CHAPTER III.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH
Many hours had passed. Enrica lay still unconscious upon her bed, her face framed in her golden hair, her blue eyes open, her limbs stiff, her body cold. Sometimes her lips parted, and a smile rippled over her face; then she shuddered, and drew herself, as it were, together. All this time Nobili's letter was within her hand; her fingers tightened over it with a convulsive grasp.
Pipa and the cavaliere were with her. They had done all they could to revive her, but without effect. Trenta, sitting there, his hands crossed upon his knees, his eyes fixed upon Enrica, looked suddenly aged. How all this had come about he could not even guess. He had heard Pipa's screams, and so had the marchesa, and he had come, and he and Pipa together had raised her up and placed her on her bed; and the marchesa had charged him to watch her, and let her know when she came to her senses. Neither the cavaliere nor Pipa knew that Enrica had had a letter from Nobili. Pipa noticed a paper in her hand, but did not know what it was. The signorina had been struck down in a fit, was Pipa's explanation. It was very terrible, but God or the devil—she could not tell which—did send fits. They must be borne. An end would come. She had done all she could. Seeing no present change, Trenta rose to go to the marchesa. His joints were so stiff he could not move at all without his stick, and the furrows which had deepened upon his face were moistened with tears.
"Is Enrica no better?" the marchesa asked him, in a voice she tried to steady, but could not. She trembled all over.
"Enrica is no better," he answered.
"Will she die?" the marchesa asked again.
"Who can tell? She is in the hands of God."
As he spoke, Trenta shot an angry scowl at his friend—he knew her so well. If Enrica died the Guinigi race was doomed—that made her tremble, not affection for Enrica. A word more from the marchesa, and Trenta would have told her this to her face.
"We are all in the hands of God," the marchesa repeated, solemnly, and crossed herself. "I believe little in doctors."
"Still," said Trenta, "if there is no change, it is our duty to send for one. Is there any doctor at Corellia?"
"None nearer than Lucca," she replied. "Send for Fra Pacifico. If he thinks it of any use, a man shall be dispatched to Lucca immediately."
"Surely you will let Count Nobili know the danger Enrica is in?"
"No, no!" cried the marchesa, fiercely. "Count Nobili comes back here to marry Enrica or not at all. I will not have him on any other terms. If the child dies, he will not come. That at least will be a gain."
Even on the brink of death and ruin she could think of this!
"Enrica will not die! she will not die!" sobbed the poor old cavaliere, breaking down all at once. He sank upon a chair and covered his face.
The marchesa rose and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Her heart was bleeding, too, but from another cause. She bore her wounds in silence. To complain was not in the marchesa's nature. It would have increased her suffering rather than have relieved it. Still she pitied her old friend, although no word expressed it; nothing but the pressure of her hand resting upon his shoulder. Trenta's sobs were the only sound that broke the silence.
"This is losing time," she said. "Send at once for Fra Pacifico. Until he comes, we know nothing."
When Fra Pacifico's rugged, mountainous figure entered Enrica's room, he seemed to fill it. First, he blessed the sweet girl lying before him with such a terrible mockery of life in her widely-opened eyes. His deep voice shook and his grave face twitched as he pronounced the "Beatus." Leaning over the bed, Fra Pacifico proceeded to examine her in silence. He uncovered her feet, and felt her heart, her hands, her forehead, lifting up the shining curls as he did so with a tender touch, and laying them out upon the pillow, as reverently as he would replace a relic.
Cavaliere Trenta stood beside him in breathless silence. Was it life or death? Looking into Fra Pacifico's motionless face, none could tell. Pipa was kneeling in a corner, running her rosary between her fingers; she was listening also, with mouth and eyes wide open.
"Her pulse still beats," Fra Pacifico said at last, betraying no outward emotion. "It beats, but very feebly. There is a little warmth about her heart."
"San Ricardo be thanked!" ejaculated Trenta, clasping his hands.
With the mention of his ancestral saint, the cavaliere's thoughts ran on to the Trenta chapel in the church of San Frediano, where they had all stood so lately together, Enrica blooming in health and beauty at his side. His sobs choked his voice.
"Shall I send to Lucca for a doctor?" Trenta asked, as soon as he could compose himself.
"As you please. Her condition is very precarious; nothing can be done, however, but to keep her warm. That I see has been attended to. She could swallow nothing, therefore no doctor could help her. With such a pulse, to bleed her would be madness. Her youth may save her. It is plain to me some shock or horror must have struck her down and paralyzed the vital powers. How could this have been?"
The priest stood over her, lost in thought, his bushy eyebrows knit; then he turned to Pipa.
"Has any thing happened, Pipa," he asked, "to account for this?"
"Nothing your reverence," she answered. "I saw the signorina, and spoke to her, not ten minutes before I found her lying in the doorway."
"Had any one seen her?"
"No one."
"I sent a letter to her from Count Nobili. Did you see the messenger arrive?"
"No; I was cleaning in the upper story. He might have come and gone, and I not seen him."
"I heard of no letter," put in the bewildered Trenta. "What letter? No one mentioned a letter."
"Possibly," answered Fra Pacifico, in his quiet, impassible way, "but there was a letter." He turned again to interrogate Pipa. "Then the signorina must have taken the letter herself." Slightly raising his eyebrows, a sudden light came into his eyes. "That letter has done this. What can Nobili have said to her? Did you see any letter beside her, Pipa, when she fell?"
Pipa rose up from the corner where she had been kneeling, raised the sheet, and pointed to a paper clasped in Enrica's hand. As she did so, Pipa pressed her warm lips upon the colorless little hand. She would have covered the hand again to keep it warm, but Fra Pacifico stopped her.
"We must see that letter; it is absolutely needful—I her confessor, and you, cavaliere, Enrica's best friend; indeed, her only friend."
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 passed between himself and Count Marescotti at their interview, which he justly considered as confidential. Trenta's first feeling was one of amazement how Nobili had come to know it. Then he remembered what he had said to Baldassare 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 associating 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. "God 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 Nobili.—Why did you not tell me, my sweetest?" he said, leaning over the bed, and addressing Enrica in his bewilderment.
Alas! the glassy 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 passed between them, nothing. They never met but twice, both times in my presence."
Fra Pacifico was satisfied.
"God be praised!" he muttered to himself.
Still holding the letter in his hand, the priest turned toward Enrica. Again he felt her pulse, and passed 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 Nobili from a boy. He is incapable of such villainy. I tell you, cavaliere, Nobili 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. Nobili 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 Nobili cannot justify himself"—(the cavaliere made an indignant gesture)—"leave him to me. You shall be satisfied, cavaliere. God deals with men's souls hereafter, but he permits bodily punishment in this world. Nobili 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 God 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 Nobili'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—Nobili's name—was sacred. If Pipa knew what Nobili 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 Nobili 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 Nobili 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 Nobili 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 Nobili 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 Nobili 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 Nobili? 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 passed very near her," he said, "but now she would recover."