The Italians Part 22

ENRICA'S TRIAL.

The Cavaliere Trenta, without an instant's delay, seized the bell and rang it. The broken-down retainer, in his suit of well-worn livery, shuffled in through the anteroom.

"What did the excellency command?" he asked in a dreary voice, as the marchesa did not address him.

"Tell the signorina that the Marchesa Guinigi desires her presence immediately," answered the cavaliere, promptly. He would not give her an opportunity of speaking.

"Her excellency shall be obeyed," replied the servant, still addressing himself to the marchesa. He bowed, then glided noiselessly from the room.

A door is heard to open, then to shut; a bell is rung; there is a muttered conversation in the anteroom, and the sound of receding footsteps; then a side-door in the corner of the sitting-room near the window opens; there is the slight rustle of a summer dress, and Enrica stands before them.

It is the same hour of sunset as when she had sat there three days before, knitting beside the open cas.e.m.e.nt, with the twisted marble colonnettes and delicate tracery. The same subtile fragrance of the magnolia rises upward from the waxy leaves of the tall flowering trees growing beneath in the Moorish garden. The low rays of the setting sun flit upon her flaxen hair, defining each delicate curl, and sharply marking the outline of her slight girlish figure; the slender waist, the small hands. Even the little foot is visible under the folds of her light dress.

Enrica's face is in shadow, but, as she raises it and sees the cavaliere seated beside her aunt, a quiet smile plays about her mouth, and a gleam of pleasure rises in her eyes.

What is it that makes youth in Italy so fresh and beautiful--so lithe, erect, and strong? What gives that l.u.s.tre to the eye, that ripple to the hair, that faultless mould to the features, that mellowness to the skin--like the ruddy rind of the pomegranate--those rounded limbs that move with sovereign ease--that step, as of G.o.ds treading the earth?

Is it the color of the golden skies? Is it a philter brewed by the burning sunshine? or is it found in the deep shadows that brood in the radiance of the starry night? Is it in those sounds of music ever floating in the air? or in the solemn silence of the primeval chestnut-woods? Does it come in the crackling of the mountain-storm--in the terror of the earthquake? Does it breathe from the azure seas that belt the cla.s.sic land--or in the rippling cadence of untrodden streams amid lonely mountains? Whence comes it?--how?--where? I cannot tell.

The marchesa is seated on her accustomed seat; her face is shaded by her hand. So stern, so solemn, is her att.i.tude that her chair seems suddenly turned into a judgment-seat.

The cavaliere has risen at Enrica's entrance. Not daring to display his feelings in the presence of the marchesa, he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and stands behind her, his head partly turned away, leaning against the edge of the marble mantel-piece. There is such absolute silence in the room that the ticking of a clock is distinctly heard. It is the deadly pause before the slaughter of the battle. "You sent for me, my aunt?" Enrica speaks in a timid voice, not moving from the spot where she has entered, near the open window. "What is your pleasure?"

"My pleasure!" the marchesa catches up and echoes the words with a horrible jeer. (She had been collecting her forces for attack; she had lashed herself into a transport of fury. Her smooth, snake-like head was reared erect; her upright figure, too thin to be majestic, stiffened. Thunder and lightning were in her eyes as she turned them on Enrica.) "You dare to ask me my pleasure! You shall hear it, lost, miserable girl! Leave this house--go to your lover! Let it be the motto of his low-born race that a n.o.bili dishonored a Guinigi. Go--I wish you were dead!" and she points with her finger toward the door.

Every word that fell from the marchesa sounded like a curse. As she speaks, the smiles fade out of Enrica's face as the lurid sunlight fades before the rising tempest. She grasps a chair for support. Her bosom heaves under the folds of her thin white dress. Her eyes, which had fixed themselves on her aunt, fall with an agonized expression on the floor. Thus she stands, speechless, motionless, pa.s.sive; stunned, as it were, by the shock of the words.

Then a low cry of pain escapes her, a cry like the complaint of a dumb animal--the bleat of a lamb under the butcher's knife.

"Have I not reared you as my own child?" cries the marchesa--too excited to remain silent in the presence of her victim. "Have you ever left my side? Yet under my ancestral roof you have dared to degrade yourself. Out upon you!--Go, go--or with my own hand I shall drive you into the street!"

She starts up, and is rushing upon Enrica, who stands motionless before her, when Trenta steps forward, puts his hand firmly on the marchesa's arm, and draws her back.

"You have called Enrica here," he whispers, "to question her. Do so--do so. Look, she is so overcome she cannot speak," and he points to Enrica, who is now trembling like an aspen-leaf, her fair head bowed upon her bosom, the big tears trickling down her white cheeks.

When the marchesa, checked by Trenta, has ceased speaking, Enrica raises her heavy eyelids and turns her eyes, swimming in tears, upon her aunt. Then she clasps her hands--the small fingers knitting themselves together with a grasp of agony--and wrings them. Her lips move, but no sound comes from them. Something there is so pitiful in this mute appeal--she looks so slight and frail in the background of the fading sunlight--there is such a depth of unspoken pathos in every line of her young face--that the marchesa pauses; she pauses ere putting into execution her resolve of turning Enrica herself, with her own hands, from the palace.

A new sentiment has also within the last few minutes arisen within her--a sentiment of curiosity. The marchesa is a woman; in many respects a thorough woman. The first flash of fury once pa.s.sed, she feels an intense longing to know how all this had come about. What had pa.s.sed? How had Enrica met n.o.bili? Whether any of her household had betrayed her? On whom her just vengeance shall fall?

