At a touch of his strong hand the letter fell from Enrica's fingers, though they clung to it convulsively.

"Of course we must see the letter," the cavaliere responded with emphasis, waking up from the apathy of grief into which he had been plunged.

Fra Pacifico, casting a look of unutterable pity on Enrica, whose secret it seemed sacrilege to violate while she lay helpless before them, unfolded the letter. He and the cavaliere, standing on tiptoe at his side, his head hardly reaching the priest's elbow, read it together. When Trenta had finished, an expression of horror and rage came into his face. He threw his arms wildly above his head.

"The villain!" he exclaimed, "'Gone forever!'--'You have betrayed me!'--'Cannot marry you!'--'Marescotti!'"

Here Trenta stopped, remembering suddenly what had pa.s.sed between himself and Count Marescotti at their interview, which he justly considered as confidential. Trenta's first feeling was one of amazement how n.o.bili had come to know it. Then he remembered what he had said to Balda.s.sare in the street, to quiet him, that "it was all right, and that Enrica would consent to her aunt's commands, and to his wishes."

"Beast!" he muttered, "this is what I get by a.s.sociating with one who is no gentleman. I'll punish him!"

A blank terror took possession of the cavaliere. He glanced at Enrica, so life-like with her fixed, open eyes, and asked himself, if she recovered, would she ever forgive him?

"I did it for the best!" he murmured, shaking his white head. "G.o.d knows I did it for the best!--the dear, blessed one!--to give her a home, and a husband to protect her. I knew nothing about Count n.o.bili.--Why did you not tell me, my sweetest?" he said, leaning over the bed, and addressing Enrica in his bewilderment.

Alas! the gla.s.sy blue eyes stared at him fixedly, the white lips were motionless.

The effect of all this on Fra Pacifico had been very different. Under the strongest excitement, the long habit of his office had taught him a certain outward composure. He was ignorant of much which was known to the cavaliere. Fra Pacifico watched his excessive agitation with grave curiosity.

"What does this mean about Count Marescotti?" he asked, somewhat sternly. "What has Count Marescotti to do with her?"

As he asked this question he stretched his arm authoritatively over Enrica. Protection to the weak was the first thought of the strong man. His great bodily strength had been given him for that purpose, Fra Pacifico always said.

"I offered her in marriage to Count Marescotti," answered the cavaliere, lifting up his aged head, and meeting the priest's suspicious glance with a look of gentle reproach. "What do you think I could have done but this?"

"And Count Marescotti refused her?"

"Yes, he refused her because he was a communist. Nothing pa.s.sed between them, nothing. They never met but twice, both times in my presence."

Fra Pacifico was satisfied.

"G.o.d be praised!" he muttered to himself.

Still holding the letter in his hand, the priest turned toward Enrica. Again he felt her pulse, and pa.s.sed his broad hand across her forehead.

"No change!" he said, sadly--"no change! Poor child, how she must have suffered! And alone, too! There is some mistake--obviously some mistake."

"No mistake about the wretch having forsaken her," interrupted Trenta, firing up at what he considered Fra Pacifico's ill-placed leniency.

"Domine Dio! No mistake about that."

"Yes, but there must be," insisted the other. "I have known n.o.bili from a boy. He is incapable of such villainy. I tell you, cavaliere, n.o.bili is utterly incapable of it. He has been deceived. By-and-by he will bitterly repent this," and Fra Pacifico held up the letter.

"Yes," answered Trenta, bitterly--"yes, if she lives. If he has killed her, what will his repentance matter?"

"Better wait, however, until we know more. n.o.bili may be hot-headed, vain, and credulous, but he is generous to a fault. If he cannot justify himself, why, then"--the priest's voice changed, his swarthy face flushed with a dark glow--"I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt--charity demands this--but if n.o.bili cannot justify himself"--(the cavaliere made an indignant gesture)--"leave him to me. You shall be satisfied, cavaliere. G.o.d deals with men's souls hereafter, but he permits bodily punishment in this world. n.o.bili shall have his, I promise you!"

Fra Pacifico clinched his huge fist menacingly, and dealt a blow in the air that would have felled a giant.

Having given vent to his feelings, to the unmitigated delight of the cavaliere, who nodded and smiled--for an instant forgetting his sorrow, and Enrica lying there--Fra Pacifico composed himself.

"The marchesa must see that letter," he said, in his usual manner.

"Take it to her, cavaliere. Hear what she says."

The cavaliere took the letter in silence. Then he shrugged his shoulders despairingly.

"I must go now to Corellia. I will return soon. That Enrica still lives is full of hope." Fra Pacifico said this, turning toward the little bed with its modest shroud of white linen curtains. "But I can do nothing. The feeble spark of life that still lingers in her frame would fly forever if tormented by remedies. I have hope in G.o.d only."

