Taquisara. F. Marion Crawford
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from Tancred."
"It may be," said the old Duca. "There are so many legends—but he is Gianluca's best friend, and he comes to see him every day. The boy is ill—very ill." He shook his head, and bent it almost to his breast. "He wastes away, and I do not know what to do for him."
The Count and Countess Macomer also shook their heads gravely, but said nothing. Bosio, seated at a little distance, looked on, his brain still disturbed by what had gone before, and wondering at Matilde's power of seeming at her ease in such a desperate situation; wondering, too, at his brother's hard, cold face—the mask that had so well hidden the passion of the gambler, and perhaps many other passions as well, of which even Bosio knew nothing, nor cared to know anything, having secrets of his own to keep.
All at once, and without warning, after the short pause, the old man broke out in tremulous entreaty.
"Oh! my friends!" he cried. "Do not say no! I shall not have the courage to take such a message to my poor son! Eh, they say that nowadays old-fashioned love is not to be found. But look at Gianluca—he consumes himself, he wastes away before my eyes, and one day follows another, and I can do nothing. You do not believe? Go and see! One day follows another—he is always in his room, consuming himself for love! He is pale—paler than a sheet. He does not eat, he does not drink, he does not smoke—he, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day! As for the theatre, or going out, he will not hear of it. He says, 'I will not see her, for if she will not have me, it is better to die quickly.' A father's heart, dear Macomer—think of what I suffer, and have compassion! He is my only one—such a beautiful boy, and so young—"
"We are sorry," said Matilde, with firm-voiced sympathy that was already a refusal.
"You will not!" cried the old man, shakily, in his distress. "Say you will not—but not that you are sorry! And Heaven knows it is not for Donna Veronica's money! The contract shall be as you please—we do not need—"
"Who has spoken of money?" The countess's tone expressed grave indifference to such a trifle. "Dear Duca, do not be distressed. We cannot help it. We cannot dictate to Providence. Had circumstances been different, what better match could we have found for her than your dear son? But I told you that the girl's inclinations must be consulted, and that we had little hope of satisfying you. And now—" She looked earnestly at her husband, as though to secure his consent beforehand—"and now it has turned out as we foresaw. Courage, dear Duca! Your son is young. He has seen Veronica but a few times, and they have certainly never been alone together—what can it really be, such love-passion as that? Veronica has made her choice."
Not a muscle of Macomer's hard face moved. He knew that if his wife had a surprise for him on the spur of the moment, it must be for their joint interest. But the Duca della Spina's jaw dropped, and his hands shook.
"Yes,"—continued the countess, calmly, "Veronica has made her choice.
It is hard for us to tell you, knowing how you feel for your son.
Veronica is engaged to be married to Bosio, here."
Bosio started violently, for he was a very nervously organized man; but his brother's face did not change, though the small eyes suddenly flashed into sight brightly from beneath the drooping, concealing lids. A dead silence followed, which lasted several seconds. Matilde had laid her hand upon the Duca's arm, as though to give him courage, and she felt it tremble under her touch, for he loved his son very dearly.
"You might have written me this news," he said at last, in a low voice and with a dazed look. "You might—you might have spared me—oh, my son! My poor Gianluca!" His voice broke, and the weak, sincere tears broke from the watery eyes and trickled down the wasted cheeks piteously, while his head turned slowly from side to side in sorrowfully hopeless regret.
"It has only been decided this evening," said Matilde. "We should have written to you in the morning."
"Of course," echoed her husband, gravely. "It was our duty to let you know at once."
The Duca della Spina rose painfully to his feet. He seemed quite unconscious of the tears he had shed, and too much shaken to take leave with any formality. Bosio stood quite still, when he had risen too, and his face was white. The old man passed him without a word, going to the door.
"My poor son! my poor Gianluca!" he repeated to himself, as Gregorio
Macomer accompanied him.
Matilde and Bosio were left alone for a moment, but they knew that the count would return at once. They stood still, looking each at the other, with very different expressions.
Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have done something, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or would have left the room rather than accept the situation in submissive silence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should have understood the protest. She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval of his conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from the predominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction, and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sure of doing with him as she pleases. Yet she was not so sure of herself as she seemed, and wished to seem, for she dreaded Bosio's sense of honour, which was not wholly dead.
"Do not deny it to Gregorio," she said, in a low tone, when she heard her husband's footstep returning through the room beyond.
Old Macomer came back and closed the door behind him.
"What is this?" he asked, at once; but though his voice was hard, it was trembling with the anticipation of a great victory. "Has Veronica consented?"
"No one has spoken to her," answered Bosio, before Matilde could speak.
"As though that mattered!" cried the countess, with contempt. "There is time for that!"
Gregorio's eyelids contracted with an expression of cunning.
"Oh!" he exclaimed thoughtfully, "I understand." He began to walk up and down in the narrow space between the furniture of the small sitting-room, bending his head between his high shoulders. "I see," he repeated. "I understand. But if Veronica refuses? You have been rash, Matilde."
"Veronica loves him," answered the countess. "And of course you know that he loves her," she added, and her smooth lips smiled. "You need not deny it before us, Bosio. You have loved her ever since she came from the convent—"
"I?" Bosio's pale face reddened with anger.
"See how he blushes!" laughed Matilde. "As for Veronica, she will talk to no one else. They are made for each other. She will die if she does not marry Bosio soon."
The yellow reflexion danced in her eyes, as she fastened them upon her brother-in-law's face, and he shuddered, remembering what she had said before the Duca had come.
"If that is the case," said Macomer, "the sooner they are married, the better. Save her life, Bosio! Save her life! Do not let her die of love for you!"
He, who rarely laughed, laughed now, and the sound was horrible in his brother's ears. Then he suddenly turned away and left the room, still drily chuckling to himself. It was quite unconscious and an effect of his overwrought and long-controlled nerves.
Matilde and Bosio were alone again, and they knew that he would not come back. Bosio sank into his chair again, and pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.
"The infamy of it!" he groaned, in the bitterness of his weak misery.
Matilde stood beside him, and gently stroked his hair where it was streaked with grey. He moved impatiently, as though to shake off her strong hand.
"No," she said, and her voice grew as soft as velvet. "It is to save me—to save us all."
He shook her off, and rose to his feet with spasmodic energy.
"I cannot—I will not—never!" he cried, walking away from her with irregular steps.
"But it will be so much better—for Veronica, too," she said softly, for she