CHAPTER V.
"SAY NOT TOO MUCH."
The sun was streaming on mountain and forest before Count Nobili woke from a deep sleep. As he cast his drowsy eyes around upon the homely little room, the coarsely-painted frescoes on the walls—the gaudy cups and plates arranged in a cupboard opposite the bed—and on a wax Gesù Bambino, placed in state upon the mantel-piece, surrounded by a flock of blue sheep, browsing on purple grass, he could not at first remember where he was. The noises from the square below—the clink of the donkey's hoofs upon the pavement as they struggled up the steep alley laden with charcoal; the screams of children—the clamor of women's voices moving to and fro with their wooden shoes—and the boom of the church-bells sounding overhead for morning mass—came to him as in a dream.
As he raised his hand to push back the hair which fell over his eyes, a sharp twitch of pain—for his hands were scorched and blistered—brought all that had happened vividly before him. A warmth of joy and love glowed at his heart. He had saved Enrica's life. Henceforth that life was his. From that day they would never part. From that day, forgetting all others, he would live for her alone.
He must see her instantly—if possible, before his enemy, her aunt, had risen—see Enrica, and speak to her, alone. Oh, the luxury of that! How he longed to feast his eyes upon the softness of her beauty! To fill his ears with the music of her voice! To touch her little hand, and scent the fragrance of her breath upon his cheek! There was no thought within Nobili but love and loyalty. At that moment Enrica was the only woman in the world whom he loved, or ever could love!
He dressed himself in haste, opened the door, and stepped out into the loggia. Not finding Fra Pacifico there, or in the other rooms, he passed down the stone steps into the little square, threading his way beyond as he best could, through the tortuous little alleys toward the gate. Most of the men had already gone to work; but such as lingered, or whose business kept them at home, rose as he passed, and bared their heads to him. The mothers and the girls stared at him and smiled; troops of children followed at his heels through the town, until he reached the gate.
Without, the holiness of Nature was around. The morning air blew upon him crisp and clear. The sky, blue as a turquoise, was unbroken by a cloud. The trees were bathed in gold. The chain of Apennines rose up before him in lines of dreamy loveliness, like another world, midway toward heaven. A passing shower veiled the massive summits toward Massa and Carrara, but the broad valley of the Serchio, mapped out in smallest details, lay serenely luminous below. Beyond the gate there was no certain road. It broke into little tracts and rocky paths terracing downward. Following these, streams ran bubbling, sparkling like gems as they dashed against the stones. No shadows rested upon the grass, cooled by the dew and carpeted by flowers. The woods danced in the October sunshine. Painted butterflies and gnats circled in the warm air; green lizards gamboled among the rocks that cut the turf. Flocks of autumn birds swooped round in rapid flight. Some freshly-shorn sheep, led by a ragged child, cropped the short herbage fragrant with strong herbs. A bristly pig carrying a bell about his neck, ran wildly up and down the grassy slope in search of chestnuts.
Through this sylvan wilderness Nobili came stepping downward by the little paths, like a young god full of strength and love!
The villa lay beneath him; the blackened ruins of the tower rose over the chestnut-tops. These blackened ruins showed him which way to go. As he set his foot upon the topmost terrace of the garden, his heart beat fast.
Enrica would be there, he knew it. Enrica would be waiting for him. Could Nobili yearn so fondly for Enrica and she not know it? Could the mystic bond that knit them together, from the first moment they had met, leave her unconscious of his presence? No; that subtile charm that draws lovers together, and breathes from heart to heart the sacred fire, had warned her. She was standing there—there, beneath him, under the shadow of a flowery thicket. Enrica was leaning against the trunk of a magnolia-tree, the shining leaves framing her in a rich canopy, through which a glint of sunshine pierced, falling upon her light hair and the white dress she wore.