And he gave a heavy sigh.

Before Fra Pacifico departed, he took some holy water from a little vessel near the bed, and sprinkled it upon Enrica. He ordered Pipa to keep her very warm, and to watch every breath she drew. Then he glided from the room with the light step of one well used to sickness.

Cavaliere Trenta followed him slowly. He paused motionless in the open doorway, his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, fixed on Enrica--the fatal letter in his hand. At length he tore himself away, closed the door, and, crossing the sala, knocked at the door of the marchesa's apartment.

In the gray of the early morning of the second day, just as the sun rose and cast a few straggling gleams into the room, Enrica called faintly to Pipa. She knew Pipa when she came. It seemed as if Enrica had waked out of a long, deep sleep. She felt no pain, but an excessive weakness. She touched her forehead and her hair. She handled the sheets--then extended both her hands to Pipa, as if she had been buried and asked to be raised up again. She tried to sit up, but--she fell back upon her pillow. Pipa's arms were round her in an instant.

She put back the long hair that fell upon Enrica's face, and poured into her mouth a few drops of a cordial Fra Pacifico had left for her.

Pipa dared not speak--Pipa dared not breathe--so great was her joy. At length she ventured to take one of Enrica's hands in hers, pressed it gently and said to her in a low voice:

"You must be very quiet. We are all here."

Enrica looked up at Pipa, surprised and frightened; then her eyes wandered round in search of something. She was evidently dwelling upon some idea she could not express. She raised her hand, opened it slowly, and gazed at it. Her hand was empty.

"Where is--?" Enrica asked, in a voice like a sigh--then she stopped, and gazed up again distressfully into Pipa's face. Pipa knew that Count n.o.bili's letter had been taken by Fra Pacifico. Now she bent over Enrica in an agony of fear lest, when her reason came and she missed that letter, she should sink back again and die.

With the sound of her own voice all came back to Enrica in an instant.

She closed her eyes, and longed never to open them again! "Gone! gone!

forever!" sounded in her ears like a rushing of great waters. Then she lay for a long time quite still. She could not bear to speak to Pipa.

His name--n.o.bili's name--was sacred. If Pipa knew what n.o.bili had done, she might speak ill of him. That Enrica could not bear. Yet she should like to know who had taken his letter.

Her brain was very weak, yet it worked incessantly. She asked herself all manner of questions in a helpless way; but as her fluttering pulses settled, and the blood returned to its accustomed channels, faintly coloring her cheek, the truth came to her.

Insulted!--abandoned!--forgotten! She thought it all over bit by bit.

Each thought as it rose in her mind seemed to freeze the returning warmth within her. That letter--oh, if she could only find that letter! She tried to recall every phrase and put a sense to it. How had she deceived him? What could n.o.bili mean? What had she done to be talked of in Lucca? Marescotti--who was he? At first she was so stunned she forgot his name; then it came to her. Yes, the poet--Marescotti--Trenta's friend--who had raved on the Guinigi Tower.

What was he to her? Marry Marescotti! Oh! who could have said it?

Gradually, as Enrica's mind became clearer, lying there so still with no sound but Pipa's measured breathing, she felt to its full extent how n.o.bili had wronged her. Why had he not come himself and asked her if all this were true? To leave her thus forever! Without even asking her--oh, how cruel! She believed in him, why did he not believe in her? No one had ever yet told her a lie; within herself she felt no power of deceit. She could not understand it in others, nor the falseness of the world. Now she must learn it! Then a great longing and tenderness came over her. She loved n.o.bili still. Even though he had smitten her so sorely, she loved him--she loved him, and she forgave him! But stronger and stronger grew the thought, even while these longings swept over her like great waves, that n.o.bili was unworthy of her. Should she love him less for that? Oh, no! He was unworthy of her--yet she yearned after him. He had left her--but in her heart n.o.bili should forever sit enthroned--and she would worship him!

And they had been so happy, so more than happy--from the first moment they had met--and he had shattered it! Oh, his love for her was dead and buried out of sight! What was life to her without n.o.bili? Oh, those forebodings that had clung about her from the very moment he had left Corellia! Now she could understand them. Never to see him again!--was it possible? A great pity came upon her for herself. No one, she was sure, could ever have suffered like her--no one--no one.

This thought for some time pursued her closely. There was a terrible comfort in it. Alas! all her life would be suffering now!

As Enrica lay there, her face turned toward the wall, and her eyes closed (Pipa watching her, thinking she had dozed), suddenly her bosom heaved. She gave a wild cry. The pent-up tears came pouring down her cheeks, and sob after sob shook her from head to foot.

This burst of grief saved her--Fra Pacifico said so when he came down later. "Death had pa.s.sed very near her," he said, "but now she would recover."

CHAPTER IV.