a moment she leans back in her chair, unable to proceed. Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which the perspiration had risen in beads.

"Alas! I did not know it!" Enrica is now sobbing bitterly. "Why--oh!

why, did you not trust me?"

In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues:

"Let us not speak of it. Enrica"--she turns her gray eyes full upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared cas.e.m.e.nt--"Enrica, you must choose. Renounce n.o.bili, or prepare to enter a convent. His wife you can never be."

As a shot that strikes a brightly-plumaged bird full in its softly-feathered breast, so did these dreadful words strike Enrica.

There is a faint, low cry, she has fallen upon the floor!

The marchesa did not move, but, looking at her where she lay, she slowly shook her head. Not so the cavaliere. He rushed forward, and raised her tenderly in his arms. The tears streamed down his aged cheeks.

"Take her away!" cried the marchesa; "take her away! She has broken my heart!"

CHAPTER IX.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

When Cavaliere Trenta returned, after he had led away Enrica, and consigned her to Teresa, he was very grave. As he crossed the room toward the marchesa, he moved feebly, and leaned heavily on his stick.

Then he drew a chair opposite to her, sat down, heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to her face.

The marchesa had not moved. She did not move now, but sat the picture of hard, haughty despair--a despair that would gnaw body and soul, yet give no sigh. But the cavaliere was now too much absorbed by Enrica's sufferings to affect even to take much heed of the marchesa.

"This is a very serious business," he began, abruptly. "You may have to answer for that girl's life. I shall be the first to witness against you."

Never in her life had the marchesa heard Cesare Trenta deliver himself of such a decided censure upon her conduct. His wheedling, coaxing manner was all gone. He was neither the courtier nor the counselor.

He neither insinuated nor suggested, but spoke bluntly out bold words, and those upon a subject she esteemed essentially her own. Even in the depth of her despondency it made a certain impression upon her.

She roused herself and glared at him, but there was no shrinking in his face. Trenta's clear round eyes, so honest and loyal in their expression, seemed to pierce her through and through. She fancied, too, that he contemplated her with a sort of horror.

"You have accused Enrica," he continued; "she has cleared herself. You cannot doubt her. Why do you continue to torture her?"

"That is my affair," answered the marchesa, doggedly. "She has deceived me, and defied me. She has outraged the usages of society. Is not that enough?"

"You have brought her up to fear you," interrupted Trenta. "Had she not feared you, she would never have deceived you."

"What is that to you? How dare you question me?" cried the marchesa, the glitter of pa.s.sion lighting up her eyes. "Is it not enough that by this deception she has foiled me in the whole purpose of my life? I have given her the choice. Resign n.o.bili, or a convent."

Saying this, she closed her lips tightly. Trenta, in the heat of his enthusiasm for Enrica, had gone too far. He felt it; he hastened to rectify his error.

"Every thing that concerns you and your family, Marchesa Guinigi, is a subject of overwhelming interest to me."

Now the cavaliere spoke in his blandest manner. The smoothness of the courtier seemed to unknit the wrinkles on his face. The look of displeasure melted out of his eyes, the roughness fled from his voice.

"Remember, marchesa, I am your oldest friend. A crisis has arrived; a scandal may ensue. You must now decide."

"I have decided," returned the marchesa; "that decision you have heard." And again her lips closed hermetically.

"But permit me. There are many considerations that will doubtless present themselves to you as necessary ingredients of this decision.

If Enrica goes into religion, the Guinigi race is doomed. Why should you, with your own hand, destroy the work of your life? If Enrica will not consent to renounce her engagement to Count n.o.bili, why should she not marry him? There is no real obstacle other than your will."

No sooner were these daring words uttered, than the cavaliere positively trembled. The marchesa listened to them in ominous silence.

Such a possibility had never presented itself for a instant to her imagination. She turned slowly round, pressed her hands tightly on her knees, and darkly eyed him.

"You think that I should consent to such a marriage?" she asked in a deep voice, a mocking smile upon her lips.

"I think, marchesa, that you should sacrifice every thing--yes--every thing." And Trenta, feeling himself on safe ground, repeated the word with an audacity that would have surprised those who only knew him in the polite details of ordinary life. "I think that you should sacrifice every thing to the interests of your house."

This was. .h.i.tting the marchesa home. She felt it and winced; but her resolution was unshaken.

"Did I not know that you are descended from a line as ancient, though not so ill.u.s.trious as my own, I should think I was listening to a Jew peddler of Leghorn," she replied, with insolent cynicism.

The cavaliere felt deeply offended, but had the presence of mind to affect a smile, as though what she had said was an excellent joke.

"n.o.bili shall never mix his blood with the Guinigi--I swear it! Rather let our name die out from the land."

She raised both her hands in the twilight to ratify the imprecation she had hurled upon her race. Her voice died away into the corner of the darkening room; her thoughts wandered. She sat in spirit upon the seigneurial throne, below, in the presence-chamber. Should n.o.bili sit there, on that hallowed seat of her ancestors?--the old Lombard palace call him master, living--gather his bones with their ashes, dead?--Never! Better far moulder into ruin as they had mouldered. Had she not already permitted herself to be too much influenced? She had offered Enrica in marriage to Count Marescotti, and he had refused her--refused her niece!

Suddenly she shook off the incubus of these thoughts and turned toward Trenta. He had been watching her anxiously.

"I can never forgive Enrica," she said. "She may not have disgraced herself--that matters little--but she has disgraced me. She must enter a convent; until then I will allow her to remain in my house."

"Exactly," burst in Trenta, again betrayed into undue warmth by this concession.

The cavaliere was old; he had seen that life revolves itself strangely in a circle, from which we may diverge, but from which we seldom disentangle ourselves. Desperate resolves are taken, tragedies are planned, but Fate or Providence intervenes. The old balance pendulates again--the foot falls into the familiar step. Death comes to cut the Gordian knot. The grave-sod covers all that is left, and the worm feeds on the busy brain.

As a man of the world, Trenta was a profound believer in the chapter of accidents.

"I will not put Enrica out of my house," resumed the marchesa, gazing at him suspiciously. (Trenta seemed, she thought, wonderfully interested in Enrica's fate. She had noticed this interest once before. She did not like it. What was Enrica to him? Trenta was _her_ friend.) "But she shall remain on one condition only--n.o.bili's name must never be mentioned. You can inform her of this, as you have taken already so much upon yourself. Do you hear?"

"Certainly, certainly," answered the chamberlain with alacrity. "You shall be obeyed. I will answer for it--excellent marchesa, you are right, always right"--and he stooped down and gently took her thin fingers in his fat hands, and touched them with his lips.

"I will cause no scandal," she continued, withdrawing her hand. "Once in a convent, Enrica can harm no one."

"No, certainly not," responded Trenta, "and the family will become extinct. This palace and its precious heirlooms will be sold."

The marchesa put out her hand with silent horror.

"It is the case with so many of our great families," continued the impa.s.sable Trenta. "Now, on the other hand, Enrica may possibly change her mind; n.o.bili may change his mind. Circ.u.mstances quite unforeseen may occur--who can answer for circ.u.mstances?"

The marchesa listened silently. This was always a good sign; she was too obstinate to confess herself convinced. But, spite of her prejudices, her natural shrewdness forbade her to reject absolutely the voice of reason.