Nobili paused to look at her. Miser-like, he would pause to gloat upon his treasure! How well a golden glory would become that sunny head! She only wanted wings, he thought, to make an angel of her. Enrica's face was bent. Her thoughts, far away, were lost in a delicious world, neither earth nor heaven—a world with Nobili! What mysteries were there, what unknown joys, or sharper pains perchance, she neither knew nor cared. She would share all with him! In a moment the place she stood on was darkened. Something stood between her and the sun. She looked up and gave a little cry, then stood motionless, the color going and coming upon her cheek. One bound, and Nobili was beside her. He strained her to him with a passion that robbed him of all words. Scarcely knowing what he did, he grasped the tangled meshes of her silken hair and covered them with kisses. Then he raised her soft face in his hand, and gazed upon it long and fervently.
Enrica's plaintive eyes melted as they met his. She quivered in his embrace. Her whole soul went out to him as she lay within his arms. He bent his head—their trembling lips clung together in one long kiss. Then the little golden head drooped upon his breast, and nestled there, as if at last at home. Never before had Enrica's dainty form yielded beneath his touch. Before, he had but clasped her little hand, or pressed her dress, or stolen a hasty kiss on those truant locks of hers. Now Enrica was his own, his very own. The blood shot up like fire over his face. His eyes devoured her. As she lay encircled in his arms, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks. She turned away her face, and feebly tried to loosen herself from him. Nobili only pressed her closer. He would not let her go.
"Do not turn from me, Enrica," he softly murmured. "Would you rob me of the rapture of my first embrace?"
There was a passionate tremor in his voice that re vibrated within her from head to foot. Her flushed cheek grew pale as she listened.
"Heavens! how I have longed for you! How I have longed for you sitting at home! And you so near!"
"And I have longed for you," whispered Enrica, blushing again redder than summer roses.—Enrica was too simple to dissemble.—"O Nobili!"—and she raised her dreamy eyes upward to his, then dropped them again before the fire of his glance—"you cannot tell how lonely I have been. Oh! I have suffered so much; I thought I should have died."
"My own Enrica, that is gone and past. Now we shall never part. I have won you for my wife. Even the marchesa must own this. Last night the old life died out as the smoke from that old tower. To-day you have waked to a new life with me."
Again Nobili's arms stole round her; again he sealed the sacrament of love with a fervid kiss.
Enrica trembled from head to foot—a scared look came over her. The rush of passionate joy, coming upon the terrors of the past night, was more than she could bear. Nobili watched the change.
"Forgive me, love," he said, "I will be calmer. Lay your dear head against me. We will sit together here—under the trees."
"Yes," said Enrica in a faltering voice; "I have so much to say." Then, suddenly recalling the blessing of his presence, a smile stole about her bloodless lips. She gave a happy sigh. "Yes, Nobili—we can talk now without fear. But I can talk only of you. I have no thought but you. I never dreamed of such happiness as this! O Nobili!" And she hid her face in the strong arm entwined about her.
"Speak to me, Enrica; I will listen to you forever."
Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips.
"Dear hand," she said, "how it is burnt! But for this hand, I should be nothing now but a little heap of ashes in the tower. Nobili"—her tone suddenly changed—"Nobili, I will try to love life now that you have given it to me." Her voice rang out like music, and her telltale eyes caught his, with a glance as passionate as his own. "Count Marescotti," she said, absently, as giving utterance to a passing thought—"Count Marescotti told me, only a week ago, that I was born to be unhappy. He said he read it in my eyes. I believed him then—not now—not now."
Why, she could not have explained, but, as the count's name passed her lips, Enrica was sorry she had mentioned it. Nobili noted this. He gave an imperceptible start, and drew back a little from her.
"Do you know Count Marescotti?" Enrica asked him, timidly.
"I know him by sight," was Nobili's reply. "He is a mad fellow—a republican. Why does he come to Lucca?"
Enrica shook her head.
"I do not know," she answered, still confused.
"Where did you meet him, Enrica?"
She blushed, and dropped her eyes. As she gave him no answer, he asked another question, gazing down upon her earnestly:
"How did Count Marescotti come to know what your eyes said?"
As Nobili spoke, his voice sounded changed. He waited for an answer with a look as if he had been wronged. Enrica's answer did not come immediately. She felt frightened.
