The Shame of Motley Part 24

I groaned inwardly, and I grew, I think, more afraid than when Ramiro and his men had broken into the church an hour ago.

"What kept you here after all were gone?"

"I remained to pray, Madonna," I answered brusquely. "Is aught else to be done in a church?"

"To pray for me, Lazzaro?" she asked.

"a.s.suredly, Madonna."

"Faithful heart," she murmured. "And I had used you so cruelly for the deception you practised. But you merited my cruelty, did you not, Lazzaro? Say that you did, else must I perish of remorse."

"Perhaps I deserved it, Madonna. But perhaps not so much as you bestowed, had you but understood my motives," I said unguardedly.

"If I had understood your motives?" she mused. "Aye, there is much I do not understand. Even in this night's transactions there are not wanting things that remain mysterious despite the explanations you have supplied me. Tell me, Lazzaro, what was it led you to suppose that I still lived?

"I did not suppose it," I blundered like a fool, never seeing whither her question led.

"You did not?" she cried, in deep surprise; and now, when it was too late, I understood. "What was it, then, induced you to lift the coffin-lid?"

"You ask me more than I can tell you," I answered, almost roughly. "Do you thank G.o.d, Madonna, that it was so, and never plague your mind to learn the 'why' of it."

She looked at me with eyes that were singularly luminous.

"But I must know," she insisted. "Have I not the right? Tell me now: Was it that you wished to see my face again before they gave me over to the grave?"

"Perhaps it was that, Madonna," I answered in confusion, avoiding her glance. Then--"Shall we be going?" I suggested fiercely. But she never heeded that suggestion.

She spoke as if she had not heard, and the words she uttered seemed to turn me into stone.

"Did you love me then so much, dear Lazzaro?"

I swung round to face her now, and I know that my face was white--whiter than hers had been when I had beheld her in her coffin. My eyes seemed to burn in their sockets as they met hers. A madness overtook me and whelmed my better judgment. I had undergone so much that day through grief, and that night through a hundred emotions, that I was no longer fully master of myself. Her words robbed me, I think, of my last lingering shred of reason.

"Love you, Madonna?" I echoed, in a voice that was as unlike my own as was the mood that then possessed me. "You are the air I breathe, the sun that lights my miserable world. You are dearer to me than honour, sweeter than life. You are the guardian angel of my existence, the saint to whom I have turned morning and evening in my prayers for grace. Do I love you, Madonna--?"

And there I paused. The thought of what I did and what the consequences must be rushed suddenly upon me. I shivered as a man shivers in awaking.

I dropped on my knees before her, bowing my head and flinging wide my arms.

"Forgive, Madonna," I cried entreatingly. "Forgive and forget. Never again will I offend."

"Neither forgive nor forget will I," came her voice, charged with an ineffable sweetness, and her hands descended on my bowed bead, as if she would bless and soothe me. "I am conscious of no offence that craves forgiveness, and what you have said I would not forget if I could.

Whence springs this fear of yours, dear Lazzaro? Am I more than woman, or you less than man that you should tremble for the confession that in a wild moment I have dragged from you? For that wild moment I shall be thankful to my life's end; for your words have been the sweetest ever my poor ears listened to. Once I thought that I loved the Lord Giovanni Sforza. But it was you I loved; for the deeds that earned him my affection were deeds of yours and not of his. Once I told you so in scorn. Yet since then I have come soberly to ponder it. I account you, Lazzaro, the n.o.blest friend, the bravest gentleman and the truest lover that the world has known. Need it surprise you, then, that I love you and that mine would be a happy life if I might spend it in growing worthy of this n.o.ble love of yours?"

There was a knot in my throat and tears in my eyes--a matter at which I take no shame. Air seemed to fail me for a moment, and I almost thought that I should swoon, so overcome was I. Transport the blackest soul from among the d.a.m.ned of h.e.l.l, wash it white of its sins and seat it on one of the glorious thrones of Heaven, then ponder its emotions, and you may learn something of what I felt. At last, when I had mastered the exquisite torture of my joy--

"Madonna mia," I cried, "bethink you of what you say. You are the n.o.ble lady of Santafior, and I--"

"No more of this," she interrupted me. "You are Lazzaro Biancomonte, of patrician birth, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel fortune may have driven you. Will you take me?"

She had my face between her palms, and she forced my glance to meet her own saintly eyes.

"Will you take me, Lazaro?" she repeated.

"Holy Flower of the Quince!" was all that I could murmur, whereat she gently smiled. "Santo Fior di Cotogno!"

And then a great sadness overwhelmed me. A tide that neaped the frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the sh.o.r.es of black despair.

"To-morrow Madonna, comes the Lord Ignacio Borgia," I groaned.

"I know, I know," said she. "But I have thought of that. Paula Sforza di Santafior is dead. Requiescat! We must dispose that they will let her rest in peace."

CHAPTER XV. AN ILL ENCOUNTER

Speechless I stared at her a moment, so taken was I with the immensity of the thing that she suggested. Fear, amazement, and joy jostled one another for the possession of my mind.

"Why do you look so, Lazzaro?" she exclaimed at last. "What is it daunts you?

"How is the thing possible?" quoth I.

"What difficulty does it present?" she questioned back. "The Governor of Cesena has rendered very possible what I propose. We may look on him to-morrow as our best friend."

"But Ramiro knows," I reminded her.

"True, but do you think that he will dare to tell the world what he knows? He might be asked to say how he comes by his knowledge, and that should prove a difficult question to answer. Tell me, Lazzaro," she continued, "if he had succeeded in carrying me away, what think you would have been said in Pesaro to-morrow when the coffin was found empty?"

"They would a.s.sume that your body had been stolen by some wizard or some daring student of anatomy."

"Ah! And if we were quietly to quit the church and be clear of Pesaro before morning, would not the same be said?"

"Probably," answered I.

"Then why hesitate? Is it that you do not love me enough, Lazzaro?"

I smiled, and my eyes must have told her more than any protestation could. Then I sighed. "I hesitate, Madonna, because I would not have you do now what you might come, hereafter, bitterly to repent. I would not let you be misled by the impulse of a moment into an act whose consequences must endure as long as life itself."

"Is that the reasoning of a lover?" she asked me, very quietly. "Is this cold argument, this weighing of issues, consistent with the stormy pa.s.sion you professed so lately?"

"It is," I answered stoutly. "It is because I love you more than I love myself that I would have you reflect ere you adventure your life upon such a broken raft as mine. You are Paola Sforza di Santafior, and I--"

"Enough of that," she interrupted me, rising. She swept towards me, and before I knew it her hands were on my shoulders, her face upturned, and her blue eyes on mine, depriving me of all will and all resistance.

"Lazzaro," said she, and there was an intensity almost fierce in her low tones, "moments are flying and you stand here reasoning with me, and bidding me weigh what is already weighed for all time. Will you wait until escape is rendered impossible, until we are discovered, before you will decide to save me, and to grasp with both hands this happiness of ours that is not twice offered in a lifetime?"

She was so close to me that I could almost feel the beating of her heart. Some subtle perfume reaching me and combining with the dominion that her eyes seemed to have established over me completed my subjugation. I was as warm wax in her hands. Forgotten were all considerations of rank and station. We were just a man and a woman whose fates were linked irrevocably by love. I stooped suddenly, under the sway of an impulse, I could not resist, and kissed her upturned face, turning almost dizzy in the act. Then I broke from her clasp, and bracing myself for the task to which we stood committed by that kiss--