Each moment that pa.s.ses as the quick thoughts rattle through her brain, it seems to her more and more imperative that she should inform herself what had really happened under her roof!

At this moment Enrica speaks in a low voice.

"O my aunt! I have done nothing! Indeed, indeed,"--and a great sob breaks in and cuts her speech. "I have done nothing."

"What!" cries the marchesa, her fury again roused by such a daring a.s.sertion. "What do you call nothing? Do you deny that you love n.o.bili?"

"No, my aunt. I love him--I love him."

The mention of n.o.bili's name gave Enrica courage. With that name the sunlit days of meeting came back again. A gleam of their divine refraction swam before her. n.o.bili--is he not strong, and brave, and true? Is he not near at hand? Oh, if he only knew her need!--oh, if he could only rush to her--bear her in his arms away--away to untrodden lands of love and bliss where she could hide her head upon his breast and be at peace!

All this gave her courage. She pa.s.ses her hand over her face and brushes the tears away. Her blue eyes, that shine out now like a rent in a cloudy sky, are meekly but fearlessly cast upon her aunt.

"You dare to tell me you love him--you dare to avow it in my presence, degraded girl! have you no pride--no decency?"

"I have done nothing," Enrica answers in the same voice, "of which I am ashamed. From the first moment I saw him I loved him. I loved--him--oh! how I loved him!" She repeats this softly, as if speaking to herself. An inner light shines over her whole countenance.

"And n.o.bili loves me. I know it." Her voice sounds sweet and firm. "He is mine!"

"Fool, you think so; you are but one of many!" The marchesa, incensed beyond endurance at her firmness, raises her head with the action of a snake about to spring upon its prey. "Dare you deny that you are his mistress?"

(Could the marchesa have seen the cavaliere standing behind her, at that moment, and how those eyes of his were riveted on Enrica with a look in which hope, thankfulness, pity, and joy, crossed and combated together--mercy on us! she would have turned and struck him!)

The shock of the words overcame Enrica. She fixes her eyes on her aunt as if not understanding their meaning. Then a deep blush covers her from head to foot; she trembles and presses both her hands to her bosom as if in pain.

"Spare her, spare her!" is heard in less audible sounds from Trenta to the marchesa. The marchesa tosses her head defiantly.

"I am to be Count n.o.bili's wife," Enrica says at last, in a faltering voice. "The Holy Mother is my witness, I have done nothing wrong. I have met him in the cathedral, and at the door of the Moorish garden.

He has written to me, and I have answered."

"Doubtless; and you have met him alone?" asked the marchesa, with a savage sneer.

"Never, my aunt; Teresa was always with me."

"Teresa, curse her! She shall leave the house as naked as she came into it. How many other of my servants did you corrupt?"

"Not one; it was known to her and to me only."

"And why not to me, your guardian? why not to me?" And the marchesa advances step by step toward Enrica, as the bitter consciousness of having been hoodwinked by such a child fills her with fresh rage. "You have deceived me--I who have fed and clothed and nourished you--I who, but for this, would have endowed you with all I have, bequeathed to you a name greater than that of kings! Answer me this, Enrica. Leave off wringing your hands and turning up your eyes. Answer me!"

"My aunt, I was afraid."

"Afraid!" and the marchesa laughs a loud and scornful laugh; "you were not, afraid to meet this man in secret."

"No. Fear him! what had I to fear? n.o.bili loves me."

The word was spoken. Now she had courage to meet the marchesa's gaze unmoved, spite of the menace of her look and att.i.tude. Enrica's conscience acquitted her of any wrong save the wrong of concealment, "Had you asked me," she adds, more timidly, "I should have spoken. You have asked me now, and I have told you."

The very spirit of truth spoke in Enrica. Not even the marchesa could doubt her. Enrica had not disgraced the name she bore. She believed her; but there was a sting behind sharper to her than death. That sting remained. Enrica had confessed her love for the man she hated!

As to the cavaliere, the difficulty he experienced at this moment in controlling his feelings amounted to positive agony. His Enrica is safe! San Riccardo be thanked! She is safe--she is pure! Except his eyes, which glowed with the secret ecstasy he felt, he appeared outwardly as impa.s.sive as a stone. The marchesa turned and reseated herself. There is, spite of her violence, an indescribable majesty about her as she sits erect and firm upon her chair in judgment on her niece. Right or wrong, the marchesa is a woman born to command.

"It is not for me," she says, with lofty composure, "to reason with a love-sick girl, whose mind runs to the tune of her lover's name.

Of all living men I abhor Count n.o.bili. To love him, in my eyes, is a crime--yes, a crime," she repeats, raising her voice, seeing that Enrica is about to speak. "I know him--he is a vain, purse-proud reprobate. He has come and planted himself like a mushroom within our ancient walls. Nor did this content him--he has had the presumption to lodge himself in a Guinigi palace. The blood in his veins is as mud.

That he cannot help, nor do I reproach him for it; but he has forced himself into our cla.s.s--he has mingled his name with the old names of the city; he has dared to speak--live--act--as if he were one of us.

You, Enrica, are the last of the Guinigi. I had hoped that a child I had reared at my side would have learned and reflected my will--would have repaid me for years of care by her obedience."

"O my aunt!" exclaims Enrica, sinking on her knees, "forgive me--forgive me! I am ungrateful."