"Oh! why," she thought, "had she mentioned Marescotti's name?" Nobili was angry with her—she was sure he was angry with her.
"I met him at my aunt's one evening," she said at last, gathering courage as she stole her little hand into one of his, and knit her fingers tightly within his own. "We went up into the Guinigi Tower together. There were dear old Trenta and Baldassare Lena with us."
"Indeed!" replied Nobili, coldly. "I did not know that the Marchesa
Guinigi ever received young men."
As Nobili said this he fixed his eyes upon Enrica's face. What could he read there but assurance of the perfect innocence within? Yet the name of Count Marescotti had grated upon his ear like a discord clashing among sweet sounds. He shook the feeling off, however, for the time. Again he was her gracious lover.
"Tell me, love," he said, drawing Enrica to him, "did you hear my signal last night?—the shot I fired below, out of the woods?"
"Yes, I heard a shot. Something told me it must be you. I thought I should have died when I heard my aunt order Adamo to unloose those dreadful dogs. How did you escape them?"
"The cunning beasts! They were upon my track. How I did it in the darkness I cannot tell, but I managed to scramble down the cliff and to reach the opposite mountain. The chasm was then between us. So the dogs lost the scent upon the rocks, and missed me. I left Lucca almost as soon as you. Trenta told me that the marchesa had brought you here because you would not give me up. Dear heart, how I grieved that I had brought suffering on you!"
He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, then continued:
"As long as it was day, I prowled about under the cliffs in the shadow of the chasm. I watched the stars come out. There was one star that shone brightly above the tower; to me that star was you, Enrica. I could have knelt to it."
"Dear Nobili!" murmured Enrica, softly.
"As I waited there, I saw a great red vapor gather over the battlements. The alarm-bell sounded. I climbed up through the wood, where the rocks are lower, and watched among the shrubs. I saw the marchesa carried out in Adamo's arms. I heard your name, dear love, passed from mouth to mouth. I looked around—you were not there. I understood it all; I rushed to save you."
Again Nobili wound his arms round Enrica and drew her to him with passionate ardor. The thought of Count Marescotti had faded out like a bad dream at daylight.
Enrica's blue eyes dimmed with tears.
"Oh, do not weep, Enrica!" he cried. "Let the past go, love. Did the marchesa think that bolts and bars, and Adamo, and watch-dogs, would keep Nobili from you?" He gave a merry laugh. "I shall not leave Corellia until we are affianced. Fra Pacifico knows it—I told him so last night. Cavaliere Trenta is expected to-day from Lucca. Both will speak to your aunt. One may have done so already, for what I know, for Fra Pacifico had left his house before I rose. He must be here. Is this a time to weep, Enrica?" he asked her tenderly. How comely Nobili looked! What life and joy sparkled in his bright eyes!
"I am very foolish—I hope you will forgive me," was Enrica's answer, spoken a little sadly. Her confidence in herself was shaken, since Count Marescotti's name had jarred between them. "Let us walk a little in the shade."
"Yes. Lean on me, dearest; the morning is delicious. But remember,
Enrica, I will have smiles—nothing but smiles."
As Nobili bore her up on his strong arm, pacing up and down among the flowering trees that, bowing in the light breeze, shed gaudy petals at their feet—Nobili looked so strong, and resolute, and bold—his eyes had such a power in them as he gazed down proudly upon her—that the tears which trembled upon Enrica's eyelids disappeared. Nobili's strength came to her as her own strength. She, who had been so crushed and wounded, brought so near to death, needed this to raise her up to life. And now it came—came as she gazed at him.
Yes, she would live—live a new life with him. And Nobili had done it—done it unconsciously, as the sun unfolds the bosom of the rose, and from the delicate bud creates the perfect flower.
Something Nobili understood of what was passing within her, but not all. He had yet to learn the treasures of faith and love shut up in the bosom of that silent girl—to learn how much she loved him—only him. (A new lesson for one who had trifled with so many, and given and taken such facile oaths!)
Neither spoke, but wandered up and down in vague delight.
Why was it that at this moment Nobili's thoughts strayed to Lucca, and to Nera Boccarini?—Nera rose before him, glowing and velvet-eyed, as on that night she had so tempted him. He drove her image from him. Nera was dead to him. Dead?—Fool!—And did he think that any thing can die? Do not our very thoughts rise up and haunt us in some subtile consequence of after-life? Nothing dies—nothing is isolated. Each act of daily intercourse—the merest trifle, as the gravest issue—makes up the chain of life. Link by link that chain draws on, weighted with good or ill, and clings about us to the very grave.
Thinking of Nera, Nobili's color changed—a dark look clouded his ready smile. Enrica asked, "What pains you?"
"Nothing, love, nothing," Nobili answered vaguely, "only I fear I am not worthy of you."
Enrica raised her eyes to his. Such a depth of tenderness and purity beamed from them, that Nobili asked himself with shame, how he could have forgotten her. With this blue-eyed angel by his side it seemed impossible, and yet—
Pressing Enrica's hand more tightly, he placed it fondly on his own. "So small, so true," he murmured, gazing at it as it lay on his broad palm.
"Yes, Nobili, true to death," she answered, with a sigh.
Still holding her hand, "Enrica," he said, solemnly, "I swear to love you and no other, while I live. God is my witness!"
As he lifted up his head in the earnestness with which he spoke, the sunshine, streaming downward, shone full upon his face.
Enrica trembled. "Oh! do not say too much," she cried, gazing up at him entranced.
With that sun-ray upon his face, Nobili seemed to her, at that moment, more than mortal!
"Angel!" exclaimed Count Nobili, wrought up to sudden passion, "can you doubt me?"
Before Enrica could reply, a snake, warmed by the hot sun, curled upward from the terraced wall behind them, where it had basked, and glided swiftly between them. Nobili's heel was on it; in an instant he had crushed its head. But there between them lay the quivering reptile, its speckled scales catching the light. Enrica shrieked and started back.
"O God! what an evil omen!" She said no more, only her shifting color and uneasy eyes told what she felt.
"An evil omen, love!" and Nobili brushed away the snake with his foot into the underwood, and laughed. "Not so. It is an omen that I shall crush all who would part us. That is how I read it."
Enrica shook her head. That snake crawling between them was the first warning to her that she was still on earth. Till then it had seemed to her that Nobili's presence must be like paradise. Now for a moment a terrible doubt crept over her. Could happiness be sad? It must be so, for now she could not tell whether she was sad or happy.
"Oh! do not say too much, dear Nobili," she repeated almost to herself, "or—" Her voice dropped. She looked toward the spot where the snake had fallen, and shuddered.
Nobili did not then reply, but, taking Enrica by the hand, he led her up a flight of steps to a higher terrace, where a cypress avenue threw long shadows across the marble pavement.
"You are mine," he whispered, "mine—as by a miracle!"
There was such rapture in his voice that heaven came down into her heart, and every doubt was stilled.
At this moment Fra Pacifico's towering figure appeared ascending a lower flight of steps toward them, coming from the house. He trod with that firm, grand step churchmen have in common with actors—only the stage upon which each treads is different. Behind Fra Pacifico was the short, plump figure and the white hat of Cavaliere Trenta (a dwarf beside the priest), his rosy face rosier than ever from the rapid drive from Lucca. Trenta's kind eyes twinkled under his white eyebrows as he spied Enrica above, standing side by side with Nobili. How different the dear child looked from that last time he had seen her at Lucca!
Enrica flew down the steps to meet him. She threw her arms round his neck. Count Nobili followed her; he shook hands with the cavaliere and Fra Pacifico.
"His reverence and I thought we should find you two together," said
Cavaliere Trenta, with a chuckle. "Count Nobili, I wish you joy."
His voice faltered a little, and a spotless handkerchief was drawn out and called into service. Nobili reddened, then bowed with formal courtesy.
"It is all come right, I see."—Trenta gave a sly glance from one to the other, though the tears were in his eyes.—"I shall live to open the marriage-ball on the first floor of the palace yet. Bagatella! I would have tried to give the dear child to you myself, had I known how much she loved you—but you have taken her. Well, well—possession is better than gift."
"She gave herself to me, cavaliere. Last night's work only made the gift public," was Nobili's reply.
There was a tone of triumph in Nobili's voice as he said this. He stooped and pressed his lips to Enrica's hand. Enrica stood by with downcast eyes—a spray of pink oleander swaying from the terrace-wall in the light breeze above her head, for background.
The old cavaliere nodded his head, round which the little curls set faultlessly under his white hat.
"My dear Count Nobili, permit me to offer my advice. You must settle this matter at once—at once, I say;" and Trenta struck his stick upon the marble balustrade for greater emphasis.
"I quite agree with you," put in Fra Pacifico in his deep voice. "The impression made by your courage last night must not be lost by delay. I never saw an act of greater daring. Had you not come, I should have tried to save Enrica, but I am past my prime; I should have failed."
"You cannot count on the marchesa's gratitude," continued Trenta; "an excellent lady, and my oldest friend, but proud and capricious. You must take her like the wind when it blows—ha! ha! like the wind. I am come here to help you both."
"Cavaliere," said Nobili, turning toward him (his vagrant eyes had wandered off to Enrica, so charming, with the pink oleander and its dark-green leaves waving above her blond head), "do me the favor to ask the Marchesa Guinigi at what hour she will admit me to sign the marriage-contract. I have pressing business that calls me back to Lucca to-day."
"So soon, dear Nobili?" a soft voice whispered at his ear, "so soon?" And then there was a sigh. Surely her paradise was very brief! Enrica had thought in her simplicity that, once met, they two never should part again, but spend the live-long days together side by side among the woods, lingering by flowing streams; or in the rich shade of purple vine-bowers; or in mossy caves, shaded by tall ferns, hid on the mountain-side, and let time and the world roll by. This was the life she dreamed of. Could any grief be there?
"Yes, love," Nobili answered to her question. "I must return to Lucca to-night. I started on the instant, as the cavaliere knows. Before I go, however, all must be settled about our marriage, and the contract signed. I will take no denial."
Nobili spoke with the determination that was in him. Enrica's heart gave a bound. "The contract!" She had never thought of that. "The contract and the marriage!"—"Both close at hand!—Then the life she dreamed of must come true in very earnest!"
The cavaliere looked doubtingly at Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico shrugged his big shoulders, looked back again at Cavaliere Trenta, and smiled rather grimly. There was always a sense of suppressed power, moral and physical, about Fra Pacifico. In conversation he had a way of leaving the burden of small talk to others, and of reserving himself for special occasions; but when he spoke he must be listened to.
"Quick work, my dear count," was all the priest said to Nobili in answer. "Do you think you can insure the marchesa's consent?" Now he addressed the cavaliere.
"Oh, my friend will be reasonable, no doubt. After last night, she must consent." The cavaliere was always ready to put the best construction upon every thing. "If she raises any obstacles, I think I shall be able to remove them."
"Consent!" cried Nobili, fiercely echoing back the word, "she must consent—she will be mad to refuse."
"Well—well—we shall see.—You, Count Nobili, have done all to make it sure. The terms of the contract (I have heard of them from Fra Pacifico) are princely." A look from Count Nobili stopped Trenta from saying more.
"Now, Enrica," and the cavaliere turned and took her arm, "come in and give me some breakfast. An old man of eighty must eat, if he means to dance at weddings."
"You, Nobili, must come with me," said Fra Pacifico, laying his hand on the count's shoulder. "We will wait the cavaliere's summons to return here over a bottle of the marchesa's best vintage, and a cutlet cooked by Maria. She is my best cook; I have one for every day in the week."
So they parted—Trenta with Enrica descending flight after flight of steps, leading from terrace to terrace, down to the villa; Nobili mounting upward to the forest with Fra Pacifico toward Corellia, to await the marchesa's answer.